Page 9 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
“Why do you think his first wife kept this letter for so long?” the reporter asks as she studies it.
“Maybe she wanted a different ending for their love story,” Felicity offers with a hopeful grin. “Maybe she kept them because she hoped he’d come back to her, and these letters were her connection to him.”
“But he never did come back. He hardly even saw his child,” the reporter points out. “Do we know why Lily’s selling them?”
I could tell her the truth. That Corey Kruger’s first baby mama is just like Highsmith Associates—in need of moolah. My boss took this collection on because love letters are hot, he’d said. Because it could give us a foothold in the love letter market. Because he’s trying to make a once-great auction house great again.
As for Corey’s first wife, she’s selling because she can.
But I won’t share that, nor will I divulge that she told us she doesn’t care one lick for the mattress man.
That’s not going to help my cause—the cause of keeping this job to pay the bills as I sort out what the hell to do with my upside-down career. I sidestep into the truth, peddling the hope that buyers search between the lines of love letters. “She felt that since enough time had passed, she was ready to share them with the world.”
Felicity smiles happily as she reads the letter again. “If I had a letter like that, you bet I’d share it with everyone. Would you?”
Would I?
When I’m seventy and an auction house comes to me and asks me to sell the letters that Hunter Armstrong wrote, would I? There weren’t many, and they were more like love notes, but he was crazy romantic at times, slipping little missives into my purse, my jacket pocket, and under my pillow.
* * *
Dear Presley,
* * *
You.
I think of you.
I dream of you.
I want so much more of you.
* * *
Xoxo
Hunter
* * *
I kept them all.
I’d like to think I wouldn’t sell them.
I’d like to think I wouldn’t need the money.
But mostly I’d say no because I don’t want anyone ever asking me if I hoped our story had had a different ending.
There is no other ending for us.
I finish the showing, head to my office, and bury myself in work till lunch, when I devote an hour to researching ideas for a new book proposal.
As I outline heist ideas, my phone buzzes with an intercom call—my boss.
“Presley!”
“Yes, Daniel?”
“I have incredible news I can’t wait to share. Can you come to my office?”
“I’m on my way.”
Incredible news? At the rate my day is going, that means he’s laying me off.
I head down the hallway, saying hello along the way to Cassandra, a jewelry specialist, and to Chen, who handles Asian art, before reaching my boss’s office, where I find him with a phone cradled against his ear.
“Terrific, Oliver. That sounds terrific. We’ll talk soon. Cheers.”
He hangs up and points to the phone. “Fantastic fellow in London. He’s keenly interested in American art and antiques. Hoping to do business with him.”
“Is that the news you wanted to share?”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. That’s still percolating.” He gestures for me to come in, so I do—then stop when I see the photo on his computer screen.
3
Hunter
“Welcome to New York. Thank you so much, and we hope to see you again on a flight very soon.”
As the jet stops at the gate, the captain turns off the speaker, and I unbuckle my seat belt and stand.
Twenty-one hours on a plane and I feel like a million bucks. Stretching, I shift my neck back and forth, roll my shoulders, and snag my carry-on.
Nothing beats first-class travel.
I slept a full ten hours over the Pacific. I also showered in LAX during our layover in the middle of the night, even though I could have gone to my nearby condo and showered there, since the City of Angels is where I call home when I’m here in the United States. But the airport was easier, and that’s something I never knew was possible when I was a kid growing up with barely two nickels to rub together—there are actually full showers in the first-class lounges at many airports. And they’re fantastic, so I’m fresh as a goddamn daisy as I step off the plane late Monday morning and make my way through the airport, heading for the baggage claim, where I’m instantly assaulted.
It’s an out-of-the-blue ambush, and I’m smothered by laughter and a cloud of ivory soap scent. “Surprise!”
I hug my mom, not entirely surprised by the sneak attack.
After I untangle myself, I regard her silver-tinged hair, her crinkled smile, and the mischievous look in her warm brown eyes. “I told you I’d come by the house, Mom. You didn’t have to pick me up from the airport. I was going to take a Lyft.”
