I woke up Sunday morning, stiffly curled up in a ball with my cell in my hand. Angelique hadn’t called back, so I called her immediately. My first voice mail was pretty calm. “Hey, Angelique, it’s Emma. Can you give me a call?”
I tried her again after showering. My second voice mail was a little more agitated. “Angelique, it’s Emma. Please call me back. There are new developments and only you can help me.”
My third voice mail sounded like I called her from inside of an insane asylum. “Angelique! I dreamed Gloriana’s last moments! And I’m supposed to hang out with Brendan today. Yeah, it’s Brendan. He’s the guy. Shocker, I know. Do I go? What’s going on? Please, please call me back!”
I was desperately trying to get a hold of her before my meeting—oh, who was I kidding, date—with Brendan. Everything, as crazy as it sounded, pointed to one thing: we were cursed soul mates—and still, I couldn’t stay away.
“If Angelique calls me back, I won’t go,” I decided, and plugged my phone back into its charger.
But she didn’t call back—and all my calls eventually went to voice mail. And I reasoned, I couldn’t cancel on Brendan. More like wouldn’t cancel on him, Emma.
And the more I thought about him—and how I felt when he kissed me—the more I knew I wasn’t going to stand him up. But mostly, when I was with him—I was happy. The happiest I had been in years. And whether that was from a curse or just from my emotional wounds finally healing, I’d be crazy to let go of him.
So I decided to stuff all of my newfound knowledge into the back of my head, and go downtown to Brendan’s house. But all that information refused to go unrecognized; it kept me frozen on the sidewalk as I regarded the four-floor, classically Manhattan brownstone. A scrolled, wrought-iron banister wound its way down the stoop, and the matching eight-foot-tall fence stuck out in comparison to the more modern structures lining the street, which faced a park with striking views of the Hudson River.
I checked the gilded numbers on the gate again. I was pretty sure I was on the right street. Brendan hadn’t told me an apartment number, which meant the entire thing was his family’s.
Now, what Christine had said made sense. When she called his family “prominent,” she meant “rich.” Very rich. Completely, totally, vacationing-in-Dubai rich. Well, Archer wanted to be reincarnated into someone wealthy, and it looked like he got his wish.
A tinny voice shook me from my thoughts, barking at me from the small, white security box on the fence.
“Are you going to stare at my house, or are you going to come in?” Even through the crackling security speaker, I’d recognize Brendan’s voice anywhere.
I heard a buzzing sound, and realized he had unlocked the gate. I pushed it open, and the heaviness of the gate brought me back to my horrific dream, reminding me of how I struggled to open the door to the garden. My stomach began churning.
I was going to Brendan’s house, and we were going to be alone. Just me, Brendan and the knowledge that he was most likely my soul mate. Come to think of it, it was going to get awfully crowded in there.
I was still walking up the steps when Brendan pulled open the heavy front door, dressed casually in jeans, socks and a black hoodie, worn open over a white T-shirt. I, on the other hand, had opted for gray corduroys, a scoop-neck black shirt and my fiercest heeled boots.
“Hey, Emma,” he said, snaking one arm around me while he held the door open with the other. Still keeping a tight hold on me, Brendan whirled me around and kicked the door shut. Any anxiety I felt melted away the instant he pressed his lips to mine for a sweet, short kiss.
“You didn’t run here from your aunt’s house, did you?” Brendan smiled, breaking away from the kiss to help me out of my worn wool jacket, which he hung up on an antique-looking rack in the foyer.
“No, I took the subway,” I mumbled, leaving out the part about how I got off on the wrong stop.
Brendan paused, looking down at my high shoes. “Not that I don’t appreciate the look, but my mom has this stupid ‘no shoes in the house’ rule. Do you mind?”
“Nope,” I replied, bracing myself against his shoulder as I used the tip of my right boot to pry the left one off. I was happy to remove them—they were already pinching—and happier still that I’d opted to wear cute polka-dotted socks.
Brendan grabbed my hand and offered to give me the grand tour. And holy crap, it was grand! He led me past a formal living room, decorated with jewel-toned, brocade-covered couches, to a cherry wood staircase. The stairs terminated in an impressively modern kitchen. It looked like it didn’t belong in the same house as the old-fashioned room downstairs—let alone the same century. The kitchen resembled something from a Martha Stewart set. Airy and impeccably decorated, a double-door, stainless-steel fridge was the centerpiece. Brendan stopped at the fridge, rooting around in there while I surveyed the room. A white ceramic bowl filed with oranges sat on the stainless steel countertop and orange linen curtains hung in the nearby window. There was a modern-looking white table to the left, surrounded by citrus-colored chairs, and I realized the bowl of oranges was merely decorative. Who knew there was such a thing as fashionable fruit? Were bananas passé this season?
“This is your favorite, right?” Brendan asked, handing me a lemonade iced tea.
