The Eternal Ones (20 page)

“It was on one of those visits that he met a young girl from a prominent family and fell madly in love. When he asked for her hand, her father couldn’t deny him. There was no doubt that he adored the girl. She was too young to know any better, and she thought she loved him, too. But as time went by, he started to worry that her feelings might change. That she might meet someone she loved even better. The thought of losing her almost drove him insane, so he locked her away in his villa. For several years, she spent her days sewing gowns that no one would ever see and drawing the outside world on the walls of her bedroom.

“One day, while the man wasn’t at home, there was a fire at the villa. It had been so long since anyone had seen the man’s wife that only one of the servants remembered to save her. When he found the girl half dead, he carried her to the home of two friends and hid her there. The girl and the servant fell in love as she recovered, and once she was well enough to travel, they slipped away to Rome. Her husband spent the rest of his days searching for her.”

“Is that story true?” A single image still lingered in Haven’s mind. She could see a room with a mosaic floor. Flowering meadows stretched to the horizon in every direction. Only from certain angles was it clear that the swaying grass and dazzling sky were merely painted on the walls.

“In essence,” Iain said. “I might have tidied it up a little bit.”

“It’s about us, isn’t it?”

Across the table Iain watched her, his somber green eyes searching her face for the encouragement to continue. “Yes.”

“How long ago did that happen?”

“Julius Caesar died shortly before we left for Rome. By today’s calendar it was 44 B.C.”

A million questions were bouncing around in Haven’s brain. But before she let the first slip past her lips, she made sure that no one else at the table was listening. The conversation sounded strange enough to her own ears. An eavesdropper would think they had both lost their minds. “So we’ve known each other for
two thousand
years?”

“Maybe longer. Even my memories are a bit fuzzy before that.”

“And we’ve been the same people all this time?”

“Not exactly. Every life changes us a little. But our essence remains the same. Like Rome—it’s changed a great deal since 44 B.C., but in many ways, it’s still the same city.”

“Does
everyone
come back to earth over and over again?”

“I don’t think so,” Iain said. “Just those of us who have something that keeps us here. I don’t think there are many of us.”

“What’s keeping
you
here?”

“You.” Iain motioned to the waiter, who left and returned shortly with a carafe of red wine, which he poured into both of their glasses. Haven looked guiltily around the restaurant.

“This is Italy. You’re allowed to drink here at sixteen,” Iain informed her. “And when in Rome . . .”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Haven twirled the stem of her wineglass between her fingers.

“Of course.” The tension contained in those two little words made Haven tremble. She could tell from the way Iain stared at her that he wasn’t going to wait much longer.

“So how does this all work?” she asked, feeling herself blushing. “How do people find each other again?”

“All I know is that we’re drawn to people we’ve loved before. Is there anyone in your life that you feel particularly close to? Someone you liked the moment you met?”

Haven thought of Beau and nodded.

“Then you may have known that person before.”

“And do
we
find each other in every life?”

The sorrow on Iain’s face gave her a sense of how little she knew. “I wish it were that easy. I look for you in every life, but I don’t always find you. And sometimes I find you too late.”

“Too late?” It was a possibility that Haven hadn’t considered.

“In eighteen eighty-five, I found you in Paris. My father was a wealthy English merchant, and as soon as I was able, I insisted that he put me in charge of his office in France. I hadn’t been in the country three days when I saw a peasant girl faint in the street as I walked to work. I managed to pick her up before she was run over by a carriage, and I took her back to my hotel. It was you. You had walked over a hundred miles to make it to Paris, and you’d caught a fever along the way. I tried everything to save you, but you died a week later in my arms. I caught the fever as well and died not long after you did.”

“That’s terrible!” Haven said, blinking back tears as if the pain were still fresh.

“Yes, but at least we had a few precious days together. The lifetime before that, you were already married when I met you, and your husband—”

“Married?” Haven broke in. “Why didn’t I wait for you? How could there ever have been anyone else?”

