Twice, p.19
Twice, page 19
“What message?”
“That you are deeply loved, Gianna. That you have always been deeply loved. That every night, sleeping in another room, I was dreaming of lying beside you. That for all these years, you’ve had my heart to break.
“And all that time, this second time around, I never left your side.”
✶
With that, Gianna broke down. She buried her face in her hands. She had stopped imagining any man’s affection after things ended so badly with Mike. She’d hidden herself in work and flipped off the switch on intimacy. She felt tears filling the space between her palms and her cheeks. Were they for Alfie, or for herself?
“I’m going to have to leave now,” Alfie whispered.
“Wait,” she gasped. “Are you really dying?”
“Well, in a few minutes, I’m going to kind of lose it. I’ll have a stroke. And I won’t be able to speak. I don’t know how much longer I’ll last after that. I get the sense it’s not long. It’s OK. Like my grandmother said, there comes a point where you want to see what comes next more than you want to go back.”
Gianna tried to imagine a life without Alfie. To her surprise, it hurt like a mule kick. She had not, until that moment, realized how much of her existence truly was wrapped around this man she had never married, had never slept with, had never kissed, yet who claimed to have memories of all those things. And what hurt the most was that the way he described those memories was better than any love she had actually experienced in her life.
She hooked her arm in his, and then, as she had done so many times before, curled against his chest and laid her head on his shoulder. Alfie inhaled the smell of her, rested his chin atop her hair, and gazed skyward. He thought to himself that he could die in this moment, it wouldn’t be so bad.
✶
“Gianna,” Alfie suddenly whispered.
“Mmm?”
“Does LaPorta have the notebook?”
“I think so.”
“That explains it.”
He pulled away slightly and nodded up ahead. Gianna saw a flashing police car approaching.
“He must have read the ending,” Alfie said. “When I told you to meet me here.”
Gianna grabbed his shoulders.
“Alfie. You have to go.”
“Where?”
“Go back in time!”
“What?”
“Jump. Whatever you do. Just get away from here!”
“I’ve done what I wanted to do, Gianna. You know everything now. There’s no point in going backward anymore.”
“There is a point! You’ll escape this. You’ll live. Don’t you want to live?”
He placed his hands gently on hers. “I’ve lived a long time already.”
“But I want you to live. I don’t want to be in a world without you!”
Alfie smiled. “I want, and you want, and God does what God wants.”
“ALFIE LOGAN! GIANNA RULE!”
LaPorta had exited the car and was sprinting down a pathway and screaming. “HEY! YOU STAY RIGHT THERE!”
“Alfie?” Gianna spun toward him. “Run!”
And because he would do anything she asked, he inhaled, took a final look, then broke free and hurried up the steps. To his surprise, Gianna was running behind him. Two steps. Six. Ten. Twenty.
“What are you doing?” he yelled.
“Take me with you!”
“What?”
“I want to go wherever you go!”
He stopped, panting.
“So you believe me, then?”
“Yes. I believe you.”
He smiled. “That’s all I wanted, Gianna.”
She grabbed his face.
“No! Want more, Alfie!”
His gaze shot from Gianna to LaPorta, who had almost reached the bottom step. Alfie reached into his pocket, removed a crumpled envelope, and dropped it.
Then he took the hand of the woman he had silently loved for this lifetime and another lifetime and, in truth, from the day he met her, and they ran up a miracle of a staircase together with a detective chasing them in the moonlight.
Just before they reached the top, Gianna looked at Alfie and wished to herself that she could have her time with him all over again. She wished it more intensely than anything she had ever wished for in her life.
LaPorta tripped on a step, came down hard, slammed his knee, and cursed. He scrambled back up. But by the time he reached the top of the staircase, the suspects were gone.
Eight
Nassau
LaPorta slumped in his chair and moved the ice pack around his knee. He grimaced. It was early morning in the police station, and he wanted a cup of coffee but couldn’t easily get up. He cursed himself for not having more officers with him last night. It was stupid to race out there alone—which is what he’d done after reading the final pages of the notebook.
“Good morning, hero.”
Sampson was walking toward his desk.
“You all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” LaPorta said. “Eventually.”
Sampson smiled. “There’s sixty-four steps in that staircase. For an old man, you did pretty good getting to the top.”
“The people I was chasing were older than me.”
“Yeah, that’s sad.”
“Any news on our guy?”
Sampson shook his head. “Still in the hospital. Can’t move. Can’t speak.”
LaPorta had found Alfie Logan lying in the grass by an old shack near the fort, not far from the top of the staircase. He was unconscious. The doctors at Princess Margaret Hospital said he’d suffered a stroke, just as Alfie had predicted in his notebook. Every time he thought about that, it made LaPorta shiver.
“My officers found this,” Sampson said.
He handed over a crumpled envelope. LaPorta blinked at the handwritten words on the outside.
“For Detective LaPorta, to be read upon my death.”
“What the hell?” he mumbled.
“Yeah, Vincent,” Sampson said. “What the hell?”
LaPorta took a deep breath. He moved the ice pack off his knee.
“Aren’t you gonna read it?”