“Yeah, I love it. You too?” I asked. As I took the bottle from him, I noticed a case of the stuff chilling in the fridge.
“Nah, but I asked Dina to pick some up for you,” he said, grabbing a Pepsi for himself.
“Dina? Is that your sister?”
“No, she’s our housekeeper,” he said nonchalantly. “Want to see the other living room?”
I nodded numbly, letting Brendan lead me into a large room behind the kitchen. Housekeepers? Four-story mansions in Manhattan? The other living room? Why would you even need a spare living room? If the first one is unable to fulfill its living room duties, the runner-up gets to step in?
But when I stepped into the spare living room, I realized that this “other” living room would be the centerpiece in anyone else’s home. There was a giant TV and a complicated-looking stereo protected by a glass cabinet—which looked like it held nearly every movie and video game ever made. My toes sank into the thick, plush burgundy carpet. The room opened out into a balcony, which overlooked a meticulously cared-for garden.
I took a sharp breath, turning over in my mind the fact that this was, without a doubt, the most expensive home I’d ever been in. Or heard about. Or seen on television.
“Prominent” was the understatement of the decade. Possibly the millennium. All my thoughts about Brendan and I being “destined” suddenly seemed foolish. My dream was just that: a dream. How the heck could I ever think I belonged with someone this rich, this “prominent”?
“I know it’s a little showy,” Brendan said, curling his lips in an annoyed-looking grimace. “The kitchen alone…you’d think someone in this family actually cooked. My floor is way more low-key.”
“Your floor?” I croaked. He might as well have said, “My island. You know, it’s just a little place I keep, for fun.” My stomach twisted in knots. Destined soul mate, my rosy peasant butt. There was no way this perfect guy, with this kind of life, was going to settle for me.
Brendan pulled me back to the staircase again, and we passed the third floor. “My parents’ floor—their bedroom, and my dad’s office, some other crap,” he said dismissively as we continued climbing. Finally, we arrived at the fourth floor.
“You’re in the penthouse?” I squeaked, meaning for it to come out teasing. Instead, it came out insecure. If Brendan noticed, he ignored it.
He pushed open the door, which was the same dark wood as the stairway. I braced myself, expecting to see a four-poster bed, or oh, raw uncut diamonds just scattered about, glittering on the floor. Maybe his walls would be solid gold. I stepped in and was happily surprised.
Pushed against the exposed-brick left wall was a bed, messily covered by a dark blue comforter. There was no majestic, fit-for-a-king headboard or frame—although it was a pretty big mattress—and a TV hung on the opposite wall, which was cool white plaster. His computer desk looked like it was from IKEA—simple and functional. Perched on it was a pricy-looking laptop, and several expensive-looking speakers snaked out from behind it. Aside from his deejay equipment pushed into a corner, there was some other modest furniture—a couple of dressers, a dark couch, a nightstand—but, like the computer desk, they all looked simple. The only adornments on the snow-white walls were a corkboard above his desk and some framed posters of musicians—from classic rock like The Who to deejays I’d never even heard of.
I was aware of Brendan’s eyes watching me as I walked along the perimeter of his room, examining his well-stocked collection of vintage vinyl, and stopping to look at the Han Solo figurine perched on top of his speakers.
“Oh, hey, wait,” Brendan said, racing over and pulling something off the corkboard above his desk.
“What, is that an ex-girlfriend’s photo?” I asked lightly, trying to keep the jealousy out of my voice.
“No, it’s nothing,” he said, stuffing it into his pocket.
“C’mon, let me see,” I wheedled, tugging at his shirt. “You said no secrets.”
Brendan grabbed me around the waist. “Maybe later,” he murmured into my ear, kissing my neck. I felt my knees go a little weak and was glad that he was holding me—I could have collapsed at that moment.
“I’m really glad you came over, Emma,” he whispered, his voice tickling my ear before he resumed kissing my neck. I leaned into his chest, happily, perfectly content—until a voice in the back of my head told me I should be uncomfortable in this situation. You’re reading fairy tales and all of a sudden, you go to some strange guy’s house? Alone? Way to put yourself in a bad situation. What’s next, taking apples from strangers? Is this just a big seduction ploy?
I disentangled myself from his embrace—without any grace at all, I basically just bolted from his arms. I hoped I hadn’t hurt his feelings, but I’d felt too comfortable, too content—all too quickly—in his arms.
“Did I do some—” Brendan started, but I wouldn’t let him finish.
“I just— I mean, I still don’t— Um, I’m sorry,” I stammered, feeling foolish. I daydream for a month about kissing him, now I flee when he does?
Brendan seemed to understand, and just grabbed his laptop and sat on his couch.
“Hey, want to see something?” he asked, sitting cross-legged on the worn-looking black leather.
