Page 5 of Cursed to Love (Cursed to Love #1)

CHAPTER FIVE

Friday, September 13

P aige stacked the last box on top of another one and locked the door behind her.

“Emmie?”

“I’m here.”

She chuckled at her daughter’s response. With the reassurance that Emmie was inside and safe—somewhere—Paige checked the blinds. She’d keep them closed at all times. It would be dark in a few hours, and most people probably wouldn’t question a light being left on, if they saw it, but Paige didn’t want to take any chances.

When her boss sent her the listing for an empty strip mall minutes after Paige got her eviction notice, it had seemed like fate. The idea to move into one of her property listings maybe wasn’t her brightest, but it would work for a while.

All the units had been vacant for almost a year, and although the owner wanted to sell, he was out of the country and leaving it in their hands. Her boss’s notes stated the place hadn’t been kept up and was going to need a lot of work. With the asking price the owner hadn’t budged on in over a year, her boss didn’t think it would be easy to sell, but if she could manage it, the commission would be good.

The building held six side-by-side units, and Paige moved into the last one because it had a shower. It used to house a salon and spa. A tall counter stood near the front door; a few stray sticky notes and pens littered the surface. Along the back wall the faded paint showed silhouettes of where mirrors once hung, the individual stylist stations long gone.

The entire space occupied a long rectangle, where the stylist stations had been at one end. The other end housed four small rooms; one, lined in wood, appeared to have been a sauna. Two others were empty but had likely been used for private treatments like waxing or massages.

When Paige had first walked into the final room—a fancy locker room—she realized her idea might actually work. Four stalls lined one wall, three of them toilets, but it was the fourth stall that clinched the deal. It held a large, fully, functional shower stall.

From her notes, she’d known the owner had kept the utilities on to prove everything was in working condition. When she’d turned on the tap in the stall, the shower had started with ease. Within a minute, steam from the hot water had filled the small space.

Now, she and Emmie were moved in.

There wasn’t anything she could do about her car parked at the back of the unit. At least she was the realtor on file for the strip mall. If she had to, she could come up with an excuse as to why she was there.

“It will have to do,” she muttered to herself and got to work moving the last of the boxes to a room in the back. She’d given Emmie the last room before the locker room, keeping her as far from the front door as possible. The former sauna would be for storing her boxes, and Paige would sleep in the room between the sauna and Emmie.

Looking around the place, she wondered how she’d gotten to be where she was—a single, divorced, homeless mom. Never would she have imagined this would become her life. “Temporary,” she whispered.

“Mommy, come see!”

Paige smiled. That little voice was the reminder she needed to know that every sacrifice she made was worth it.

Standing in the doorway to Emmie’s room, she grinned as her daughter bounced around the small space. First thing that morning, Paige had taken apart Emmie’s bed and they’d brought it over with a couple of boxes, and then put it together. The next trip contained the rest of Emmie’s things, including all her toys, her small dresser, and a nightstand.

Emmie already had all her stuffed toys and dolls lined up on the bed.

“That looks lovely, sweetie.”

“She was lonely, and this one wanted to play,” Emmie said as she picked up two different dolls.

Her daughter had such a vivid imagination and Paige loved that for her. Paige sat on the end of the bed and listened as Emmie told her a story about each toy.

When Paige had moved out of Craig’s house in the beginning of the year, she’d rented a small storage locker and used it to store several boxes of clothes, toys, and books. At the time it seemed like a good idea, at least until she could afford a larger apartment. Several months back she’d debated moving everything into her apartment, just to save on the monthly expense. In the end, she’d decided against it because it would have made her apartment far too crowded. Now it was a blessing because she hadn’t had much to move into the strip mall.

Her couch had been secondhand, and a few days ago, she advertised it as free if someone would come pick it up. A couple of college students had gladly taken it off her hands yesterday. While they were picking it up, Paige offered the small kitchen table and two chairs. They were more than happy to take them as well.

That left only Emmie’s few pieces of furniture, a T.V., and the small unit it sat on. Not wanting to spend money on a dresser for herself when she’d moved into the apartment—not that there had been room for one—she’d kept her clothes in rubber storage bins, so they’d been easy to move.

Everything fit into her SUV in three trips—another blessing. She’d chosen the SUV so she could look the part of a successful realtor and feel safe with Emmie when driving on snowy roads. If she’d gone with a smaller vehicle, her car payment would have been smaller, and she may have been able to pay her bills for another month or two. But then she wouldn’t have been able to move Emmie’s furniture. Her life seemed to be full of irony.

A little while later, she showered with Emmie. It was her daughter’s first shower because up until now they’d always had access to a bath and Emmie liked to play in the water.

Paige had turned every new experience during the day into an adventure. For Emmie, life was a grand adventure, and she loved every second of it. Even hearing that their new apartment was a secret and she couldn’t tell Grandma and Grandpa, was exciting to Emmie.

Their lives seemed to be full of adventures too. Irony and adventures. Not perfect, and not exactly legal, but she was making it work, and she’d done it all on her own.

