The Serendipity (Only Magic in the Building)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Archer

Some men, when dealing with a not-quite-midlife crisis, might take an extended vacation. Maybe consider a complete career change. They might buy a new car. Start a new relationship. Take up a hobby, like juggling. Or BASE jumping.

Me? I buy a building in a town nowhere near the source of my crisis.

“And this is our basement.” Galentine Valencia, the previous owner, does a little spin, arms outstretched as though she’s in the middle of a flowering field rather than a dark, dusty basement. Her long floral dress flutters around her, and the costume jewelry jangles on her wrists like a jester’s bells. Her bright red pouf of hair and sparkly green eyeshadow only add to the effect.

She has the look of a woman who grew up in musical theater.

I survey the large, low-ceilinged space where we’re currently standing, which smells a little like sardines and musty newspapers. Thankfully, I see no sign of either.

“It is a basement,” I agree. I don’t have any other words to add.

The harder I frown, the wider Galentine smiles.

I’ve been trailing her around The Serendipity for the last half hour, getting a tour I didn’t ask for filled with commentary as colorful as her outfit and personal stories—both of which I could do without. If Bellamy, the CEO of my company and my closest friend, had arrived on time, he would be the one listening as Galentine prattles on with her unamusing anecdotes. He’d probably even enjoy them. Then he’d fill me in on what I need to know without all the extra fluff I’m getting now.

But Bellamy isn’t here, which means I’m trying to listen politely while fighting off my mounting frustration. I calm myself by making silent calculations about just how much work and time The Serendipity will require.

Because I didn’t just buy a building—I bought a historic apartment building in need of a massive overhaul.

The Serendipity isn’t in bad shape structurally. Honestly, that would be an easier fix. But the early-1900s college-dormitory-turned-apartment-building has great bones and has been exceptionally maintained. It is the embodiment of the cliché they don’t build them like they used to .

I might prefer more modern, clean architecture, but even I can appreciate the brick exterior, elaborate scrollwork along the cornices, and the porch with wide cement steps reminiscent of a New York brownstone.

Inside, the building has been equally well-preserved, with original hardwood floors, high coffered ceilings, and thick crown molding. Even the renovations done years ago to transform the small dorm rooms into full-sized apartments were done almost seamlessly.

No, the overhaul isn’t needed for the building itself but in terms of its general operation. Overhaul might be too small a word. The amount of work it will take to get this place profitable will require my entire focus in the coming months. Profit seems to be an unfamiliar word to Galentine.

For a few decades now, Galentine has been running The Serendipity less like an apartment building and more like a charity or nonprofit organization. Certainly, few—if any—profits are being made. I suspect when I actually dig into the books, which I opted not to do before making my hasty offer, I’ll find that it’s been operating at a significant loss.

My father would have called my deferred investigation a thoroughly unconscionable choice, the purchase itself frivolous , but thankfully, I only have echoes of his biting words in my head. No more surprise visits to my office with unsolicited performance reviews. And it’s easy to avoid his phone calls since I changed my number. He still tries through his lawyers or through Bellamy, but he’s also busy preparing his defense against the variety of financial crimes he apparently was committing for years.

So, no—I don’t need my father’s advice.

Even if what he’d say about this might ring true. This is a much bigger undertaking than I realized. On the plus side, its magnitude will provide maximum distraction for me at a time when I can really use it.

“The laundry room is this way,” Galentine says. “Back in the dorm days, it used to be coin-operated, but I took care of that.” She laughs.

Which I assume means now the use of the laundry facilities is completely free for residents at the expense of—well, now me .

“And over here, there’s a large storage facility?—”

“Storage for whom?” I ask.

“Residents, of course.”

“And what do they store here?”

“Oh, you know.” She waves a hand. “Odds and ends.”

“Show me.”

She leads me to a series of spaces separated by chain-link partitions and padlocked gates. Each numbered unit corresponds to one of the apartments in the four floors above our heads. Most are packed floor-to-ceiling with things better suited for a dumpster: boxes, bicycles, basketball hoops. I startle, thinking I see a person deep in the shadows of one unit, but when I squint, it’s only a seamstress’s dress form. I think.

So. Much. Junk.

“And how much does each storage unit cost per month?” I ask, fearing I already know the answer.

Galentine laughs again. “Oh, it’s included in the rent. Did I mention I haven’t raised the rent in the twenty-five years I’ve owned The Serendipity?”

“You did.”

Twice.

“Commendable,” I force myself to say.

Irrational , I think.

Galentine beams. “Thank you. The last area is the basement unit, and that’s where John stays.”

There’s a basement unit?

“And John is…?”