“Let me see if I can explain. You were born with special gifts—you can draw and sew, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Haven said, wondering how the two subjects could be connected.

The waiter returned with menus, and Iain waited until the man was gone to continue.

“Those are gifts that have been passed down from one life to the next. Talents like yours are rare, but not as rare as you’d think. That’s why Mozart could play the piano before he was out of diapers. Or why there’s always a seven-year-old math prodigy in the news.

“I have a gift, too. I can’t write operas or do calculus in my head. What I can do is remember things. Most people forget their previous lives. But for some reason, I never lose my memories. They always stay with me. So I always know that I have to find you. But sometimes you don’t remember
me
. And I’m not the only one who finds you irresistible. In fact, I think that’s one reason why I keep coming back.”

He stopped and took a sip of wine, leaving Haven in suspense.

“Why?”

“To keep you away from the competition.”

“You’re joking!”

“Maybe. But I promise you this: Now that I’ve found you, I’ll never let anything come between us.”

His knee brushed against hers under the table, and she had to gulp her wine to quench the fire that was building in her belly.

On the way home, stuffed with pasta and tipsy on wine, they ducked into dark alleys and doorways for long, hungry kisses. When they reached the apartment, Iain picked her up and carried her to the bed in the dark, his mouth on hers as his hands unzipped her dress. He lay her down on the crisp, white sheets that fluttered in the breeze blowing in from the balcony. She felt her dress being slipped over her head, and she shuddered as a warm hand was laid on her bare stomach.

“I love you,” Iain whispered, and Haven thought she might melt with pleasure.

Haven was alone. The balcony doors were open and the piazza below was still quiet. She turned her head toward the bathroom door, which stood open, and then listened for sounds from the living room. The apartment was empty. She wondered if the previous days had been just a dream. It all seemed too much to hope for, and Haven had never been known for her luck.

Then her eyes landed on the clothes Iain had worn to dinner, thrown over the back of a chair, and everything that had happened the night before returned to her at once. She was glad no one was there to see the flush that consumed every inch of her skin. She couldn’t decide what was behind it—nervousness, embarrassment, or the desire for more. If what Iain had told her at dinner was true, she must have done this all before. Haven just wished she could remember how it all worked.

She slid out of bed and rummaged through her suitcase for something to wear. She’d just slipped into a pair of jeans when she heard the front door open and Iain moving about the kitchen. Tiptoeing across the living room, Haven reached the kitchen door just in time to see him locking one of the cabinets. He looked both relaxed and regal in his wrinkled white shirt, which he wore untucked and rolled up to his elbows. The memory of the firm, smooth chest beneath it made Haven feel faint.

“Good morning,” he said, gliding over to the two shopping bags that he’d placed on the kitchen counter. “You’re up early. We were out of supplies, so I went to the market. What would you like to eat? I make an excellent omelet these days.”

“What’s in the cabinet?” Haven asked, trying to keep her voice steady and light.

“I keep a few euros in a box in the cupboard for unexpected trips and emergencies.” Iain grabbed her hand and pulled her body to his. “How are you?”

Haven sighed happily as he bent down to kiss her. It was impossible to think clearly when he was so close.

“I’m perfect,” she said.

“Yes, you are.” He laughed and released her from his embrace. “So, what would you like to do today? Anything in Rome that you’ve been dying to see again?”

“How about the Sistine Chapel?” she said, pulling six eggs and a wedge of cheese from one of the shopping bags. It was the first site in Rome that popped into her mind.

“I’ve never been there,” Iain admitted. “I’m not usually one for churches.”

“Great! We can see it together for the very first time.”

“It will be crowded,” Iain warned.

“So we wait in line for a while. I don’t mind, do you?”

“It’s not the wait that worries me. It’s the tourists.
American
tourists.”

Haven rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those snobs who complain about other Americans.”

“I don’t mind Americans. I
do
mind being in their pictures. I’d prefer to keep a low profile while we’re here.”

“You know, if we’re going to be together then sometime, somewhere, someone is going to snap a photo of us—” Haven stopped as an unpleasant thought passed through her mind. “This isn’t about Jeremy Johns, is it? You’re not on the run from the police, are you?”

