Wished

Chapter 2

2

I didn’t always want to clean houses. It wasn’t what I dreamed of as a kid. I didn’t play games with a broom or a mop or a toy vacuum. It wasn’t what I wrote in proud cursive on my elementary school career-day proclamation.

Nope.

When I was little I wanted to be a genie. While other kids were dreaming of playing pro basketball, starring in movies, or racing to the rescue in bright red firetrucks, I was planning my life as a grantor of wishes.

It started when I was six and my after-school babysitter, Mrs. Stunkle, watched an old episode of I Dream of Jeannie. Before then I hadn’t really put much stock in Mrs. Stunkle’s opinions. She served carrots and celery instead of cookies for my after-school snack. She played Sudoku instead of Go Fish. All her furniture had plastic covers and her house smelled like cats and canned green beans. I’d count down the ninety minutes I spent in her living room like I was counting down the last days of a prison sentence.

But then I saw that some grown-ups were magic. That they could grant wishes. Because of Mrs. Stunkle I found out genies existed, and they could make dreams come true.

After that I watched I Dream of Jeannie every day after school, and I devoured every story, movie, or myth about genies I could find. I was convinced that when I grew up I could be a genie, just like Jeannie.

When adults asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I’d lift my chin and say, with the pure confidence of a child who doesn’t know any better, “A genie!”

They always laughed. I didn’t know what was so funny.

If I were a genie I’d have the power to give everyone what they wanted most in life.

When my mom came home exhausted after a long night shift, her feet swollen and her shoulders sagging, and said, “Anna, love, I can’t make pancakes. I’m too tired. I wish I could, but I have to go lie down.” Well, all I’d have to do was snap my fingers, or blink, or wiggle my nose, and my mom would get her wish and she wouldn’t be tired anymore.

Or when my dad was waiting for a kidney and he said, “I wish I’d get that kidney.” Well, I’d blink and magically he’d get his kidney, and he’d be healthy again.

Or later, when he said, “My Anna, I wish I could see you grown up.” All I’d have to do was wiggle my nose and my dad would be there, for all my childhood, all my teenage years, and all the way into adulthood.

My genie power wouldn’t be only for my family though. When Mrs. Stunkle said, “I wish I could figure this Sudoku out.” Well, wish granted.

Likewise, when my teacher, Miss Ayaba, said, “I wish you kids would remember what I taught you!” Okay, Miss Ayaba, wish granted!

The list goes on.

“I wish it were sunny today.”

“I wish he’d notice me.”

“I wish I had a puppy.”

If I were a genie, all those things would be in my power to grant.

So that was my goal. I wanted to give people their heart’s desire. I wanted to make people happy. I was powerless though, and I knew it. My dad didn’t get his kidney. He didn’t get to see me grow up. My mom is still worn out. And poor Miss Ayaba, she’s still plagued back in Detroit with entire classes of six-year-olds who don’t remember what she taught.

My mom always figured I’d grow out of wanting to be a genie. I guess I did. I realized I didn’t have the power to grant wishes. Not in the magical kind of way. If I could, I’d grant Dorene’s wish to see her husband one more time. I’d grant my little sister’s wish to spend the summer on the French Riviera. I’d grant my mom’s wish to finally have enough money to buy our very own house: a little stone cottage in the country with bright blue shutters and a flower garden.

That’s what it means to be a genie. You grant other people’s wishes. I never thought about the fact that genies don’t have their own wishes come true. I don’t know if genies even have wishes.

I drag the carpet cleaner over the thick wool rug in Max’s library. The white soap churns and froths, pulling up stains and dirt. I started off by cleaning the windows and blinds, moved to dusting, transitioned to vacuuming, and now I’m finishing with the rugs.

The rumble of the carpet cleaner is overwhelmingly loud. It echoes around the wide expanse of the library, bouncing off the white plaster walls, the stone columns, and the stacks and stacks of books. The machine is heavier than a vacuum, and my arms ache from slowly shoving the behemoth across half a dozen rugs. The library smells of wet wool, frothy soap, and furniture polish.

The room is expansive, wide enough to need six large rugs, with walls of bookshelves and a wooden ladder to reach the tallest shelves. There are cozy leather chairs spaced around the room, a little sitting area centered around a small fireplace, and a large cushioned chair by a tall window with a pile of Dickens novels next to it. Sometimes the side table next to that cushy chair has a half-empty cup of coffee on it too. And sometimes, if I can’t help it, I wonder if Max is lonely when he sits in this huge library, alone, reading a book with a cup of coffee.

