Exiled Page 23

  And then a cry. Small and quiet at first, a hesitant quavering.

  Just one.

  You get up, unbuckle the crying child--Jakob. Hand him to me, and I cradle him against my chest. God, so tiny. So warm, so soft. So sweet. I lift up my shirt, expose my breast, and tickle his quivering lips with my nipple. He works his mouth, snuffles and snorts, shakes his head side to side, and then latches on with ferocious hunger and alert determination. He's so tiny still I can support him with one hand, and stroke his thick black hair with the other.

  You watch, a little awed, a lot moved. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Your voice is low, rough.

  I keep stroking little Jakob's hair but my eyes are for You. "I have to say it, out loud, at least once." I glance down at Jakob, then back up. "Caleb is Jakob's biological father, and you are Camila's."

  "But they're both mine."

  "I know. And I--I don't doubt that for a moment," I say.

  "It might be a little tricky to explain, if he ever starts asking questions when he's older."

  "We'll figure that out when it happens." I smile. "I just had to say it, because . . . inside, it doesn't feel as if it matters."

  "It doesn't. Not really." You offer me a smile, a quintessential Logan Ryder smile, the one that warms me from the inside out. "It's nature versus nurture, Isabel. If you were to separate identical twins, and one was raised in a hellhole of rage and violence, and the other in a loving home full of affection, you'd very likely have two wildly different people emerge as adults. Because the environment in which a person is raised makes all the difference. Caleb could have been . . . someone totally different had his parents lived. Had his cousin not turned him out on the street. Had any number of events in his life been different."

  "You came out of some very difficult circumstances yourself, and look at the kind of man you are."

  A shrug. "We each can only do the best with what we're given. That's all I've done. Yet, too, we each make our own choices in life. I chose to change. To try to improve myself. To be better. I think at some point, Caleb just . . . gave in to the kind of man his environment was conspiring to create, rather than trying to rise above it. It's not up to me to judge him, to either absolve him or vilify him. I didn't know him well enough, and it's not my place even if I did. I know how I feel about him, based on my interaction with him, and based on the way he treated you, but that's it."

  "So what you're saying, then, is that despite being Caleb's, genetically, how we raise him will determine the kind of man he'll become."

  "Right. He'll have the admittedly impressive genetic potential of Caleb, but you and I will raise him to not have the . . . questionable ethics Caleb showed as an adult."

  "I like that idea," I say with a smile.

  "So do I."

  Camila starts crying just then, right as Jakob unlatches, a little milk dribbling down his chin. You unbuckle Camila, hand her to me and in exchange for Jakob, cradle him to Your chest, settle onto the couch beside me. You hold a sleepy, milk-drunk Jakob, I feed Camila, and we relax together.

  A family.

  That's when it dawns on me, hitting me like a ton of bricks, like a freight train:

  I have a family.

  The realization brings tears of happiness to my eyes. I let them roll, because it is a beautiful thing, this understanding. I was orphaned, not just of my parents, but of my entire self, of my life. I've come to find myself, but now, with You and Camila and Jakob, I have a family of my own.

  And now, with these two little lives dependent on me, with Your love to sustain me, my past doesn't matter quite as much.

  Perhaps not at all, honestly. Madame X is no more, except in being part of the formation of the woman I am now, Isabel de la Vega.

  A wife, someday.

  A mother now.

  And, in time, a philanthropist.

  NINETEEN

  Camila and Jakob are three months old now. Big, beautiful, healthy, perfect.

  And we have not gotten one single moment alone. I don't mind. Not really. But I would like some time with You.

  You, of course, recognize this. Beth is called in, because apparently babysitting is in the job description when one is Logan Ryder's assistant. Plus, Beth has experience, as an older sister had twins, and Beth often babysits them.

  So, the twins in good hands, Logan tells me to put on a fancy gown, some killer heels, and a little makeup; time to go out.

  Once again, he takes me to Gourmand, the restaurant in Hell's Kitchen he owns. We are regulars there now, a booth near the kitchen permanently reserved for Logan, Camila, Jakob, and me.

