“I wish this was going to be a pleasure, but I’ve got some bad news.” Haven heard her own Tennessee drawl return in full force, as it did every time she spoke to Beau. “You better get ready for it.”
“Uh-oh,” Beau responded. His moods—good or bad—were often hard to break, and he still sounded relentlessly cheerful. Haven could hear him moving about his bedroom. Wire hangers jangled in the background. He was already packing to go home, she thought miserably. “Well, I’ve got good news,” he said, “so maybe they’ll balance each other out. But you called me, so go ahead and get yours out of the way.”
“It’s about your tuition.” Haven paused, trying to summon a second part to her sentence.
“Oh, that,” Beau jumped in. “Yeah, the Vanderbilt registrar called this morning. They said your check for the spring semester didn’t clear. I already told them it had to be a mistake. . . .”
“It’s not.”
The incessant activity on the other end of the line came to a sudden halt. “Well, how’s that possible? I’ve never seen you buy anything but sewing supplies, cappuccinos, or hair relaxer. Did you blow your whole fortune on sequins?” He still didn’t sound terribly upset.
“My accounts have been frozen,” Haven tried to explain. “Iain’s mother has accused me of fraud.”
“Fraud?” Beau choked on the word. “You?”
“She claims I had someone forge Iain’s will.”
“What! Who does she think you are, some sort of criminal mastermind?”
“I know, I know. It’s totally insane, but she seems to have found a judge in New York who’s willing to believe her. I just got off the phone with my lawyer. It looks like I might have to fight Virginia Morrow in court.”
“This sounds like the sort of thing that ought to be discussed woman-to-woman.”
“Are you kidding?” The notion hadn’t even occurred to Haven. “She’d hang up if I tried to call her.”
“I’m not saying you should call her. Iain’s mom lives in Italy, right? Why don’t you go see if you can talk some sense into her? And if you can’t, you can just give her a good punch in the gut. Or hand her a big wad of cash. That’s probably what she’s after anyway.”
“You know, that might not be such a bad idea,” Haven mused. Virginia Morrow lived in the Tuscan countryside, not far from Florence. Haven had come across the address on the papers she’d signed after Iain’s staged death.
“And did you ever consider telling Ms. Morrow that her son isn’t really dead? That would probably put a serious crimp in her plans.”
It had been the first thing Haven had suggested, and Iain had instantly vetoed the option. His mother was the last person he wanted to know that he was still among the living.
“Iain doesn’t think that’s the answer,” Haven offered diplomatically as she glanced over at the young man sitting in front of a computer on the other side of the hotel room. Still dressed in the sleek navy suit he’d worn to dinner, he was scanning the documents their lawyer had e-mailed, searching for a solution. Iain’s confidence was usually contagious, but this time Haven had a hunch that there weren’t any easy answers to be found. “But look, Beau, we’ll figure this out and get your tuition paid. It just might take a while. There’s not a whole hell of a lot I can do right now.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s all good,” Beau assured her. “I was planning to take a little time off anyway.”
“Time off?” Haven repeated. “To do what?”
“Well, that’s my news,” Beau said. “I’ve met someone.”
“Fabulous,” Haven said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. As the only openly gay kid in Snope City, Beau had endured four years of high school without so much as one date. His dry spell had ended the day he arrived at college, where there were plenty of people who could appreciate someone with the charm of a Southern gentleman and the looks of a Norse god. But Beau quickly discovered that he wasn’t equipped for the blood sport of dating. He’d had his heart badly broken in his second semester, and Haven had hoped the experience would make him a little more wary.
“It’s not like that,” Beau countered. “This guy is the real deal.”
“That’s what you said about Stephen,” Haven pointed out.
“Yeah, but this guy is different. He says he used to know us.”
Haven snorted. “He’s been to Snope City? Not much of a recommendation, if you ask me.”
“No. It’s so much better than that.” Haven could hear Beau’s excitement bubbling up. “He says he knew us before Snope City. Way before Snope City. In a previous life. When you and I were brother and sister.”