* * *

Friday, September 13

Blake lowered the weight to the thick rubber mats covering the floor. Grabbing his water bottle, he chugged a good third of it and mopped his face on the shoulder of his shirt. He’d been lifting heavy, hoping the exertion would empty his mind. No luck.

Flopping down onto the bench, he stared at the blank screen of the large TV on the wall, wondering about the curse. He still had no reason to believe it was real, but every day Jake or one of his brothers asked about it and with it being Friday the thirteenth, their teasing had been relentless.

Out for a beer with them after work, he’d sat back as they speculated about the curse. Their mom had said it could take effect any time after his birthday, so he hadn’t been surprised when Cade started a betting pool to guess when it would happen. The dates were spread out until the end of the month. Cade had even called Gage to place a bet. Jake picked that night—because it was Friday the thirteenth, he’d said.

Ideas about how it would manifest had ranged from a dream to ghosts showing up to teach him a lesson, like they had with Scrooge in Dicken’s A Christmas Carol , to him being overtaken by aliens just wanting some love.

Which of course led to talk about his love life. Dane and Ford both thought he should just call up an old girlfriend and confess his love. Move her into his place and woo her until she fell in love with him.

As funny as the teasing had been, there’d been an underlying current that maybe the curse was real. He’d left an hour later and had been pumping iron for another two. Now, sweaty and exhausted, he still couldn’t stop thinking about the curse.

The thought that his mom had just been screwing with them didn’t make sense. That wasn’t like her. He wanted to believe the whole curse thing was shit, especially since it had been almost two weeks since his birthday. But he’d had no indication either way to say it was true or a lie.

It was his mom’s behavior in the months before she died that made him hesitate to dismiss the possibility of a curse so easily. She’d pressured him excessively to date and find someone to love.

On several occasions, she’d brought up Paige too. Said she’d bumped into Paige, who was now divorced and had moved back to this part of town. And that she even had a little girl. Was his mom seeing Paige the reason she’d redecorated his spare room?

Blake shut off the lights in the basement and walked upstairs. Drawn to his spare room by the thoughts of his mom’s decorating, he stood in the doorway and flicked on the light, taking it all in. He’d always considered himself sensible and pragmatic, which was why he was having trouble believing in the curse. It was also why he should hire someone to redecorate the room because it wasn’t useful to him as it was.

His mom hadn’t changed the room’s white walls, but now the wall at the back was covered in gold star decals. He’d been so angry when he realized that not only had his mom changed his office into a children’s bedroom, she destroyed his closet doors. They were now covered in chalkboard paint.

Entering the room, he slumped onto the rocking chair in the corner, and stared at the toys, not really seeing them. All he could see was the look of hurt on his mom’s face when he’d told her how upset he was with what she’d done. That was the last time he’d seen her.

For a full week, he’d stewed in his anger before he’d spoken to her again. He’d called to apologize. When he asked why she’d done it, all she said was that he had to be ready because the woman he fell in love with could already have a child.

His mom died three weeks later.

Maybe she’d been talking about Paige again.

For a fraction of a second, he wondered if his mom and Paige had worked together to try and manipulate him. Then he threw out the thought. His mom had mentioned Paige, but she’d left it up to him to pursue. As for Paige, regardless of the years since he’d seen her, she wouldn’t manipulate a man. After all, she’d stood in front of him, heartbroken, waiting for him to make a move, never trying to force his hand.

Blake scrubbed his face then dropped his hands to the arms of the chair. Planting his feet on the carpet, he started the chair in a slow rock.

As he rocked, he pictured Paige the last time he’d seen her. He recalled other images of her too. Happy ones. Like all the weekends they’d studied together in his mom’s basement. They’d discovered they had a shared love for jazz music, so whenever they took a break from studying, they played some jazz in the background and partook in a rousing game of backgammon. Paige rarely beat him at the game, but when she did, she’d rub it in. She’d stand up and pump her fists and then straddle him, bragging about her win, and kiss him. Soon after, their clothes would be in a discarded pile, and they’d be making love in a frantic rush. She always worried one of his brothers would catch them, yet every time she won the game she’d do the same thing. He got to the point that sometimes he’d let her win, claiming her skills were improving. Whether she caught on to his game or not, she never said.

The picture of Paige morphed again, but this time he hadn’t consciously called up a new image.

One after another, visions flashed in his mind, and a tightness overtook his body. As if he’d lost control of his own body, he became completely immobile, unable to move or speak.

The air shifted. It felt different, like he was in another place and time. The rocking chair’s hard surface under him was the only reassurance that he hadn’t physically left his home.

The flashes of images slowed. They rearranged themselves into a line, then, like he was stepping into a movie, a scene played out in front of him.

A man knelt on a hardwood floor in a large room. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved buttoned shirt. A paintbrush lay loosely in his hand as he stared at a canvas on an easel in front of him. Scents of paint, oil, and turpentine were so thick Blake blinked as his eyes watered. Blake realized that in the scene he had full control of his body.

Blake could hear a radio host announce “Too Young” by Nat King Cole before the first notes of the song began.

