Marrying Daisy Bellamy (19 page)

“Honey, I hit the jackpot, as we like to say in Sin City.” The shop lady emerged from her cramped back
room with some garments draped over her forearm. “These are going to look fabulous on you.”

Daisy had already resigned herself to a mercy purchase, buying something for the sake of the saleslady, who was probably on commission. Smiling politely, she took the garments to the small curtained area in the corner.

“I don't wear much white,” she said, shucking her jeans and tank top. “I've got a little boy who tends to get his grubby hands on everything—
oh
.”

She tugged the white tankini in place and stared at herself in the mirror.

“How is it?” the woman asked.

Daisy parted the curtain and went to check herself out in the three-way mirror. “I like it. I never thought I'd like a white swimsuit.”

“This one is lined to the hilt, so you don't have to worry about it being see-through, wet or dry. I've always liked the look of a blonde in white. It's very striking and classy.”

Daisy conceded the point. There were touches of gold, but only in the piping that edged the neckline of the suit.

“Great,” she said. “I'll take it.”

“And try the dress. It's by the same designer. She's retro, but in a fun way, I think.”

The dress was also white, with a halter-style bodice and a full, floaty skirt. When Daisy stepped out, the woman clasped her hands in delight.

“It's as pretty as I'd hoped. You look like Marilyn Monroe in that famous subway-grate shot. You can tell that dress was inspired by it.”

Even though Marilyn Monroe was from her grandmother's era, Daisy was familiar with the iconic photo
from
The Seven Year Itch
. The shot had made—no,
defined
—the career of photographer Sam Shaw. Even today, students of photography argued the pros and cons of having an entire body of work measured against a single famous image.

“Both pieces have been marked down,” said the woman. “They're the last ones I have left.”

Daisy surrendered. “Then I'd better get both.”

“And these.” The woman offered a pair of gold-heeled sandals embellished with crystal beads. “Shoes make the outfit.”

 

The guys were already at the pool—one of the five Mediterranean-inspired pools—by the time Daisy made her purchases and joined them. Logan was swirling Charlie in circles as they both made motorboat sounds.

She located their stuff on a lounge chair and shrugged out of her terry-cloth robe. When Logan spotted her, he froze as if the pool water had turned to ice.

“Wow,” he said, saying much more with his eyes.

“Mom!” Charlie grinned up at her. “There you are. We've been waiting and waiting forever.”

She slipped into the pool, feeling a tiny bit self-conscious about the suit. “The water feels good, doesn't it?”

“Totally good.” His eyelashes were spiked like the points of stars. He exuded happiness, and suddenly she was glad about the forced layover. He constantly reminded her that every day offered a new adventure.

Logan's gaze kept lingering on Daisy, and the heat in his eyes awakened another sort of reminder—she finally got to have a sex life. She'd been deprived for too long.

A flush of warmth coursed through her, and she dived beneath the surface of the clear water. The three of them
played and splashed each other, lost in the pleasure of the unexpected vacation.

After a while, Charlie's attention meandered to a group of kids about his age, darting in and out of the gushing fountain in the shallow end.

“Can I go?” he asked.

“Sure,” Logan said before Daisy could reply. “Your mom and I will keep an eye on you.”

“Did you put sunscreen on him?” Daisy asked.

“Of course. The waterproof stuff in the blue bottle.”

“Thanks. Sorry to be such a mother hen.”

“Believe me, I don't want him getting burned, either. He'd fry like an egg in the sun.” Logan leaned down, indicating his shoulder. “See the scarring there? It's from soccer camp when I was in sixth grade. I was on the no-shirt team, and I fried. Blistered, too, and puked all night from sun exposure.”

“Poor guy.” She bobbed up in the water and kissed his shoulders, first one and then the other. He was as handsome as ever, an Irish hunk. He'd grown husky, but it looked good on him, making him seem more substantial and mature, somehow.

Charlie had already joined in a game of keep-away with a beach ball and was in the thick of things, laughing and yelling as he lunged for the ball.

“He's great with other kids,” Daisy observed. “I'm really proud of him for that. He used to be shy.”

“He's getting over it.”

She hesitated. “I think he's become more self-confident and independent since you and I got together.”

Logan smiled hugely. “Yeah?”

“You're good for him. For
us
.”

