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  Which, apparently, entails shopping.

  We walk to Fifth Avenue, and when we reach the intersection and stand on the corner, he sweeps his hand at the array of shops, a grin on his face. "Pauper me, Isabel."

  "Pauper you?"

  "Yes, love. This is Fifth Avenue, honey, one of the most expensive streets in the world, along with Rodeo Drive in L.A. and Rue St. Honore in Paris. I'm giving you carte blanche to go into any store and buy anything you wish." He winks at me. "Every girl's dream, I think."

  "I don't even know where to start, Logan. I've not done much shopping."

  He tugs on my hand. "Well then, let's start simple--with a woman's best friend."

  With that cryptic remark, he leads me into a jewelry store--Tiffany and Company--which makes more sense of the comment: diamonds. I spend a few minutes just perusing, and I'm overwhelmed.

  "I don't know, Logan. They're all beautiful, but . . . maybe this sounds bizarre, but I don't even know what I should like."

  He laughs. "That is pretty weird, Is. But it shouldn't be too hard; just look at the stuff, and if something grabs your eye, point it out and I'll buy it."

  "Just like that?"

  "If you like it, yeah, just like that."

  So I look again, this time just letting my gaze flit and float from piece to piece. I'm starting to wonder if there's something wrong with me, because nothing catches my eye. But then . . . I see a necklace in the shape of a key.

  I point it out, and an elderly woman behind the counter drapes it over a black felt stand for me to examine. My heart is pounding, for some odd reason.

  And then, when I touch it, I understand why.

  The moment my finger touches the diamond-encrusted key--

  *

  I am a little girl. In my mother's room. The sea crashes somewhere in the distance. I shouldn't be in here, but I just want to look at Mama's box. It is a hand-carved thing of polished reddish-brown wood, and it has all of Mama's keepsakes and jewelry in it, which I want to look at. There is a little brass lock in the front, keeping it closed.

  I tug on the lid, but it is locked.

  "You want to see inside, mija?" Mama's voice comes from behind me.

  I startle, spin. "I just wanted to look, Mama. I wasn't going to--"

  She lifts the box in both hands, holding it reverently. Sits on the bed, pats a spot beside her. "Come, sit." She smiles down at me. "This is a very special box, Isabel. You know why?"

  I nod. "Because it has your jewelry in it."

  Mama shakes her head negative. "No, mija, although that is true. Even if the box were empty, it would be special. And if someone were to tell me I had to choose between the box and all the gold and silver and diamonds and pearls in the world, I would choose the box."

  I am confused now. I touch the lid, carefully. It just seems like a wooden box, not even a very well-made one.

  Mama laughs. "Would you like to hear the story?" I nod, of course. "Your papa made this box, many years before you were born. Now your papa, he is the best goldsmith in all of Spain, as you and I both know. But he is not so good with wood. But still, he made this box, and he made it just for me. It was the only gift he ever gave me, until after we got married, but that was fine with me. You see, I don't know if you know this or not, but when I was young, there were a lot of young men who wanted to marry me. I told them all no, which made my parents upset, but they were all so dull. Rich and handsome, perhaps, but boring and stupid. And then I met your father. He wasn't rich, and he was--well, handsome to me, but not like the other boys. His hair was always in his eyes, and he didn't play football like the other boys. But I liked him. He was apprenticed to a goldsmith, which meant he worked very hard all day, every day. We spent a lot of time together, all of his time he could spare from work, and from sleep. I grew to love him, but of course I couldn't tell him that. I had to wait for him, because back then, that's how it was done. I was waiting, Isabel, for so long. And you know, I knew he loved me too. He was silly with it, like boys get. And you know, men get even sillier than boys, when they're in love. But don't tell your father I said that. I was waiting, and waiting. And one day, when I was very impatient because I hadn't seen my sweet Luis in almost a week, he finally showed up in my parents' courtyard, holding this box.

  I was excited, thinking he'd come to propose, or to give me a very fancy gift.