“John is our full-time, live-in building manager,” Galentine says.

“There’s a building manager?” My best guess is that this is a fancy name for someone who sweeps the hallways and fixes plumbing issues.

“Yes. It’s a salaried position—has been for the last seventeen years. He keeps this place running.”

Salaried position .

I pull the tin of Barkley’s Ginger Mints out of my pocket, shake three onto my palm, and pop them into my mouth. Numbers flash through my mind as the mints dissolve on my tongue, making my eyes water. I hope they settle my stomach. They certainly aren’t helping settle my thoughts.

“I’d introduce you, but it’s Wednesday afternoon. He’s at Bingo.”

“Bingo,” I repeat, as though a standing weekly Bingo appointment before five o’clock is something relatable. I guess it’s the kind of thing you do when you have the safety of a salaried position and a place to live.

She doesn’t show me the inside of the unit— For the sake of his privacy, Galentine says—but tells me it’s a roomy one bedroom with a full kitchen.

“And some natural light, which you don’t usually get in a basement,” she says. “There’s a private exit leading to the pocket park next to our building.” At my blank look, she adds, “It’s not a full park, just a little space between buildings with a few benches and plants. You’ll love it.”

Will I? Other than running five miles a day, usually on sidewalks and not in parks, I don’t spend much time outside.

“I’m sure it’s lovely,” I say.

I follow Galentine back into the elevator. It shudders and heaves a tired groan but manages to rise up to the fourth floor. The doors open to reveal a woman waiting for the elevator, with a large cat in her arms and a small dog on a leash. Galentine greets her with a hug as we step off, and I walk briskly away from the woman and her small zoo, sensing an imminent introduction I’d prefer to do without.

My people quota for the day has already been met … and exceeded.

When Galentine catches up to me, I ask, “The building allows pets?”

“Oh, yes. We’re one of the few places in the downtown area that do.”

For now , I think, adding pet policy to the list in my mind of changes I’ll be putting into place—starting tomorrow by eliminating John’s salaried position, which apparently pays for Wednesday afternoon Bingo.

My lawyer is already looking at the leasing agreements to make sure the rent isn’t fixed through contract. Because I will be ending Galentine’s twenty-five years with no increase as soon as I’m legally able.

Then I’ll eliminate wasted spaces, like the first-floor parlor, library, and commercial kitchen. These rooms might have had some functionality when this was a dormitory, but there’s absolutely no need now. I’ll start charging monthly fees for the storage units and figure out how to eliminate free laundry. If the units don’t have washer and dryer hookups, the basement option might be a necessary evil. But there has to be a way for it to generate revenue.

A bigger undertaking will be filling in the pool and enclosing the courtyard to make more rentable units. Though construction in the courtyard may prove tricky. Perhaps there’s a way to create a rental option for the outside area as well as the rooftop garden. Both would have event planners salivating.

Eventually, once I drive most of the tenants out through rent increases and policy changes, I’ll renovate. The Serendipity will transition to luxury lofts. In a historic building like this, they’ll bring in far more money.

We finally reach what is now my apartment door. Temporarily. At least until I feel safe returning to New York without the constant harassment of headlines and reporters following me around, shouting questions about my father’s crimes and my alleged involvement. The lack of my name on any indictment should have been enough to silence their questions about me, but it’s too juicy of a story.

Billionaire Father and Son Collude to Defraud Investors is more of a viral story than Selfish Billionaire Businessmen Single-Handedly Defrauds Investors and Continues to Be a Complete Disappointment as a Father .

It didn’t help that my father tried to throw me under the bus. You know, as fathers do.

“You don’t mind if I take one last look around the apartment, do you?” Galentine asks. Her voice is a little hoarse, and I glance away when I see that her eyes are wet.

“Of course not,” I tell her.

Because I’m not a monster, even if I don’t relate to her need to see the spacious owner’s apartment, which is where she’s lived for the past twenty-five years.

When I walked out of my life two weeks ago, that’s exactly what I did: I walked out. No tearful goodbyes with people or sentimental last looks at places.

Goodbye, New York. Hello, Serendipity Springs. As easy as that.

But I won’t stand in the way or judge Galentine for seeking closure just because I don’t need it in my own life.

The only furniture in the apartment to speak of right now is the desk in the second bedroom Galentine used as an office. There was an issue with the furniture company, but my things should arrive first thing tomorrow morning.

Galentine crosses the empty space and walks out on the balcony. She grips the railing, lifting her face to the sky, while I grab a bottle of water and chew another ginger mint.

The owner’s apartment is The Serendipity’s version of a penthouse. The unit encompasses the whole front width of the building’s fourth floor, looking out onto the small city of Serendipity Springs.

