The Eternal Ones (7 page)

Imogene was taken aback. It was the first time in years that her daughter had dared contradict her.

“
Please
,” Mae repeated. “Let me talk to Haven in private.”

“If you insist, but tell your girl she’d better watch her mouth,” the old lady said before stomping off toward the parlor.

“Sit down, Haven.” Mae pointed to the breakfast table that sat beneath the kitchen window. “I suppose you’re old enough now. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Unable to look her mother in the face, Haven stared out the window at the mountains speckled with dogwoods in bloom and the setting sun balanced atop a purple peak. “Why was he with that woman when he died?”

Mae Moore tried to smile and failed. “I’ve been looking for the answer to that question for a long time now,” she admitted. “And I’ve never managed to come up with anything other than the obvious.”

Haven felt pressure building, as if a large weight had been placed on her chest. “So they
were
having an affair?”

Mae Moore nodded. “People had been talking for a while, but I didn’t want to hear it. You know, sometimes when you’re too close to someone, it’s hard to see who they really are. Your father swore to me that he’d been faithful, and I believed him. But it turned out he’d been lying all along.”

“I don’t understand,” Haven sputtered. “How could he do such a thing? All those stories you used to tell me about how you met and got married. You really believed the two of you were meant to be together.”

“Those stories . . .” The wrinkles on Mae’s forehead deepened, and she seemed to crumple a little as though the grief might crush her. But she somehow managed to maintain her composure. “I was half hoping you’d have forgotten about them. I feel so silly now. I let myself get carried away.”

“What do you mean, you got carried away?” The edge had returned to Haven’s voice. “You made them up? You lied?”

Mae Moore took the blow without flinching. Haven could see she’d been preparing for this conversation for years. “I didn’t lie. Sometimes when we’re in love, we take the facts and spin them into pretty stories. But it’s a dangerous thing to do—because one day, like it or not, you’re going to see the world as it really is. You find out people aren’t always who you want them to be. And if you’re not ready for the truth . . . well, let’s just say it can come as a bit of a shock.”

“Is that why you went to the hospital?” Haven asked.

“It wasn’t really a
hospital
, Haven,” Mae said.

“I know,” Haven said, scratching at a stain on the tabletop.

“I’m sorry. It must have been hard for you. But please try to understand. Every dream I ever had died with your father. Everything I’d believed in my heart to be true turned out to be false. Your grandmother tried her best to warn me, but I chose not to listen. I was young and I was stupid, and I paid dearly for it. If it hadn’t been for you, Haven—”

“So Imogene was right about Daddy all along,” Haven muttered.

Mae Moore lowered her voice and leaned toward Haven across the table. “Your grandmother hasn’t been around all these years without learning a thing or two. She sees the world for what it is. Now, I guess I do, too.”

“You mean you don’t believe that people are ever destined to be together?”

Mae sat back and studied her daughter. Haven felt her face burning. “Would your question have something to do with Ethan and that box I gave you?” she asked.

Haven didn’t answer.

“I’d
like
to believe that people can be meant for each other.” Mae Moore seemed to have saved her one last scrap of hope to give to her daughter. “Who knows? Maybe there was someone out there for me—I just didn’t happen to find him. But you shouldn’t let my bad luck stop you from looking. You’ve been talking about Ethan since you were a little girl, Haven. If he’s really out there, I think you owe it to yourself to look for him one day.”

Haven sat down on the floor and leaned back against her locked bedroom door. With her head in her hands, she thought not of her mother or Ethan Evans. Instead, her mind somehow made its way to Morgan Murphy’s house. She could see ten-year-old Morgan prancing through her family’s den in the frilly white dress she’d worn as flower girl in a cousin’s wedding. Whenever they had played dress-up, Morgan always insisted that she be a bride. By the fourth grade, she already knew she wanted pink peonies in her bridal bouquet, a dress with a ten-foot train, and a handsome husband who would devote himself to paying for whatever her heart desired.

