Page 95 of This is a Kissing Book

My best friend replies instantly.

Oly: That tells me nothing, Juliana Lindley. NOTHING.

“Is she alright?” Linc asks.

“She’s just making sure you haven’t spirited me away to commit crimes of the historical art variety.”

“Well,” he says with mock seriousness, “the day is young.”

With another casual display of his resources, Linc arranged for fresh clothing—that must be where his new jeans came from. Shopping bags arrive from stores I’ve only ever admired from the sidewalk while window shopping. Everything fits perfectly—dark pants, a stylish tank top, and a light blazer for moving in and out of climate-controlled spaces.

“How did you know my sizes?” I ask when I emerge from the bedroom.

Linc rubs his thumb over his penny. “Lucky guess.”

We spend the rest of the morning wandering through the Smithsonian as if we’re tourists with only twenty-four hours before we move onto our next stop … or a couple on their honeymoon who don’t want to miss a thing.

We’re searching for anything by the artists Douglas Kinnard, Clement Marchand, or having to do with Lincoln. In the same way history can be like a ball of yarn, it also leaves breadcrumbs. There have to be clues here somewhere.

Linc repeatedly checks his phone. Tension bunches in his shoulders. No surprise, all things considered, but I prefer the fantasy of us being a couple on …

Kidding! I’m kidding. I did not just think that.

But my stomach does a disco boogie.

“Tell me more about your parents,” I say as we sit on a bench outside the National Gallery of Art, watching families stream past with strollers and camera bags, students with large portfolios, and ordinary museum visitors who’re probably as interested in the cafeteria offerings as the history hung on the walls.

“What about them?”

“You said they honeymooned here. That they loved art and history.”

His expression softens. “They did, hence my father becoming a titan in the industry. He’s obsessed with preserving it, even more so after we lost Mom. She loved art, paintings especially for the stories they told, the beauty they portrayed, the hope they inspired. She could spend hours in front of a single piece, seeing things that everyone else missed. My father used to tease her about it, but he’s snatched up as many of her favorites in the years since. Ironic, I suppose.”

“In her memory?”

“It’s hard to tell because even before she passed, he was only focused on business and already less interested in the things that used to matter to them both.” Linc’s voice is soft with sadness.

I reach out and touch his hand, wanting to comfort him.

He gazes out the window. “I think that’s part of why finding these letters matters so much to me. It’s not just about Lincoln and Mary. It’s about seeing what love looks like.”

Feeling unsteady with emotion, I say, “My parents weren’t like that. Allegedly, my father was charming when he wanted to be, but not reliable. Not the kind of man who wrote love letters. They split when I was too young to remember.”

“That must have been hard.”

“Mostly on my mother. She kept believing he’d change and then finally had enough. I only saw him a couple of times a year before he got sick.” I watch a young couple sharing a pretzel, unconsciously mirroring each other’s movements. “Maybe our motives aren’t that different.”

He squeezes my hand gently. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Me too and somewhere along the way, I’ve started trusting him without even realizing it. I don’t know if I should make a pact with Oly that I not do anything stupid or … just see where things go. I mean, we’ve already been to New York and now Washington, DC. What’s next? Oz?

We grab a quick lunch at a café filled with young professionals zipping around in tailored suits and confident strides. Watching them makes me think about my real job, the one I should probably be at right now.

“Should I call in sick?” I wonder aloud, then immediately feel guilty. “I’ve never taken a sick day that wasn’t actually for being sick.”

With a confident smile, Linc says, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got you covered.”

“What does that mean?”