But usually, I just clean. I dust the books, I dust the desk, I dust the oil painting on the wall behind his desk. Cleaning people’s homes is a bit like being a genie. When they get home from work, their house is clean, tidy, and smells like fresh linens and lemons, and that is a bit like magic. And I think it makes them happy too.

I finish with the carpet cleaner and flick off the machine. It groans and rumbles, then the room descends into a soft afternoon quiet. Outside the windows the sun is falling toward the west, and a light golden stream of color branches across the grass.

Now that I’ve stopped the flurry of cleaning, I notice the tranquil, quiet, muted quality of the air surrounding me. My arms have that blood-pumping ache they get after nearly ten hours of scrubbing and sweeping, and my skin tingles as the cool air lights on the sweat running down the back of my neck. My heart is loud in my ears, and I drag in a breath.

There’s a strange sensation vibrating around me. I run my gaze over the room. It feels as if someone is watching me, or as if someone is there, waiting for me to notice them. Sometimes people claim the Barone Estate is haunted. I’ve never believed that. It’s not haunted; it’s just lonely. Waiting.

That’s what it feels like now. As if the library is waiting.

I glance toward the desk at the far end of the room. It’s dark wood with curling legs and carved, decorative edges. I’ve never known Max to use it. The surface is always empty, with a fine layer of dust that accumulates between my cleanings. But today, when I cleaned it, there was a small golden box on top of the desk, with an old, yellowed piece of paper beneath it. I didn’t look at either. I gently pushed them aside while I dusted, then I put them back when I was done.

But now the box draws my eye.

Sunlight lies across the desk and blankets the box, burnishing it in gleaming gold. It’s as if the box is glowing. I can almost hear it humming. I stare at it for a moment longer, and then I swear the gold flares like a flickering flame ... almost like the gold of a genie’s lamp.

The silence of the library rises around me and enfolds me in a breath-held quiet. I can’t help it, I step across the thick rugs, the plush fabric whispering under my shoes. The soapy scent rises around me as I pace toward the desk.

I’m sweaty, I’m bleach-stained, I’m dust-covered and tired, but all the same, when I draw to the edge of the desk, all I want to do is reach out and open the delicate gold box.

I shouldn’t.

I couldn’t.

I won’t.

I don’t snoop. I don’t touch things that don’t belong to me. I don’t ...

I look down in shock. I’ve already opened the box. I don’t remember opening it, but there it is, open before me.

“My word.”

Inside the box is the most beautiful necklace I’ve ever seen. The box was pretty. It was flat and the size of a leather bound book, covered in elegant gold filigree. Inside there’s white satin and black velvet cushioning a necklace.

The necklace.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

It’s a circlet of brilliant pebble-size sapphires. They’re deep, alluring blue; dusky, sky-blue; longing, broken-hearted blue; desirous, seductive blue. The necklace is a chain of blue, spilling in a gradient of color like a river of light.

There are twenty-six sapphires, all linked together with delicate gold collets, set with tiny shimmering diamonds. And then there’s a pendant of gold and sapphire in the timeless shape of a lover’s knot. It’s the promise of forever.

This necklace was made for a woman who was very, very loved.

I wonder what that would be like. To be loved so much.

The glow of sunlight gleams over the blue and winks off the stones like light reflecting off the waves of the lake. The cool air of the room pinches my cheeks, and I resist the urge to reach out and run my fingers over the gleaming sapphires.

After I first met Max I obsessively researched jewelry. I thought if I learned a lot about what he did I might be able to strike up a conversation. Like, “What do you prefer—the cushion cut or the princess cut?” or, “What is your position on lab-grown diamonds?” or, “What do you think of reproduction jewelry? I prefer the Georgian Era.”

I thought if I could talk with Max about something besides which room I was vacuuming, he might see me.

But I never struck up a conversation. I never wowed Max with my newfound knowledge. In fact, after a few short, frenzied months of research, I realized my time was better spent helping my little sister, Emme with her math homework, helping Dorene file her taxes, and helping my mom by cooking dinner.

All the same, I’ll never forget the mad amount of research I conducted and all the random knowledge I accrued.

The necklace nestled in velvet in front of me is either more than two hundred years old or a stellar reproduction. This type of necklace is called a rivière necklace. They were often made from diamonds, and back in the late 1700s they were all the rage. They glimmered in evening candlelight and dazzled the world with their allure.

The Georgian lover’s knot is tied in the shape of the infinity symbol. A man gives it to his wife, a promise to love in this life and the next.

I wonder what kind of man commissioned this necklace. I wonder what kind of woman he loved.