  But no, it was only the box. A simple, not very well-made box. I was confused. But your father told me that, even though he loved me, he couldn't ask me to marry him, even though he wanted to. He had to finish his apprenticeship first, and then he had to find enough work to support us. My father respected that, and of course he liked it because he hoped I'd find another, wealthier boy to marry in the meantime.

  "Luis told me the box was a promise. A promise that he would marry me, one day. Of course, I took the box. Yes, I told him, I would wait for him. I tried to open it, but it wouldn't open. It was locked."

  Mama reaches into the front of her shirt and pulls out a brass key on a red ribbon, lifts it off her neck, and hands it to me; it is still warm from her skin.

  "Luis told me that he had already made the ring he would propose to me with, and that it was in the box. He'd saved and saved all of his money, rather than taking me on fancy expensive dates or buying me presents, so he could buy the diamond and pay his goldsmith master for the gold, so he could design and build the ring. Again, I tried to open the box, but of course, it was still locked. And that was when Luis showed me the key. 'When I ask you to marry me, Camila, I will ask you by giving you this key. And if you accept the key, you are not only accepting the key to this box and the ring inside, but the key to my heart.'"

  I stare at the key for a long, long time. "So this is the key? To open the box?"

  Mama nods. "Yes." She turns the box on her lap so it faces me. "Go on, mija. Open it."

  I insert the key, twist; the lock disengages with a tiny quiet snick. Mama lifts open the lid, and I gasp. Inside, lying in little felt trays, are gold rings, gold necklaces, gold bracelets, gold earrings. Each piece is unique, and ornate, and beautiful. Handmade by my own papa.

  "Each of the things in the box your father made me, and gave to me on the anniversary of the day he asked me to marry him. He got down on one knee and held up the key to me, holding it in both hands like he was a knight and I was his queen."

  "And you said yes?"

  Mama laughs. "Well, of course, silly girl! We had you, didn't we?" She closes the lid, turns the key to lock the box, and then holds the key on her palm. "This key, mija, it is worth more to me than anything else in the whole world, except your papa and you."

  She hands me the key, and this time I look at it more carefully.

  It is just a brass key, plain, burnished, simple. There is but one simple set of teeth on the stem, rounded, old, worn. The bow of the key, where one holds it to turn it in the lock, it is the most beautiful part of the key. It is a circle, but within the circle is an ornate flower blossom, symmetrical, four petals at the four compass points of the circle, connected by delicate filigree, at the center a knotwork design.

  "I don't think there are many women in the world who can say they have the literal, physical key to their husband's heart on a ribbon between their breasts, mija. Which makes me the luckiest woman in the world, because your father's heart . . . it is what makes my own continue to beat every single day."

  *

  I jerk my hand away, gasping.

  The memory sears me, sits heavy in my heart. God, the love my mother had for my father . . . it is staggering.

  And this key, the ornate, diamond-encrusted thing on the pedestal, it reminds me of that key. Obviously so, because it sparked such a powerful memory merely by touching it.

  Logan lifts the necklace in his hands, moves to stand behind me. I feel my mother, in that moment, I feel the way she would move, if my father were to fasten a necklace around her throat. She would gather her thick hair, black as raven's wings, in her hand
s, drape it over one shoulder, tilt her head forward. Papa would fasten the catch with his thick but nimble fingers, and then he would gather Mama's hair in his hands, and she would lean back against him, look up at him, craning her neck to peer into his eyes.

  My hair is too short to gather into my hands, to drape over my shoulder, but I feel Logan behind me, feel his fingers working to fasten the clasp. And I am my mother in that moment, leaning back against the man I love, twisting my head up to look into Logan's face, feeling the love in his eyes.

  Logan accepts a little hand mirror, and I look at the key, hanging just so between my breasts. It is a beautiful thing, the key. Made of platinum and white gold, with hundreds of tiny diamonds lining each side from bow to stem. The petals of the flower within the bow are each large teardrop diamonds, and the center of the blossom is a stunning square yellow diamond.

  Logan spins me in place. His eyes ask the question.

  "This, Logan. Please?" I wish I could explain the meaning, but I cannot. Not yet. I need a moment or two to process the memory, to internalize it.

