Page 72 of Any Port in a Storm

“I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that he’s Irish,” I joke.

“Doesn’t hurt a bit.”

Nick buys our tickets, and we start in the local author space. “I think I could spend all day here,” I tell him. “We should have gotten here sooner.”

We spent the morning driving from last night’s hotel outside New York City, where we’d hit up the Natural History Museum and the Met. It was almost two by the time we got to the hotel, and we only have a couple of hours left until the Institute closes for the day.

“Next time,” Nick promises.

My mood warms a bit at the notion of there being a next time. Both because seeing all of these museums with Nick has been an absolute blast, and because his statement suggests a future where he hasn’t moved away from Boston post-graduation. Where we’re still a part of each other’s lives.

We stroll around the museum in amicable silence, occasionally grabbing each other to excitedly point out an exhibit or nerd out over an artifact.

“Did you know that Edgar Allen Poe wrote here?” I ask.

“I thought he was more a Baltimore guy,” Nick admits. “Learn something new every day.”

“I’m learning a whole lot more than that today.” I reach out to fix his collar, which has flipped over on itself, and catch a glimpse of his watch. “Shit. It’s 4:30. Where’s the Oscar Wilde stuff? I want to make sure we see it before they close.”

Nick grabs the museum map from his back pocket. “Looks like it should be right around the corner here.”

But when we round the corner, we find an exhibit on Elizabeth Graeme Fergusson, a writer who ran literary salons in the greater Philadelphia area.

“This is perfect for you,” Nick tells me excitedly. “A feminist literary icon!”

I frown. “Yeah, but we need to find Oscar.”

“Maybe they moved the exhibit?”

We race up to the third floor, ducking in and out of rooms, but we come up short.

“I’m going to ask someone,” I tell Nick after a few minutes of fruitless searching.

“It’s really okay,” he says, shaking his head. “We’ve seen plenty of cool stuff here.”

“Nick. No.” I fix him with my sternest expression. “I’m finding this exhibit for you.”

A woman with the complacent expression of a worker about to clock out stands in the corner of the room, and I take purposeful strides in her direction.

“Excuse me.” I notice her name tag says “Maura.” She smiles politely. “My friend and I are looking for the Oscar Wilde exhibit.”

“Oh.” Her face falls. “I’m sorry; we actually closed it last week. We’re preparing the space for a special collection on loan from Louisa May Alcott’s estate.”

Hope drops like an elevator, all the way to my toes. “That does sound amazing. But my friend and I drove all the way from Boston. He’s Irish, actually, and he’s a huge Oscar Wilde fan. He’s a history professor,” I tack on, like that matters. “Is there any way he could see even just one thing from the exhibit? Maybe in the reading room?”

Maura purses her lips. “I’m so sorry, but there’s nothing of Wilde’s available for public viewing.”

I’m racking my brain for something, anything, I can say to change her mind. I have to do this for Nick. “I, um. I work with Dr. Elaine Spillinger at Hawthorne University. She deals with a lot of the English department’s donors. I’m sure I could get her to add the Institute to her list of recommended charitable organizations. I would be happy to try.” I catch my breath. “Honestly, I’d do anything—my friend is such a fan. Is there anything you can do?”

Maura considers me carefully, then inclines her head. “Grab your friend. I think I can help.”

“I can’t believe you got them to let me hold that letter,” Nick says for about the hundredth time over dinner.

“What can I say?” I twirl my hair around my finger. “I can be extremely persuasive.”

He chuckles softly. “The understatement of the century. Perhaps of all time.”

Maura, who turned out to be the Institute’s curatorial assistant, had spirited us away to a back room, left for five minutes, and reappeared with a personal letter Oscar Wilde wrote to his lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, in 1893.