“We saw that he died last year, and you were listed as his widow,” Phoebe says. “It filled in a couple of other blanks for us too. I’m so sorry, Catherine. You must miss him so much if he was anything like his letters.”
Catherine doesn’t answer. Instead, she pulls a linen kerchief from her Chanel bag and dabs at the tears on each cheek before she folds it and tucks it away again. “I still can’t understand how these letters got to you, but I can see they were meant to be your business. There were always stories about that building …”
She trails off, looking somewhere distant before she blinks and focuses on Phoebe. “Yes, Buck passed last year. Yes, he was as funny and infuriating and captivating as his letters. That never changed through our whole marriage. And yes, I miss him terribly.” She stops and reaches for her tea, taking a sip to compose herself, I’d guess.
“I’m so happy to know that it was a love story from start to finish,” Phoebe says, her voice soft.
When Catherine returns the cup to the table, she rests her hand on the stack of letters. “Thank you for returning these to me. They are precious.”
“I did wonder something,” Phoebe says. “Did you get these when he sent them originally? Because we had to unseal each one to read it.”
Catherine nods. “I did. We wrote to each other every week, and I kept every letter Buck sent in a hatbox. When I moved back to Boston, I brought them all with me. Until this morning, I thought I still had them all.”
“But how …” I don’t finish my question because there’s no answer as to why they came to Phoebe unopened. And if they wrote every week, that means Phoebe only got some of them, so why these particular ones?
They both seem to understand the unfinished question and the futility of answering it as our gazes all land on the stack of letters again.
“Catherine,” Phoebe says, leaning forward again. If Catherine hasn’t figured it out yet, she will learn that the leanmeans Phoebe’s got an idea, and you might as well say yes, because it’ll be too good to say no to.
“As we’ve been researching this,” Phoebe says, “the phrase you used at our first board meeting, the ‘spirit of Serendipity Springs,’ kept coming back to me. You said I needed to think of more ways to make sure the museum speaks to the locals, even the ones who know the town’s history. I have another idea?—”
“Uh-oh,” Catherine says, and I choke on my tea. She’s reading Phoebe right.
“It’s good,” Phoebe insists. “Maybe my best one yet. I want to do an exhibit called ‘Heart of Serendipity Springs’ about the … serendipitous ways people in this city have fallen in love throughout its history.”
When Catherine gives a tiny head shake, my stomach sinks. Phoebe is onto something here, even if Catherine doesn’t want to share her own letters as part of it.
Phoebe’s voice gets lower but faster as she strains to make her point. “People would love to share their own stories or favorite stories from their family history. There must be hundreds of photos, mementos, letters, and heirlooms we could pull from. And it doesn’t need to be a static exhibit either! We could set up a recording station with thoughtful prompts where people can tell their stories and preserve them in a permanent digital archive. Maybe it’s something we do every February to tempt people in during the month everyone hates going out. They’ll want to see the new stories each year.”
Catherine is shaking her head more adamantly, and she holds up her hand. “Stop, Phoebe, please. You don’t need to convince me. After the board meeting last night, I knew I’d misjudged you, and today I can see how badly.”
Phoebe sits back, looking as if she has no idea what to say to that.
“You’re clearly a skilled researcher and historian, but you have the gift only the most exceptional curators do of understanding how to tell a story in a way that people will listen. And you have a talent for sensing which stories people will want to hear. I see you have the best interests of the Museum of Serendipity at heart because it permeates everything you do. The deal you made with Nori is clever on multiple levels.”
“Oh.” That extra touch of color appears in Phoebe’s cheeks. “I didn’t realize you heard that.”
“I’m neither dead nor deaf, my dear,” Catherine says, amused. “The truth is, I might be a little too proud of my skills of observation. It happens when you’re rarely wrong. But I see now that your connection to Jay is due to you working together so closely on these letters. I apologize, and I’ll make it clear at the next board meeting that you have my full confidence.”
I expect to see Phoebe looking elated, but she’s shaking her head. “You weren’t wrong about everything, Catherine. I need to tell you some things.”
She doesn’t look at me, but I shift in my chair, uneasy that I don’t know where this is going. Or maybe not uneasy. Maybe feeling a tickle of hope and trying not to because it will suck if I’m wrong.
“I misled you by downplaying Jay last night when we spoke,” Phoebe says. “He’s not a lightweight. He is a gifted historian and a skilled researcher, and while I appreciate your assessment of my story sense, Jay is the one with the true gift for it. He’s remarkable in his field, and he loves and respects his family’s legacy. I hope he’ll agree to continue lending his expertise beyond his duties on the board, even though I haven’t protected his name like I should.”
Catherine’s eyebrows go up as both she and Phoebe turn to me.
They’re waiting for me to answer, but I’m dealing with adopamine rush from hearing Phoebe talk about me in such a complimentary way. “Yes? Yes.”
Catherine presses her lips together and turns back to Phoebe. “I have no objection.”
It’s not a ringing endorsement, but that helps manage the dopamine.
“Also.” Phoebe squeezes her eyes shut for a second and takes a deep breath.
I have no idea what’s coming next, but Catherine and I are riveted.
“Also, there’s more. About Jay. That you should know, I mean.”
