At First Sight: (inspired by Aladdin ) (A Modern Fairytale)

by Katy Regnery

  I have no idea what’s going on, but I don’t have a good feeling about it.

  While the kids eat pancakes perched on stools at the island in the center of the kitchen, I keep flicking my eyes to the foyer where Valentina disappeared. When she finally reappears, her face is bleak and her eyes, which were filled with such joy earlier this morning, are shadowed. She glances at me, then bites her bottom lip and looks away quickly, plastering a fake smile on her face as she approaches the kids.

  “Mmm! It smells delicious!” She leans down to plant a kiss on top of Carina’s head, then slides effortlessly to Dylan and does the same. “How was breakfast, bambinos?”

  “Yum,” says Carina, “my tummy is so full!”

  “My daddy makes the best pancakes in the whole world,” Dylan informs her.

  “I think you both need some fresh air and exercise!” says Valentina, looking at her daughter’s bodyguard. “Will you take them up to the playground, Iago? Mr. Prince and I will join you in a little while.”

  “Are you su—”

  “Now, Iago,” she says, brooking no further argument.

  “Of course, madame,” he says, giving me a disgusted look before ushering our children out the front door.

  Tina stands at the counter with her back to me, her platinum blonde hair pulled up in a messy bun, her yoga pants and rumpled t-shirt unexpectedly sexy because everything about this woman turns me on.

  “Tina,” I say, my voice gruffer than usual, my nerves taut and hackles up. “What the fuck is goin’ on, then?”

  When she turns around, her eyes are brimming with so many tears, I don’t know how she’s keeping them from falling. The only thing I know for sure is that I must comfort her, because I cannot bear to see her this sad. I pull her into my arms, holding her against me, worried when she struggles to free her hands but relieved when she winds them around my torso, hugging me back.

  “What happened?” I whisper, rubbing her back as she shudders, quiet sobs accompanying the tears that are wetting my undershirt.

  When she doesn’t answer, I swoop her up into my arms and carry her to the couch in the living room. Settling her on my lap like a wee one, I press her head against my shoulder as she weeps.

  “You’re scarin’ me, Tina,” I murmur, pressing my lips to her soft hair. “Please talk to me, love.”

  She takes a deep, ragged breath, and I get the sense that she’s trying to calm herself, to regain control over her emotions. Finally, after a few sniffles, she leans up, looking at me with bleak, bloodshot eyes.

  “I’m…s-so…v-very…s-sorry,” she manages to sputter before more tears trickle down her cheeks.

  “For what, love?” I ask her, reaching up to cup her cheeks, using my thumbs like windshield wipers to swipe her tears away.

  She clears her throat, her eyes holding mine with so much sadness, so much regret, it’s carving a bloody hole in my heart.

  “Why?” I whisper.

  “I know why you left Limerick,” she says softly, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

  My lips part, dropping open in surprise, and my hands slide down her cheeks until my knuckles rest by my hips on the couch. I tilt my head to the side, desperate to explain how I came to shoot a man, but unable to find the right words. Even now, after all these years, my thoughts and feelings about shooting Jack Murphy are so complicated, I can barely explore that chapter of my life without a full bottle of whiskey nearby.

  I’m furious with myself for not killing the bastard.

  Relieved beyond measure that he lived.

  Angry for letting down Albie.

  Unable to regret the night I spent with Tina.

  And frustrated that I cannot find peace.

  “You sh-shot Jack Murphy,” she says softly. “The night you d-didn’t come b-back to me.”

  “Yes. I did.” There’s no point in lying. She knows. Maybe she even has a right to know.

  “And it’s m-my fault.”

  Of all the things I might have expected her to say next, this is not one of them. I flinch, my neck whipping up so my eyes can find hers. “What? No. No!”

  “If I hadn’t w-waited for you in the alley that n-night, n-none of this would have h-happened.”

  “That’s not true,” I say.

  “It is,” she insists. “You fought J-Jack for me. Jack k-killed your brother. You shot Jack. That’s why you’ve n-never been able to go home. I r-ruined your l-life. I k-killed your b-brother!”