Feeling light-headed, Haven lowered herself down on the side of the bed. “What exactly did he tell you?” she asked.
“This is going to knock your socks off. He said my name was Piero. His was Naddo. Yours was Beatrice. We all lived in Florence in the middle of the fourteenth century. Beatrice and Piero were rich. Our house was a palace with three large doors. Piero and Naddo met when they were sixteen years old and started a secret affair. He makes it all sound so romantic. Tights and tunics and palaces. Rendezvous by candlelight . . . ”
“Hold on just a second, Romeo,” Haven butted in. “How does this guy know I was Beatrice? How does he know me at all?” Across the room, Iain set aside his work and started to listen.
“He doesn’t know you,” Beau snipped. “I was the one who made the connection. He said that Piero had a sister he adored, despite the fact that everyone else thought she was a massive pain in the ass. Who else could it have been?!”
Beau kept talking while Haven pressed the phone’s mouthpiece to her chest. Iain was watching her. “Does the name Naddo ring any bells?” she asked him.
A wide grin spread across Iain’s face. “I didn’t meet the guy,” he said. “But Piero never shut up about him.”
“Hey, I just heard you talking to Iain,” Beau said when Haven lifted the phone back to her ear. “What did he say? Was he in that life too? Don’t I ever get you to myself?”
“Guess where I am right now,” Haven said.
“What?”
“Guess where I am right now,” she repeated.
“How am I supposed to know?” Beau barked. “Can I please get back to my story?”
“I’m in Florence.”
“You’re in Florence?”
“I’m in Florence. And guess where Iain took me today?”
She could hear Beau breathing heavily on the other end of the line. “No!” he managed to whisper.
“Yes. A palazzo with three enormous doors. The same place we used to live when we were brother and sister.”
“It’s still there?”
“It is. And I just asked Iain if he knew the name Naddo.”
“And?!”
“Going by his grin, I’m guessing there’s a chance that this Naddo character might be someone you’re supposed to find,” Haven announced.
“Oh my God,” Beau said. They both sat in silence for a moment, allowing the information to sink in. “Is it really supposed to be this easy?”
“I don’t know,” Haven said. “How’d you come across this guy, anyway? Does he go to Vanderbilt too?”
“No, he lives in New York. And he found me. He saw my picture on Facebook, and he says he just knew that I was the one he’d been searching for.”
“And you? Did you feel anything when you saw his picture?”
“No. Not really,” Beau admitted. “Though believe me, the boy ain’t hard to look at. But you didn’t know Iain was ‘the one’ until you met him in person, so I’m flying up to New York tomorrow to see the guy face-to-face.”
“When were you planning to tell me all of this?” Haven demanded, feeling a little hurt. She rarely made a move without e-mailing her best friend first.
“I was going to tell you if it turned out to be the right guy,” Beau said. “I didn’t want you to get all excited for nothing.”
“Are you sure you have to m
eet him in New York?” Haven asked. Maybe she was being paranoid, but something didn’t seem right. “You know it’s not safe for you there. If Adam sees you . . .”
“Adam? I thought El Diablo was supposed to leave us alone for the next six or seven decades.”
“He’s supposed to leave me alone. He didn’t make any promises when it came to you. And after you threatened to send the Ouroboros Society’s membership list to the New York Times . . .”
“Okay, okay, Haven. I get it. But New York’s a city with eight million people. And Roy goes to Columbia. He lives up in Morningside Heights, for God’s sake,” Beau said. “I’m not going anywhere near Gramercy Park or the Ouroboros Society.”
“So his name is Roy now?” Haven finally cracked a smile.
“Roy Bradford,” Beau confirmed. “He sounds like a movie star, don’t you think?”