“Yeah, likewise.” He slid his arm around her.

“Charlie is growing up so fast,” Daisy observed. “And
listen to me. I
do
sound like a mother hen, one with an empty nest. I'm too young to be an empty nester.”

He leaned over and kissed her. “Then don't be.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” She was almost afraid to hear his answer.

“Wait here a second.” He hoisted himself out of the pool and went to the lounge chairs where their things were stashed. He returned a moment later with a glossy trifold brochure. “I was wondering if you had any plans tonight.”

“What did you have in mind?”

His hand seemed to tremble a little as he showed her the brochure. “How about we get married?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You heard me.” He took both her hands in his, right there, waist-deep in pool water. “Look, I'm not going to go down on one knee and ask you. I tried that once, and we both know how it turned out. My feelings haven't changed, though. I still want to make a life with you and Charlie. I'm no Julian. I'm no GI Joe out saving the world. But I'm the guy who's been there from day one, and I don't plan on going anywhere else.”

Her heart sped up. Really? Was he really saying this?

Every word he'd said was true. From the moment she'd told him she was pregnant—fully expecting him to deny responsibility and turn his back on her—he had been a steady presence in her and Charlie's lives. The day Charlie was born, Logan had brought her a pizza in the hospital and vowed he'd always be there for their son. So far, he'd kept his promise.

“But…marriage?” She backed up against the pool's edge, poised to hoist herself out of the water.

She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until Logan said, “The Always and Forever Wedding Chapel is booked for six o'clock, followed by the best table at Le Cirque for the three of us.”

“When did you do all this?”

“I bought the ‘Romantic Impulse' bridal package at check-in. Including a pair of rings from the lobby jeweler.”

She hesitated, half in and half out of the pool. Could he be serious? The notion made her feel…strange. Strangely happy. But…outmaneuvered.

On the other hand, without Logan, where would she be? Drifting, alone, in love with a ghost, unable to let go of memories. That wasn't healthy for her
or
Charlie.

One more heartbeat of hesitation passed. Then she lowered herself back into the water. With a laugh of abandon, she splashed Logan. “You're crazy,” she said.

 

“Dearly beloved…”

Daisy stood in her Marilyn Monroe–style dress beside a slicked-down and surprisingly nervous Logan, while Charlie sat nearby in a molded plastic chair and looked on, agog. She had been given a bouquet of small pink daphnes, and the strong scent tickled her nose. Canned organ music emanated from speakers hidden behind the fake gilt-and-marble columns lining the Always and Forever chapel. Between the notes, the sound of traffic from the Vegas strip could be heard.

The officiant was a young Asian man named Mr. Lee, who seemed to take his duties seriously. He read in mild, even tones from a pamphlet marked “Short Version.”

Short
. In a matter of minutes, she would be pronounced Mrs. Logan O'Donnell.

They faced each other, holding hands, and repeated their vows after the officiant. Despite the circumstances, the vows felt weighty and real.

Daisy could scarcely believe she'd agreed to the plan. On the one hand, doing this felt like the ultimate impulse. Married in Vegas? Seriously?

In a strange way, it felt inevitable. She and Logan had every reason to marry. They'd known each other forever and wanted to give Charlie a traditional family. They'd already committed to moving in together. This was part of the natural progression of things. Wasn't it?

While getting ready for the ceremony, she'd had a twinge of conscience. She had been tempted to call her mother and Sonnet, to get their blessing, and maybe to be told that this reckless impulse was bound to lead to something good. But she didn't call them. She wanted to feel confident in making this decision, uninfluenced by anyone.

And, okay, she didn't want them to blast her for cheating them out of the chance to put on a wedding for her. Sure, it would have been fun, but this was about her future, not about a one-day event.

It was a leap of faith, and she had to trust that marrying Logan would work out. In her experience, leaps of faith often did.

Of course, those that didn't were usually termed
mistakes
.

“Daisy…” Logan gave her hand a squeeze, prompting her to speak.

“Oh, sorry.” She mentally regrouped. “Uh, yes. I do.”

The matching bands Logan had bought were very pretty, gold etched with a Florentine texture. When he'd
shown them to her earlier, she'd tried hers on. “It fits perfectly.”

“I didn't think your ring size had changed since…” His voice had trailed off.