  More rough than firm on account of my emotions, I pull her against me, holding her tightly as my own eyes fill with tears for the first time since the morning I discovered my brother was dead. She throws her arms around my neck, burying her face against my throat, her sobs and short, jagged breaths ripping my heart to shreds.

  “It’s not yer fault,” I whisper near her ear. “I promise you, darlin’, it wasn’t yer fault. Not even a bit.”

  “It all s-started because of me,” she sobs.

  “No, darlin’. It started when the Clancys and Keegans and Murphys and Doyles got into it decades before either of us was even born. Limerick was always a powder keg waitin’ to explode. It had nothin’ to do with you. Nothin’ at all. I promise you on me mam’s grave, love. You’re innocent in all of this.”

  “How can you bear to l-look at me?” she asks, leaning her head up from my shoulder to find my eyes. She is still crying, her beautiful face blotchy and her lips quivering.

  “Because I don’t blame you,” I tell her, cupping her cheeks again.

  I lean forward, pressing my lips to hers for the first time since finding one another again. She tastes like coffee and salty tears, and I don’t know how, but I manage to be gentle with her despite my raging need for her. She twists in my arms a little, pulling my neck down so that I can kiss her better. My tongue slides between her lips, sweeping into her mouth, and she moans softly, a hum that I feel on the velvet underside of my tongue. She is pliant and sweet, needy and hungry, and if I don’t stop kissing her now, I’ll be inside of her in another minute.

  Nuzzling her nose tenderly, I finally lean away, breathless and undone.

  “I don’t regret our night together,” I tell her, wincing as I contemplate the truth I’ve always known. “God strike me dead, but I wouldn’t give it up for everythin’ that came after.”

  Her face crumples as she turns into my chest, wetting my shirt all over again. “H-How can you s-say that?”

  “Because it’s true,” I tell her. “Because you were the brightest light my dark life had ever known. Because I didn’t know what beauty was, what love was, what was possible, until I met you. Because when God sees fit to place an angel in your life, you don’t ask how much it’ll cost.”

  “Even if it costs your brother?”

  “Ah, love. God took Albie for His own reasons. But in His mercy, He also gave me you.”

  “Do I belong to you?” she whispers, her voice awestruck and hopeful.

  When she looks up at me, cradled in my arms like a treasure, our eyes lock together. Hers are as dark and deep as black coffee, brilliant after crying, and framed with wet lashes. But these are the same eyes that have haunted my dreams for a decade and a half, from which my soul has never wandered, for which my heart has searched in vain. They are before me once again, and I will do anything to keep them before me forever.

  “You tell me,” I say, my heart skipping beats, my voice as hopeful as hers.

  “I want to belong to you,” she tells me, her lips drawing closer and closer to mine until they finally brush together when she adds: “I want you to belong to me.”

  When we kiss again, it is with the knowledge that tragedy and love can happen at the same time; that you can meet the love of your life on the same night you suffer an almost unbearable loss. And maybe that’s not fair, but that’s life, in all of its terrible and beautiful authenticity. And it’s our journey—hers and mine, for better or worse—and for that reason alone, I wouldn’t trade it.

  I scoo
p her into my arms and stand up, kissing her mindlessly as I walk from the living room to the foyer and down the hallway that leads to her bedroom. After laying her gently on the bed we shared last night, I undress quickly, and she does the same.

  Her body is warm and soft against the hard angles of mine, but when I sink into her, into the divine, wet heat of her sex, the quivering muscles hold on tight; not unlike our hearts, which held out hope for all these years—which never really gave up on each other, despite harrowing odds against us.

  When I come, hard and fast, my seed flooding the hidden depths of her sweet body, my throat opens in a primeval roar, and my lips cry out for the world to hear:

  “You are mine!”

  And I am hers.

  I love her. I have always loved her. I will love her until I die.

  No matter what happens in this life or the next, I know the truth at the very core of my existence; the fuel that propels my very being forward through this life:

  My love for Valentina De’Medici is everlasting.

