Page 92 of This is a Kissing Book

I do quick math in my head. “But that would’ve been after Lincoln was gone. 1492 discovery, 1865 assassination, 1892 celebration.”

“Right, but at the museum in Chicago, there’s a section with all the proposed building plans, well, more like color depictions. The one in Washington, DC, the nation’s capital, included a series of glass buildings.”

I snap my fingers. “Since the fair was in Chicago, the glass buildings were never constructed.”

“The layout was there, where they would’ve been.” She blinks a few times, thinking hard. “Abraham Lincoln would’ve known about the great Crystal Palace in Hyde Park, London.”

I stare at her. “History professor, how do you know all of this?”

“I had to do a project on it in college.”

“Cool. So tell me about this Crystal Palace.”

“Lincoln and Mary may have visited. It could’ve been that he considered her his queen, placing her in a glass building, but smaller than the palace. A place just for them. A place they’d be safe in a peaceful post-war world.”

Like Mom’s beloved cabin by the lake.

The pieces shift around in my mind, but don’t quite click into place. “Remember, the diptych was composed by a third party.”

“Perhaps Lincoln gave some artistic instruction … or the world they lived in and the one he wanted for his bride were explored in the love letters.”

“Whoa.” I let out a long exhale. “I can see your mind is racing a mile a minute, but that still leaves a big unknown. How do the paintings point to the letters?” I say this as much to Jules as to myself.

She shrugs. “That’s the extent of my knowledge. I’m a dead end, even if I may have put us on the right track.”

My thoughts loop and loop, in an endless circle, and then snap into sharp relief. “The track.”

Jules shakes her head. “I’m not interested in going to any tracks.” She trails off, vaguely commenting about her father’s interest in horse betting.

“I went to college in Washington, DC, which, in part, is built on a swamp. They had to close the athletic area for a time because of a sinkhole. When they were excavating to shore up the ground, they found some artifacts.” I hardly remember the details, but excitement makes my body hum.

“It’s a bit of a stretch …”

I shake my head. “Jules, you haven’t given me a dead end. You’ve given me the key. I happen to have the lock.” I pull out my phone and start making calls. “My mother wrote in her journal about her and my father’s honeymoon. They spent five days getting lost in the Smithsonian and the National Art Gallery.”

“They went to Washington, DC for their honeymoon? That’s not especially romantic.”

“They both loved history and art.” I think about my father now, how he’s spent so much time focused on business that he’s forgotten what originally drew him to my mother. He’s neglected to enjoy the present or prepare for the future, focusing on the things that really matter. “Washington or bust.”

Jules gawks at me. “Seriously?”

I grin at her as the car turns toward the airport. “What better thing to do when dressed up like this than to go on a treasure hunt in the nation’s capital?”

She tips her head back with laughter as if agreeing to this absurd adventure.

33

JULES

Never mind Juliana in La La Land—as Mom used to say to me when I was a kid and she’d catch me daydreaming. I’ve entered an alternate dimension where I’m apparently the kind of person who jets off to major cities in the middle of the night to hunt for centuries-old love letters with a man who makes me feel like I have a Glowy Care Bear heart.

It’s well past midnight when we arrive in Washington, DC, both of us moving like zombies the moment before we realize the couple at the other end of the hall in the mirror are the walking dead. That would be us.

I don’t mean as a couple—just the two people who are boss and employee that were once adversaries, and have now settled somewhere north of hating each other.

Not a couple. I repeat, not a couple.

We shuffle through the elegant lobby of a posh establishment Linc booked with a casual phone call from the plane. The suite he’s secured could house my entire family—yes, even with room for my bombastic brothers. I’m beginning to think rich people have trademarked marble surfaces, floor-to-ceiling windows, and furniture that you don’t have to build yourself using crude instructions and a cheap metal tool. We each have our own bedroom, separated by a spacious living area complete with a fireplace. We’re well into August, but the raw D.C. night has me chilled.