His Wounded Light (2 page)

“I’m going to spend every night of my life kissing away your memories of him. I’m going to find places he never touched, places he never kissed, and our first times will be a thousand times sweeter than your first times with him. Isabel, you are the love of my life.”

—Alex to Isabel, The Light in the Wound

“You got it?” I whisper in her ear and crouch down to engulf her in my arms. I reach out my hands and wrap them around her fingers. Together we loop the heavy metal padlock through the wire enmeshed with a thousand just like them and secure it in place with a resounding click.

“I think so,” she says, keeping her hands in place and leaning her body back against my chest.

Isabel and Alex forever.

I had etched out our names on the tough surface of the embarrassingly large red lock we’d purchased at one of the souvenir kiosks along the Champs-Élysées with a handy Swiss Army knife. My fingers are still sore from the force it took to deeply embed every letter but the look of awe on her face when I was finished made me feel like I had just created a masterpiece
.

“Are you sure this is the right bridge? Remember, the tour guide did say that we need to be at the Pont des Arts. For committed love.” She stares straight out into the beautiful Seine River. “We can’t be at the Pont de l’Archevêché—that’s for temporary lovers.”

“Pont des Arts, baby.” I kiss her head and hold her closer to me. “This is our bridge.”

We’re on a pedestrian bridge in Paris where lovers have taken to attaching padlocks with their names engraved on it to signify unbreakable love. We saw the locks on the bridge on a tour of the city a few days ago and resolved to return with one of our own.

“This sure is a weird looking lock!” She gestures to the other, smaller locks attached to the bridge and she puts her hand over her mouth to suppress a laugh.

Her giggle is infectious. I love the sound of it almost as much as I love the feel of her skin against mine.

“Sorry, baby. This was the only one they had left at that little store. Look at it this way, it’s probably the only big red lock on this whole side of the bridge,” I say, trying to stay still as she tilts her head upwards and brushes her lips along my neck. “Now let’s get up and throw those keys away.”

“Ugh. It’s probably the only red lock, period!” Her tone is light as she pretends to scold me for my tasteless choice in keepsakes.

“And besides, look how our names stand out so much better than the other ones,” I brag. I stand up without letting go of her hands and help her to her feet.

She wraps her arms around my waist and lays her head on my chest. I can barely hear her when she says, “I love you so much, Alex. Thank you for being here with me.”

“I love you too, baby. There’s no other place in the world I’d rather be than here, with you, in the middle of all these filthy little padlocks.” I pause for a moment. “Well, actually...our hotel room is a good place too.”

She pushes up on her toes and kisses me. I grab at the opportunity to deepen the kiss until she openly accepts me and our tongues dance together. The wind is lapping at our coats while people from all walks of life, each with their own different story, dart past us without a second look. We are oblivious to it all, surrounded by the barriers we’ve built around our own little world.

“It’s been six hours since we’ve seen our bed,” I groan. “Wanna walk back for dessert before we have dinner?”

“Yes, I think I’d like that,” she answers as she turns her back on me for one more look out over the bridge.

I fish into my pocket and hand her one of the keys. “Okay, one key each.”

We both extend an arm out, the others still clinging at the fingers. I feel a rush of excitement as I see her reaction to what we’re about to do.

“Ready, set, go!” I command as we both fling our keys into the river. Mine goes far, hers doesn’t.

“Ugh. A, you should have thrown it for me!” she exclaims as we start our way across the bridge.

“As long as it landed in the water and no one can ever open up that lock, we’re good,” I reassure her with a squeeze.

The walk back to the hotel is quiet and relaxed. My beautiful wife and I are here to celebrate our twelfth wedding anniversary. It’s a celebration of our time together, something that we wanted to commemorate far away from our daily life. Our real anniversary took place many weeks ago, but we had to wait until our baby was a little bit older before Isa felt right about leaving her at home. Madeline Alexandra entered our lives kicking and screaming almost four months ago. She was definitely worth the wait.

I know that we are a couple to be envied, magazine articles have described us as a power couple in every sense of the word. “
At thirty-seven years old, Alex Ailey doesn’t look a day older than he did ten years ago. With many marathons under his belt, he is handsome, youthful and fit.”
That was the latest article that came out in last weekend’s
Lifestyle
magazine. Of course that one sentence about me was followed by a picture of my wife and my children. My perfect family. My perfect life. I turn to my wife and gape at her for a few seconds. I still can’t believe that she’s mine. When she glances at me and smiles affectionately, my heart swells. Twelve years of being totally whipped and still going strong.

“I miss the babies,” she says pensively as we cross the street along the Champs-Élysées.

“Let’s call them as soon as we get to the hotel.” I place my arm around her shoulders and she reciprocates by wrapping hers around my waist.

The Avenue Montaigne is filled with people on a warm and windy evening in April. We bob in and out of the endless sea of humanity that seems to be walking against the traffic towards us.

“This reminds me of the salmon hatchery that Grandpa took me to one summer during boarding school in Canada. You and I have hatched our eggs and are over the upstream climb,” she says to me with a smile.

