And to think that none of it would’ve happened if it weren’t for a trip over Christmas break, forty years ago.
It is a story known by all Almanacs. The story of how Tish and Charles met.
Letitia Carmichael Baron was a nineteen-year-old university student. She normally spent winter break with her family in Aspen: skiing, drinking hot chocolate, and flirting with the sons of families that her mother approved of—her parents were terribly old-fashioned. But in 1979, she announced that she was going to spend the holidays with her roommate in Alma, New York.
“Have you lost your mind?” her mother had said. “I’ve never heard of the place.”
“It’s where Alma Boots are from,” Tish had replied. “It’s a company town.”
Her mother had tsked and tutted, but Tish would not budge. The reason had nothing to do with Alma, of course, and everything to do with Dylan, Tish’s secret townie boyfriend. Dylan was not someone her mother would’ve approved of—he was tall, tanned, and dirt poor—and so Tish made up a story about Missy Edwards inviting her home for the holidays. Missy, ever the romantic, agreed to be her alibi. Tish had no intention of leaving Cambridge during the holidays. She couldn’t wait to spend whole days in Dylan’s arms.
Missy became her confidant. Tish told her about Dylan, of course. But also about her life back home: the family business (oil empire), their infighting (because of money, what else?), and their expectations of her (marry—marry well).
“My mother is the sort of woman who thinks the reason girls attend college is to find a husband,” Tish had told Missy. “When I got into Radcliffe, the first thing she said was, ‘Good, now you’ll marry a Harvard man.’ It’s like she expects it to be arranged, along with room and board.”
Missy had understood. Her own mother was the same. “But my heart actually does belong to a Harvard man. A graduate.”
“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend!”
“I don’t. But I plan on rectifying that this Christmas.”
Tish had nodded as Missy gushed about Charlie, her teenage crush, noting how her friend’s eyes sparkled in the same way hers did when she spoke of Dylan. They were so lucky to have found their soulmates. They’d get married—Missy to Charlie, and Tish to Dylan—and live happily ever after.
But life had other plans.
Dylan broke up with Tish two days before Christmas break. Unceremoniously, too. No explanation, no remorse. That was when Missy suggested that Tish actually go back home with her. “You already told you parents you’re going to Alma, anyway,” she’d said.
Tish had said yes (obviously). She had spent the five hours that separated Cambridge from Alma crying and, to Missy’s credit, she didn’t complain. Not once.
Tish repaid Missy’s kindness by falling in love with Charles Dewar, the Harvard man whom Missy loved. They met at a winter mixer organized by the ASC. At first, Tish hadn’t known that Charles was Charlie. By the time she found out, they had already kissed—and Tish was already in love. Love at first sight is hogwash. But love at first kiss, well, that is undeniably real.
“Please forgive me,” Tish had pleaded. “I didn’t know it was him, Missy. I didn’t.”
“But you know now.” Missy’s voice was thick with anger.
“I’m in love, Missy.”
“You’re just using him to get over Dylan.”
It wasn’t true, Tish had insisted. When Tish kissed Charles for the first time, she felt as though she was kissing The One. The man who was going to be the father of her children, the person with whom she’d grow old. Her soulmate.
“I’m in love with him,” Tish had declared. It pained her to think of how much she was hurting her friend, it really did. But the idea of not being with Charles was unthinkable. Tish had picked Charles over Missy. Love-at-first-kiss over college roommate.
Shortly after that, Missy married Hank Stevens, a factory supervisor. She still lives in Alma, of course, and is a dedicated member of the ASC. She and Tish get along just fine. In the end, all is well.
This is where the story ends. The official version, anyway.
What Tish never told anyone, not even Charles himself, was what Missy had said to her on the day Tish announced she would be dating Charles.
“Being with a Dewar man comes with a price,” Missy had said, her voice thin, metallic, still tinged with bitterness. “They’re cursed. Your children will be twin boys and one of them will die young.”
It was the first time she’d heard of the Dewar Curse. Naturally, Tish hadn’t believed any of it. Curses weren’t real. Missy’s words had sounded like a bad fairy tale: ridiculous, fantastical. Words of a silly, jealous girl.
But soon, other people began telling Tish about the curse—serious people, people who had no reason to be jealous. And then Charles told her about Michael. And her mother-in-law showed her the Dewar family tree, the one Tish now keeps in her library. And right there, etched in fine gold calligraphy, was the proof: one twin died young in every generation. No exceptions.
If love-at-first-kiss was real, then maybe curses were real, too.
Tish’s heart had lurched. Marrying Charles would be madness: it would mean she would lose a
