Chapter 1
Chapter One
Iris
Just another manic Monday.
Ever since my mom sang that old Bangles song to me when I was a kid, I’ve woken up at the beginning of every week with it stuck in my head. She’d walk into my room belting it out, office-party-karaoke-night style, as if this is how everyone should wake up.
It stuck. And now I’m stuck.
They say in order to get an earworm out of your head, you have to listen to the whole song, front to back . . . but I don’t have it in me.
Yes, Susanna Hoffs, it is manic. And yes, I do wish it were Sunday.
I’ve got to start going to bed earlier.
But how can I sleep when I’m so close to finishing my third re-watch of the latest season of The Great British Baking Show ?
Some people have hobbies. They bake, or whatever.
I have Paul Hollywood.
Oh, and crochet. I took that up last year, when I put myself on a forced hiatus from dating. Given my history, the hiatus probably should’ve turned into a sabbatical.
Toothbrush in my mouth, shirt hanging at a crooked angle, one hand through the sleeve, the other tugging at my pants. I’m like a Picasso if it overslept.
As I move toward the sink to spit, my foot thinks it’d be hilarious to get stuck in the leg of my pants. I tumble forward with a foamy “Ack!” and land in a pile on the floor.
I lift my head, and out of the corner of my eye I see a glob of blue toothpaste on the bathroom rug.
Yep. That’ll stain.
Just another manic Monday, indeed.
Get it together, Iris.
I flip onto my back, slip my arm into my shirt, push my rebellious leg into my pants, and scramble to my feet. “One thing at a time,” I moan out loud, mouth full of toothpaste, so it sounds like “Wha fing anna nyme.”
I sigh at the ridiculousness of this scene before spitting the toothpaste into the sink.
I run my hands through my hair, fingers tangling in the waves, put on just enough makeup to look awake, hustle to the kitchen to grab my coffee, my bag and the stack of projects I spent last night grading, then fling open the door of my apartment, running through a mental checklist in hopes of remembering anything I might’ve forgotten.
This exercise is interrupted as I step into the hallway and nearly step on something laying on the floor outside my door.
“What the . . .?!”
I maneuver my line of sight around the armload of things I’m holding and see a rolled-up newspaper sitting on my welcome mat.
That’s weird. Who reads the newspaper? And one rolled up with a rubber band ?
I glance up and down the hallway, looking for someone who could have left the newspaper in front of my door.
I huff out a breath and bend over to pick up the newspaper, which is definitely not mine. I could leave it for later, but what if this neighbor—I find a label on the outside of the sleeve— Matteo Morgan. The name interrupts my thoughts.
Matteo. Probably an old guy, if he’s getting a newspaper. And this is probably part of his morning ritual—coffee, paper, crossword puzzle, that kind of thing.
If I had a morning ritual, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want it interrupted.
The image of an older man forms in my mind. He looks like Gerry, the guy who fixes Woody in Toy Story , same pointy nose and bald head, and in my imagination, he’s gracious and kind, and when I show him I’ve gotten his newspaper by accident, he invites me in for a cup of tea. Maybe he has a British accent and a million stories to tell.
All at once, I want to meet Matteo. Maybe he’ll become a friend, a wise old neighbor who can give me life advice. The father I’ve always wished I had.
I moved into The Serendipity at the beginning of the school year, but I’ve been so consumed with my new teaching job, my new students, and my promise not to fall into my old habit of inserting myself into other people’s lives that I haven’t gotten the chance to meet many of my neighbors. I suppose now, on a Monday morning, manic or not, is as good a time as any, right?
I turn in the opposite direction of the elevator and double-check the address label again.
Matteo Morgan. Apartment 3J. Two doors down from me.
The corner apartment. Lucky. He probably has two full walls of windows. As I move down the hall toward his door, I find myself wondering—not for the first time—what the other apartments in this old building look like .
Maybe kind, old Matteo will give me a tour, not just of his apartment but of the whole building. I have a thing for old buildings and the secrets they hold. Think of all the people who’ve lived here—the love, the loss, the stories. These walls have probably seen plenty, first when it was a college dorm, then later, when it was converted into these beautiful apartments.
When I moved in, I didn’t get a grand tour. My space and the common areas—the courtyard, the rooftop garden, the big kitchen, the library—are the only spaces I’ve seen. It’s definitely unique—after all, I don’t know of any other apartment building that has a community kitchen or a library—which is one of the things that drew me to The Serendipity in the first place.
I knock on the door of the corner apartment, trying to tip my wrist to see my watch, and stifle a “Gah!” as I’m instantly scalded. The wrist I decided to tip is attached to the hand holding my coffee. And I didn’t close the lid of my travel mug.
I hold my hands out from my chest as the hot liquid trails down into my bra, and I groan an “ Oh, come ON! ”—loudly—just as the door flings open.
I come face to face with a glare so intense that for a second I can’t remember why I knocked in the first place.
Okay. So . . . Matteo Morgan isn’t a cute old man who fixes toys.
He’s maybe in his early thirties, tall, with olive skin and dark, brooding eyes—brown with flecks of hazel. And it looks like someone ran a filter over his face to make those eyes more vibrant.
He momentarily glances at the coffee in my right hand, then back to my eyes.
I try to laugh.
I must look deranged.
Also, I’m not one to be knocked sideways by a good- looking guy. People are people. I’m good with people. I like people.
I’m a full-on adult now. With adult conversational abilities.
I’m just not sure where they’ve gone because right at this moment, my brain is a whiteboard that’s just been erased.
“Can I help you?” I don’t miss the annoyance in his tone.