  But this time, something is different.

  The entire restaurant is empty, not a single soul in sight.

  Odd indeed for a Thursday evening.

  The lights are low, a single table near the center of the dining room lit with a candle, set for two.

  My heart pitter-patters a little; You've shown me enough movies to know a setting like this indicates a proposal to follow.

  I am ready.

  More than ready, indeed.

  A trio of musicians sets the mood: a guitar, a mandolin, and a violin, playing soft, beautiful music off to our right. We have wine, salads, soup, entrees, more wine, dessert. No ring, no proposal.

  I am beginning to doubt my assumption, and to feel some level of disappointment now.

  When we are done, you rise to your feet. Extend Your hand. "Did you know there's a little garden on the roof of this building?"

  I didn't, and accompany You up an elevator and then a flight of stairs, out through a dented, rusted metal door and into a rooftop garden. It is tiny, intimate. Trellises form a maze, roses and lavender and wisteria and honeysuckle climbing and blooming, filling the air with a heavy, heady scent. Strings of soft white lights are woven through the trellises as well, shedding a golden glow on the magical scene. I hear the door open, but it is far away, somehow, and out of sight. I hear mandolin strings quaver, and then the violin joins in, and the guitar follows; the musicians have followed us.

  You lead me through the maze of trellises to a hidden corner of the rooftop, where the trellises form an arch over a wrought-iron bench. Nearby is a little fountain, water spilling and chuckling over rocks, the pool lit from within.

  The city seems an impossibility from here, sitting on the bench, in this garden, surrounded by flowers and lights and a fountain, music in the background.

  "How have we never been up here, Logan?"

  You grin at me. "Because it didn't exist a month ago." A modest shrug of a shoulder. "I had it built, just for us, for today."

  "It is . . . a fantasy, Logan. Beyond beautiful."

  You point at something on the other side of the little clearing in the garden, a small wrought-iron table, over which is draped a red velvet cloth. "Go look."

  I rise, pull the cloth away.

  Gasp, breath stolen, tears immediately stinging my eyes. "Oh, Logan."

  "I'm not a master carver, but I'm pretty good with my hands."

  "You made this yourself?"

  A shrug. "Of course."

  It is a wooden box. Two feet square, one foot deep. And despite his claim to the contrary, it clearly was carved by a master. It is . . . lovely isn't a good enough word. Breathtaking. The wood is a rich deep brown, polished to a shiny gleam, shot through with reddish streaks and whorls. The hinges are brass, as is the simple catch mechanism.

  I tug on the lid; it is locked.

  I laugh through my tears. "You're stealing from my father, Logan."

  "Shamelessly. I figured if I couldn't improve upon perfection, why try? Why not just borrow?"

  "So where is the key?"

  A nonchalant shrug. "I've got it. You'll have to come find it, though."

  I cross the garden, pull You close. Run my hands down your hips, feel in your hip pockets; You've left Your phone at home, as have I, since Beth knows to call Gourmand if she needs us. Nothing. I pat Your back pockets, and You use
my proximity to steal a kiss. And then another. And then the kiss is spiraling out of control, and I cannot help myself. I'm tugging at Your tie, at the coat, at the buttons of Your shirt.

  But when I've got the shirt open, I see it:

  A brass key on a red ribbon.

  It isn't an exact match for the diamond-crusted one dangling between my breasts at this very moment, however. No, the bow of this key is shaped like a heart, forged out of a solid, flat, two-sided piece of brass. Three letters have been carved or punched out of the solid brass: LWR--Logan Wesley Ryder.

  The key to Your heart.

  I tug the ribbon off Your head, clutch the key in my fist. And I kiss You until neither of us can breathe, until my dress has found its way up around my hips and we're pressed up against each other, making love on the bench, right there on the rooftop, still partially clothed, desperate, wild.

  "You have to open the box, babe," You tell me.

  I disentangle myself from You, reluctantly, I must admit. Settle my dress back down where it belongs, cross once more to the table, to the box. Slide the brass key into the lock, twist the heart. The catch snicks, and I lift the lid.