“He does.” Haven’s smile faded fast. “You will be careful, won’t you? I don’t want you to get your feelings hurt if he ends up being a psycho.” Most people might not have felt the need to protect a sixfoot-four football player with a terrible temper, but Haven knew that Beau’s Achilles’ heel was his heart. After he’d watched Haven find the person she was meant to be with, Beau’s own search for a soul mate had begun in earnest. The only problem was that he had mistaken him for half of the men he’d met. As hard as she tried, Haven couldn’t shake the feeling that Roy Bradford might be another wrong number.
“I’m not going to let my imagination run away with me this time,” Beau vowed, as though he’d been reading her thoughts. “And you watch yourself too. Don’t let some old lady rob you blind. Go see Virginia Morrow and let her know who she’s dealing with.”
“I’ll think about it,” Haven said, though she’d already made up her mind.
CHAPTER SIX
The villa perched on a small, overgrown hill that rose above the emerald green Tuscan fields surrounding it. From the road, all Haven could see of the building was the clay tiles of its roof, which looked badly in need of repair. As she turned into the driveway, she noticed that a cypress tree had grown to engulf one corner of the house while grape vines scaled the walls, pinning the last chunks of the villa’s crumbling plaster to the bricks beneath.
Haven pulled her car as close to the house as she could. She’d hoped to complete her errand quickly and return to Florence before sunset. Iain thought she’d gone window-shopping, and if the trip took less than three hours, his suspicions might not be aroused. Now there didn’t seem to be any reason to rush. The villa looked deserted, and Haven wondered how long Virginia Morrow had been gone. Still, she decided to fight her way through the vines to the front door. A cold wind rustled the vegetation, and Haven was assailed by the faint smell of rotting flesh. She looked down to find herself standing at the edge of a swimming pool. The corpse of a bird floated in the icy, algae-filled rainwater that had collected inside. Startled, Haven almost turned back toward the car, but she stopped herself. It would be ridiculous to drive so far only to leave without knocking.
As she stood outside the villa’s front door, a cat emerged from under a bush and brushed against Haven’s ankles. She reached down to scratch behind its ears. Abandoned on a desolate hill in the middle of Tuscany, the creature had the protruding ribs of a castaway. Haven wondered if she should take it back to the city, where it might stand a chance of survival.
“Who’s there?!” a voice inside demanded.
Haven jumped, and the cat slunk silently back into the bushes. “Mrs. Morrow?” Haven replied.
“I don’t talk to reporters.”
“I’m not a reporter, but I would like to speak with you if you have a moment. My name is Haven Moore.”
Haven thought she heard a throaty chuckle. “I’m busy. If you have something to say, you can say it to my lawyer.”
“I was hoping that wouldn’t be necessary. I’d like to settle this issue out of court, if possible. I’m prepared to make you a deal.”
The woman laughed louder. “What kind of deal?”
“I could tell you if you let me in,” Haven said.
“Fine.” The door opened. “This should be entertaining.” It was half past two, but the woman standing in front of Haven was still wearing her nightgown. Her right hand clutched a crystal glass half filled with an amber liquid. Scotch, Haven surmised, judging by the aroma that wafted by on the breeze.
One night back in Rome, while teetering on the edge of sleep, Haven had been quietly flipping through television channels when she’d come across an episode of Virginia Morrow’s old cooking show, The Sophisticated Chef. Wary of waking Iain, Haven had kept the volume low as she watched his mother sleepwalk around a set that was designed to resemble a humble Tuscan kitchen. The style of the host’s attire told Haven that the show had been taped in the late nineties, shortly before Virginia’s spectacular self-destruction. There were already signs of the trouble to come. Her eyes were hollow and her rouge a bit too bright. She resembled a painted corpse—one that had risen from the dead to take its revenge on the living.