  ***

  Valentina

  I’ve read that lightning can and will strike the same place twice, even decades or centuries later, which is why, I suppose, I don’t question Ian’s sincerity or honesty when he tells me, for the second time in my life, that he loves me.

  Love at first sight doesn’t happen often, but it does happen, and it happened to us. It’s been true since the moment I first saw him in that Limerick theater. Maybe it was true even before that: maybe God made Ian and God made me, and He destined our hearts to find and love each other.

  It doesn’t matter if the whole world were to tell us it’s impossible.

  In my love’s elegant vernacular:

  The whole world can go fuck itself.

  It’s been a week since I learned of my inadvertent part in Albie’s death, but the man I love refuses to blame me, much like I refuse to regret the choices I made that led to Carina’s conception. Trading some could mean losing all. Life has led us back to one another, a gift we won’t take for granted.

  I reached out to the legal team that Steve assembled and considered the best in Europe, and asked them to look into the shooting of Jack Murphy. Promised some clarity on the situation by today, I keep glancing at my phone as I walk to the Yellow Magnolia Café to meet Ian and the children for lunch. They attended a special children’s event this morning with Brenda, who treats Carina with the same mother-hen kindness that she bestows on her adopted grandson, Dylan. With my parents and Nico far away, I’m grateful for the feeling of extended family afforded to us by the Princes. My life in Brooklyn is richer than I ever could have imagined.

  When my cellphone buzzes with a European country code, I take a seat on a bench and answer the call, crossing my fingers that Ian’s name can be cleared of any crimes and he can, if he chooses, return to visit the land of his birth.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Trainor? This is Graciela Turot from the Trainor International legal department. I have some news for you.”

  “Yes, Graciela. Go ahead.”

  My heart thumps painfully behind my ribs.

  “As you know, The United States and Ireland have an extradition treaty in place,” says Graciela, “so if Mr. Ladd, aka Mr. Prince, was wanted for a crime committed in Ireland, any notification to the authorities of Mr. Ladd’s whereabouts could prompt an extradition hearing, leading to his arrest and deportation.”

  “Mm-hm. But I asked that you be very subtle in your inquiries, Graciela,” I say sternly. I certainly didn’t want to get Ian in more trouble. I just wanted to know where things stood legally, and how—or if—I could help.

  “And we were, ma’am,” she assures me, “but a Mr. Gaspare Vizier—formerly in your employ, I believe—had already tipped off the Irish authorities as to Mr. Ladd’s location upon our inquiries.”

  “What?” I gasp in shock, which quickly morphs to fury. I fired Gaspare several days ago, unable to keep him in my employ, knowing that he’d always be suspicious of and combative with any man I chose to invite into my life. “Gaspare called the police?”

  “He did, ma’am. As soon as we asked about Jack Murphy, the authorities in Limerick mentioned that they’d had a call earlier in the week about the shooting, and were aware of Mr. Ladd’s presence in Brooklyn, New York.”

  I gulp, trying to hydrate my dust-dry throat.

  Dio Mio! Are they coming for him? Are the NYPD on our heels as I sit here talking? Should we go into hiding? I will do whatever it takes to keep Ian safe, to keep him from seeing any time behind bars.

  “What should we do?” I ask, my voice quavering. “What happens next? Will there be an arrest? Extradition?”

  “Well, that’s the interesting thing about this case,” she says. “Upon further conversation with the Limerick police, we learned that charges were never filed against Ian Ladd. Not at the time. Not ever.”

  “What?”

  “We had our source in Limerick comb through outstanding warrants, but there wasn’t one for Mr. Ladd. In fact, the report made by Mr. Vizier earlier this week is the only known report of a shooting by Ian Ladd. There were other petty crimes committed by Mr. Ladd on record, but those precede the shooting of Mr. Murphy, and most were filed under juvenile mischief.”

  “But will they open a case now? Based on Gaspare’s tip and your inquiry?”