I pull the aged, yellowed paper out from under the box. It’s crinkly dry, like a leaf in autumn, and the ink is faded to a barely perceptible blue. The handwriting is spidery thin and barely legible. It’s in French, an old style—so much so that I have a hard time deciphering the language.

But as I scan the page, my feet aching, my cheeks burning, sweaty and tired, I see one phrase I recognize.

This necklace will grant your dearest wish.

A chill rides over me, raising the goose bumps on my arms. The library stays silent, the afternoon quiet, the cool air soft and still. I’m bathed in the golden light from the window, and the light from the necklace dances across the room and reflects white ripples and rainbows in my vision.

The necklace lies still, winking, waiting.

For what?

For me to make a wish?

I look back at the spidery handwriting on the page, not certain I read the words right. But yes. I did. It says it right there. This necklace grants wishes.

Make a wish. It will come true.

I stare at the necklace. Then my mouth twitches. The sensation of being watched grows.

I smile and a small laugh rushes out of me, like the whoosh of a door flying open in a gust of wind. I look around the library, my eyes crinkled, expecting to see someone there laughing at me. Or with me.

Max, maybe. Although that isn’t likely.

It’s more likely to be Dorene. She probably planted this reproduction necklace here with this note. I bet she dipped the paper in tea. All in an effort to get me to live a little.

The tension that was holding me releases with the sound of my laughter. It’s ridiculous. I was standing here believing a necklace could grant wishes. Like a genie.

Riiiight.

“Dorene?”

My voice echoes then fades as it hits the stacks of books lining the walls.

“Dorene? I found your necklace. Ha-ha. Funny.”

I tap my foot against the plush rug, waiting for her to pop her head around the door.

She doesn’t.

“Dorene?” My lips are dry. I lick them and swallow. The sensation of being watched is still there.

I spin slowly in a circle, my footsteps rustling in the quiet. No one is here. I’m completely alone in the expansive library. It’s just me, a few hundred books, a slew of expensive furniture, and half a dozen freshly shampooed rugs.

“Max?”

Not that Max would be here. Now that I think about it, he isn’t the type to play a joke on someone he barely knows, and he would never pull a prank.

So that means ...

I turn back to the necklace. It glimmers in the softly spilling sunlight, the gradient of blues as varied and vivid as Lake Geneva on a midsummer day.

It means ...

Whoever wrote this letter truly believed this necklace could grant wishes. And that anticipation humming through the air—the anticipation that feels like a shooting star waiting to be wished upon ...?

Maybe it’s this necklace.

Maybe it does grant wishes.

“What would be the harm in wishing?” I ask the necklace quietly.

It winks at me like there’d be no harm at all.

I nod.

Exactly.

There’s no harm.

I could wish for a holiday to the French Riviera for my sister and Mom. I might wish for a little stone cottage with blue shutters outside the city. I could wish for my mom to get the raise she’s spent the past five years hoping for.

Or ...

I could do what a genie never does, and I could wish for something for myself.

Ever since Dorene told me Fiona turned Max down, there’s been a niggling in my chest, a twisting in my stomach, a warmth in my blood.

What if Max finally noticed me? What if, just for a moment, he saw me? And if he saw me, maybe he’d find that he liked what he saw.

I don’t know if he’s the love of my life. I don’t know if I’m the love of his. But for three years I’ve been cleaning his empty home, hearing the echoes of his past, and wishing I could help fill the emptiness that’s always lingering in the closed-up rooms and the cold, barren halls.

I stupidly fell in love with him at first sight. I’ve always thought that maybe if he saw me— really saw me —then he’d fall in love at first sight too.

“I wish ...” I whisper, feeling wild and daring. “I wish that Max loved me. I wish that we were married.”

I stare at the necklace, my mouth dry, my heart stuttering. A cold sweat lines my forehead. I wait, breath held, for a violent lightning strike to carve out of the sky and smack me for daring to make such a pronouncement.

My lungs ache as I stand there, muscles tight, eyes unblinking. Waiting.

Then, slowly, my heart settles into an even rhythm, my muscles loosen, and I let out a long, slow, ragged breath.

Nothing happened.

I laugh. Of course nothing happened. What did I expect?

Besides ...

“What were you thinking?” I ask myself.

I lean down, stare at the necklace.

“I take it back,” I tell it, speaking as firmly as possible. “I don’t actually want that. I take it back.”

How awful would it be, really, to blink and find yourself married to a man who barely knew you existed a second ago? No, thank you.

And to magic someone into loving you? That’s even worse.