  I just need a moment alone with the memory, before I share it.

  I hear Logan speaking to the clerk. The price staggers me--twenty-two thousand dollars. I expect him to haggle, at least, but Logan pays it without a squabble, handing the woman a card to swipe, signing a slip, and then he's guiding me outside.

  I lift the key, gaze at it. "I'm sorry, Logan, I didn't know it would cost that much."

  He laughs. "Are you kidding? I'm glad you found something you like." He tips my chin up so I'm looking into his one bright blue eye. "I have money, Isabel. Plenty. More than plenty. You could shop for weeks and not put a dent in it. So don't apologize."

  "All right. I just was shocked when she told you the price."

  "It means something to you?" He says it somewhere between a statement and a question.

  I nod. "Yes. I . . . remembered something else."

  "You don't have to share it, if you're not ready, Is. I'll never pry, okay? I'm just happy you're not only making new memories with me, but getting old ones back too."

  I am near tears. Blink them back. "I don't know how to thank you, Logan. For the necklace, but also for--today. The ferry ride, getting a few memories back. I cannot tell you what it means to me."

  "That's thanks enough, Isabel. I love you. Anything I can do, I will." He shrugs. "But honestly, it just seems like luck, sort of, you know? I wasn't setting out to get you your memories back, since there's no way to know what will or won't trigger something."

  "It's not luck, Logan. It's you. You . . ." I have to think hard about what I'm trying to say. "You're bringing me to life."

  He touches the key where it rests between my breasts. "Aside from what it obviously triggered for you, it's apropos, you know? Because I don't feel like I'm bringing you to life, I'm just . . . opening doors for you. Unlocking the life that was already there, so you can live it."

  He takes my hand, and we walk for a while. Finally, while in line in the Godiva store, picking out chocolates, I feel ready to share the memory.

  So I tell it to him as I remembered it, and I can recite my mother's words verbatim.

  When I'm done, Logan and I are outside again, munching on truffles. Logan is quiet a few beats, and then he laughs softly, shakes his head. "Goddamn, that was smooth. Your pops had moves, Is. He literally proposed to her with the key to his heart? That's romance right there, man." He bends close to me, licks chocolate off the corner of my mouth, and then kisses me. "I can't promise I'll be able to come up with anything that romantic, but I'll sure as hell try."

  "I don't think anyone could live up to the standard my father set in that regard, Logan. And I don't need you to try. Just be you. Love me, and that will always be so much more than enough."

  He tugs me flush against him, his palm warm and strong against my spine. "You make it easy to love you."

  "I nearly got you killed. I cost you your eye. How does that count as easy?"

  "Men have fought wars over the love of a woman, Isabel. And trust me when I say you're the kind of woman wars are fought for."

  It's easier to shop after that. He follows me from store to store, sometimes suggesting we go into a certain one. I buy dresses, skirts, tops, shoes, everything wildly expensive. Logan never bats an eye. I've been keeping a loose tally, and if my math is correct, we surpassed a hundred thousand dollars quite a while ago. Logan is heavily laden with bags, half a dozen in each hand, a huge one hanging off his shoulder.

  I take pity on him, though he's not uttered one word of complaint, and indeed, he seems to be actively enjoying watching me splurge.

  "I think I've spent enough of your money, Logan. Let's take this stuff home."

  He glances at his watch. "Sounds good to me. We've got to get changed for dinner and the show anyway."

  We catch another Uber home. Set the bags down, sort through them, pick an outfit for tonight, strip for the shower . . . and up on the counter, beneath Logan, which has us running late for our dinner reservation. Not that I mind.

  Dinner is a fancy affair at an upscale place somewhere in what Logan tells me is Hell's Kitchen. I don't recall the name, or the cross streets. I don't really care, not today. I'm all about the experience, letting Logan take care of the details. I follow him on foot from our home to the nearest subway station for my first subway ride. It is a revelatory experience, sitting in the inward-facing seats, holding on to the bar, watching the wide variety of people. Old, young, white, black, brown, Asian, rich, poor, clean, dirty, self-absorbed, alert. There is nothing connecting any of them--any of us--except this moment on this train.

