EPILOGUE
Ryan
Four Years Later
The first Sunday of November couldn’t be more perfect. The temperature is unseasonably mild, in the low-seventies; the sun-kissed sky is picture-postcard perfect, and the still blooming flowers have once again proven they are mightier than the winter snow. Winter will claim them soon, but they will be back in the spring with their friends, the butterflies, all around the small but charming backyard of our townhouse in the West Village. The down payment was a wedding gift from my father. Actually, he wanted to buy it out right, but both Willow and I refused. I, however, appreciated his grand gesture. It was his way of making amends with me. While I will never have the close father-son relationship that many guys have with their dads and can never forget the past, he’s welcomed in my life. My way of forgiving him. Allee would be proud of me.
The three-story brick house is perfect for us. There’s plenty of space including an office where I write and a dance studio in the basement where Willow teaches ballet to neighborhood children. We have a multitude of bedrooms, one of which permanently belongs to my darling niece, Violet, who visits us often. Almost ten-years-old, she’s an amazing young ballerina. And an equally amazing cousin.
Our bedroom is on the top floor. Our regal bed with the pink tufted satin headboard dominates it. There’s not one night that goes by that I don’t make love in it with my beautiful wife. Sometimes countless times. Wedged between our pillows is Baboo and hanging above the bed is the Degas ballerina painting that belonged to my mother. The one that awed both Allee and Willow. My mother gave it to us as a wedding present. She wanted us to have it. Willow says it belongs to all three of us, but we’re thinking of donating it to the museum I visit annually on Allee’s birthday that houses my former bed.
Our sun-filled room overlooks the backyard, a rarity for any New Yorker. Our garden, with its array of flowers, herbs, and vegetables, is totally Willow’s doing. She planted everything by hand herself. In the middle stands a tiny weeping willow tree. One day it will grow big and strong and provide shade to all those who need it. And there will be a swing hanging from one of its mighty branches.
Scattered throughout the garden is some outdoor furniture that Willow and I collected at local flea markets. Among the pieces is a vintage French bench that reminds me of the one Allee and I once shared in the Jardin de Tuileries in Paris. I sit there often as I am about to do with my Sunday New York Times.
As I head toward it with the paper clutched under my arm, a little girl with a large paintbrush in her hand skips by me. This past summer she turned three. Our daughter. The child Willow and I love more than life itself.
“Daddy, I go paint a picture.” She frolics over to the small easel in the corner of the yard that Mel and Hollis, her other doting grandparents, bought her. Her espresso bean eyes twinkle, and her long chestnut ponytail flies in the warm autumn breeze.
She brings a big smile to my face and lights up my heart. She’s inherited Allee’s love for art. And she’s her spitting image.
“Hey.”
The raspy familiar voice catapults me out of my thoughts. Allee! She’s sitting on the bench peeking up from a book. Mine! Endless Love. The book I started writing the morning after I made love to Willow for the first time in our bed. It’s a true story of heartbreak and hope, rediscovery and recovery, fate and second chances. Willow actually helped me write it. Told in dual point of view, it’s not my story. It’s our story, but with Willow’s blessings, I dedicated it to another…
To Allee, my endless love.
You will live in my heart forever.
My jaw drops. This is the first time Allee’s visited me in my new digs. I’m frozen in shock, speechless.
“How’ya doin’, 1212?”
1212. My breath hitches. Only Allee ever called me that—my bib number when I ran the New York Marathon exactly ten years ago today and she joined me mid-way.
Thinking back to that fateful day, I manage a few words. “I’m good. Really good.”
She smiles. “I’m proud of you, Madewell. And Willow, too. She’s my kind of woman. Good for her for taking the asshole down.”
Following our honeymoon in Fiji, Willow was determined to expose Gustave for what he was. A despicable prick, and that was being kind. With the help of my sister, she pressed charges against him for sexually assaulting her, and after a headline-making international trial in which several other abused dancers testified on her behalf, he was sentenced to ten years in prison and a $150,000 fine, which cost him his dance company and his career. Willow became a star in a way she could have never imagined. A hero to women all over the world. In addition to teaching and being an incredible mom, my amazing wife is now a crusader for the rights of ballet dancers, relentlessly trying to improve their working conditions, benefits, and pay.
“I’m proud of her too,” I respond to Allee, who’s staring down at the cover of my book.
“Oh, and by the way, the new book is really good. Nice of you to include me.”
Holy shit. She read it! “Really? You liked it?”
“Yeah. A lot.”
A compliment from Allee is like finding a needle in a haystack. I’m both shocked and ecstatic.
“Wow, thanks!”
“Are they making a movie version?”
“Yes.” The film was already in production with Ryan Reynolds and Emma Stone reprising their roles. Lilly Beaucoup, a new unknown actress and former ballerina, was playing Willow. I’d never seen the movie version of Undying Love even though it was a blockbuster, garnering both Ryan Reynolds and Emma Stone Academy Awards. I wondered if Allee saw it, but I didn’t ask. Something else was on my mind.
“Allee, was Endless Love as good as Undying Love?”
“Are you kidding me, Madewell? It was better. It made me happy. You got your happily ever after. You deserve it.”
With a smile, I gaze at her. She hasn’t aged a bit. Her long hair is gathered in a high ponytail and her espresso bean eyes twinkle against her dewy fresh skin. She’s wearing running shorts and a tank top that show off her perfect breasts and those amazing legs. The very outfit she wore when she ran the marathon with me.
“So, tell me about the kid.”
“Oh, Allee, she’s just like you. Feisty, artsy, and smart.” I tell her that when I told Willow about my frozen embryos, she pleaded to have them implanted in her. She knew how much Allee meant to me. I agreed, knowing from her relationship with Violet what a great mother she would be. One out of the three took and Willow joyously carried the baby to full term. One day when our little girl is older, we will tell her the story of her conception. And I’ll tell her all about Allee.
Tears are brimming in Allee’s smiling eyes. I’d seen enough of them to last me a lifetime. “What’s her name?” she asks.
“Belle.” I glance over to my precious daughter, who is now creating a masterful abstract painting at her easel. We named her after Willow’s mother, Belinda.
Allee gazes reflectively at her too. “That means ‘beautiful’ in French. Just like she is.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Allee’s misty eyes don’t stray from Belle. “And her name has two L’s. That’s good.”
I nod as Allee continues to observe her.
“She’s quite the little Picasso.”
I smile with pride. “She is.”
“Ry-man, who are you talking to?”
I look over my shoulder. It’s Willow. Taking advantage of the glorious weather, she sets a tray down on our outdoor table—the delectable lunch I’ll share with her and Belle. If only she knew there are four of us. Or should I say five because Willow is pregnant again—with a baby we made—a boy, due in February on Valentine’s Day. We’re naming him Harry, after Willow’s grandfather, Harold. Willow insisted we make his middle name Ryan, and I only hope Harry Ryan Madewell will turn out to be the best man he can be.
“Do we have a guest?” asks my beautiful wife.
I falter for an excuse. “Um, butterfly, I was just thinking my next book out loud.”
Willow smiles at me and arranges the table.
My sweet little Belle catches sight of Willow. “Mama!” she shouts, running over to hug her.
Beaming, Willow lifts our daughter into her arms and smothers her with kisses.
I glance back at the bench. Allee has risen. There’s a wide smile on her face. Her voice resounds in my head as she fades away.
“Belle will find her Superman. I hope he’s just like you. See ya’, Golden Boy.”