I wag my finger at the necklace. “No, thank you, magic necklace. No, thank you. I take back my wish.”

With that, I reach forward and snap the lid shut. It gives a sharp click as I reset the clasp.

I sigh and press my pointer finger to the gold filigree—a pretty pattern of gold violets and a twisting vine. Time to head home. I’ll find Dorene. She’s probably finishing the kitchen. Tonight I’ll help Emme with her science project and make a pot of onion soup for dinner. Life goes on, wishes or not.

“Excuse me. What are you doing?”

I jerk my hand away from the gold box and grasp it to my chest as if I’ve been burned. The tips of my ears burn as I slowly turn around.

Max stands a few feet away, his presence filling the space and consuming all the air between us. He’s the flame, and all the oxygen in the room has been sucked up by him.

How does he get away with being so beautiful? How is it possible that every time I see him I want to curl up against his side and kiss the stubble lining his jaw? Even now. It’s ridiculous.

A wash of heat falls over me and my skin prickles with embarrassment. I wonder, did he hear me?

Yes. I think he did.

I’ve never seen him look so cold. He’s in a dark gray suit and a white shirt. He’s devoid of color, and his expression is devoid of warmth. His face is stark and ... yes, that’s anger. Ice-cold anger. It radiates from him in sharp lines, and I shake my head, unsure of what to do with the hostility pointed at me.

“I asked you a question, madame .”

The way he says “madame” makes it clear he doesn’t think I’m worth the title at all.

I swallow and clench my hand, digging my nails into my palm.

I never thought anyone could be so angry at someone wishing to marry them. It’s absurd really.

Granted, he’s pristine in his suit and I’m sweaty, with frizzy hair tucked under my handkerchief, my old T-shirt damp with soap suds. Still. He doesn’t have to look quite so furious. I get it. He doesn’t want me.

“It was just a stupid joke. I didn’t mean it.” My voice comes out as a half-whisper.

A muscle in Max’s jaw clenches and his eyes flare. He takes a threatening step forward, cutting across the rug, and I resist the urge to step back. I almost throw out my hands as if I’m warding off a wolf intent on lunging at my throat.

What is his deal?

“You think stealing a million-franc heirloom is a joke? Perhaps we’ll let the police?—”

“Stealing!” He thinks I stole his necklace! That’s why he’s angry? “I didn’t! How could?—?”

I swipe my hand through the air, canceling out his accusation, and lightning-fast, he reaches out, grabs my wrist, and holds me still.

“Don’t lie.”

I’m caught by the cold heat in his eyes, a burning ice that stings. His hand spans my wrist, his fingers pressing into my skin, a hard shackle. I stare into his eyes, lift my chin, and battle against the anger pulsing between us. His gaze has captured mine, or maybe I’ve captured his. I refuse to look away. Suddenly the pulsing anger twists and shifts into something else. A sharp, violent need.

Something shifts in Max’s eyes, a shadow lurking in the dark brown of his irises, and his gaze dips to my mouth. If this were any other time and any other man, I would swear I’m about to be kissed. Roughly. With teeth and tongue and punishing intent.

And I would like it.

But this isn’t another time. And this isn’t another man.

This is Max, accusing me of stealing.

And staring at my mouth.

My heart rate kicks up.

“Let me go,” I hiss, yanking at my arm.

His gaze breaks away from my lips and flashes back to my eyes. He keeps ahold of me, tightening his grip. His cheeks have two bright red spots of color and he’s breathing fast. “Turn out your pockets.”

“No.”

He’s gone Dickens on me. Assumed the worst. Jumped to conclusions. He thinks I’m a thief and a liar. I’ve been cleaning this man’s house for three years. I’ve washed his laundry, scrubbed his toilet, left him soups that I cooked while scouring his grout. I have never, ever, ever taken anything of his.

“I’m not a thief.”

He looks at my mouth again, seems to get angry with himself. “Liar.”

He gives my wrist a shake to emphasize his point.

“I’m not a liar. Let. Me. Go.”

He’s moved closer. I can feel the heat licking off him, the anger fueling him. There’s an awareness dancing over my skin at his nearness, prickly and hot. It’s inconvenient since this isn’t a seduction. It’s not even foreplay.

“Let go!”

“Turn out your pockets and I will.” He says this with a low, dark growl.

I shake my head and the hair coming loose from my bun scrapes the back of my neck. “No. I won’t. I’m not your Artful Dodger.” How dare he accuse me of stealing? I’m not some pickpocket from his bedtime stories.

