Page 13 of Signed, Sealed, and Smitten
“Eventually, one of those Martins made an ointment for joint pain. Word spread, sales grew, that Martin got a patent. Then the canal opened and suddenly it was easy to ship the stuff everywhere, and he did.”
“Except Jointment works,” I say. “No quackery.”
“Would you like some real lore that you won’t see in any of the yearly earnings reports?”
“Is it something I can use for the museum?”
He pauses to consider that. “I don’t know. We’ve always kept it quiet, but at this point, you could blast it all over the internet, and I think people wouldn’t believe it. You can use your judgment as the director to decide if you want to include it or not.”
I won’t know until I hear it, so I nod. “Ready for the lore.”
“Even though the patent eventually expired, there’s still not a comparable substitute because none of our competitors use Serendipity Springs water. But even stranger, the water has to come from a section of the stream that runs through the city limits. One of my ancestors set up the factory outside of Serendipity Springs so they could access the stream more easily for production. All the land along the spring inside the town limits had been claimed for decades by then. But those batches of Jointment didn’t work. It took some testing, but as strange as it sounds, the water has to come from within the city limits for it to be effective.”
I look at him, keeping a neutral expression on my face. That sounds like a placebo effect to me, but Jay states it like it’s fact.
He smiles again. “That look you’re trying to hide is exactly why we don’t tell people. But you don’t have to believe it for it to be true. Anyway, my fourth great-grandfather found a few of the bottles used for the original tonic, and he wanted thereminder of where we came from. Martins have been collecting ever since. At least up through Grandad.”
He points to the amber bottles. “I’m making a purely objective observation. I want to be clear after the wardrobe hoist. In the sunlight, these are the same color as your eyes.”
I knew as soon as he pointed to the glass that he would say something about my eyes. I get it. They’re an odd color, a warm light brown that I inherited from my mom. People comment on them all the time.
He’s right, it’s a strictly objective comment, so there’s no need to say thank you or feel uncomfortable. I don’t, exactly. But I’m feeling some kind of way that he’s taken note of my eye color, enough to know exactly what to compare it to. I’m feeling a little too … pleased.Thatnonsense is stopping here. Mine, not his.
“Fun fact, Jennifer Lopez and Jennifer Garner both have amber eyes. But it’s the rarest eye color in the world, so it’s just the three of us and my mom.”
“Just you four, huh? Does Affleck know about you and your mom?”
“We think we wouldn’t like Hollywood, so we keep a low profile.”
“Understandable. Speaking of Hollywood, did you tour the gardens when you were here before?”
“It was abbreviated,” I say. “It was rainy that day, but Foster told me about the movie that was filmed here, and Harvey pointed out the spot.”
“We’ve got beautiful weather today. Let’s go look at the lie that Austen movie told you when it pretended the Martin grounds were an estate in the Cotswolds.”
I give a gasp of fake outrage. “Jane Austen wouldnever.”
“Of course not, but Hollywood would.”
“Exactly why neither my mom nor I have married Ben Affleck. To the grounds, please. I’m excited to explore them.”
It’s true. But what’s even more true is that I need to get out of this room before I start blabbering about how Jay Martin’s eyes are the same rich blue as the cobalt glass in the case beside the amber.
Borders.
Chapter Seven
Jay
Phoebe Hopper is funny.Very funny. The only thing she seems to take seriously at all is her job. That’s a good thing to take seriously, obviously. But by the time we’ve walked the key parts of the grounds and we’re nearing the back boundary of the property, I understand completely why Grandad handpicked her for the job. For one, she’d have charmed him without even trying. But more importantly, she is whip-smart and knows her work.
What I can’t understand is why Grandad never mentioned Phoebe Hopper to me. They’d been having monthly lunches for three years by the time he died. That is two years and eleven months past the time when he should have introduced his Boston-based grandson to this captivating woman.
He and I will have words on my next cemetery visit.
“That’s the caretaker’s cottage, isn’t it?” Phoebe asks as we get closer.
Unfortunately. I’m so sleep-deprived that I can’t come up with a good reason to prolong our tour.