“Check these out. My grandfather gave me a bunch of old family photos. I scanned them in. There’s some great pictures of old New York in here.” I figured he was looking for a less seductive way to pass the time—and pictures of the family were a surefire way to kill the mood. I appreciated the effort.
As I joined him on the couch, Brendan twisted his head to face me.
“As you reminded me, you know nothing about me or my family, right?” He looked at me pointedly.
“Right,” I mumbled. If only you knew what I thought I knew….
“Maybe knowing a little more about me will make you more…comfortable,” he said. I sat down next to him, leaning back on my arms as Brendan clicked through some faded photographs.
“This is my mom, when she was sixteen,” he said, pulling up what looked like a teenage model’s headshot from the 1970s.
“She was a model in the ’70s,” he explained. Of course. Blonde and fresh-faced, she looked nothing like her rakishly handsome son—except for the green eyes that stared doe-eyed and glamorously out of the monitor.
Brendan continued to click through the pictures, showing me old shots of family members from the ’60s and ’70s, often at some gala event. I definitely recognized some celebrities in those pictures.
“My grandfather gave me this one picture that’s so old,” he said, clicking on JPEGs and then shutting them. “What did I name this JPEG?” he asked himself. “Emma, it’s almost 100 years old, this shot. It’s of the house that used to be on this site.”
“This house is new?” I asked.
“Not really new. My great-great-grandfather bought this land and had a house built here. That was the early 1900s. This house, the one we’re in now, my great-grandfather had built, right before the Depression. Oh, here it is!” he exclaimed, and double-clicked on the icon.
Even though the scan was grainy and creased, withered with age, I recognized the house. I’d recognize it anywhere. The image that filled the screen had filled my nightmares. It was the burning white house.
“No,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut and turning away. My gaze landed on the view outside the window, where the Hudson River sparkled in the distance, and I knew I’d seen it from this vantage point before. Something flashed through my head—a feeling, a fleeting memory—something, that made me think I’d seen this view before. I tried to grab the memory, but it was gone. A sickening sensation washed over me, and even though I had never had it before, I knew what to call the feeling.
Déjà vu.
“Emma? Are you okay? You’re looking a little pale.” Brendan was staring at me, concerned, as I sat there, refusing to face him.
“Emma?” he asked again, sounding worried. “Emma, you’re shaking.”
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
“I dreamed of that house.” As soon as the words were spoken, whispered with a trembling voice, I regretted it. I returned to face him, to see the “uh-oh, she’s crazy” look on his face. But Brendan wasn’t looking at me like I was insane.
“You dreamed of this house—the one in the picture?”
I nodded.
“What did you dream, exactly?” he asked me quietly, staring back at the grainy scan of the black-and-white photo.
“I dreamed that I was in this house,” I said, tracing the front door to the house with my finger.
Brendan still stared at the picture, but his voice was anxious. “Take a good look at it. Are you sure?”
I would know that house anywhere. “I dreamed it burned down,” I said, my voice shaking.
He sighed, closing his eyes almost painfully. Then, shutting the laptop and placing it gently on the floor, he faced me.
“You know how I was out of school a few days this week?” Brendan asked, leaning in so his face was eye-level with mine. I nodded.
“I went to Ardsley. It’s in Westchester,” he added. “I was visiting my grandfather. I had to ask him about something, as the oldest member of our family.
“There’s always been a joke of sorts among the Salingers,” Brendan continued, reaching out and taking my hands in his. “That we have a—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—curse on us. I always thought it was just a silly story that’s been passed down from generation to generation, because—” he waved at the posh home around him “—clearly, we’ve been very lucky.
“Emma, you’re going to think I’m deranged.”
My heart caught in my throat. “I promise you, Brendan, I will not think you are deranged,” I said, my eyes burning into his. “I swear it to you.”
He eyed me warily, but took a deep breath and started speaking. “This curse was just an anecdote told at weddings and family reunions. Supposedly, every couple of generations, one of the Salingers is supposed to have this incredible romance—a straight-up, fairy-tale, true-love kind of thing. Only, it would end up an epic failure. Any time one of my cousins got dumped or shot down by a girl, we’d joke about the curse killing our game. No one took it seriously. I sure didn’t.”
Brendan’s eyes flickered to me, gauging my reaction. I hadn’t flinched yet.
“The curse is tied to a crest that’s been in my family for ages—nearly a thousand years, I believe. As the story goes, if one of the Salingers met someone wearing the crest, they were supposed to be your…true love.” Brendan’s tone was gentle over those words.
“My grandfather has a pretty massive library at his house, with all these old family documents, books, photos and such. I figured I should research the crest a little more, because—” he paused, picking up my necklace “—you’re wearing it.”
