Page 7 of Signed, Sealed, and Smitten
I yawn again, wishing I had time to make coffee, but the executor and director will be here any minute. Well, at the big house.
I save my work and slip on my flip-flops beside the door. I can only see one of my sneakers at the moment, and I’d rather show up in sandals than be late looking for a Nike.
A spotted fawn disappears into the underbrush as I start across the grounds, and I smile. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a deer around here, but it’s not a daily occurrence either. Grandad returned the back part of the property to native landscaping decades ago, and it’s always full of scurries and chirps.
Two hares race across the grass in front of me as if to make the point, and I’m smiling when I unlock the back door of the house. As I walk in, I hear the sound of the front dooropening and the murmur of voices. I meet them in the foyer, and two pairs of eyes fix on me, one pair warm, one pair surprised and maybe not thrilled about it.
“Good morning, Jay,” Harvey Bullard, my grandfather’s longtime friend and lawyer, says. “How’s work?”
“Fine,” I say, more interested in Phoebe Hopper. I missed something critical about her on Saturday, and I don’t know how, because it’s her most striking feature: her eyes. They’re a color of brown I’ve never seen before, at least not in someone’s eyes. They’re light and maybe copper? Or honey? I narrow mine as I study hers, trying to think what it is they remind me of. Then it clicks. “Have you seen the bottle room?”
“Yes?” She says it with a rising inflection that asks me to explain why I want to know.
Now is probably not the time to get into her eye color. Not with Harvey there as a witness, ready to go laugh with all of Grandad’s friends about how Jay stood there mooning over the new director.
“It’s cool. The bottle room.” I’ll explain why it matters when Harvey isn’t around to watch me do my thing.
She gives me an odd look but lets it go. Sheisdressed in sensible shoes and an air of terrifying competence. Her hair is drawn into a low ponytail and she’s wearing a plain black cardigan, white blouse, black pants, and loafers. It’s professional, and yet … I frown. I don’t know anything about women’s fashion, but something about the cut and style and the way she’s put it all together feels more Jackie O than CEO. Huh. Interesting. Somehow she’s coloring outside the lines while wearing black and white.
“Something wrong?” Harvey asks, eyeing my expression.
I smooth it out. “Sorry, haven’t had my coffee yet. Wanted to come over to welcome the new director.”
“Phoebe Hopper, meet Jay Martin,” Harvey says. “He’sFoster’s grandson and one of the museum’s board members. I imagine you’ll bump into him quite often on the grounds while he’s in residence.”
Her lashes make the barest flutter. “In residence?”
I’m right—she didn’t read the fine print.
“I use the caretaker’s cottage from time to time,” I tell her. “It’s one of the provisions of the trust.”
“Unlimited access for as long as he wishes until such time as he may decide to sign it over to the trust,” Harvey says, his tone pleasant. “Don’t worry, he’s a good egg.”
She gives her head a small shake. “I’m sorry, somehow I missed that. I take responsibility. Mr. Martin’s documents were comprehensive, and your explanation was thorough. My apologies for overlooking that.”
“Understandable,” Harvey says. “It’s two sentences in a thirty-page section in the will, and you’ve had a lot of information to digest. He’ll be a good resource for you until you build up your own staff of experts.”
“That’s the first order of business,” she says. “My highest priority is staffing. I’ve prepared a phased plan for a smooth hiring and onboarding experience. Today will be about a careful inspection of assets and property, so I can draft appropriate job postings for an archivist and curator. I have several contacts I want to reach out to for direct recruiting as well.”
Hmm. She’s much more formal when she’s not riding the library ladder.
“No contacts from the Sutton, of course,” Harvey Bullard says.
Now it’s Phoebe’s turn to frown. “I don’t intend to do any recruiting from the Sutton for my own reasons, but why would you make that specific provision? Surely their staff is all highly qualified.”
“Of course, but one of Foster’s board choices can’t accept the appointment if we recruit from the Sutton.”
I swear she tenses, her body going still, her eyes wary as she asks, “Who is it?”
“Catherine Crawford.”
I don’t know who Catherine Crawford is, but the effect her name has on Phoebe is fascinating. Grandad hand-selected the board he wanted to oversee the birth of his dream. Some of them he informed of his wishes before his passing. Others, Harvey has had to track down and solicit, waiting patiently for them to make a decision. Catherine Crawford must be one of those.
A slight flush rises in Phoebe’s cheeks, but her voice is even when she repeats, “Catherine Crawford is on the board?”
“Yes, just agreed last week,” Harvey says. “Oh, that’s right, you must know her already from the Sutton.”
“She’s a trustee there,” Phoebe says. “I’ve worked with her.”