Shafts of sunlight poured in from a domed skylight centered within exposed beams in the ceiling, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air. Dozens of canvases covered with splashes of bright paint leaned against white brick walls, some piled two and three deep.

The year was 1952, and the man, Peter, was quickly becoming a well-known abstract expressionism artist in New York City. Originally from California, he’d moved to New York several years earlier, following his girlfriend, also an artist, to the city. As a sculptor, Alice’s preferred medium was clay.

Blake had no idea how he knew any of that. He just did.

He took several steps closer to the easel, but Peter didn’t notice him. Feeling like he was in the room, even if his presence wasn’t noticed, Blake reached out and touched a canvas. It felt as real to him as the smells in the room had. He was in the studio with the painter, and yet he was only watching what was transpiring.

“Will,” a woman’s voice called. A moment later, she ran into the studio. Peter stood and caught the woman as she ran right into his arms. He held the paintbrush away from her body as they hugged and then kissed.

The kiss became passionate and long. Blake could hear their breathing become louder and his own heartbeat sped up. He feared he was about to become a voyeur to something he had no interest in seeing.

Finally, the couple pulled away and Blake let out his breath.

The woman glanced down at the easel. “Oh, Will. It’s beautiful. I love your use of bright colors. Just the way they dance…” Her voice trailed off as she studied the painting.

Peter put his arm around the woman and tugged her close to his side. “It’s all because of you, Alice. You’re my inspiration.”

Alice turned to face him, and they kissed again.

Blake felt the air shift and the scene changed. He was still in the studio, but something was different. It was quieter, the smell of paint and turpentine muted.

Peter paced in front of his easel. He stopped and pulled back a shirt cuff to check his watch and then continued to pace.

A minute later, Blake heard footsteps on the wooden floor and turned to see Alice walk in. She didn’t rush this time.

“Alice. Thank goodness. I was becoming worried,” Peter said as he walked toward Alice and opened his arms.

She gave him a quick hug but didn’t linger. “I needed some air.”

Peter frowned. “Is everything alright?”

Alice strolled around the studio, looking at the canvases. “I think I need to focus on my own art more,” she said but didn’t look back at Peter.

A burst of cold air hit Blake as the scene shifted again. The light in the studio was dark; clouds covered the skylight overhead. Blake rubbed his arms against the room’s chill.

Alice stood several feet from Peter. She wore a heavy wool coat buttoned up to her neck and a bright scarf covered her hair.

Blake wasn’t sure if she was coming or going or if her coat and scarf were to ward off the chill in the studio.

Peter reached for Alice, but she took a step back. “Don’t, Will,” she said quietly.

“Please, Alice,” he pleaded. “Don’t leave. We can work this out. I came to this city for you. I paint for you, but most importantly, I love you.”

Alice flung her hands out to the sides. “See? That’s the problem, Will. I can’t be your reason for everything. I’ve told you this a dozen times, but you never listen. It’s too much pressure.”

“I thought you liked being my inspiration. My muse.”

“No. Not anymore. I’ve found someone else. I don’t love you anymore.”

Blake felt a tightness in his chest, his mouth dry as he and Peter watched Alice turn around and leave. When she disappeared from sight, Peter dropped to his knees. His sobs trailed Blake as the air shifted again.

When the new scene settled, the studio was stifling hot, a vast contrast from the cold Blake had just left. He pulled at the neck of his T-shirt to create a draft of air.

The once overpowering scents of paint and turpentine were a subtle background against cigarette smoke.

He looked toward the room’s interior, expecting to see Peter at his easel, but the painter wasn’t there. Blake let his gaze wander around the studio. Canvases still leaned against the walls, but most were bare. Only a few were painted with dark strokes.

Not in a million years would Blake consider himself an art connoisseur, but even he could tell the difference in mood between Peter’s original paintings and these. They had come from a place of anger or sorrow.

“Why is this so hard?” Peter yelled.

Blake searched for Peter, and walked into the middle of the room, slowly turning around. It was then he spotted an open doorway tucked into a corner.

The door led to the roof. The day was overcast, and a soft breeze blew, alleviating some of the oppressive heat. Peter sat at a small metal bistro table, a pile of smashed cigarette butts at his feet.

A cigarette in one hand and a paint brush in the other, Peter stared at the canvas on the easel in front of him. “Paint,” he muttered to himself. “You don’t need Alice.”

Peter took another drag of his cigarette as he continued to stare.

Blake waited, willing Peter to paint. It didn’t matter that this period of time existed over seventy years ago. He needed Peter to find his muse. To move on from Alice.

A minute went by, and then two. Peter finished his smoke and reached for the pack. It was empty. “Need more,” he said to no one and tossed his dry paintbrush on the table.

As Peter walked right through Blake, leaving the patio on the roof, the air shifted again.

Blake blinked against the change in light as he took in his spare room. He dragged his hands down his face, the movement causing the chair beneath him to rock.

“It was a dream,” he muttered to himself—just as Peter had done—and heaved himself out of the rocking chair and turned off the lights. “A really fucking vivid dream.”

He wanted to believe it but knew he was lying to himself. Jake had won the bet.