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18
IBLOW OFF THE REST OF MY CLASSES FOR THE AFTERNOON TO HOPon the back of Nate’s motorcycle. After only a few miles, the lash of colder air across my face reaches bone, and I cling to Nate for warmth and hug the body of the bike with my legs. It’s all I can do to stop from shivering. At a stop sign, he notices my nearly frozen fingers and tucks my hands into the front pockets of his leather jacket.
“Better?” he says roughly.
“Much.” My voice sounds odd to my ears. Somehow simultaneously too high and too throaty.
The more time I spend with him on this bike, the more I believe I’m starting to understand him. The freedom and impermanence of his nature, exposed to and at eye level with his surroundings. It takes a particular kind of person to own a bike. It’s the difference between seeing a city from a tour bus and actually plunging yourself in its streets.
I get the sense that Nate’s the type of guy who immerses himself in everything. He needs to feel the texture between his fingers, searching for that authentic something that makes the experience worth having, not content with the behind-the-glass view. It’s in his aura, and I think it’s that restless quality that I instinctively gravitate toward.
Streets narrow through thickening trees as we approach the Tulley estate. Only about a mile down a winding road, past the iron gates, a small historic cemetery comes into view. There, an old stone church with its pocked exterior dripped in black from centuries of rain stands guard over the dead. Beside it is the modest brick museum with a painted wooden sign.
Nate pulls up alongside the building in the empty parking lot. Still straddling his bike, he takes my helmet, then brushes my hair out of my face as I stand.
“A little brisk, was it?”
“Didn’t bother me,” I lie. Because I don’t want him to think I’m, what, uncool?
He smiles in return as he gets off the bike. I’m not sure if that’s an approving look or because he knows I’m only putting on a brave face. Either way, I like that I get that out of him.
No one greets us when we walk inside on a gust of wind that throws dry leaves at our heels. The room is dark, save for soft amber pin lights over glass display cases and the open window shutters at the back of the room, casting harsh shadows.
“Hello?” I call out in search of anyone to help us.
“The lunch lull?” Nate says.
“Guess we beat the rush,” I joke.
We wait another minute or so before losing patience and heading off to wander the exhibits on our own. My gaze absorbs every detail, an eagerness building deep in my belly. I’m on sensory overload in here. Everywhere I look, I see something that begs for my attention. Photos, newspaper articles, handwritten letters. Leather-bound journals open to dates of some significance. Pieces of personal artifacts. Jewelry and carved gifts from foreign dignitaries.
I let out a giddy sigh.
Nate looks over, an indecipherable glint in his eyes.
“What?” I say self-consciously.
“Nothing. Just…” His tongue comes out briefly to moisten hislower lip. “You should see yourself right now. Your whole face is lit up. Cheeks flushed. You look like you just…” He trails off, wrenching his gaze away.
“Like I just what?” I ask. Because I’m a masochist.
His eyes flick back to mine. Just for a moment. “Like you just had a good fuck.”
I feel those words between my legs.
“Oh” is the only syllable I manage to utter through my dry throat.
All business now, he drifts toward the nearest display. “All right then. What are you hoping to find?”
I force my mind back on task. “Okay, so I found a note hidden in the backing of the portrait. It was written by a young woman named Josephine.”
“The subject of the portrait, you reckon?”
“I think so. In the note, Josephine was telling someone she couldn’t marry him because she was in love with someone else. There’s a chance it’s one or more of the Tulley brothers, but I need evidence to support the theory.”
Nate and I drift around the room. There’s an enormous family tree dating back centuries hanging on the far wall. On another wall, a painted coat of arms and a military uniform with medals and other regalia. All of it offers remarkable glimpses into the legacy of the Tulley family, but none of it is of importance to my investigation.
“What got you curious?” I ask suddenly. We’re at opposite sides of the room, strolling past exhibits.
