You tip my chin up with a fingertip. “And here’s the thing, Is:It doesn’t matter.None of that matters. Not anymore. Because you and me, honey, what we have is a beautiful future together.” You kiss my lips; I taste smoke, but it’s You, and I don’t mind. “It’s unwritten. We can make our future whatever we want. But to do that, you have to let go of Caleb, let go of Jakob, let go of Madame X.”
I just breathe. I breathe in Your scent. Press my palms to Your chest, flutter them up to Your throat, feel Your lips, the stubble on Your jaw, bury my fingers into Your hair. I breathe You.
Kiss You.
Taste You.
And in that kiss, in that taste of my lips on Yours,
I kiss,
I taste,
I breathe in the future.
With You.
Chapter
Seventeen
Two months after the explosion, our doorbell rings.
I am reading; You are cooking.
You answer the door; I hear murmurs, an unfamiliar male voice.
“All right, come on in, I guess.” I hear Your voice, wary and cautious. “What is this about?”
“I have to speak to Miss de la Vega, Mr. Ryder. I’m sorry, but I cannot divulge anything to anyone except her.”
I am showing now. I have taken to wearing loose dresses and yoga pants with stretchy waistbands. I put my e-reader down, and wait. You appear first, casual and perfect in jeans and a tank top, barefoot. The visitor is tall and thin, slightly hunched, as if expecting a blow any moment. Balding, only a fringe of graying dark hair remaining. Dressed in an expensive three-piece suit, complete with a pocket handkerchief and a matching tie, and carrying a slim brown briefcase.
I stand up. “I’m Isabel de la Vega.”
A hand, extended. “Good afternoon, Miss de la Vega. My name is Michael Yancey Bowen. I’m a senior partner at Bowen, Brown, and Callahan.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Bowen?” I put on what I think of as my Madame X persona, cool, aloof, superior. I have almost forgotten her, I think, and it is a relief to know I can still summon her indifference when I must.
“My firm represents the interests of Caleb Indigo, and by proxy, the entire Indigo spread of companies.”
“And again, how can I help you?”
Michael Yancey Bowen glances at a chair kitty-corner to the coffee table. “May I sit?”
I gesture, imperiously, to cover the nerves I feel. “Please. Would you care for coffee or tea?”
“No, thank you.” Michael takes the chair, sets the briefcase on the coffee table, and opens it with a flick of thumbs against latches. Withdraws a manila folder, turns it to face me, and sets it down in front of me. “As you may be aware, Mr. Indigo was an extraordinary businessman. He was extremely wealthy, and conservative with his wealth, considering the scope of his assets. He owned the high-rise here in Manhattan, a few vehicles, a private jet, and a small estate in the Caribbean. Other than that, there wasn’t much...except a startlingly massive amount of liquid assets in banks and tax shelters all over the world.”
“What does this have to do with me, Mr. Bowen?”
Bowen gestures at the manila folder and the small stack of papers therein. “The tower, along with all of his other physical assets, businesses, and subsidiary corporations, have been sold. He had no outstanding debt, so everything sold was at a rather tidy profit, and added to the already significant sum of money he possessed in movable liquid assets.”
“Again, Mr. Bowen, what does this have to do with me? Spit it out. I have no time for wading through legalese.”
Bowen gestures insistently at the folder. Withdraws an expensive pen from an inside suit coat pocket, taps the topmost paper. “Mr. Indigo had a standing will, which I personally drewup for him several years ago, and which he had me update four months ago. The update was simple, but sweeping.”
The line Bowen tapped, near the bottom of the paper, is a number. A large number. Three commas between dollar sign and period.