I force my gaze to lock onto his.
“Uh, hi.” I paste on a smile that I hope erases the nerves and distracts from what I am sure is a large brown wet stain down the front of my shirt.
It doesn’t succeed at either. He glances down, and then up again.
Get it together, Iris.
His brow gives way to the slightest quirk. Why did I knock on his door?
“Hi. I’m Iris?” I say it like it’s a question.
“Are you?” he responds. It’s like having your serve returned at a hundred miles an hour.
“Yes! Hah!” I clear my throat. “I live—” I lift my hand to point toward my apartment and coffee drips from my wrist down my arm to my elbow, where it clings for a dramatic second before hitting the floor.
He notices but doesn’t say anything.
“I live down the hall, and this—” I try to juggle the dripping travel mug, my keys, and the art projects I desperately wish I’d stuck inside my bag, which has fallen from my shoulder and is now dangling in the crook of my elbow.
First impression. Nailing it.
Finally, I inch the paper forward and nod to it. “This was delivered to my door by mistake.”
His face immediately changes. He looks surprised, and . . . caught? He shakes it off and returns to what I’m starting to guess is his default scowl. “Where did you get that?” His tone is accusing, like I’ve done something wrong.
Did he not hear me? “I don’t know. I didn’t steal it, it was in front of my door. Sorry it’s crinkled. I stepped on it.”
He still looks completely confused, glancing down and side to side, as if he’s calculating something in his head. He shakes his head for a second time, then reaches up and slides the paper out from under my arm.
See? He’s just a guy. And apparently, not a very nice one.
I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he had a bad morning. Maybe he’s been wondering where his paper was. I meet his eyes. Or maybe he’s just a jerk.
Unfortunately, jerks are my kryptonite. I’m now curious enough to find out what his deal is. And yes, some part of me wants to fix him.
No, Iris . Do not go there. Not again.
I smile, determined to win him over, or maybe to get him to quit glowering at me. “So, you’re Matteo?” I ask. “I just moved in this past fall, and I?—”
“Yeah. Great. Thanks for this.” He holds up the paper, steps back, and shuts the door in my face.
Wait.
Wait, did he . . .?
I’m so stunned, I stand there for a solid ten seconds, staring at the door like a child who’s been sent to time-out in the corner.
Okay. Wow. What a jerk.
“Hey, uh, you’re welcome! ” I call out, hoping he’s still within earshot.
Finally, I make a stupid face at his door, confident he can’t see me, and after a few more stunned seconds, I turn and stomp back down the hall.
So much for being a good neighbor .
At this point, I’m certain that even if I had a teleporter, I still wouldn’t make it to work on time.
Matteo
I squeeze the familiar newspaper, peeking through the hole in the door.
“ You’re welcome! ”
She wanted me to hear that. Can’t blame her. I was a jerk.
I stand stone still, watching, hoping she can’t see the shadow through her side of the door. She makes a face (pretty funny, actually, made even funnier by the fish-eye lens of the peephole), and I hold my breath as I wait for this woman to finally walk away.
After what seems like an hour, I hear her footfalls disappear down the hallway.
I let out my breath and knock my head slightly against the door. My mind races, trying to decipher this latest move.
Three years, I think. Not in three years .
Three years is exactly how long I’ve been receiving the newspapers.
Never once has one been delivered anywhere but my apartment.
Is it some sort of glitch?
A change?
Wait. A change.
Things might actually be changing. Finally.
As usual, the newspaper has arrived at the worst possible time.
“I don’t have time for this!” I call out into the emptiness of my apartment.
My schedule doesn’t matter. Not to The Serendipity .
I hold up the latest delivery, turn it over a few times in my hand, and scoff.
I know there’s going to be a task typed somewhere in this stupid paper, something only I will be able to complete.
Harold needs a distraction. The distraction is named Margaret. They need to meet at a certain time on a certain day. Samantha is the ideal mate for Brent, who needs to order coffee from her to get the ball rolling.
And I’m the one who has to make these meetings happen.
Connector of people. Maker of matches. Arranger of happy endings.
Because I’m the perfect one for that job. The irony isn’t lost on me. I don’t even believe in “happily ever after.” I assume that five or ten years down the road, all these “happy couples” are going to come to their senses and realize that real-life romance doesn’t work out like it does in the movies.
I should know.
I start to mentally replay my reaction to the woman who knocked on my door.
I sigh. Such a jerk.
It’s not her fault the paper landed on her doorstep. She was just trying to be nice. She has no idea what a strain this rolled-up burden brings.
I stare at it again.
Looks like my plans for the day have once again been derailed. I’ll have to find another time to test the new recipes I’ve been trying to perfect so I can add them to the menu next week.
I close my eyes and start to count to ten.
I get to four when I start to scold myself. Did you have to slam the door in her face?
I blow out a breath. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want or need new friends, and I don’t care what she or anyone else thinks of me .
Alone. I’m better off alone.
I walk over to the counter, take a deep breath, and begrudgingly spread the newspaper out. To everyone else, it’s just a vintage newspaper, headlines written in a script-y font over innocuous stories about people they don’t know.
To me? It’s a curse.
I scan the text and black and white images neatly arranged under the banner that reads, Serendipity Hall Ledger.
Finally, I spot it. Near the bottom of page three. The article with my marching orders. Now, I just have to interpret the directive and carry it out.
Again. Like I’ve done for the last three years.
But it didn’t come to me this time.
Maybe this is it.
Maybe since it was delivered to someone else, The Serendipity is finally getting the hint that I suck at this.
Maybe it will finally be over.
Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll get a little peace and quiet.