Epilogue
Loving Mercedes wasn’t like falling off a cliff. It wasn’t even the heart-clench of a missed step. It wasn’t a jerk or a jostle. It wasn’t tripping or tumbling at all. It was the slow climb of a lifetime of moments, the line upon line, day after day kind of love. And it was deeper and more durable for it. You would think with a love like that there wouldn’t be passion, there wouldn’t be heat, but there was. It sizzled and crackled between them like a sparkler in July, constantly surprising him.
Once Mercedes was in, she was all in, just like he knew she would be. One weekend, toward the end of August, they left Gia with Heather for a few days and boarded a plane. They didn’t tell anyone where they were going or what they had planned. No invitations or announcements were sent out. They were married on a beach in Mexico—a place neither of them had ever been, despite Mercedes’s heritage. It was just the two of them, barefoot and hand in hand, making promises to each other and looking to the future. He’d teased Mercedes about being a barefoot angel, and she’d started singing “A la Puerta del Cielo” and dancing in the surf, kicking up the water in her white dress, her dark hair streaming behind her.
Alma had been shocked when they told her. Hurt. She had wanted to see her only child get married. She’d wanted their ceremony to be in a church with a priest. She’d wanted to give them a huge celebration.
“You deserve it, Mercedes! Why start your marriage this way, running off like you are ashamed? Like you need to hide? Gia should have been there, at the very least.”
Mercedes had put her arms around her mother and, in a language Noah didn’t speak, told her the love story of two old friends who needed a chance to look ahead without the distractions of the past
“We needed it to be about Noah and Mercedes, Mami. Not the three amigos,” Mercedes explained. “Entiendes?”
Alma shook her head. “No. No entiendo,” she whispered.
“We needed it to be about the future. Not the past. Our lives have always revolved around everyone else. And that’s okay. But I wanted our wedding day to be about us. I didn’t want to think about Cora, or Shelly, or Abuela or even Papi—though I felt their presence. I didn’t want my wedding day to be a reminder of what had come before. For once, I needed it to be about the two of us—me and Noah—and nothing else.”
Mercedes and Alma had cried, and Noah had cried too. He didn’t understand the language but he knew the reasons, and he’d felt every word.
Mercedes and Alma moved into the townhome with him and Gia, but he’d immediately put it up for sale. They needed a house where they could start fresh, a home big enough for Alma and Cuddy and Heather too when she wanted to visit. A home with room to grow.
Noah found empty office space not far from Montlake with a 5000 square foot loft situated above it, and he took Mercedes with him to look it over. He suggested they purchase the office space and turn it into a salon and day spa—MeLo—and live in the loft.
“It’s so much money . . . and we’d have to totally remodel it, top to bottom. Right now it’s just open space,” Mercedes had sputtered.
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he answered calmly. “It will be perfect.”
“We can’t—I can’t afford that Noah, even if we could get the financing,” Mercedes said, but her eyes were wide with the possibility.
“We can.”
“What? How?”
“Cora’s life insurance policy paid out. There’s a suicide clause, but their findings were inconclusive.” Noah took a deep breath and held her gaze. “Bottom line, none of us will ever know what really happened that day. The insurance company closed the inquiry, and a few days ago . . . they sent me a check.” He reached into his pocket, pulled it out, and handed it to Mercedes.
Mercedes began to shake her head, resisting. He kept his hand extended until she took it. Noah knew exactly how she felt, and he’d been struggling with it since he’d received the news. Then he’d thought about Mer, and how she’d happily emptied her bank account to keep Gia safe and to protect him, and he knew what to do.
“You’ve been walking around with this in your pocket?” Mercedes gasped, her eyes widening at the amount.
“I’ll tuck some away for Gia, for college and a rainy day. But if Cora were here, she’d tell you to take it, Mer. She was there when the dream began, and I think she’d like to see it come true.”
It had taken them eight months to make the loft a home and turn the space below into a spa, but they’d moved in the day after Mercedes’s thirty-first birthday, and MeLo had its grand opening three weeks later.
They’d worked hard, but that was nothing new, and Mercedes was tireless. Cuddy had turned out to be quite handy, and he’d framed up all the walls, hung the drywall, and did all the painting. When Noah told him one of the rooms was his, he’d cried. He cried a lot. He still cried when Mer cut his hair, and when Noah slipped and called him dad, he’d wept for an hour. Noah had been calling him Dad ever since, and Cuddy had adjusted. He promised Noah the flood would eventually end, but Noah had simply hugged him and told him not to worry; everywhere he looked there were rainbows.
They had a great deal in common. The difference between Cuddy and Noah was that Noah had had people who loved him. Cuddy hadn’t. But now he did.
They celebrated the Fourth of July at their new home. Since finishing the interior, Cuddy had moved his efforts to the roof. It was endless and flat with a three foot wall around the sides, making it ideal for a green space. Cuddy had performed wonders in three months, hanging lanterns and building raised planter boxes. There were vegetables in some and flowers in the others, and they were overflowing and blooming in riotous color. He’d asked if he could make a rock garden too, and he and Gia had spent hours making fairy houses to place among the stones.
Noah bought a canopied table and some deck chairs, and they grilled burgers and listened to eighties songs on the boombox for old times’ sake. Alma and Mercedes made paper stars with long streamers while they waited for the fireworks to start. The view of the sky above the stadium was almost as good as the view from the hill behind The Three Amigos.
“You fold the paper this way, back and forth, back and forth,” Mercedes told Gia, helping her turn the paper, pressing and folding and folding again. They’d left the stars to Alma and were using perforated computer paper to make a chain of dolls long enough to include the whole family.
When they were done folding the paper, Mercedes began to snip and cut, wielding the scissors like the professional she was. Gia sat at her feet, the white paper clippings fluttering around her strawberry locks like snowflakes on Christmas morning. She laughed and closed her eyes, squealing for more.
She called Mer Mami now. No one had coached her. One day Meh became Meh-Meh. Meh-Meh became Mama, and Mama morphed into Mami. No one said a word. Not even Heather, who had taken it all in stride, even going so far as to say it was “meant to be.”
Heather was Grammy, Alma was Abuela, and Cuddy was Papa. Of course Cuddy had cried with joy the first time Gia had laid that nickname on him. Three years old, and she had a mind of her own. He was Papa, and no one argued with her.
Mercedes finished snipping and carefully unfolded the paper chain.
“There’s Daddy.” Gia pointed to the first figure.
“Okay,” Mercedes said, nodding.
“Daddy, Mami, Gia”—she said her name perfectly now—“Papa, Abuela, and Grammy. And one more.”
“Yep, one more,” Mercedes agreed. “We have a big family.”
“Cora,” Gia supplied, touching the final figure.
“That’s right. We can’t forget her.”
Gia smiled, wrinkling her little nose, and picking up the paper dolls, skipped off to involve them in some secret game only she was privy to. They streamed behind her like a lacy kite, and Noah and Mercedes watched her go.