Yet, she did.
“Marco,” she said, pulling me out of my reverie. “Should you be up right now?”
“I’m fine, Queenie,” he said, using the nickname she pretended annoyed her to no end but which she told me in secret she actually liked.
Since the fire, Marco had been in and out of the hospital for surgeries and repeated skin grafts. It’d been a long and difficult road for him.
I felt so much gratitude for him. He’d risked his life to save mine and had then put himself through pure torture in order to protect me.
As much as we’d been oil and water over the years, if I ever doubted what we meant to each other, all I had to do was remember what he’d done for me during that fateful night.
I stood at the head of the bed, leaning down over Molly as she held our son with one arm and wrapped her other around our daughter. I blinked at a flash of bright light.
“There,” Marco was smirking, though I knew getting a skin graft felt closer to cringeworthy or even scream worthy than anything else. “A sweet and sappy family portrait.”
From his mischievous expression, I expected him to yank my chain as he brought his cell phone over to us, displaying the picture he’d taken.
But when I studied it, I realized he wasn’t being mischievous at all. Instead, he’d captured the four of us like you might capture lightning in a bottle. Luca Jr. had been staring up at his mom, Molly had been looking at Anna, our daughter had focused on me, while I stared down at our son.
I thought of Alana and imagined her hovering over us, a smile on her face. Seeing this picture was like witnessing the best part of my past joining with my present to create a blissful new future.
A professional photographer couldn’t have done better.
I opened my mouth to thank him, but my throat seemed to be clogged. From the raspy I’ve-got-a-cold quality of her voice, my wife felt the same way. “God, Marco,” she said. “I don’t know how you did that, but it’s awesome. Pure magic.”
I couldn’t agree more.
Devil’s Pawn
1
Kelly
“Spit it out, already. Spit it out,” my brother David insisted, nudging me with his elbow and nearly dislodging the cheesesteak from my grip.
He’d done this since we were kids, repeated himself until I’d get annoyed and finally tell him what he wanted to know. He’d always been like this, and he was the one person I couldn’t keep secrets from. No wonder he’d become a cop.
“Quit, you big meathead,” I told him. “That crap stopped working on me once I hit ten.” Totally untrue and he knew it. He was older than me by a mere eleven months, making us almost as close as twins in both age and the way we interacted with one another. David had been my first and best friend, as well as the one who drove me most up the wall.
But I loved him dearly. Even when part of me wanted to drown him a little.
“Something’s bugging you, I can tell.” He raised his chin up and squinted down at me. This was his “look.” Even though we were sitting on the concrete ledge here in Rittenhouse Square, my favorite park in all of Philly, his extra foot in height remained apparent. “You might as well give up the goods.”
To keep him from gathering more information from my expression, I turned my face to gaze at the beauty around us. Behind me stood the locally famous “Duck Girl” statue in the center of the reflecting pool, which was surrounded by a circular walkway.
The fountain that gushed into it was of Neptune’s head, his long beard framing his open mouth. David had frequently told me the water was vomit—well, he’d used the term puke—something which had made me squeal and run away when I was four.
Still, this park had been our spot ever since I could remember. In the summer we’d traversed its paths and laid in the grass. In the winter when the pool was empty, we’d brought chalk so we could draw pictures on the smooth cement and play hopscotch.
The classical Greek urns and figurines throughout the place had excited my imagination as a child. To me, all those characters had been real and alive. Imaginary members of my adventures with my brother.
But then, I’d needed the distraction. My parents’ marriage had been on the rocks, much like it was now.
“What if I up the ante?” he asked me, producing a long skinny yellow and red box full of triangular prisms made of chocolate, honey and almond nougat.
“A Toblerone!” I exclaimed. “That’s playing dirty.”
“Yep. You know the trade, chocolate for information.”