Signed, Sealed, and Smitten (Only Magic in the Building)

by Melanie Jacobson

No, it’s the ladder. The fairytale ladder. The rolling ladder. The Professor Henry Higgins in his library ladder. The Belle in the bookseller’s shop, singing about her provincial life ladder.

Show me a girl who loves to read who hasn’t had the same fantasy, and I’ll show you—nothing. That girl doesn’t exist.

That smile, though. That smile, in a silky whisper, spells t-r-o-u-b-l-e.

“You okay, old man?” I ask as I slide up the rolling door. “Shut up, Phoebe,” Daniel says without any heat. “You laugh now, but you’ll be my age in two years, and it won’t be so funny anymore.” I fake a serious expression. “Sorry for the lack of respect to my elders. Keep giving me your wisdom on aging.” “Brat.” He lets down the ramp. “You’re so smug because you’re in your twenties, but thirty comes for us all.”

He grips the inside walls and vaults himself into the wardrobe, landing in a crouch. A suspicious crouch. “Are you doing a Spiderman impersonation?” I ask. “Yes.” He grins and straightens. “I decided to give it some flair since I have an audience.”

“For future reference, any time a young man has hands on you for any reason, lead with that. Now, tell me all about him.” “There’s not much to tell.” Francie makes a “wrong answer” buzz. “You’re trying to sound too casual, you bad liar. Tell me about the peach farmer.” “Francie!” “Boston Harbor. Chuck that tea.”

“Well, Phoebe Hopper, it sounds like I’d better reintroduce myself.”

“Hello, I’m Jameson Paul Martin,” I say, walking toward the desk with my hand outstretched for a shake, “and I’m a historian. I specialize in the Revolutionary War.”

You are the object of my affections. The sole object of all of them. I thought for certain my actions have shown that, but since they apparently have not, let’s make it so my words do.

Historians need to examine the past objectively. One of the hardest biases to overcome is presentism, the tendency to judge other eras by modern values, like what it takes for a woman to be fulfilled now versus what she might have valued then. It’s human nature, but it’s poor scholarship.

When he disappears, I stare at the space he left behind. That’s how it feels. Like a nearly tangible imprint of where he just was. How can a shameless flirt with intentions as deep as a Saharan rain puddle create a strong enough impression that I still feel him when he’s gone?

I’ve switched my usual lipstick for a power red. It’s not quite Taylor-at-a-football-game red. I’ve gone a couple of shades deeper. But it’s definitely woman-in-Congress-tearing-up-a-hostile-witness red.

“I don’t have a great poker face, do I?” “Your face comes with subtitles. I like it.”

“What’s wrong?” “I had to deal with a sudden urge to push you up against a wall and make out with you.” Oh. Oh.

“A friend would never leave me out of the hunt for something in a library. Lignin, Phoebe. You would hog all the lignin?” That makes me flat out laugh. Lignin is the old book smell that all basic nerds love, but only true nerds know its name.

Hottie Historian. Revolutionary Rizz. The Hot Prof.

I look at Jay. “What is this?” He holds out his hand for his phone and slides it into his shorts pocket before pointing to his beanie. “This is my influencer costume. I have an account called Gaming History where I explain historical events using video game analogies.”

“How’s your book going?” I ask. He takes a sip and considers this. “You don’t have to do that.” “Do what?” “Ask to be polite.” “I’m genuinely curious, History Hottie.” He groans. “Curse my incredible beauty,” he mumbles into his cup, and I laugh.

He’s more intertwined with it than the ivy on Harvard.”

A screenshot from the comment trail of one of his videos where someone says he’s so boring it put the viewer’s dog to sleep, then a screenshot of his resume where he’s listed “pet hypnotist” as one of his special skills.

A handsome man left on Tuesday, and I got breathing room. A devastatingly sexy man returned on Friday and took my breath away.

Several people are waiting for tables, but they’re in groups, and when the hostess says, “Table for one? I can take you right now,” I’m not embarrassed. They can pity themselves for having to wait. No, the embarrassment strikes when she leads me to an empty table right next to an occupied table for two. Sexy Librarian from the college is sitting in one seat. And Jay Martin is sitting across from her in the other.

“Am I … not supposed to date?” “Date all you want.” “Your face isn’t saying the same thing as your mouth,” I inform her. “The subtitles are big.” “My face is just my face.”

“I don’t know any good magic words,” he says. “You pick.” I’m aware of every place his skin touches mine as we keep our pinkies connected. I can’t concentrate, so I do the first thing I think of. “O-O-O-O’Reiiiilly … Autoooo Parts.” “Really?” “It sticks in your head like a spell. You got something better?” “Yeah.” He clears his throat and sings, “Meow meow meow meow,” from the cat food commercial. I nod. “Much better.”

“You know what’s funny is that in a way, old school letters are how I ended up in Boston.” “Handwritten letters? Like Dear Heart’s?” “Yeah. In fourth and fifth grade, we had pen pals at other schools. Fourth grade was Florida history, so we traded letters with a class in Tallahassee because it’s the state capital. Fifth grade was Colonial history, so my teacher set up a pen pal project with a fifth-grade class in Boston. I grew up in a suburb of Orlando, a master planned city, and at the time, it was one of the newest cities in the country. We were supposed to write to our pen pal to compare and contrast the differences in our cities. I couldn’t wrap my head around Boston. I was amazed that their class lived in a place we read about in history books when our city didn’t even show up on Google Maps yet.” “Those letters made you want to move to Boston?” he asks. His voice sounds odd. Thin, kind of, and I look over to see if he’s okay. He’s studying me, but he seems fine. “I guess they did.”

“Jay? You okay?” “I’m aware this is going to sound …” He rubs his forehead. “Sound what?” “Phoebe, I think I was your pen pal.”

“This is what you call serendipity.” “Happy accident. That’s what serendipity means. I couldn’t remember if it meant fate or good luck or something like that, so I looked it up.” “Then maybe it’s not serendipity.” He reaches with his free hand to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, then cups the back of my head and meets my eyes. “At this point, it seems inevitable.”

“All of our conversations up until now have been about how we’re not going to date.” “You mean your monologues?”

But I know you, Phoebe. I see who you are when you’re letting yourself be happy and climbing through hidden passageways. I see how no matter how professional you try to dress at work, you always include something subversive and bright and fun in your outfit. And I can’t figure out why the best things about you are the things you keep trying to suffocate.”

“That’s him, right? That has to be him. We found Dear Heart? Did he marry Katherine Dailey?” “He died last year. His company was called Crawford Technologies, and his obituary says he is survived by his wife⁠—” “Cathy,” I finish. “His wife, Catherine McCormick Crawford.”

All these weeks, and I’ve been trying to help my actual nemesis, except it turns out …” “Your villain has an origin story?” She gives a small laugh. “Worse. She might not even be a villain.”

“I hereby add the following provision to my Last Will and Testament: if Phoebe Hopper accepts the position as director of the Museum of Serendipity, and my grandson, Jameson Paul Martin, is smart enough to fall in love with her, it would have given his grandmother no greater joy than for him to use her engagement and wedding rings to propose to Phoebe Hopper when Jay feels the time is right.”