I watched him take off, slicing through the water with fluid, graceful strokes.
Sierra and I finished lunch and stretched out in the sun. Blondie, Bruce Lee, and Dirty Harry watched us from their rock. I didn’t know how long green iguanas lived, but I was glad Sierra had the chance to make friends with them. Damian had given her the task of naming the island, and she had spent the morning conferring with them. The verdict was still out.
By the time Damian returned, Sierra had fallen asleep. He adjusted the umbrella so she was in the shade, and tiptoed around her, to my side. His wet skin gave me goosebumps that had nothing to do with the temperature.
“Put it on,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “I was betting you’d tell me to take it off.”
“I like the way you think, but I was talking about the ring.” He gave me a wicked smile as he slipped it over my finger. “I want to see what it looks like on you.”
I held my hand out, against the endless blue horizon. Rainbow glints reflected off our faces. It wasn’t just a ring. It was an open window and paper animals, a boy clutching fifteen pesos and a girl writing strawberry letters. It was the story of two people who had come full circle, and it was wrapped in gold around my finger.
What are we? Damian had asked on this very beach.
There on our little piece of paradise, with Sierra sleeping beside us, I finally figured it out.
We are sand and rock and water and sky, anchors on ships and sails in the wind. We are a journey to a destination that shifts every time we dream or fall or leap or weep. We are stars with flaws that still sparkle and shine. We will always strive, always want, always have more questions than answers, but there are moments like these, full of magic and contentment, when souls get a glimpse of the divine and quite simply, lose their breath.
A NEW MOON PERCHED IN the dusky sky, a slender arc of the softest silver. The small group of guests who had shared our special day—Nick, Rafael, their wives, some of the women I worked with, and a handful of Damian’s associates—were all gone, but the gardens of Casa Paloma were still twinkling with lights. Damian, Sierra, and I were sitting by the pond.
“Who’s Monique?” I asked, holding up a card personalized with a deep-purple lip print.
“Let me see that.” Damian put aside his cake. Pink frosting, topped with fresh strawberries. It was an unusual choice for a wedding, a replica of the birthday cake he’d never got around to having. He’d laughed when they’d wheeled it in. The cake topper was a giant white tooth, a private joke harking back to when he’d knocked Gideon Benedict St. John’s tooth out.
He looked the card over and grinned. “Monique was someone who made my time in prison so much more pleasant.”
I crossed my arms and waited for an explanation.
“Don’t scowl. It’s not very bride-like,” he said.
“Don’t bring up exes on our wedding day. It’s not very groom-like.”
“I can think of a few very groom-like things I’d like to do to you.”
“Don’t even.” I pushed him away. I didn’t feel the least bit threatened by this Monique, but it was fun playing it up. Rafael had not been able to convince Damian to wear a tux, but he looked so damn fine in a crisp, white shirt and tailored jacket.
“Fine. I’ll take you to see Monique one day, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He tossed the card aside and grabbed my waist. “I have something for you and Sierra.”
He reached inside his jacket for MaMaLu’s Lucky Strike tin and opened it. “She would have wanted you to have these.” He handed me her earrings.
I held them up: two doves joined at the beak to form a circle, with turquoise stones hanging from them. I had a flashback of cool, blue stones brushing against my skin as MaMaLu kissed me goodnight.
“Hey.” Damian wrapped his arms around me. He knew it had been an emotional day for me. I’d missed my father’s three kisses, missed him walking me down the aisle. Sierra had filled in. She’d picked out her own dress: Kermit-the-frog-green, accessorized with a new pair of sneakers. Her one wedding day concession had been a floral hairband that matched the color of her orange shoelaces. Apart from a headache, she had come around from the sedative Victor had administered with no idea of the disaster we had escaped. When I thought about how close we’d come to losing it all, I hugged Damian tighter.
“You think she’ll like it?” he asked, holding up MaMaLu’s hair clip.
It was shaped like a fan, made from abalone shells and alpaca metal—pretty without being too girly.
Sierra examined it before handing it to me. She turned around and motioned to her hair, voicing her silent approval. I gathered two sections of her hair from the sides and secured the clip in center.
“What’s this?” she asked, unfolding the newspaper article that Damian had saved all these years:
‘LOCAL NANNY ACCUSED OF STEALING FAMILY HEIRLOOM.’