Page 15 of Signed, Sealed, and Smitten
“No, we’ve met.” I sigh to make her laugh, and it works. “Any trick to it?”
“Not that I’ve figured out. The old owner, Galentine, said you just had to speak to the mailbox nicely, then tickle it. I think it was her way of acknowledging they’re temperamental, but she hated changing things. Got too attached to them. Even these stubborn mailboxes.”
“I get it,” I say. Probably better than most. I’ll wait to get to know Sophie better before I tell her the trick of paying it a compliment.
“Good luck,” she says as she heads down the hall.
I turn to the mailbox labeled 3E and stare the combo lock in its brass eye. “Art Deco is the best deco,” I say softly.
It opens the first time, and I smile like it spit out free gumballs. I see only a single piece of mail inside, but it doesn’t look like a candle coupon. It’s an envelope. Lovely. My first bill.
I pull it out, but it’s not a bill. It’s the same letter that wassitting under my keys when I picked them up Saturday, addressed to “Smitten Kitten.” I suppose that’s my fault. I should have written “return to sender” before I put it in the outbox. Digging into my bag, I retrieve a pen and prop the envelope against a closed mailbox to do it now, but I stop before the pen touches the envelope.
It’s quality stationery. I’ve handled enough older documents to recognize it by touch. It’s not something you see much beyond wedding invitations these days. I tilt it toward the light and spot a gentle yellowing and study the ink more carefully. The return address indicates it came from Boston, but there’s no name and nothing on the back but a faint fingerprint smudge near the point of the flap, almost like lead from an old pencil.
I examine the front again. The cursive feels masculine with spiky letters, and telltale bleeding at the edges of some of the inked letters also suggest age. Odd. Maybe it was sent by an older person on older stationery? We found at least four unopened stationery sets when I helped my mom pack up my grandmother’s house after she died a couple of years ago.
It feels wrong to write on it somehow, but that’s only my curator training kicking in. This isn’t a museum artifact. It’s a misdelivered letter. I print “return to sender” on it and slide it back into the outgoing mail slot, like I should have done the first time. At least it’s handled now.
I believe that until I stop by the mailboxes the next morning to send off a birthday card to Dad. When I glance at my box, I spot an envelope through the glass and frown. It’s not even 8:30 yet, and I know the mail hasn’t come since I got home last night.
With a quick glance around to make sure I don’t have witnesses, I murmur my affirmation to the mailbox and open it.
It’s the same envelope.
I pluck it out, confused. My handwriting is there on the front, directing the post office to return it to the sender. I can’t have put it back in my own mailbox by mistake; only the lone outgoing box everyone uses has a slot to drop things in. Steven, the building manager, must have done it for some reason.
Guess I’d better make it more clear. This time, I write “no such resident” under the “return to sender”and pop it in the outgoing mail before I head to my car.
The drive to work doesn’t take long, but I’ve built in extra time this morning to stop at a café for a cup of coffee. I’ve noticed a cute place not far from the estate called Serendipi-Tea, and the name alone would be enough to lure me in. The fact that it’s in a gorgeous Victorian house seals the deal.
Parking is easy, probably because the tea shop isn’t in the business district, and as I walk up the flower-lined path, I make a point of appreciating the small luxury of buying a cup of coffee. Museum jobs are hard to come by, and even though the Sutton is the largest in Boston, my salary relative to the cost of living in the city didn’t leave wiggle room for many extras. I drank the free mediocre coffee in our breakroom and didn’t complain about the price.
The starting salary Foster Martin stipulated is generous—on the high end, truthfully, for a candidate without a PhD or former experience as a director, even someone who had worked at the Sutton in some capacity since I started college. Harvey Bullard knew it too, and he said as much when he saw me trying to keep a straight face.
“I argued with him about that number,” he said with a slight smile. “Told him it was higher than market rates for a museum the size this one will be, but he knew that. That should tell you what a premium Foster put on making sure he got his first choice as director. If you turn this down, thecandidate who is eventually chosen will be given an offer more in line with market rates.”
That was before I even knew about the free year of rent, which essentially worked out to an additional twenty percent increase.
There’s a strong chance I would have accepted the position even if I hadn’t been unfairly passed over for the senior curator promotion because of stupid Hayes Bradford. Harvey also revealed that the estate would pay for me to pursue my PhD at UMass after two years at the museum. Foster had set up a special fund to get around IRS regulations limiting employer contributions to tuition. It would be an incredible opportunity if I weren’t determined to get back to the Sutton, but even though I won’t be taking Foster up on paying for my doctorate, it’s further evidence of his generosity.
It’s that generous salary that’s letting me step into the tea shop to treat myself. Serendipi-Tea is warm and welcoming, with a wood interior and small tables dotting the parlor. A friendly barista named Nori takes my order for an iced coffee. Before I can second guess myself, I say, “Can I add an Americano to that?”
“Sure,” she says. “I’ll have those coming right up for you.”
By the time I park behind the Martin house with my coffee carrier, I’m right on time.
Jay is not.
Not that he works here or has any obligation to be here, other than for board meetings. But I sort of expect him to pop into the library when he spots my car.
When an hour goes by and my coffee is gone with no sign of Jay, I drink his coffee and get on with my day. Too bad for him. It’s the thought that counts, and I’ve earned a karmic bonus point for the effort even if he’s not around to drink it.
The day flies by again. I’ve posted the positions that will need to be filled first, so today is about putting a renovationplan in order for the executive space upstairs, then going through all of Foster’s collections. I’ve formed a preliminary vision for the museum, but I want to examine everything myself to make sure it’s all properly organized and stored. I have a meeting after lunch with the engineer who built Foster’s vault, a specialist who has worked with some of the most revered museums in the country.
Even when the specialist arrives and he takes me out to the archives, there’s no Jay. I see his car. I even hear the faint sound of music drifting through the open window of the caretaker’s cottage when we reach the vault, but despite the strains of indie rock, Jay doesn’t appear.
That’s fine. There really isn’t anything left for him to show me that we didn’t go over thoroughly yesterday. This is how I need it to be, anyway. Free to concentrate on work and not joking around with Jay Martin. No, how Iwantit to be. Peaceful and uninterrupted for as long as possible. It won’t be long before I’ll have everyone from contractors to archivists reporting to me. Best savor the solitude while it lasts.