They both realized it probably wasn't the best idea to bring up that long-ago failed proposal, not now. It seemed so distant, something that had happened to a different person in a different life.

Now the new golden band glided onto her finger as Logan repeated the traditional vows. Daisy did the same, her hands trembling with the import of the symbolic act. From the corner of her eye, she could see Charlie fidgeting in his chair and swinging his feet.

Hang on, buddy, she thought. We're nearly done here.

The officiant obliged her with haste, concluding the ceremony quickly. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Logan smiled down at her and placed a gentle, brief kiss on her mouth. “Welcome to the world, Mrs. O'Donnell,” he whispered, stepping back and gazing down at her with a look of pride and triumph.

She smiled back, then turned and held out her hand to Charlie. “How about that?” she asked. “Your mom and dad are married.”

He beamed at both of them. “Finally.”

The curiously adult inflection broke the tension, and they had a laugh. Mr. Lee gestured at a round table with a fringed cloth. “We have to do a little paperwork, and you'll be on your way.”

The certificate was signed all around and witnessed by Mr. Lee's assistant, who had been working the sound system. “Congratulations.” He handed them the official packet. “I hope you'll be happy together.”

Logan shook his hand. “That's the plan,” he said.

T
hrough slitted eyes, Julian stared at the wand of the cattle prod, hovering near his face. His heart raced with unnatural force, as though it possessed a will of its own, the will to escape his tormented body. He was strapped into a battered wheelchair that bore the scratches and dents of former users, including
Jesús me guarde
etched in the chipping black paint. His prison-issue clothes—a loose blouse and pantaloons made of rough burlap—had been wetted down to better conduct the current.

The
picana electrica
was an old-school torture device, first used by the gauchos of Argentina on their herds. Nowadays it was commonly applied to prisoners, a cheap and effective way to deliver agony and disorientation without killing the victim.

This particular interrogation team was new to him; whenever they moved his location, he faced a new team. From the start of his imprisonment, he had been moved, blindfolded and hooded, at least a dozen times. He suspected this was to keep him from mounting an escape.
And it worked. There was simply no time to come up with a strategy.

The interrogator was a slender man in paramilitary garb, who looked more like a fussy bureaucrat than a practiced torturer. He leaned toward Julian and spoke in English. “You give us nothing, we offer you everything. Freedom, escape, for the simple truth.”

They wanted information about the cooperative operation. Julian could barely make his jaw function as he repeated the only information he was authorized to offer—his name and rank, social security number and date of birth. Each time he was moved to a different location, a new interrogator took over, but despite the beatings, the electrocutions, sleep deprivation and coercion, he gave up nothing. His training in SERE—survival, evasion, resistance, escape—had come into play from his first moment of captivity, and he held fast to its harsh lessons. In attempting escape, he would probably die. In staying put, he most certainly would die. There really was no other option.

“Again, to the temple,” the interrogator instructed in Spanish.

Julian was a master at hiding things. He didn't know where this skill came from, but he used it every moment of every day. He pretended to have only a rudimentary grasp of Spanish; as a thick piece of rubber was inserted in his mouth, he gave no sign that he knew where the prod would touch.

He retreated in his mind, a technique he'd rehearsed during the mock interrogations of his training. He coaxed himself back to his earliest days, living in New Orleans with his bachelor father. His dad had been a brilliant man, gifted far beyond his humble roots in southern Louisiana. He had loved Julian in his distracted but sincere
way, teaching him the principles of rocket science as a bonding activity.

Julian remembered the exact moment when he realized love made him brave. He'd been maybe six years old. It was a steaming summer day, and the window units of their wood frame house were churning out cool, mildew-scented air. Their place was a small guest house, squeezed between mansions on Coralie Street, convenient to the university. His dad was in the cluttered dining room—which was never used for eating—laboring over some problem or theory. Julian, hot and bored, had decided to climb to the top of the fig tree in the backyard because that was where he'd find the ripest, sweetest fruit. The climb was wicked fun, and he'd reached from branch to branch until he felt as if he'd gone to the top of everything. Being aloft in the tree had been a revelation. The world below didn't appear so large and complicated and bewildering. Instead, it intrigued him; it was something he could understand and fit into, like a piece of a puzzle. Everything was in perspective. No wonder birds seemed to soar for the sheer joy of it. Who wouldn't want to be as high in the sky as possible?