Over the years, Haven had come to look down on girls like Morgan—girls whose imaginations seemed stuck in a romance novel. There were plenty of them at Blue Mountain High School. They practiced signing their future married names on the backs of their spiral notebooks and registered for imaginary bridal showers on the computers in the library. Love was a harmless game to them—a pretty story they told to amuse themselves. Haven had always thought such girls were silly. Now, after the conversation with her mother, Haven saw just how dangerous their behavior could be.

Haven had always imagined that the secret to finding love was following one’s heart. She’d never realized a heart could lead its owner astray. Mae Moore had truly believed she’d discovered her soul mate. Her error in judgment had almost destroyed her. Now Haven was in jeopardy of making the same mistakes her mother had made. She knew she needed to take things a little more slowly—and look carefully before she leaped into anyone’s arms.

“Haven!” her grandmother shouted from the bottom of the stairs. “Haven!”

Haven opened her door and yelled through the crack. “What?”

“Come back down here! Dr. Tidmore’s on the phone. He wants a word with you.”

 

HAVEN GRABBED THE cordless phone from its cradle on the kitchen wall. The drawings Haven had gathered in the attic were still sitting where she’d abandoned them on the counter.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Haven,” Dr. Tidmore said, sounding a little too familiar for a man of God. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I just wanted to check in on my special girl.”

Haven shuddered. As a child, she had liked it when he called her that. At seventeen, she felt it was more than a little bit creepy. “No, you’re not interrupting anything,” she said.

“Something wrong, Haven?” Dr. Tidmore asked. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Haven assured him, adding some phony cheer to her voice.

“Well I’m glad to hear that. I was just calling to make sure I’ll be seeing you after school tomorrow afternoon.”

“Tomorrow afternoon?” Haven said, casually shuffling through the drawings from the attic. She stopped at a picture that showed a row of little houses, and her pulse began to quicken. In the center of the drawing was a white cottage with a red door. Green velvet curtains were hanging in its second-floor windows.

“Your grandmother arranged for you to see me on Wednesdays. Our first meeting is scheduled for tomorrow at four,” Tidmore reminded her. “We’re going to talk about your visions.”

“Four,” Haven mumbled mindlessly as she bent forward and studied the image she’d found. She was certain it was the house where Constance had kissed Ethan. The house where they both had died. Haven knew she had seen it before. And not in another lifetime.

“Haven, are you still there?” Dr. Tidmore asked.

“Sorry, sir,” Haven said. “What was the question?”

“You’ll need to learn how to listen before you get to New York,” Dr. Tidmore snapped. Then his tone softened again. “Never mind. We’ll talk about all of this tomorrow. So can I expect to see you at four o’clock in my office?”

“Yes, sir,” Haven said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She hung up the phone before the preacher had a chance to say any more and sprinted up to her mother’s bedroom.

 

AN HOUR LATER, Haven’s bedroom door opened.

“Dammit, Imogene, I told you to knock!” she shouted before she saw Beau’s handsome face peeking through the crack at her. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, still frazzled by the scare.

“Your mom let me in.” Beau stood in the doorway, his eyes wide. The floor of Haven’s bedroom was covered with celebrity magazines in various stages of dissection. “What the hell is going on?”

“Get in here!” Haven hissed. “And close the door!”

“What’s all this? Have you finally cracked?” Beau joked.

“I found something. Sit down.” When Beau dropped to the floor beside her, Haven put the drawing of the little white cottage down in front of him and tapped the paper with her finger. “I drew that when I was
eight years old
,” she told him.

“It’s beautiful,” Beau said. “What’s it got to do with all of these magazines?”

“I’ll show you.” Haven reached behind her and found a
National Enquirer
she’d set aside. “I remembered seeing it the other day when we were going through the tabloids. But I guess I was paying so much attention to the guy in the pictures that I barely noticed where he was.” She pointed to a picture on the page. It was a shot of Iain Morrow unlocking a red door. Haven held her drawing of the row of little houses next to the photo. The door, the cobblestones, the surrounding buildings were all strikingly similar. “That’s the house where Constance used to live. Iain Morrow lives in
my
house.”

“How do you know he lives there?” Beau asked skeptically.

