Page 16 of Signed, Sealed, and Smitten
After work as I climb the steps to The Serendipity, I consider that I have kind of a lot of solitude. Between suddenly living alone and temporarily working alone, that’s gobs of solitude.
I head straight to the mailboxes, spotting an envelope through the small glass window of my cubby. It’s impossible to tell without unlocking the box, but I have a pretty good guess about what it is.
“Art Deco is the best deco,” I murmur to the lock, and it opens right up to reveal a letter addressed to Smitten Kitten. And of course, there’s my handwriting, apparently futilely trying to inform the United States Postal Service that there is no Smitten Kitten in 3E.
Huh.
I tuck it into the pocket of my laptop bag. At least I’ll have a puzzle to entertain me while I eat pasta for one.
Fine, for two.
But a double serving of penne, a glass of red wine, and watchingThe Great Pottery Throwdownwhile I figure out the provenance of an old letter? Don’t threaten me with a good time.
An hour later, I’m feeling more like an archivist than a curator, fixated on figuring out the trail of this letter. In the stronger lighting of my kitchen, I lay the envelope on the counter and study it. It’s stamped and postmarked, and I start with the postmark. It was sent from Boston in September, but the date and year are smudged.
Next, I investigate the stamp. I take a photo of it. It’s purple with a drawing of a soundwave emanating from a dial on the right. The top says “Amateur Radio,” and it’s marked five cents in the lower left corner. A quick image search reveals that this was a first-class stamp in 1964, making this letter at least sixty years old.
It makes me sad that it’s been a dead letter for so long, but I definitely won’t open it. It’s not addressed to me, and since it has a postmark, legally I can’t.
I put the letter back in my work bag and grab my phone to make my to do list for the next day. It’s mainly a checklist of places to go in town, most likely starting with the post office to hand off my probable dead letter. But I need to go to the library, the grocery store, and some local parks. I don’t know much about contemporary Serendipity Springs, so tomorrow will be a series of field trips to absorb the city culture.
Museum work isn’t always about looking at fascinating acquisitions and imagining their stories. Sometimes it’s checking out the local supermarket to see what regional growers and producers they feature and how those producerspackage their foods. What will the vibe of the fonts and imagery tell me about how they see themselves or what they think will appeal to local shoppers? What will the specific flavor offerings say about how adventurous or conventional local tastes are? As a committed researcher, it will be my responsibility to try all those foods, of course.
Museum directors, man. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.
Chapter Nine
Jay
“You are scum, Samuel,”I inform the smirking portrait as I save my work for the day.
With traitors and profiteers like old Sam on the scene, it’s a miracle we ever won that war.
I stand and stretch, wincing when my lower back pops. An idea woke me barely before the sun came up, and I headed straight to my computer and went to work.
I heated a couple of frozen burritos and downed two cups of coffee, but those were the only breaks so far today. I have the same feeling I used to get when I was deep in the archives at Harvard for hours, emerging without a sense of time, muscles sore and eyes blurry.
A glance at the clock says it’s after lunch already, and it’s as if knowing the time gives my stomach permission to speak up. It growls. Loudly.
Food or fresh air? Why not both? I can heat up something and eat it while I walk to the big house and …
And see Phoebe, basically. That would be the whole reason for going.
It’s a pretty good reason. Unfortunately, when I check through the window, her car isn’t there.
Maybe that’s for the best. The big house is her domain now. Monday, it had felt right to welcome her as a trustee and a Martin. I probably would have done it for anyone who was hired, but it felt more imperative after our ladder meeting in the library on Saturday.
Tuesday and Wednesday, I’d been in New Haven for a lecture, then stayed to take advantage of researching the Yale Beinecke library special collections. Yesterday, I’d felt an almost irresistible draw to go see Phoebe in the big house. I was about to give in and walk over when I spotted her on the way to the vault with its engineer. Crashing that would have felt like I was micromanaging or being territorial. At worst, Phoebe would have seen right through to what wasactuallyhappening, which was that I wanted to look at her some more.
I laugh at myself. The woman won’t get a chance to miss me if I’m always around.
When even the thought of another frozen burrito makes me sad, I decide to take myself out to lunch. After a debate between Mexican or pub food, I drive over to the Lucky Springs Brewery because I’m in the mood for their fried fish sandwich. I enjoy it at a sidewalk table in the warm afternoon sunshine. Definitely my best idea today.
I’m standing to leave when the brewery door opens and out walks Phoebe, looking like dessert. Once again, she’s dressed in a slim-fitting skirt and a white blouse, but the skirt is the bright blue of a swimming pool, and she’s wearing a scarf around her waist like a belt. It’s got several different colors in it, and all together, she reminds me of a blue-frosted donut with sprinkles. I’m into it, but I’m smart enough to know women don’t generally like to be compared to round things, so I better keep that to myself.
“Hi,” I say. “You’ve found my favorite lunch place.”
“Oh, hi, Jay.” She sounds surprised but not annoyed. “I had some errands to run, so I decided to merge it with work and explore the main library after lunch.”