“Dad,” he yelled, hoping his father could hear him despite the chugging of the old dripping air conditioner wedged in the window. “Hey, Dad, look how high I am!”

The branch he'd been on bowed but did not break. It was almost graceful, the way it dropped him. He grabbed another branch to save himself, managing to hook on with one hand. He hung there briefly, stunned by the distance to the ground but oddly energized by the danger. He fought to hang on, all the while knowing he would lose this battle. Gravity would do what gravity always
did. When your dad was a renowned physicist, you grew up with this understanding.

The smooth bark had offered no purchase, and the tree let him go. The second he was airborne, he had an immediate sensation of weightlessness. This had been rudely disrupted when he'd crashed down through a series of branches below him, then hit the ground with a
whump
.

He didn't remember crying out as he fell, but something must have alerted his dad. Maybe the sound of his long fall through the branches of the gnarled old tree had grabbed his dad's attention.

Everything had rushed out of Julian on impact. His next breath of air eluded him completely. Mute and wild-eyed with panic, he'd gazed up to see his father looming over him, as imposing as the Lord above. Julian's vision had focused, and he'd seen his father's terror, rimmed in stark white around his eyes.

His father never left his side while the ambulance guys came. He'd talked to Julian more than he'd ever talked to him before, speaking in reassuring tones, saying he loved him, praying Julian wasn't hurt.

At the emergency room, they'd examined everything about Julian, inside and out. They'd shone a light in his eyes, put headphones on him to check his hearing, listened to all his insides with stethoscopes and ultra-sounds, had taken X-ray pictures of him and scanned his brain.

Julian had learned a couple of new words that day—
abrasions
and
contusions
. It was a fancy way of saying scrapes and bruises. He learned that, although even the minor ones hurt, things could have been worse. Lots worse. No matter how hard the doctors searched and prodded, that was all they could find wrong with him.

And throughout the tests and observations, his dad had been there, projecting worry and love and relief. It was the longest amount of time in Julian's memory that his dad had stayed focused solely on him. He had never felt so loved and secure.

All because he'd dared to climb to a high place.

“You're a very lucky young man,” the doctor said, signing his name on a form.

Julian had felt a flood of warmth. “Yes, sir.”

After that, he'd been brave about everything. He knew he could be brave because his dad loved him. He was no idiot; he realized he wasn't invincible, but courage that came from confidence took him to new places. He was always pushing at the edges of safety, climbing trees and water towers, scaling walls, jumping from bridges and train trestles, riding a bike or skateboard in hair-raising places. No one scolded him. His dad believed, in the most scientific sense, that for every action there was a reaction, and this held true for growing boys. Everything a kid did had consequences, which made scolding unnecessary.

Julian, of course, found this out the hard way, having to face disgruntled property owners, highway patrolmen, traffic cops, schoolteachers. His dad had never judged him, but simply loved him in his distracted but sincere way.

And so, when Professor Gastineaux was in a wreck and ended up in a wheelchair, Julian had despaired and lost faith. Loving his father was not enough to heal him. Julian had felt stupid for ever believing otherwise.

“Don't you fret, honey,” his dad had said, surrounded by all kinds of high-tech gear. “I'm safe now.”

To Julian, it was beyond comprehension how someone could feel safe without the full use of his body. His
dad said he could still think and theorize and teach, and those were the things that were important to him.

He had been sent to a rehab facility to be trained for his new life, and the training included personal stuff, everything from drinking a soda to going to the bathroom. During this process, eight-year-old Julian was sent to summer camp, where his much-older half brother Connor worked as a counselor.

Camp Kioga had given Julian a glimpse of a different life. He'd never really seen people who lived this way, their days revolving around organized activities, singalongs and home-cooked meals served family-style at long tables in an old-fashioned pavilion.

Sending him to Camp Kioga had turned out to be his father's final gift to Julian. For when he'd returned to New Orleans, he'd been told his father did not have much longer to live. “Not much longer” turned out to be a few years, during which Julian made it his mission to absorb every bit of knowledge and love his father offered. He learned the painful intimacy of caring for someone in a wheelchair, and he never resented his father's physical needs. Young as Julian was, something in him had recognized that when time was short, you made the most of it.