“Yeah, yeah. Give me a second.”
LaPorta held still, staring at the envelope, trying to absorb the tumultuous rush of the last two days, the arrest, the hours with Alfie, the crazy notebook reading, the dealer, the croupier, interrogating Mike Kurtz, and the two million dollars sent to the mysterious Gianna Rule, who, as of this morning, still could not be found.
He ripped open the envelope and flattened the handwritten contents on his desk. He recognized the paper from a familiar notebook.
Dear Vincent–
I’m sorry to have to finish our conversation this way. By the time you read this, speech will not be an option. I pray this confession gets to you.
You will likely have spoken with Mike Kurtz by now, and if you are as good as I think, you will have learned about his plan to rig the roulette results. As you now know, he was not successful. Not in this
existence.
But in a previous one, he was. In fact, he won a great deal of money on two straight bets. He might have gotten away with it, except the croupier got nervous with all the chips Mike was accumulating and tried to switch the ball back. Security noticed. They approached, and Mike ran from the table.
They chased him to the parking lot. They saw him speed away in a rental car. They pursued him in their van, weaving through traffic, until a half mile away, he spun out at a light and crashed into another vehicle, crushing the legs of the driver, an innocent casino employee who was heading into work.
I had to jump back in time to stop all of this. For one thing, Mike is a louse, but Gianna once loved him, at least in a fashion. I didn’t want her heart broken by him rotting in a Bahamian prison. And, as he owns a part of her photography operation, his criminality would surely reflect on her business. She doesn’t deserve that.
But there is a second reason I went back, one you might be more interested in:
That employee, the one who had his legs crushed in Mike’s futile escape, was an important member of the casino security team. An American.
Detective Vincent LaPorta.
I didn’t want you to suffer that way.
✶
This leaves only my part in the roulette scam to explain. After all that you have gone through on this case—what you remember and what you cannot—you deserve answers.
Here is what happened. Having seen what numbers Mike bet the first time around, I used one of my second chances to go back a day, then gathered all the money I could. I went to the table just before Mike and his men were about to make their move. Mike saw me and snapped, “What the hell are you doing here, Alfie?” That was good. I had him nervous.
Then I slapped my chips on the first number before his man could. I saw them looking at each other. Mike shook his head no and his man never made his bet.
I won, then immediately placed all my winnings on their second number. I could see Mike fuming. His guys were confused.
When I won again, he motioned them to walk away.
They departed—and so did Mike—having committed no crime but the phony ball. Given that, I am hoping you can be lenient, Vincent. After all, you have been spared years of pain and rehabilitation, even if you are unaware of it. One favor merits another, I hope.
Now, to the final bet. I told you that I did not cheat to win the two million dollars. And I did not. I wanted no part of the chips I had amassed in stopping Mike, nearly $58,000. So I impulsively pushed them all onto 28 black. I chose that number because Gianna’s birthday is the second of August. I figured, why not? It’s as good a way to lose as any other.
Except the number won.
I know. It’s crazy. The first thing in decades that I left to total chance, and it came up a jackpot.
There’s a lesson there, I think.
So I sent the money to Gianna. My final act of loyal assistance. I will be dead soon, and unable to help her anymore. If you contact my attorney, you will find that I left everything to her in my will anyhow.
With the exception of the two hundred thousand I sent to Africa.
And you’re probably not going to love this last part.
I found out Juma had sold Lallu for a high price to a recreation outfit in Zimbabwe. They were chaining her in a pen and making her give rides to tourists. It hurt my soul. That’s not a life.
So I bought her freedom. I arranged for her to be taken home to Kenya. Because I won’t be able to do this myself, I put your name on the paperwork.
Technically, Vincent, you now own an elephant.
At the bottom of this page is a confirmation number for two tickets to Zimbabwe. First class. And full instructions. I know it’s asking a lot, but after all the time we spent together today (and I repeated many parts of our interrogation so I could get to know you better) I sense that deep down you are a good man, if a flawed one, like me. And that you will help. Let Lallu die in freedom, as I wish to die myself.
I believe you’ll find a way.
I hope you continue to catch the bad guys, Vincent, and you find contentment. And love, if you are lucky. What I’ve learned—after all this time—is that love is indeed the only rational act.
And the only real lifesaver.
Unlike those ones you pop in your mouth.
Warmest regards,
Alfred “Alfie” Logan
✶
Nine days later, LaPorta exited the hospital’s sliding doors and squinted against the sunlight. It always felt strange to leave a building where someone had just died and suddenly be in sunshine, wind tickling your face. Did the world forget us so quickly? Or did it never take much notice in the first place?
LaPorta never got to question Alfie further. His speech improved only enough for a few grunts. Then, two days ago, he developed sepsis. His weakened body couldn’t fight it off. He died just before sunrise.
LaPorta reached for his car keys and felt Alfie’s final letter in his pocket. He pulled it free and studied the last handwritten paragraphs. Then, as often happens after someone you know dies, he thought about his own mortality. His age. His health. His life.
And his wife.
He took out his phone and called her.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
“It’s kind of early. Everything all right?”
