“You could have your friend check only those three names in the wedding announcements from the next three years.”
I nod. “Francie will be happy to have a job to do.”
“We have more info on Dear Heart. He may have gone to work for the Aerospace Corporation.”
“That gives Francie another keyword.” I read the three names over and over. “Kitten is right here. We almost have her. I’ll figure out how to contact the elementary schools that were open then and see if I can find any of these women teaching at one of them in 1965.”
“We’re so close,” he says. “It feels like things are converging. Like everything is about to resolve at once. Smitten Kitten. My new lead on Samuel Davis Brown.”
“My new hires. The next phase of the museum.”
“Want to retrace their steps? Go up on the roof and takein the same view, put the world at our feet? That seems to be how Dear Heart cleared his thinking.”
I glance out of my window. It’s dusk. Going to the roof sounds … right. To stand where Smitten Kitten and Dear Heart had stood, thinking about their future. “I haven’t been up there, but I have a key. Let me get it.”
It’s in the desk drawer in my office, right next to where I keep Foster’s letter, and I pause, wondering if these stories in the building are what Foster was leaving me to discover, knowing what I love most about any artifact is the story it tells.
He couldn’t have known the building would draw me into one of its legends, but here I am, smack in the middle of one with his own grandson.Exploringone of the legends, I mean.
We’re obviously not in the middle of our own.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Phoebe
Jay followsme up the stairs to the roof. I unlock the door, and when we step out, I gasp.
“I had no idea.” It looks as much like a roof as a jungle looks like a concrete parking lot. It’s a lush wonderscape of greenery and florals, something to tease the senses at every turn. “I’ve been meaning to come check it out. I’d have been up here every day if I’d known it wasthis.”
“This is awesome,” Jay says, stooping to study the flowers in one of the raised beds.
I stare at an overhead trellis dripping with wisteria, and the only way I can explain the feeling it gives me is that mysoultakes a breath. “Do you think anyone will notice when I put up a hammock and live up here from now on?” I ask.
“Only because they’re mad they didn’t do it first.” He stands and looks up at the wisteria, then sweeps his eyes over some smallish trees with purple leaves. “Nowthispart of the building I would believe is mag?—”
“Don’t say it,” I say. “But I know what you mean. I need to find the designer and talk to them about doing the landscaping at the museum.”
He looks over at me, an unreadable expression on his face.
“What?” I ask, feeling self-conscious. “You think it’s a bad idea?”
He gives a slow shake of his head. “My grandad would love that.”
His expression is soft, maybe even tender, something I’m starting to recognize as a look that only comes out when he’s feeling close to Foster. More than anything else Jameson Martin says or does, these moments draw me to him the most, when all his masks slip and he’s a man missing his grandpa and letting himself feel that love and grief.
I walk farther into the garden to give him his moment, stopping to snap a picture of one of the purple trees growing in the larger beds. Concrete planters around the perimeter and other raised beds burst with more colors, with some blooms I recognize and many I don’t.
A soft scrape behind me tells me Jay has stirred, and we move through the garden, exploring. At last, when my senses have overloaded with themuchnessof it, I sit on one of the scattered benches where I can see the garden and the city view at the same time.
Jay joins me, and as soon as he sits, fairy lights blink on above us. I laugh but shake my head when Jay gives me a questioning look. If the building were … well, doing what the Hathaways say it does, that would have been mischievous timing. It’s a good reminder of how human nature often tries to assign meaning to coincidence.
Dusk deepens to twilight as we look out over the city, lights winking into life on houses and stores. We leave the easy silence between us alone, and even though Jay isn’t touching me, I still feel him relax as he stretches his legs out and keeps his gaze on the view.
Summer sounds float up to us. Crickets. The distant shout of kids playing a game. The muted swish of cars passingbeneath us. The air smells like the green things growing around us and warm stone, though that scent fades as the light dims. I notice my breath more than anything. The in and out, inaudible, is rhythmic at first, but the change is subtle as it slows a bit, and after a couple of minutes, I realize I’ve fallen into sync with Jay’s breathing.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “The world at our feet. Are you getting any of Dear Heart’s clarity?”
“I wonder if he knew he needed it when they came up here sixty years ago,” I say, “or if he came up here thinking he already had it all figured out.”