He had a mother he didn't know. Supposedly she'd tried to keep him after he was born, but within six months, she'd had enough and gave him to his dad to raise. She kept trying to launch an acting career, and she didn't pretend to be happy about bringing Julian back in her life. Unfortunately, when Julian's father quietly passed away one night, neither she nor Julian had a choice.

Seared by loneliness and grief, he'd been forced to move to California. There, he'd hurtled his way through
adolescence, hell-bent on self-destruction. He'd careened recklessly through each day, taking risks and getting in trouble, always one incident away from juvey. After his junior year of high school, his exasperated mother had sent him to Camp Kioga once again, this time to help his brother renovate the summer place. If not for that summer, he probably would've gone off the rails long ago. Instead, it became the summer of Daisy Bellamy.

Reality came splashing back as a bucket of water was dumped over him. The odd smell of high voltage electricity—more a sensation than a smell, really—mingled with the harsh prison stench. A string of spittle pooled in a fold of his shirt.

“Ever wonder if paralysis can be cured with an electrical current?” asked the voltage operator. “I have seen a dead frog animated with a shock.” He yanked at the waist tie of Julian's trousers, recoiling when he exposed the condom catheter that conducted urine into an attached bag. “Good God, what is that?”

“You will have to remove it if you intend to shock the genitals,” said a laconic voice.

Julian thought he was hallucinating. Francisco Ramos? He didn't move or offer a sign of recognition. He wondered what Ramos, the partner who'd surrendered during the recon mission, had endured in order to become a part of this operation. Their gazes met for a fraction of a second.

“Disgusting,” said the operator. “Forget it.”

“He has no sensation anyway,” Ramos said. “That is why he cannot take a piss on his own.”

Toileting was the least of Julian's worries. His father, wheelchair bound from the time of his accident to the end of his life, had made such things seem routine to Julian.

So where the hell are you now, genius? he asked himself. Stuck in a hole in the jungle somewhere, a prisoner with no hope of justice. This was what he got for trying to be a good guy, minding his ps and qs, joining the military. Looking back, he figured he'd have been better off being a juvenile delinquent.

The thought filled him with dark amusement. Another survival tactic. If you can keep a sense of humor or at least irony, maybe you're not so far gone.

Another tactic was something called self-guided imagery, sending your mind on a trip to a better place. That was where Daisy came in. He had developed the ability to conjure her image in his mind in the minutest detail—the shadow of her eyelashes on her cheeks, the shape of her fingernails, the sound of her laughter, the way her smile lit him up when he walked into a room, the scent of her hair when she laid her head against his chest. He made sure he thought of her many times a day because he didn't want her to slip away, inch by inch.

She was the great love of his life. This was something he knew with gut-level certainty. He'd sensed it the first moment he'd laid eyes on her—beautiful and troubled, with a chip on her shoulder and a bad attitude. Even then, her sweetness had seeped out, as irrepressible as the rising sun.

Daisy. She was the whole reason he opened his eyes each morning. The reason he took the next breath of air. She was the reason he would find a way out of this hellhole.

He pictured her now in her favorite place, relaxing on a dock overlooking Willow Lake. He could see her sun-browned arms braced behind her, head tipped back as she lifted her face to the sun. Her corn-silk hair had always been long; she claimed she was too insecure to
cut it short. He claimed she was too beautiful. It was a good argument to have. The prospect of a lifetime of arguing with her kept him sane and focused.

Sanity and focus, he reminded himself again and again. Sanity and focus. In this situation, they were mandatory.

Ramos had a distinctive gait, no doubt due to the leg injury that had caused him to surrender. Julian stayed completely still when he heard the footsteps outside his cell, giving no sign of recognition. “Take these in with his meal,” Ramos said.

“Why should he be given something to read?” the guard demanded.

“Best to occupy his mind with fiction. It is better, anyway, than letting him lie around all day, contemplating rebellion.”

Along with the day's rations—the usual stale, crumbling arepa bread and some beans in broth—were two battered paperback books in English. Julian suspected Ramos understood completely the irony of the subjects. There was a Penguin Classics edition of
The Count of Monte Cristo
and a copy of
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland,
its pages curled and yellowed. Julian devoured both books, combing the text for any sign of intel from Ramos. The only possible clues were a couple of dog-eared page in
Alice
—“So many out-of-the-way things had happened lately, that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really impossible….”