And facing west, apparently, based on the intense sunlight beaming through the tall windows and almost straight into my eyes. Galentine doesn’t seem bothered, though a moment later she comes back inside. She spins a slow circle in the living area, her heels echoing on the hardwoods.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I’m about to tell her It’s nothing and drop a hint about the time when she continues speaking in the same hushed tone.

“Thank you for always giving me exactly what I needed when I needed it. You’ve been good to me over the years, just as I hope you’ll be good to him.”

She chuckles quietly. But given that this empty apartment is an acoustical nightmare at the moment, I can still hear every word as she talks to … herself? Some long-dead relative?

To the building itself?

Based on the reverent way she speaks about The Serendipity, almost as though it’s a sentient being—a character in her colorful life—I’d bet on the last option. Galentine is actually talking to the building.

In addition to giving me the Serendipity’s whole history today, she prattled on, sharing stories about the building’s legendary ability to bring luck and love to its tenants. A story in line with the silly tall tales I’ve heard about the city of Serendipity Springs itself.

Magical springs, good fortune, et cetera.

All nonsense, of course. About the town and the building. But clearly, some residents still hold these stories as true. Galentine being one.

“The Serendipity is the only building in town that’s still spring-fed—that’s where the magic comes from,” she told me earlier with a wink as she gestured to the fountain in the courtyard. “It’s why the town was named Serendipity Springs—because the spring water brings love and luck.”

Whenever Galentine mentioned magic, I hoped she was speaking figuratively.

Like, wink, wink— magic .

But I’m more and more convinced that Galentine believes in the stories I only half listened to. Especially now, as she carries on a one-sided conversation with an inanimate object, now dropping her voice too low for me to hear.

I wonder if it would be rude to interrupt this imaginary conversation.

Don’t get used to conversations , I silently warn the building.

Then realize what I’ve just done and silently chide myself: Don’t talk to buildings, Archer. And don’t buy into anything Galentine Valencia is selling.

“Even if he won’t think he needs your help, don’t give up on him,” she says a little louder now. “Men like him are always the toughest nuts to crack, but they’re the ones who most need a nudge. And love.”

It would take more than a magical nudge to make me think about love right now.

Bright light suddenly beams directly into my eyes. The sun, dipping low, hits every window in the small downtown with blinding force.

For a moment, I can’t see at all. I spin away from the windows, blinking until my vision returns to normal.

I add buying a set of blinds to my ever-growing to-do list.

But first—Galentine.

I clear my throat. She walks toward me, offering the kind of smile that makes concern rise in my chest. It’s sincere, but with a small, knowing edge. Like there’s a cosmic joke she’s a part of—a joke on me.

No need to worry , I tell myself. What can a woman who talks to buildings possibly know that I don’t?

I hold out a hand to shake, but Galentine launches herself at me in what’s more of an assault than a hug. She smells like peaches and sentimentality as she pins my arms to my body with surprising strength.

“You’re in good hands,” she says, patting my back.

As much as I immediately want to break free, there’s something comforting about her embrace. I can’t remember the last time anyone hugged me. It feels … motherly. Though I don’t have any memories or personal experience to draw from there.

I find myself swallowing hard and blinking away … are those tears?

Clearing my throat, I manage to grunt out a brusque thank you .

Giving me one last squeeze, Galentine releases me and steps back with a sniffle. I offer her a monogrammed handkerchief from my pocket. Her eyes light up as she takes it, dabbing at her eyes.

“I do like a man who carries a handkerchief,” she says, then laughs. “Don’t worry. You’re too young for me. And I prefer blonds.” She winks.

“Good to know.” I wave her off when she tries to hand the handkerchief back. “Keep it. Please.”

With a wide smile, Galentine tucks it away into her overstuffed purse. I wait to see if the bag’s seams will hold. They do. If anything here is magical, it’s her handbag.

“You’ll find everything you need on the desk in the office, all in order,” Galentine says, waving toward the closed door of the second bedroom, which has served as her work space. “Or … somewhat in order. I have my own filing system.”

She laughs, but I suspect I won’t find it funny once I start going through her records. I only glanced inside the office and the clutter made my blood pressure immediately spike.

“Let me know if you have any questions—though I’ll be on a cruise for the next month.” She gives a little shimmy. “Can’t wait.”

“I’ll be in touch if I need anything.”

I won’t. I can think of very few circumstances in which I would need help from a woman who speaks to buildings.

When I finally lock the door behind her, I lean against it for a moment, eyes closed. Waiting for the sense of relief I always feel when I transition from being around people to being alone.