He dropped the pendant, and I was positive that it was on fire, the way it was stinging my skin. I wanted to open my mouth, to tell Brendan that I knew what he was talking about, but I couldn’t speak. A very small part of me had believed that the curse was just fantasy, my pathetic way of manufacturing a bond with Brendan. But as he spoke, the reality of the situation rushed at me, trapping my voice in my throat as I listened to Brendan talk about how he discovered the very thing I stumbled upon in Hadrian’s Medieval Legends. The very thing my brother’s spirit was warning me against.
“I found some old books, but they just repeated the same information that I already knew,” Brendan explained. “It was an old family seal, belonging to some lord from forever ago, who redesigned it in honor of his wife.
“So I talked to my grandfather. And he told me about the house that used to be here.”
Brendan leaned back, dropping my hands and rubbing his eyes. “I’m making no sense.”
“Actually, you are.” I leaned forward and, clutching his hands a little desperately into mine, begged, “Please tell me about the house that used to be here.”
Brendan took a deep breath and began. “My great-great-grandfather Robert lived here—in the house you dreamed of. When he was on his deathbed, he warned his grandson—my grandfather—that he thought the curse might actually be real. Robert said when he was a young man, he fell head-over-heels for a factory worker named Constance. He called her his golden angel, because she was a blonde or whatever. It was love at first sight, of course. They had planned to elope, but she was killed the day before their wedding.
“The thing is, they thought they’d cheated death. She had worked at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, and she said she had a bad feeling about the place and wanted to quit. She’d been having horrible nightmares about being trapped in a fire. But she didn’t want to look like she was out for Robert’s money. He told her to quit—and she did, just a week before there was a huge fire that killed most of the workers. But it was like death was coming for her,” Brendan said bitterly.
“Was she in this house when it burned down?” I asked quietly.
Brendan didn’t reply, which was answer enough for me.
“It was an electrical fire. The fuses were overloaded. Robert thought he had fixed the problem, but I guess he didn’t do such a great job.”
Brendan paused. “Back then, pennies were made of copper. So Robert stuck coins in the fuse box. An employee of his explained how to do it. Robert was so proud of himself for being industrious.”
“Does that even work?” I asked.
“It does, but it’s hardly what I’d call safe. When you do something like that, there’s no way to regulate the electrical current. And Constance hated staying in the house alone—it was too huge and dark.”
“So she turned on all the lights,” I said, knowing too well what happened next. Brendan just nodded, grimly.
“Robert didn’t have time to wait for the electrician. It was easier for him to just stick the copper penny where the fuse should have gone. Robert always blamed himself for her death—if he hadn’t been so selfish, so impatient…” Brendan trailed off.
“The curse, as I said, has always been something of a joke in my family. Let’s face it, when bad things happen, well, isn’t that just life? Don’t bad things happen?” My mind flipped through everything that had taken me to this moment and nodded.
“Was Constance wearing the crest?” I asked.
Brendan looked at me, his green eyes mournful. “Yes. She wore it as a brooch.” Just like in my dream. Where I had golden hair….
“I’d imagine it’s not always as glaringly obvious as yours, with the crest practically a big neon sign on your chest,” he continued. “But based on everything Robert told him, my grandfather believes that, yes, the curse is very, very real.”
“So the story of Lord Archer really is true,” I murmured to myself, and Brendan’s hands tightened around mine.
“You know the name?” Brendan inhaled sharply. “How?”
“I did some research of my own,” I admitted. “I always wanted to know what my necklace meant—but I could never find anything out. But then— Do you know Angelique?”
“The witchy chick, right?”
“Right. She’s my friend, and her mom is some big expert in medieval stuff. Angelique recognized my necklace as having some significance. She lent me a few antique books about medieval crests and legends, and I found the story there.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Brendan demanded, and my jaw dropped.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, incredulous. “What would you have thought of me? Besides, I read about this in a book that also had stories about dragons and curses and witches and unicorns! Like I could just roll up to you in the cafeteria, ‘Hey, Brendan, guess what I think my necklace means?’”
He smiled ruefully at me. “All right, I see your point. But Emma, I don’t know how the crest came to have that meaning. I only know what was passed down from generation to generation—that if someone wore the crest, they were destined for some terrible fate, just by knowing one of us.”
“It’s not every generation, Brendan. At least, not according to what I read,” I said, hesitantly. “The book was pretty fragile. Some of the pages were missing. But I read most of the legend, how this crest came to have that meaning.”
Brendan ran his hands through his ink-black hair and looked at me intensely. “Can you tell me the full story, Emma?” His voice was soft and pleading. I took a deep breath and began the sorrowful tale of Lord Archer, who had doomed himself and his beloved to an eternity of loss. I explained, as best I could, that the crest was to be worn by Archer’s reincarnated love.
I didn’t think I had to spell out for him what I took away from the story, although it was pretty obvious: we were soul mates. We’d spent a thousand years looking for each other. And we were probably cursed.