  We are ascending the stairs to street level now. I wind my fingers through Logan's and share a slice of my thoughts. "When I lived in the condo in Caleb's tower, there would be many, many hours of my life that were just utterly . . . empty. One can only read for so long, you know? One of my only pastimes was to look out the window and watch the people coming and going. There was never any lack of passersby, so I could stand at that window for hours, just watching them go past. I would imagine lives for them, create entire stories about them. I still do it, sometimes. If I'm having trouble processing my emotions, or I'm just overwhelmed, I'll end up people-watching, and imagining stories for them. I would create these elaborate histories for the strangers walking under my window, I think, because I had no history of my own."

  Logan nods. "There's a word that sort of encapsulates that idea: sonder. It's the realization or understanding that each person passing by you or sitting next to you on the train or whatever, that everyone has their own life, their own complex network of friends and relatives, their own stories. I picture each person having a thread that follows them, and it's a tangled, knotted, interwoven thread with a million individual skeins, but if you could follow that thread, it would eventually, somehow, intersect with yours. Sometimes it's just that individual moment, where you and that person occupy the same space for a single heartbeat, and other times that person might be more intimately connected to you in a way you'd never have imagined."

  "Sonder. I like that word."

  By this time, we're at the restaurant, where we're told it will be a bit of an additional wait, as we're a few minutes late for our reservation. Logan leans close to the hostess, an attractive young woman wearing a dress that reveals more than it covers, has a brief whispered conversation that also involves a surreptitiously passed bribe. I don't know what he said or how much he bribed the hostess, but it clearly worked, since she leads us to an empty table immediately.

  When we're seated and Logan has ordered us a bottle of wine, I question him about it. "What did you say to the hostess? And how much did you bribe her to get us this table?"

  Logan laughs. "Oh, I didn't bribe her. I just showed her my business card." He slides one out of his wallet and hands it to me. It bears his name, a cell phone number, an e-mail address, and nothing else.

  "So? I don't understand."

  He ta
ps at the bottom of the menu: Owned and operated by Ryder Enterprises, LLC. "This was the very first business I started, when I moved to New York getting out of prison. I figured a restaurant was a safe bet for an ex-con, right? As long as the food and the service is good, the environment quiet and the atmosphere pleasant, the clientele won't care whether or not the owner has an arrest record."

  "So you own this restaurant?"

  He shrugs. "Yeah. I actually worked as the manager for the first year it was open, too. I had limited capital, and I didn't want to blow it all right off the bat. So I took it slow. Got directly involved, made sure this place was stable, made sure I personally hired a quality manager, good waitstaff, a great head chef. Once I was sure this place would turn a profit, I started sniffing around for my next venture, but I stayed involved here still, more as the owner than the manager, at that point. Now, with all the other shit I've got going on, I'm rarely here, but I figure since I own the place, I might as well take advantage of it, right?"

  "I thought you sold off businesses once they were turning a profit?"

  He shakes his head. "Not all of them. One of the most important things as an entrepreneur is to make sure you always have multiple streams of income. Never rely solely on one venture, if you can help it. Diversify, diversify, diversify. So I've kept ownership of . . . oh, a dozen or so various enterprises. This place, a chain of auto parts stores out in the Midwest, Detroit, Chicago, Milwaukee, that region. There's a security firm for B-list celebs out in Hollywood, um . . . God, it's hard to remember them all. I don't have anything to do with the day-to-day running of ninety-nine-point-nine percent of them. They're all owned under the overall umbrella of Ryder Enterprises, which is, basically, a management corporation. I've got a whole staff of efficiency experts, transparency officers, troubleshooters, sales account managers, shit like that. Unless there's a major, major problem, I just file the taxes and rake in the profit. Oh, there's a chain of cinemas down south, small-town, single-screen sorts of places. Um, a couple different gas station franchises, three--no, four, luxury car dealerships, one here in Manhattan, one in Atlanta, one in San Diego, and . . . shit, where's the last one? Seattle."