  Midnight-blue velvet lines the inside, and at the very center, a ring. Platinum, a huge, glinting, fiery diamond in the center, smaller ones on either side.

  You are standing behind me; I feel You, as I can always feel You.

  I turn, and You are reaching for me. Pulling me to You. Gazing down at me. Whispering against my lips. "Marry me, Isabel?"

  I flatten my palm against Your chest; I've already put the ring on. "Yes, Logan."

  "Have my babies?"

  I laugh. "I already did."

  "Oh yeah." You kiss me, softly, gently. "Them."

  I pull out of your arms, remove my diamond Tiffany's key, place it in the box. Remove the plain brass key from the lock, and slide the red ribbon over my head, settle the cold brass between my breasts. "Now your heart will always be with mine."

  "What was it your mother told you?" You gather me close, hold me tight. "Oh yeah. Your heart is what makes mine continue to beat every single day."

  "Now you're stealing from my mother?" I tease him. "You need to get your own moves, Logan."

  You pull back, just a little. "Was that a joke?"

  "A little one."

  "I must be rubbing off on you."

  "Rubbing off in me, you mean."

  "Another joke? And a dirty one?" An amazed laugh. "Could this get any more perfect?"

  I reach down. "We could have sex again?"

  "That would do it, I'd say."

  TWENTY

  You have Jakob and Camila in your arms. It is sunny, bright and beautiful, a glorious Wednesday afternoon. The twins are eighteen months old. Camila is running around and shouting "NO!" to everything and about everyone, and Jakob is . . . chill. Quiet, content to sit and play, although he can and will get up and move if he wants something bad enough. He says a few words, and those clearly and distinctly, when he wants to be understood, whereas Camila is a wild bundle of nonstop energy and manic babbling, of which we only understand one or two words in ten.

  Case in point: Jakob is utterly content to hang out in Daddy's arms and watch the proceedings. Camila, on the other hand, is squirming to get down, writhing and twisting in Logan's arms, wanting to run around and pull the plugs on the video cameras and steal the microphones and tug on dresses and cause a ruckus.

  Mothers in Need is opening today.

  It's been a year in the works, a lot of setbacks, a lot of negotiations, an absolute shitload of work. Donors backed out at the last minute and we had to scramble for more--donors we needed, because although Indigo is providing the start-up capital and some ongoing financial support, in order to run it day to day and eventually expand to other locations, in order to make this a nationwide chain, we'll need a lot more backing than just I can provide on my own. The location we originally chose turned out to be a poor choice, due to neighborhood concerns, architectural and structural problems, and a myriad of other issues. So we had to scrap all the prep we'd done and start over from scratch, hunting for a new physical home for MiN. We ended up in a trendy part of Brooklyn called DUMBO--Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass--in a cute, quaint apartment building. The neighborhood welcomed us with open arms, as did the borough in general. Your marketing skills have proven invaluable, as has Your elaborate network of business connections throughout the city.

  Through Your connections, we found a construction company willing to donate time and materials to the building of the center. We bought the entire building, a massive initial cost--well worth it--tore down walls on the main floor and created an office space for the day-to-day running of the center. We then turned the second floor into a medical clinic, the third floor into temporary living quarters for pregnant women with nowhere to go, or new mothers in the same straits, and the fourth and final floor into a supply warehouse and donation center for diapers, wipes, formula, baby clothes, maternity clothes, toys, books, and even a small selection of groceries on an as-available basis. We also have affiliations with several daycare centers and babysitting services. All the medical staff donates their time and expertise on a pro bono basis, and most of the medical supplies are donated as well. It was a colossal undertaking, and we packed a dizzying amount of work into a single year, but we got it all done.

  Everyone is here, all the donors, the construction company builders and their families, the dozens of doctors and nurses and their families, the clerical staff, everyone. The whole street is shut down from intersection to intersection, the neighboring restaurants providing food and beverages, a live band playing music on a makeshift stage . . . all of it either donated or funded by Indigo.

