Page 122 of This is a Kissing Book

“Yeah, next month.”

“Let’s go. Together.”

She stares at me. “It’s in Las Vegas. And you’re so busy⁠—”

“Not too busy for family. Besides, I want to see where you grew up.”

Her smile is radiant. “Really?”

“Really.”

Jules throws me off balance in a refreshing way, though I won’t admit it out loud. After years of networking with people who have hidden agendas. How genuine she is, is almost too good to be true. But watching her get excited about introducing me to her family and seeing the way she lights up at the smallest kindnesses makes me want to be the man she thinks I am.

The next afternoon, rain patters against the windows while Jules reads and I doze on the couch. The sound of her sharp intake of breath wakes me from my nap.

“Linc.” Her voice is urgent.

I bolt to standing. “I’ve been staring at that desk all week and just realized something. It’s a replica of the one we found at the library.”

I’m instantly alert. “What?”

She’s already moving toward my mother’s desk, running her hands along the wood paneling. “The same dimensions, the same detailing. Different wood stain or finish. Some variations, but what if it’s one of the desks Abraham Lincoln had commissioned for his sons?”

I crouch beside her, looking for the secret panel we found on the other desk. The veneer gives and I hold my breath as I peer inside. “It’s empty.”

“Just some dust and a cobweb.”

My thumb rubs my lucky penny.

“If there are others, the letters could be in one of them. I can’t believe we didn’t think of that before.”

“We’re not technically sleuths,” I joke, feeling the rush of excitement fade. But then I snap my fingers. “Unless there are others.”

“Yeah. As I said, the desks made for the other sons—” Jules starts.

“No, I mean other secret compartments. We didn’t want to be caught when we were visiting Tudor Place, but we can check to see …” I’m already running my hands along every inch of the desk, trying to find another loose piece of wood, a crack, anything that would reveal a hiding place.

Easing into my mother’s chair, I recall her in this very position countless times. Then I picture my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. If he were to have something to hide, where would he put it?

I pull out the drawers, one at a time, but don’t notice anything unusual. Jules takes my lead and investigates other parts of the desk until we’re both back where we started.

“It was a good hunch,” Jules says.

I’m not ready to give up. “Abraham Lincoln was tall, so I don’t imagine he’d have hidden anything down low.”

“He’d have wanted to be discreet if he were hiding something.”

“So it has to be right in front of our faces.”

Jules puts her hand under the desk’s surface and her eyebrow arches.

“Find something?”

She crawls underneath the desk and lets out an excited little sound. “Your instinct that he wouldn’t have crouched under here was right, but that’s also because he would’ve known the location of the hidden compartment and could’ve found the latch by feel. I need something smooth.”

“I can go get a screwdriver.”

“Or your penny. There’s a little mechanism that looks like it needs to be twisted, but I can’t do it with my thumbnail.”