All You Desire (10 page)

The message in Haven's smile was clear.
Not everything,
it said
.
Haven had given Frances all the romance she'd been craving—nothing more.

A clock chimed and Frances jumped. “What am I thinking?!” she exclaimed. “It must be two o'clock in the morning your time. Come on. I'll show you to your room. We can catch up over breakfast.”

Haven and Iain followed Frances as she shuffled down the hall in her slippers. The corridor's walls were lined with art purchased by generations of Whitman family collectors, and Haven recognized most of the works. Her eyes had just passed over a small watercolor that Constance Whitman's mother had bought on their trip to Rome in 1924 when Haven suddenly heard shouting in a nearby room. At first she wondered if a television had switched on. But the three voices were familiar. Constance and her parents were at war once more, and the subject of their argument appeared to be a young man named Ethan. Haven gripped Iain's hand, and the noises began to fade away. The past and the present were not mixing well.

“Here we go. This is where you'll both be staying.” Frances opened a door and stepped to the side, thrilled to prove her coolness by allowing two young people to share the same bed. “I just had it completely redone.”

“This is Constance's room,” Haven gasped. Though the furnishings were different, she recognized the view. She remembered standing in front of that very same window, wishing she were somewhere—anywhere—else.

“Oh dear. I thought you'd be pleased. Is it going to be a problem?” Frances said, clearly horrified that she'd committed such a terrible faux pas. “Do you want me to put you up somewhere else? It won't take a minute to get another room ready.”

“No, no, this is fine,” Haven insisted, feeling a little bit queasy.

 

BUT IT WASN'T fine. Even with Iain's warm body beside her, she tossed and turned all night until she was trapped somewhere between exhaustion and delirium. Her eyes opened, and she found herself in a restaurant, wearing an uncomfortable white dress composed of layers and layers of ruffles. She was Constance again, and it was her sixteenth birthday. It would be years before she would meet the love of her life. She was having lunch with her mother, who had temporarily abandoned Constance to go gossip with a friend on the other side of the room. Constance waited, idly plucking petals off the roses in the middle of the table. A waitress arrived and placed an enormous sundae in front of her. It wasn't the same woman who had taken their order.

“I didn't ask for this,” Constance said. She might have accepted it, but she could see her mother watching from across the restaurant. Having been plump as a girl, Elizabeth Whitman kept a close eye on her daughter's figure.

“No?” said the waitress with a smile that was a little too familiar. She was not much older than Constance—perhaps eighteen or nineteen. “I'll take it away then.”

The waitress picked up the sundae and placed it back on her tray. Left behind on the table was an envelope with
Constance Whitman
inscribed on the front. Constance looked up, but the waitress had disappeared through the door to the kitchen. She slid the envelope down into her lap and opened it as stealthily as she could.

 

SHE WOKE DISORIENTED. When she finally remembered who and where she was, Haven snuck out of bed and left Iain sleeping. She found Frances sitting on the sofa in the living room. Behind her, a large window framed the sky. Haven felt like she was floating.

“Sit, sit,” Frances said, her eyes lingering on the morning headlines for a moment. Then she folded the newspaper and made room for Haven on the couch. “Do you want coffee and toast?”

“I'd love some,” Haven said, her voice still raspy.

“Is Iain asleep?” Frances asked. She clearly had something on her mind.

“He is,” Haven confirmed.

“In that case, do you want to tell me what you're doing back in New York?” Frances asked as she poured Haven a cup of coffee. “You were rather enigmatic when you phoned.”

“My friend Beau has disappeared.”

“The big, handsome kid you were with at Iain's funeral?”

“That's him. He came to New York a few days ago to meet a guy who claimed to be his soul mate. No one has heard from him since.”

“I'm so sorry,” Frances said.

“No need to be sorry.” Haven took a bite of toast and washed it down with black coffee. She felt more confident now that she was finally in the same city as Beau. “He's alive, and I'm going to find him.”

Frances watched Haven. She seemed to sense that there was more to the story.

“
You're
going to find him?”

“I have to.”

“And not the police?”

“They're looking too. But they won't be looking as hard as I will.”

“And I suppose I shouldn't remind you that you're still just a kid?”

Haven almost laughed. She'd never been just a kid. “Go right ahead. It won't do any good.”

Frances crossed her arms, and for the first time since Haven had met her, the petite blonde could have passed for a real adult. “Well, you're certainly risking a lot coming back to New York. If anyone here catches sight of your boyfriend, the whole jig will be up. Is he ready to explain to the world why he's been playing dead for over a year?”

“We're hoping no one will find out he's alive,” Haven said.

“I hope so too. Weren't the police looking for Iain before he supposedly died in the fire? Wasn't he the main suspect in the death of that musician? What was the guy's name? Jeremy . . .”

“Johns. Iain had nothing to do with it.”

“I believe you. But the police might not.”

Haven wished Frances would find another dead horse to beat. She was well aware of the risks she and Iain were taking. Now that they were in New York, there wasn't much point in rehashing the list. “You're right, Frances. I should have come back by myself, but Iain never would have let me. Still, I don't know what he expects to do while he's in New York. He'll probably end up spending most of his time with you. It's too dangerous for him to tag along with me.”

Frances took a sip of coffee. As she lowered the cup, there was a hint of a smirk on her lips. “This may be my first time on this planet, but I still know a thing or two about men. You really think that gorgeous boy is planning to hang out on the Upper West Side with a lady who's old enough to be his aunt?”

“What else is he going to do?” Haven asked.

“Oh, I'm sure he has a few ideas.” Frances paused for another taste of coffee. “But right now I'm more interested in
your
plans. What exactly do you have in mind? Do you have any idea where your friend might be?”

