Page 19 of Signed, Sealed, and Smitten
I head upstairs to reward myself with a half pint of ice cream and aNew Girlbinge for getting everything back on track today. The letter is handled, and more importantly, Jay is handled. I spent an hour in his company today having a cordial conversation and giving off friendly vibes. No matter how many times my brain told me to notice how swoopy his hair was, or how good his legs looked in shorts, or how his long, dark eyelashes made his eyes look more blue, I ignored it and stayed professional. Cordial. Friendly. Professional. Yep, that was me. I even let myself have an extraNew Girlepisode, I’m so impressed with my self-control.
The empty mailbox turns out to be a good omen for the weekend, which is mellow and lovely and not held hostage by concerns about a dead letter that keeps resurrecting. I go for a run Saturday morning, stop by the nearest café I can’t also find in an airport, and browse the bookstore next to it. I end up coming home with a book calledSpring Into Health, which promises all kinds of home remedies sourced right in Serendipity Springs. They really lean into that origin story around here.
I’m unlocking my apartment when the door to 3G opens, and a middle-aged woman in immaculate makeup and a vibrant teal caftan steps out. Her expression brightens when she sees me.
“You’re the new tenant,” she says. “I’m so sorry I haven’t come over to introduce myself. I’m a lot to take in at once, and I thought it would be better if we met in the wild.” She waves to indicate our shared hallway. “I expected to run into you sooner. I apologize for not being more welcoming.”
“No problem,” I tell her. “I’ve been working a lot since I got here. I’m Phoebe.”
“Gloria,” she says, extending her hand for a shake. “Welcome to The Serendipity. You’re a reader?” Her eyes brighten as they land on the bag from the bookstore.
“I am,” I say.
“Oh, good. I could talk books all day. In fact, I just finished this delicious romantasy trilogy, and I’m on a mission to make everybody read it.” She presses her hand to her heart. “Talk about swooooon.”
“Sounds great,” I say with a laugh, even though I’m more into nonfiction.
Gloria squeezes her hands together. “You’re going to love it. I’ll drop it by for you later. Welcome again.”
“Nice to meet you, Gloria. Bye,” I say, as I close my door behind me. I’m still smiling, because even though I haven’t had time to get to know many people in the building, the handful I’ve encountered have all been that same level of friendly.
Sunday morning, I laugh when I open my door to go on a run and find a book on my doorstep. It’s got gold leaf edges and dramatic cursive and some sort of fantasy creature on it. I set it on the accent table beside my door and head out for my run. When I get back, I treat myself to a lunch of cranberry cheese on toast. Massachusetts produces a lot of cranberries, so it’s no surprise it’s featured in so many things at the local grocery store besides canned jelly.
I sit down, planning to spend the afternoon reading my book about all the miraculous properties of the actual Serendipity Spring, but after two hours, I can’t tell the difference between a tincture and a tisane, and I switch to Gloria’s romantasy so I can honestly say I’ve started it and thank her for dropping it by.
Somehow, eight hours later, I’m emerging from a bookhangover and writing down the author’s name so I can buy the second book after work tomorrow even though the first one was utterly ridiculous. But also addictive? And there’s a whole subplot that’s left as a cliffhanger, and I kind of want to know. Okay, I really want to know, and it’s going to drive me nuts until I see how it resolves.
But as anxious as I am to find out, I forget all about it Monday morning when I stop by my mailbox before work.
I don’t know why I do this. But instead of going straight out to my car in the parking deck, I go down two flights of stairs like my feet saidNope, this way.
When I spot a flash of white through the glass, my stomach gives an unsettled flutter, but there is no way it’s that letter.
I pat the door and say, “Art Deco is the best deco.” It opens, and I draw out the far-too-familiar envelope. I stare at it, not sure I’m seeing it correctly.
Everything is the same. A faintly yellowed linen envelope with ink showing signs of aging. It is addressed to Smitten Kitten. It is from the same Boston return address. It says “return to sender” and “no such resident” in my handwriting. But unlike before, there is no stamp or postmark.
This isn’t possible. Unease skitters down my spine.
I turn it over, and there it is, a smudged fingerprint on the back near the point of the flap.
This is getting strange—no, it has blown way past strange into surreal. Like … maybe I need a neuro check. But maybe I need to open it first and see what’s inside. That might help me figure out how crazy I’ve gone, because I feel like I’ve become the subject of some psychological experiment.
I even take a quick look around the mailbox alcove for possible hidden cameras because that’s what completely well-adjusted and not-at-all paranoid people do. I don’t see any, butthen again, isn’t the point of a hidden camera that Iwouldn’tsee it?
It is too early in the day to be this rattled. I don’t have time to spiral. “Okay,” I say, maybe in case there’s a hidden camera. “I’m going to work, and I’m going to think this through logically.”
But as I slip the envelope into my work bag and head to the Martin House, I already know: I have to open this letter.
Chapter Eleven
Phoebe
I’mdisappointed when I get to my desk twenty minutes later without seeing a trace of Jay. Then I’m disappointed in myself for being disappointed.
“Border collie,” I say as I deposit my bag on the desk and retrieve the envelope. I situate it on the walnut surface of the desk to photograph it before I move it into the top desk drawer to keep it safe from sudden drafts and the sun, which I love—unless I’m dealing with artifacts.
Potential artifacts? I still don’t know what this letter is, but it’s time to find out. I call my favorite expert on both my head and documents of every kind, even dead letters.