Iain frowned. “No, I’m
not
hiding from the police, Haven. I’m just trying to protect you.”

“I don’t see what harm a photograph could do me.” Haven couldn’t have cared less about the Sistine Chapel, but there was a point to be made. “You can just wear a hat and some sunglasses. We’re not going to keep hiding.”

She had made it clear that Iain couldn’t win. “Okay,” he said uneasily. “But I refuse to pose for snapshots with tour groups.”

“Fair enough.”

“And afterward we’re going to spend the rest of the day avoiding major tourist sites.”

“Agreed.”

“And there won’t be any complaining.”

“Absolutely none,” Haven assured him.

“And you’ll let me buy you something pretty.”

Haven rolled her eyes again and laughed. “We’ll see.”

“Okay, then go have a seat on the balcony, and prepare for the best omelet you’ve ever had.”

 

IT
WAS
THE BEST omelet Haven Moore had ever eaten. The coffee, the orange juice, even the toast tasted better than anything she’d consumed before. But given the company, the view, and the memory of the previous night, she might have swallowed a lump of cardboard and never known the difference.

“Did you know how to cook like this before?” she asked, trying not to talk with her mouth full.

“No. I guess you pick up something new in each life. My mother taught me how to make a few things. She was a well-known chef before she married my father.”

“What is she now?”

“A drunk,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Iain said. “You take the prize for difficult childhoods. It can’t be easy being possessed by Satan for eight years.”

“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds,” Haven joked, surprised to find herself discussing the subject so blithely. “At least I had Beau. But can you imagine growing up in a town where everyone’s convinced that the devil likes to hang out in east Tennessee?”

“Ridiculous!” Iain shook his head at the notion. “Everyone knows the devil’s not down South. He lives in New York City.”

“That’s a joke, right?” Haven finally asked.

“What else would it be? By the way—who’s Beau?” Iain asked, nonchalantly poking at his food. Haven tried not to laugh. She’d never made anyone jealous before.

“He’s my best friend. We had a business together, designing dresses.”

“Ah, a man who’s confident in his masculinity.” Iain was buttering the same piece of toast for the third time. “What’s he like?”

“Let’s see. Tall, blond, good-looking, quarterback of the football team, funny, charming, brilliant.” Haven paused to take a long, leisurely bite. “Oh, and
gay
.”

“Hallelujah.” Iain wiped imaginary sweat from his brow. “I was starting to get a little worried there. So does Beau have a boyfriend?”

“In Snope City, Tennessee?” Haven scoffed. “Even if there were other gay guys in town, they’d never have the guts to come out of the closet. Beau’s going to lead a pretty miserable existence if he doesn’t get the hell out of there.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much. I have a hunch he’ll find someone soon,” Iain said.

“You think?” Haven asked, trying to decipher the look in Iain’s eyes.

“So if Beau’s your best friend, why haven’t I heard more about him?”

“We had a fight before I left Tennessee. I told his father a secret that I wasn’t supposed to share. I was just trying to do what was best for him. . . .”

“But he didn’t see it that way.”

“No,” Haven admitted.

“Yes, it’s funny, isn’t it? You try to do what’s best for the people you love, and you just end up in trouble for your efforts.”

Haven raised an eyebrow. “We’re not back to having our picture taken, are we?”

“Now why would I steer a perfectly pleasant conversation in such a controversial direction?” Iain asked innocently.

 

THE QUEUES THAT led into the Sistine Chapel were shorter than they’d expected, though the twenty-minute wait in the sweltering summer sun was long enough to produce a new batch of freckles on Haven’s nose. Finally they found themselves inside a large room filled with several hundred sweaty tourists staring at the ceiling and stepping on each other’s feet. Just as Haven predicted, none of them paid the slightest bit of attention to the handsome young man wearing a Yankees hat and sunglasses. Even Iain’s movie star looks couldn’t distract from the beauty of the art.