“Yeah.” LaPorta sighed. “I’ve been thinking. You want to get away? Take a trip? Just the two of us?”
“Yes.” Her voice perked up. “Yes, Vince. I’d love that.”
“Good.”
“Do you have someplace in mind?”
He paused.
“How about Africa?”
Epilogue
August 1978
They were calling it “the storm of the year.” All along Market Street in the city of Philadelphia, the rain blew sideways and the wind gusted near hurricane force.
In the middle of this chaos, a woman suddenly appeared, young, not yet twenty years old. Her thick hair, the color of coal, blew wildly around her face, covering her eyes. She seemed confused, as if this storm were a surprise.
She clutched her handbag and quickly undid the clasp as the rain soaked her jeans and matted them against her legs.
Then Gianna Rule took out her wallet, flipped it open, and stared at the photo on her driver’s license. It was from Boston, where she’d lived when she was in college.
So this is what it’s like, she thought to herself. You relive everything. Just how Alfie described it.
Looking up, she spotted the front entrance of Gimbels department store. She narrowed her gaze at the sight of a revolving door, and Alfie at the window, waving his arms.
She was immediately struck at how youthful he looked, and she wondered if she looked the same. She squeezed her upper thigh. Thinner. She grabbed her waist. Smaller. She lifted her handbag over her head against the rain and hurried across the street with a surprising quickness, her sneakers splashing up rainwater.
And in those steps, Gianna’s fear turned to joy, and her regret to hope. When she pushed through the revolving doors, she knew they would jam. When she laughed and said, “Oh, God, Alfie, why do I hang out with you?” she knew he would say, “Because I’m fun!”
And when she slid close to the dirty glass that separated them, she knew that in this world, he would choose to keep his feelings hidden. Because he believed that she could never love him.
But this was her rewind. She could decide where her heart went. So she leaned in toward the man who had loved her like no other. And while she wasn’t sure how she had inherited his power, except to think his death had passed it on to her, it didn’t matter. If this was a dream, she knew what she wanted. And if this was reality, she wanted the same thing.
“What’s in the bag, Alfie?” she said.
“Nothing special.”
“You sure?”
“It was just an idea I had. It was probably stupid.”
Gianna took a long, deep breath, as if resetting every cell in her body.
“Try me,” she whispered.
She watched Alfie remove a small silver elephant on a chain. She felt tears welling in her eyes. She beckoned him closer. And as they kissed through the dirty glass, she felt something old yet new explode in her heart. Because The Truth About True Love is that it can wait a lifetime. Or two.
The End
From the Author
As this is a love story, I should begin my thanks with those I love the most, and that means Janine, our darling Nadie, my brother and sister, Peter and Cara, my relatives, my in-laws, my dear friends, and my very large Haitian family, all of whom have given me immeasurable joy and a home for my heart. They say it’s hard to write a book about love if you haven’t known much of it. By that measure, I should have many more such books in me.
Alfie is fictional, but much of his love life was based on incidents or people in mine. I never snuck into a lion’s cage, but I did spill chocolate milk all over a cute girl once, and I did have an awkward sixth-grade make-out experience in a closet. For all those early crushes who shaped my heart, even through embarrassment, I thank you.
With regard to this specific story, gratitude goes to my editor, Karen Rinaldi, who, when I first described Twice, gave one of those “Oooh, I just got goose bumps” reactions, which is how I know I am on the right track. And my longtime friend and agent, David Black, who was so patient in getting to read it—“I’m here when you’re ready”—yet so encouraging once he had.
My early readers, Ali, Jesse, Rosey, and Kim, kept asking me for “more pages!,” which is what you need to hear when you are eyeballs-deep in the process. Several of our kids from Haiti also gave it the once-over and a thumbs up, which meant a lot.
Steve Bourie, author of the American Casino Guide, was helpful in understanding the inner workings of the casino gambling world, and roulette. And a trip to the Bahamas certainly helped. The Queens Staircase is real and majestic and a perfect place for a final scene of any love story.
To the folks at HarperCollins, as always, my deep appreciation for your belief in my work: Brian Murray, Jonathan Burnham, Leslie Cohen, Tina Andreadis, Doug Jones, Leah Wasielewski, Tom Hopke, Kirby Sandmeyer, and Milan Bozic, who took a sketch idea I had and came up with this beautiful cover in a heartbeat.
The team at Black, Inc. is endlessly supportive: Susan Raihofer, who brings my stories to the world, Anagha Putrevu, Anna Zinchuk, and Nell Beck. Thank you all.
My circle of support helps make all my books possible: Kerri Alexander, who proofreads my proofreading; Jo-Ann Barnas, a wonderful writer herself who shoulders my research; Antonella Iannarino, who drags me lovingly into the world of social media; and Vince Cracchiolo, who handles all things tech. And Mendel is still a bum.
Nothing in this world happens without God, and I am humbled more and more by the grace and blessings God has given me in this life. I believe strongly in charity, and several people made donations to help needy folks in exchange for seeing their names appear in these pages. So Linda Kay, Andrew Berry, Colleen and Kent Klausner, and Kim and Jim Varga, thank you for your kindness.