  “Actually, ma’am, that’s the best news of all and the real purpose for my call. The statute of limitations on assault with a deadly weapon in Ireland is only six years. And since this ‘supposed’ crime took place over fifteen years ago, Mr. Ladd couldn’t be arrested or extradited now, even if Mr. Murphy chose to make a complaint. Too much time has lapsed.”

  “So you’re saying…”

  “That Mr. Ladd is not a wanted man. Anywhere.”

  Oh, yes, he is, I think to myself, a smile blooming across my face as my heart takes flight. He is wanted very much. Right here. With me.

  “He’s safe,” I whisper.

  “Absolutely,” says Graciela, “and free to travel back and forth to Ireland at will.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her. “Thank you so much for looking into this for me.”

  “Of course, ma’am. It’s our pleasure. Feel free to call us at any time.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Trainor.”

  When I stand up, I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, and run-walk to the café with wings on my heels, eager to share my news with Ian—to let him know that the slate is finally clean, and he can come and go, wherever he likes, whenever he wants.

  A small crew of people I love stand by the front door, the children’s hands in Brenda’s, while Ian stands nearby with a picnic basket.

  I wave to them all, kissing Carina, Dylan, and Brenda’s cheeks before tilting my neck back so that Ian can press his lips to mine. Our children giggle, but I think they like seeing Ian and me together—Carina assured me last night that although she’ll never call Ian “Babbo,” she will find another special name for him.

  “Brenda said she’ll take the kids to lunch,” says Ian, winking at me. “She packed us a picnic.”

  I’m so touched by this gesture, when I turn around to thank her, I end up kissing her again. My own mother is a distant, cool and aloof presence in my life; Brenda’s warmth and thoughtfulness is a welcome contrast to such a rigid upbringing.

  “Go have a picnic, young lovers!” she says with a chuckle, herding the little ones into their favorite restaurant with promises of ice cream, and leaving Ian and me alone.

  “Have a spot in mind?” I ask him.

  “My favorite spot?” he suggests. “In the rose garden?”

  I grin and nod, taking his hand as we stroll in the direction of the roses, taking our time, enjoying the fact that—as Ian pointed out last weekend—there’s no need to rush our courtship this time.

  “I have news today,” I tell him. “Good news.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he asks, smiling d
own at me. “Tell me, then.”

  “Well, I had the legal team at Trainor International look into, you know, what happened with Jack Murphy and—”

  He stops walking. “You did what?”

  Suddenly, I’m uncertain. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No. No, love,” he says. “I just…I didn’t know you were worried about that. The statute of limitations on assault is six years.”

  “I know,” I say, staring up at him. “You can’t be extradited.”

  “Not that Jack Murphy ever pressed charges. He didn’t,” adds Ian. “He knows he beat up Albie and sent him to his death.”

  “So, you already knew,” I say, tilting my head to the side.

  “Sure,” he says. “I’ve known for years. I just didn’t have permission to share the details with you…until today. I talked to Gene, Brenda, and Craig. They said that if I trust you, they trust you too. I can tell you anything you want to know.”

  “As long as you’re safe,” I say, looping my arms around his neck and standing on tiptoes to kiss his lips. “I don’t need to know anything else.”

  “I’m safe,” he says, kissing me back.

  “You’re mine,” I tell him.

  “That I am, lass.”

  We kiss again before he takes my hand and we continue our stroll toward the roses. But I’m reminded of something that’s not adding up: when Dylan asked to go to Ireland, Ian said no. And when I asked if he could return to Limerick, he said he couldn’t.

  “You can go back,” I say. “You could. If you wanted to.”

  He pulls me under the white-painted pavilion, where roses clamber up lattices and hang across arches and cascade down ladders, all second-chance flowers, all in the second flush of bloom.

  “But I don’t,” he insists, setting the picnic basket down on the ground so that he can cup my cheeks tenderly. “I won’t ever. Limerick is my past. Brooklyn, here with you, macushla, is my future.”

  Dio Mio, I think, before his lips touch down on mine and all decent thoughts are whisked away, may it be so.