Her attention is immediately diverted as she spies her mothership and stops in her tracks.

“Do you want to go in, babe? We have time.” I gently lead her towards the entrance of the store. A beautiful work of art displayed by the window promptly catches her eye.

“A! Look, that’s the one I was telling you about!” She claps her hands and runs in excitedly. “I wonder if they have it in exactly this color…”

I shake my head, amused, and follow her inside. We hold hands as we walk towards the stairs that lead us to the 2nd floor.

“Hey, Iss, remember what Betty said about the sales girls only helping a certain type of nationality because they know exactly the difference between the actual purchasers and the looky-loos?” I’m trying to whisper but I really don’t care who hears me.

“Eurasian pride, baby,” she whispers back.

“Well, between you and me, I think they’ll classify me as the looker!”

“You are quite the looker,” she taunts.

“Very funny. You know what I meant! Now, go lead the way.”

She expertly skirts through the crowd of people and makes her way towards a glass shelf in the middle of the floor at the lower level right beneath the steps. “Here it is!” she squeaks breathlessly. “The Speedy 25. They’re out of it in the US!”

My eyes follow her as she walks away to look for assistance. What are all these people doing here, I wonder, when the world’s economy is still in the tank?

“That thing? Isa, it looks like an animal. Your son suffers from asthma, remember?” I tease, taking obvious pleasure in the offended look that she gives me.

“Alex, it’s mink. Get with the program!” she snaps at me jokingly.

I start to laugh, then take a moment to enjoy her as she fawns over the Speedy 25. She’s tinier today than she normally is because her trademark four inch heels have been replaced by a pair of ballet flats. For walking, of course. Her breasts are more pronounced because of the children, her waist still small and slim leading to those long, toned, endless legs. The ones that either wrap around me lovingly or spread out for me willingly. She is perfection in my eyes. I can finally see her love for me in her smile, in her every little gesture. She pulls away from me to follow the saleswoman in the navy blue suit. Isabel doesn’t walk. She slinks across the floor like a slithering snake, her gliding motion both smooth and effortless.

“
Excusez moi, s’il vous plait. Je cherche pour cette bourse dans la meme couleur,”
she says as she approaches the woman.

That high school experience in Canada was good for something at least.

The slim, attractive French lady does a double take when she sees me standing a few feet away from this woman with an adoring look in my eyes. She smiles at me and I smile back before tipping my head in a silent command to attend to my wife.

“
Oui, madame, nous avons un plus à gauche. Permettez-moi de le récupérer pour vous.”

“
Merci, Mademoiselle. Je vais attendre ici pour vous.”
Isabel motions to me to let me know that they do have the purse in stock. 

Jesus. She’s killing me with her languages. I need her now.
I find a tiny velvet stool right by the glass encasement and settle in to watch her shop. After giving the saleslady a few more instructions in French, Isabel saunters back to me and sits on my lap. I lean my chin on her shoulder and nuzzle her ear. She doesn’t flinch but tilts her head towards my mouth even more.

“So how long is this going to take? Because we really need to get back to our room,” I whisper impatiently. I know that she can feel me under her lap and, as if interrupting my dirty thoughts, she squeezes my arm playfully.

“Sorry, A, few more minutes. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity!”

My voice turns soft and tender. “What will you do for me if I get you this purse?”

“Anything and everything.”

“Sold!”

The saleslady walks back with a large brown felt bag, nodding to Isabel, who does her best to walk calmly instead of skipping to the counter. She gasps as she unwraps the purse and I can’t help but laugh. She looks just like that right before she comes.
I need to get her home.
I discretely adjust myself, stride down to the cashier and hand her my black American Express card.

“
Combien?”
I ask in stilted French.

Isabel smiles at me appreciatively as the saleslady gently takes the purse away from her.

“8,500 euros, monsieur.”

I nod my head absentmindedly. I don’t really fucking care at this point. She can buy the whole store if it means getting her back to the hotel a few seconds sooner. I’ve never understood Isabel’s obsession with purses, and yet here I am, a willing participant, catering to her every whim. I know she has her own American Express card, but I love the way she tries to give in to me. I enjoy doing this—spoiling her, lavishing gifts on her. Her sisters advised her to back down and allow me to do it and practical as she is at times, I’m happy when I get to indulge her on impulse. After we married, I insisted on commingling my assets with hers. We have combined our accounts. No separate funds, no separate investments. It wasn’t easy for her at first; she always wanted to maintain her self-sufficiency. Lessons learned from the past, she says. But she now knows that I’m different. I respect her ability to be independent and I’ve shown her that in so many ways. She told me that our time in Chicago proved to her that I would never be threatened by her success, that I’m here to help her grow and to share everything with her, both the good and the not so good.

“Yay! Thank you, baby!” She squeezes my hand excitedly.

“Later.” I wink as I lean over to kiss her cheek. “Thank me later. Right now, I need to get some fresh air. I’ll be waiting outside the store for you.”

***

“A minute’s success pays the failure of years.”

—Robert Browning