  Right now, however, I am on the stage, staring into a cluster of media microphones and video cameras, trying to fight down the panic. This is high profile. The whole city is watching. Much of the world, in fact. Something about it has caught the public's attention. Something about me, really. I've become sort of a media darling, the amnesiac who spent six years not knowing who she was, my former life and profession as Madame X--now that you have passed, Caleb, many of your secrets have come out--and my romance with Logan, my lovely heteropaternal twin babies, who are the sweetest of siblings under most circumstances, inseparable most of the time. And then my creation of The Indigo Foundation, using a colossal, exorbitant, unbelievable fortune for philanthropy, that really caught everyone's attention. I used it all, the attention, the media. Used it to leverage donations, to snag doctors willing to spend a day or two every week in the clinic, nurses willing to come in after their normal shifts and spend a few hours. The outpouring of support has been overwhelming, honestly, both for MiN and for The Indigo Foundation, and for me personally.

  But right now, all I know is that I have to make a speech.

  "I was lucky enough to have my husband with me," I start out, "when I had my babies. I didn't do it alone. Logan was there every single step of the way. Attending doctor's visits, helping me with the nursery--by helping, I guess I mean doing everything by himself because I was too pregnant to move. He was there for me. But not everyone is that fortunate. And that realization is what led to the creation of Mothers in Need. I thought one day about what it would be like to have to go through a pregnancy--an admittedly unexpected pregnancy, with twins no less--alone. How impossible that would have been. How impossible it would have been to juggle doctor visits with work. Assuming medical care was even a possibility, you know? I'd already found out about the money I was to receive, and I already knew I wanted to do something with it. I knew it wasn't money I could ever keep for myself. But I didn't know where to start. There's so much to do, so many causes in need. I've got pages full of ideas and projects and charities I intend to help. But where did I start? When I had that realization, about the impossibility of going it alone as a pregnant woman, I knew instantly where to start. So, after I had my babies, I got started. And now, a year and a half later, here we ar
e, about to cut the ribbon. Although, I have to say, even though this is the official grand opening ceremony, we've already been hard at work. Drs. Minksy and Hartzell have both donated many hours of their time this past week in the clinic, over a hundred appointments taken between them just in the last seven days. I'm proud of Mothers in Need, proud of everyone who was part of making it a reality. Especially Mike, Jimmy, Abe, Luke, Danny, and the rest of the guys from McAskill Builders for working so hard over the past year to get the center built. Couldn't have done it with you, guys, so thanks. But most of all--Logan, my love . . . thank you. For supporting this crazy, over-the-top project of mine so fully, even when it seemed like it was overtaking your own work. To all of you who came out here today to support our opening, thank you."

  Cameras flash, and the clamor begins.

  I manage to avoid too much direct media attention after that, but near the end of the party, a reporter manages to corner me, camera pointed at me, light blinding, mic in my face.

  "Isabel, can you tell us what's next, now that Minnie is off the ground?"

  "Minnie?"

  The reporter grins. "It's what everyone is calling it."

  "Minnie. Huh. I like it. So . . . what's next?" I know the answer to this, because I've been working on it as the final details of MiN got ironed out. I smile, breathe, focus on projecting calm. "A project I'm calling A Temporary Home. Similar to what we've done with Mothers in Need, I'm planning to buy a building somewhere in the city--I haven't even really started looking yet, so don't ask where--and it's going to be a resource center for the homeless, for runaways, for victims of domestic abuse, for anyone who needs somewhere to sleep and the resources to improve their lives. There will be support staff, clinicians, a detox facility, a food pantry, therapists and psychologists and social workers, a warm bed to sleep in . . . whatever other resources I can wangle and cram into the space. Basically a safe, welcoming environment where you can get your life back on track."

  The reporter, a beautiful young Asian American woman, pulls the attention of the camera back to herself. "I don't mind admitting, there was a time in my life when I could have used a place like that." A pause, and then a bright smile, focus turned back to the cameraman. "Well, there you have it, from Isabel Ryder herself. A Temporary Home, coming soon to New York. I can tell you I'll be making donations, and I hope everyone tuning in will too. Jake, Alessa, back to you in the studio."