“No, but I know where to start looking,” Haven said. “The guy Beau came here to meet seemed to know details about a life we all shared in fourteenth-century Florence. I figure I might stand a chance of identifying the person who took Beau if I can find out more about our life back in Italy.”

“How are you going to do
that
?”

Haven hesitated. If she told Frances what she knew about the Ouroboros Society, she'd be putting her in terrible danger. “There's a woman here who claims to see into other people's past lives. I'm going to pay her a visit today.”

“That sounds like it ought to be interesting,” Frances said.

“Yeah, and I haven't even told you the best part yet,” Haven said. “Apparently the woman works out of a spa.”

“A spa?”

“That's what Iain says. She does a lot of her consultations at some fancy ladies' spa that only the super wealthy can afford.”

“You don't mean the one down on Morton Street, do you?”

“That's it!” Haven exclaimed. “How do you know about it?”

“Well, I'm hardly strapped for cash,” Frances said with a modest chuckle. “I went there a few times when I was in college. I haven't been back lately. The crowd there is rather cliquish. But I'm happy to go with you today if you feel like some company.”

“Thanks,” Haven demurred. “But that won't be necessary.”

“You may want me there,” Frances insisted. “There's something odd about the place. You'll see what I mean. It's . . .
unusual
.”

“Why should that bother me? My whole life is unusual,” Haven said.

Frances laughed. “It is, isn't it, you lucky girl. Oh, that reminds me! I have something for you.” She jumped up from the couch. “I'd have given it to you last night, but Iain was there, and I thought you might want to take a look at it alone first.” Haven watched Frances digging through a drawer of the desk that sat in one corner of the room. Finally, the woman held up a scrap of paper triumphantly. “A workman found this when they were renovating Constance's room. It was hidden under a floorboard. . . .”

Haven recognized the note, though its heavy white paper had long since turned yellow.

“Weird, right?” Frances said. “Do you know anything about it?”

“I had a dream about this note last night. I saw a girl give it to Constance.”

“Do you think she was being warned about Ethan?” Frances had a nose for gossip.

“I have no idea,” Haven said, grabbing a clean cup off the table. “I'll take Iain some coffee and see what he knows. Maybe Constance told him about it.”

 

“MORNING, GORGEOUS,” IAIN said when Haven threw open the door to their room. She'd hoped to find him in bed, with his hair rumpled and his pajama top half buttoned. Instead he was already dressed and scrolling through messages on his phone.

“I brought you breakfast in bed,” Haven said, setting down the tray she'd filled with toast, bagels, coffee, and jams. “You're going out?”

“Yes.” Iain grabbed a sesame bagel and ripped it apart. “Thanks, Haven. You wouldn't believe how much I've missed these things.”

“Where are you going?” She had to wait until he'd swallowed a mouthful of bread.

“To see what I can do to find Beau.”

“But . . .” She wanted to argue that it wasn't what they had agreed. But the look in Iain's eyes said he wasn't about to listen to reason.

“You can't expect me to come to New York and do nothing, Haven. I know I can't talk you out of visiting the Pythia, so please don't talk me out of trying to help.”

“But—”

“No more
but
s. Come here.”

Once she was close enough, he grabbed her arm and pulled her down on his lap. “We'll
both
be careful,” he said, just before his lips met hers. By the time they parted, Haven had forgotten both her worries and her mission.

“So what else did you bring me?” Iain asked, plucking the yellowing note from Haven's hand.

“Oh! Right! God, I almost forgot. Frances found it. I'm pretty sure it belonged to Constance. Did she ever mention it to Ethan?”

Iain seemed to read the note three or four times before looking back up at her. “No, I don't remember her saying anything. Do you know who sent this to Constance?”

“A waitress in a restaurant delivered it to her. I think I saw the incident last night in a dream. What do you think it means, ‘You're not who you think you are'?”

Iain shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“Iain, is there something you're not telling me?”

“Like what?” he responded cryptically.

“If I knew, I wouldn't have asked!”

“Okay, don't go all Southern spitfire on me. I think the note means that you need to be very, very cautious while we're here.”

“I still don't understand. Why would these people want me to call them when I met you?”

Iain frowned as he returned the piece of paper to Haven. “You think it's
me
they were talking about?”

“Who else would it be?”

“Can't you see, Haven? The note must be referring to
Adam
.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The street entrance to the baths was unmarked. All Frances and Haven found was a faded blue door with a hand-painted address. Beyond it lay a set of stairs that led downward. The air grew hotter and more humid with each step they took. At the bottom, deep below the New York streets, they entered a tiny white room where a receptionist was stationed behind a desk. She was extremely attractive, though she'd done her best to disguise the fact. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail, and the lab coat she wore was large enough to make her look lumpy.

A sign on the wall politely refused all visitors under the age of eighteen. Once Haven had shown her ID, Frances handed the secretary her credit card without waiting to be presented with a bill. Anyone who knew how to find the baths didn't care what they cost, she'd explained to Haven in the cab downtown. Once the transaction was complete, the woman stood up and led the way to the dressing room.

Haven had expected to find a sumptuous setting with pristine white tiles and gilded fixtures. Instead, she entered a cavernous room that looked as though it had been carved out of Manhattan's bedrock. Benches that were little more than slabs of granite were the chamber's only furniture. The woman in the lab coat placed two wire baskets on one of the benches. Inside the baskets were simple white cotton robes.

“Please leave all of your personal belongings in the baskets,” she instructed. “I will take them when you're finished. You'll find the baths through the door on your right.” After that one brief announcement, the receptionist left Haven and Frances alone to change.