“Either he lives in the house, or he just likes to pose for photographs outside it,” Haven said, passing Beau six more pictures that showed Iain Morrow exiting or entering the same building. In each photo, he was wearing a different outfit and the same bemused expression.

“Okay. That’s weird,” Beau agreed. “Possibly even weirder than what I came to show you.”

“You have something to show me?” Haven asked.

Beau leaned to one side and pulled a rolled-up copy of
Star
out of his back pocket. The cover featured a photo of Iain Morrow and a headline that screamed, MURDERER?

“I stopped by the supermarket this evening,” Beau said. “The latest batch of magazines had just arrived, so I figured I’d do a little research for you.” He flipped through the pages until he reached the cover story. “I guess the intrepid reporters at
Star
hunted down some model that Iain Morrow used to date. She said they never got serious ’cause she was sure he was in love with someone else. She said that no matter where they went, it felt like he was always searching for the other girl.” Beau tried to hand Haven the magazine, but she wouldn’t take it. She wanted to, but she couldn’t allow herself.

“Maybe he was in love with that musician’s girlfriend,” Haven suggested. “Isn’t that what the gossip people say? That he murdered Jeremy Whatshisname to get to his girlfriend?”

“Maybe. Or maybe Iain Morrow’s been looking for
you
.”

Haven tried to tame the emotions that the comment had set loose inside of her. “That interview isn’t evidence of anything,” she pointed out. “There may be some connection between us, but there’s absolutely no proof whatsoever that Iain Morrow and I are
soul mates
.”

Beau eyed Haven as if he suspected she’d been replaced by an impostor. “Have I missed something? I thought you were convinced that Iain Morrow was the person you were meant to find.”

“I just have to be careful, that’s all,” Haven explained, stacking magazines in an attempt to look busy. “I can’t run around falling in love with fantasies.”

“But what about the house you drew? How do you explain that and all the other crazy shit that’s happened?” Beau demanded.

“And how would you explain
this
?” Haven asked, handing him another pile of photos. Each of the pictures showed Iain Morrow with a different girl on his arm.

“I don’t understand.”

“If Iain Morrow was really looking for me, do you think he’d go around diddling every model in New York City?”

Beau laughed. “You expect a nineteen-year-old guy to live like a monk until he finds you? That’s kinda sweet, Haven, but you don’t know the first thing about men. Besides, how do you know Iain Morrow ‘diddled’ all these girls?”

“I don’t care what Iain Morrow did with them,” Haven insisted. “I just don’t want to waste my time chasing after the wrong guy. Unless I find some solid proof that we’re meant to be together, I’m not taking any risks.”

“What’s this about not taking any risks?” Beau barked. “You somehow manage to talk me into believing that you’ve lived other lives, but now that I think we’ve found your old boyfriend, you suddenly get cold feet? Well, I’m not going to stand for it. I’m going to find a way for you to talk to him.”

“Some rich guy who could be a murderer? Are you
insane
?”

“Are you
scared
?” Beau taunted her.

“Of course not! But how am I going to get in touch with this Iain guy, anyway? It’s not like I can call him up on the phone. Plus, Imogene’s got me trapped here in Snope City for the foreseeable future. How the hell am I supposed to go to New York? I’m not even sure if I can control my visions anymore. What if I passed out in the street somewhere?”

“I already figured everything out.”

“
Sure
you have.” Haven wished Beau would just give in. He wasn’t making it any easier for her to keep her expectations under control.

“I’m not going anywhere till you hear me out.”

Haven could see it wasn’t an idle threat. “Fine. Let’s hear it,” she huffed.

“Okay, remember that letter you showed me—the one your father wrote—the one that said he thought you’d been reincarnated?”

“Yeah . . .” Haven said warily. “I remember it.”

“Well, it was addressed to something called the Ouroboros Society. I thought that it sounded a little strange, so I did some research online. Turns out it’s a group that helps people who think they may have lived other lives. And guess what—they’re in New York! I bet if you sent them an e-mail and told them your story—told them you’d found someone you may have known in the past—they’d probably invite you up and find you a place to stay. Can’t be every day they come across something like this. And while you’re up there, what would it hurt to pay a little visit to Mr. Morrow?”