Curled up beside Virginia Morrow’s slumbering son, Haven had watched the woman on TV and wondered how long it would be until she taped the show that was destined to become a YouTube classic. Leaked to the press by a cameraman who’d finally tired of his boss’s abuse, the footage captured the sophisticated chef hurling eggs, pork products, and curses at her studio audience. A Parma ham had briefly knocked a woman unconscious. Virginia Morrow fled the U.S. shortly after the video made the evening news. People still speculated about the cause of her public meltdown, and from time to time an enterprising journalist would attempt to put the big question to her. But in the end, it remained one of the few mysteries of the gossip age. Only Haven and Iain knew the unsavory truth. Virginia had been destroyed by the love of her life—a love she’d discovered at the bottom of a bottle.
Now, here she was in the flesh. She looked older, of course, but age seemed to suit her. The woman’s razor-sharp features had softened, and a little extra weight had filled out her figure. There was no doubt that she was the parent responsible for her son’s good looks. Though her hair had turned prematurely white, it still fell in elegant waves over her shoulders. With her white gown and unnatural pallor, she looked like a glamorous ghost. But not a particularly friendly one.
“You look younger than I expected,” Virginia observed before promptly turning her back on her guest and disappearing down a hallway. “Follow me.” Haven heard the command but remained frozen in the doorway. Without Virginia there to block the view, she saw that the house was little more than a ruin—as dilapidated on the inside as it was on the outside. And the air felt even colder. The villa was at least two hundred years old, Haven thought. Two decades of neglect couldn’t be responsible for all the damage it had suffered. She spied a meat cleaver embedded in the foyer’s wall and knew that some of the destruction had been wrought by human hands.
“Do you see how I am forced to live?” Virginia Morrow inquired without looking back at her guest. “This is what I get for wasting my youth on Jerome Morrow. Are you coming or not?”
“Sure, yes,” Haven said, scrambling to catch up.
They reached a room filled with dusty antiques—the first furniture Haven had noticed anywhere in the house. The chambers they’d passed on the way had all been empty. Here, rotten floorboards were covered by threadbare rugs, and a few meager flames danced around a broken chair leg that had been tossed into the fireplace. Haven waited for Virginia Morrow to offer her a seat, but the woman ignored her. Instead she refilled her own glass with liquor from a cheap-looking bottle and propped up one arm on the fireplace mantel.
“So, what kind of deal are you offering me?” Virginia asked, playing innocent. “Enough to fix this place up, I hope?”
“I was told you’d been left five million dollars in Iain’s will,” said Haven, hesitant to probe much farther.
“And I suppose you’re wondering what happened to it?” Virginia said, fini
shing Haven’s thought. “Taxes and debts, my dear. Twenty years of debts. When Iain died, the IRS and every credit card company on earth came calling. They took it all.”
“Well, I’m sure I could give you enough money to—” Haven stopped. The woman was slowly shaking her head, warning her guest that the effort was pointless. Haven realized then that Virginia wouldn’t settle for less than every last cent of the Morrow family fortune.
“How long were you and Iain together before he died?” the woman asked. “In this life, I mean.”
“You know?” Haven was caught off guard.
“How long?” Virginia repeated with a satisfied smirk.
“Long enough.” Haven dug her hands deep into her pockets for warmth. Even with the little fire, the house was freezing. How could Virginia Morrow bear to wander its shabby rooms in nothing but a tattered silk gown?
“I was twenty-five when I met Iain’s father and thirty-seven when we divorced. By the time he was done with me, there wasn’t much left. So that’s what? Twelve years? I think I deserve more than what I’ve been given. Don’t you?”
“It’s not for me to say,” Haven replied. “It was your son’s decision to make me his primary heir. I would think you’d want to respect his wishes. Still . . .”
“My son?” The phrase struck Virginia Morrow as amusing. “Iain Morrow was never my son. I still don’t know what he was. Can you imagine? You sacrifice your body and your freedom to have a child, and as soon as he’s able to talk, you discover that he doesn’t really belong to you. He says he’s had other mothers—dozens of them. Then when he’s older, he tells you that you’re the worst of the lot. You called him my son? The boy was a changeling. Someone stole my baby and left that creature in his place.” By the end of her tirade, Virginia’s mouth had puckered with bitterness.