I glare at him and his eyes widen with a quick flash of surprise.

“The Artful Dodger? You read?”

I want to kick him. Hard. “Yes. Amazing, isn’t it? I’ve been doing it since I was four.”

He narrows his eyes, unamused. “Madame, turn out your pockets, or I will for you.”

Apparently, he’s done with the small talk.

I close my eyes and suppress the urge to twist my wrist free and knock him over the head with a book—one that I’ve read . Perhaps The Tale of Two Cities since it’s huge and it’d hurt more.

Maybe it’d knock some sense into him.

If I could take my wish back, I would. Instead I’d wish that I never fell in love with Max Barone. Or maybe I’d wish that I never met him.

It wouldn’t make a difference to him. He wouldn’t miss me. He wouldn’t feel a hole in his chest at the thought that I wasn’t there.

In fact, I doubt he even knows my name.

“Do you know my name?” I ask him, opening my eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“My name.”

He shakes his head, then abruptly stops and says, “Dorene.”

“No.” My lips turn down. “Not Dorene.”

“No then,” he says curtly. “I do not know your name. I only know you take what isn’t yours.”

My shoulders sag, and that empty feeling I had in my gut when I saw the engagement ring Max made for Fiona Abry returns a thousand fold. How stupid is it that I’m in love with a man who doesn’t even know my name? After three years of seeing me in his house. After three years of sleeping on the bedsheets that I wash. After three years .

He clearly doesn’t know me at all if he believes I would steal from him.

I don’t know what’s worse, him not knowing my name or him thinking so little of me.

“All right,” I say, dropping my chin and staring at the perfectly cleaned rug. “But I expect an apology when you realize you were wrong.”

Max scoffs. “I never apologize.”

Oh gosh. Maybe if I’d talked to Max for more than fifteen seconds, I would’ve realized he was a jerk. I wouldn’t have been swayed by Dickens on the nightstand, hazelnut ice cream in the freezer, and British detective dramas in the kitchen. That would’ve saved me a few years of wishing for the impossible.

I take my wish back , I mentally project to the necklace. I take it back. I never, ever want to be married to this man.

I reach down to my left pocket and flip out the white cotton material. “See? Nothing.”

“The other.” Max nods to my right pocket.

It’s then, as he does, that I notice an unusual weight in that pocket. An unusual bulk.

A strange sensation creeps over me. Whatever is in my pocket is hard like stone, round like coins, heavy like a pocketful of rocks.

I blink at Max as my mind goes blank.

It’s not possible.

I closed the box.

I shut the necklace away.

I never even touched it.

Slowly, as if I’m moving through thick mud, I quest my fingers into my pocket. They hit the cold, faceted surface of a stone. As if I’m in a trance, I loop my fingers around the stone and pull the chain from my pocket.

The sapphires catch the sunlight, gleaming like a stream of raindrops falling from the sky. They tinkle and clink and— holy crap —I hold the necklace between me and Max, my heart thundering.

There’s arrogant satisfaction, angry acceptance, and cold dismissal wrapped in the curl of his lip. His expression fills with disgust. For me.

He looks at me as if he’s never seen anyone so low, so beneath him, in his entire life.

I’m the scum of his universe. I’m the dirt he can’t wait to wipe off his shoes. I’m the lowest of his low.

But . . .

“I didn’t—” I cut myself off. Clearly, I did. But I don’t remember doing it. I don’t . . . “I didn’t take it. I wouldn’t?—”

He scoffs. “You did. You would.”

He pries the necklace loose from my hand and forcefully drops my wrist. I stumble back and my thighs hit the decorative edge of the wooden desk.

A short while ago, the library was bathed in golden solitude and soft, muted quiet. It was breath-held expectation and teasing magic. Now it’s stark and barren, and the reality is ugly.

Max narrows his eyes as if I’m one of the mangy rats that slinks through the gutters at night in search of rotting food to nibble and diseases to spread.

“It’s all a misunderstanding. If only I can explain?—"

“No.” He cuts his hand through the air, silencing me. I grow cold at the expression on his face. “I’d like you to leave. I don’t think I need to say that you aren’t welcome in this house ever again. In fact, I would very much like it if you made certain that I never see you again. Ever. If I do, the police will be involved. Do you understand me?”

I stare at him. At the sharp line of his jaw, at the glint of sunlight in his black hair, at the dark brown eyes I’ve spent years daydreaming about. I never really believed Max would see me. But I never believed I wouldn’t be able to see him.

“Do you understand me?” he asks.

I nod, pushing the words past the pain in my throat. “I understand.”