One second, two, three.

But the constriction in my chest doesn’t ease. If anything, it squeezes tighter. A fist, crushing coal into diamonds. Or just pulverizing stones into dust.

I work to breathe steadily through it, which is usually enough to help me pass through these moments of anxiety, most often brought on by spending too much time with unfamiliar people. Or too many people. Or just … people. Normally, it’s so manageable that it’s hardly an issue. But I should have expected an uptick with so many changes all at once.

It takes me longer than it should to regain some sense of normalcy in my heart rate and breathing.

Eventually, I peel myself off the door, and I wander toward the windows and double doors leading to the balcony. With the sun now out of sight behind the small skyline of Serendipity Springs, a peaceful glow descends. The golden hour, I think photographers call it. And truly, it does soften everything, painting the city in the kindest light.

Serendipity Springs is no New York. Not even comparable. A few blocks of Manhattan could swallow up this small city. But there is something special here—something that drew me to this place.

And no—it wasn’t magic.

I was drawn to the surprisingly robust economy of such a small city and the challenge of turning this historic building into something much greater and more profitable. A small task compared to the real estate empire I run in New York, but I did want a change. Something more hands-on. This will certainly be that .

Maybe a little too hands on , I think, my lip curling as I think of the air mattress I’ll be sleeping on tonight. A hotel really would have been a better option. Even the basic establishments in this city at least have beds .

I’m lost in my thoughts when I hear a noise. A thud coming from the direction of my bedroom.

I frown. This unit doesn’t share a wall with other apartments. The noise sounded much closer than it should. Almost as though it’s coming from inside my apartment.

My nerves hum to life as I quietly walk through the open kitchen and living area toward the primary bedroom.

Another sound makes me stop in the doorway. This time, it's more of a shuffle. Followed by a mumble.

My skin prickles and my body tenses, flooding with adrenaline. These are human sounds.

And they seem to be coming from the closet.

Had I not watched Galentine leave, I might suspect she hid here, having second thoughts about leaving her magical building.

But I locked the door behind her. That’s the only entrance, aside from the balcony, and certainly no one came in there.

I debate. Should I call the police? Grab the small lamp and brandish it as a weapon?

Another sound—a whisper.

“Who’s there?” I call in the kind of sharp tone I usually reserve for boardrooms.

The stillness that follows is unnerving. Clearly, whoever is hiding inside my closet has frozen in place.

One way to fix that.

Striding forward, I throw open the door.

There’s a woman.

In my closet.

From the sounds, logically, I could tell there was a person in there, but it’s a different thing to see an actual woman crouched defensively on my closet floor.

With the way she’s cowering, I can only make out wide eyes blinking up owlishly at me. Wisps of blond hair falling around her face. Full lips parted in what appears to be shock.

She’s beautiful, in a messy, girl-next-door-on-a-bender kind of way. But that isn’t my first thought.

My first thought is: “You’re trespassing.”

“What?”

I try a different approach. “Would you mind telling me who you are and why you’re hiding in my closet?” I ask.

She hesitates for a moment, then rises to her feet. Standing, she barely reaches my shoulders. She’s mid- to late-twenties, I suspect.

And beautiful , I catch myself thinking again, then force the errant and unwelcome thought away.

She’s trespassing , I remind myself.

“I’m Willa,” she says, barely above a whisper. “And I’m not sure why or how I got here.” She pauses. “Where is here , exactly?”

“You’re in my closet,” I reply.

“Right. And you are?”

“The new owner of this building.”

She frowns. “The Serendipity?”

“Yes. Are you a resident?”

She nods, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.

“So this would be Galentine’s apartment?” she asks.

“Formerly. It was hers up until this morning, when we signed the paperwork. Now, it’s mine. And again—I’d like to know why you’re in my closet.”

“So would I,” she mutters, turning around and running her hands along the walls as though seeking a hidden door or passage.

It’s a walk-in closet but barely meets the definition. It could possibly fit two people, though not comfortably.

The woman— Willow, she said? —is now pushing on the back wall. She rattles the single rod with its two empty hangers, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s going to test its strength by hanging from it.

I clear my throat before she can try. “So. You live in the building. And you’re in my closet … why?”

She turns to face me again, and again, I’m drawn to her blue eyes. They’re suddenly guarded. Vulnerable. Once more, I force myself to glance away, then take a step back, not wanting to make her feel like a cornered animal. And because I need a bit of distance.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I walked into my closet in my apartment and then— poof! —now I’m in yours.” She emerges from the closet, stepping closer to me, and the large bedroom suddenly feels small. “It was almost like … magic.”