Page 97 of Twice
Gianna, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, walked quickly along Elizabeth Avenue, hands in her pockets, a hood pulled over her head. In the moonlight, she saw the dark outline of Fort Fincastle, built in the eighteenth century to protect the island from pirates. She saw its tall, cylindrical water tower nearby. The landmark staircase Alfie had mentioned was just below, surrounded by high walls. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly 11:30 p.m.
She had persuaded Detective LaPorta to let her return to her hotel, on the promise that she would remain there until tomorrow for further questioning. But an hour ago, she had slipped through the sliding doors of her room’s private patio and snuck out through the resort’s rear hedges.
She felt bad about lying. LaPorta had driven her back himself, firing endless questions about Alfie’s story.
“He’s suffering from delusions, Detective,” Gianna kept saying. “You can’t make sense of a sick mind.”
Privately, she was less than sure. Yes, this whole invention of magical second chances was crazy. But so many early memories Alfie had written aboutwereaccurate. Why was the rest of it fantasy? Especially the parts about the two of them? They were never lovers. Clearly never husband and wife.
The truth was, when they graduated college, Gianna was headed to Patagonia to photograph wildlife, and she figured Alfie would pursue his music in New York. But, lacking anyconcrete plans, he asked if he could accompany her. “One last vacation,” he had called it. He was a big help with the equipment on that trip and provided friendly conversation in the otherwise lonely hours away from home.
When Gianna sold the photos, the magazine that bought them offered her a new assignment in Glacier Bay, Alaska. She asked Alfie if he wanted to repeat his role. They continued on from there. The Galápagos. The archipelagos in Norway. The rain forest in Borneo. Several years passed. Gianna’s reputation grew. She shared some of the money she was making with Alfie. And pretty soon, photography was her full-time job and Alfie was her full-time assistant.
They were good travel companions and enjoyed the easy dialogue of longtime friends. They laughed constantly. They finished each other’s food. Over time, Gianna trusted Alfie with everything—her car, her house, her ATM card. She kept encouraging him to pursue his music, and he often said he would but never did.
When she met Mike again at her ten-year Boston University reunion, they rekindled their old romance. Alfie had been leery. When they got engaged, Alfie wouldn’t look at her.
“Why do you hate him?” she asked.
“I don’t hate him. I just don’t want him to hurt you.”
“He’s not going to hurt me, Alfie.”
“He did once.”
And, of course, he did it again. Gianna put up with Mike for fourteen years, because she thought a marriage meant enduring, and they’d been pretty good at the beginning andshe’d hoped they could start a family. But it didn’t happen. Mike had a decent job in medical sales, then lost it because of his drinking. He lost another one when he cursed out his boss in front of a roomful of clients.
He turned to gambling. Casinos. Horse races. Gianna stuck by him. Even tried to find him a new firm. But when she discovered he’d secretly used her money to purchase a speedboat which he’d used to take a waitress on a three-day trip to Key West, she’d had enough.
Their divorce was long and ugly and, as the breadwinner, Gianna had to pay Mike alimony. He used the funds for gambling, while she downsized to a small property by the beach in South Carolina. Alfie moved into a guest house behind it. They’d lived there ever since.
Alfie was a sounding board for Gianna’s gripes about Mike, work, or anything else. He handled her shooting schedule and her equipment. He fixed whatever was broken around the property. And, now that she thought about it, shehadrested her head on his shoulder many times and cried on it often. But she had always taken that as friendship, not intimacy. Not romantic love. Never that. Or so she told herself.
Now, hurrying to meet a man she thought she knew so well, and realizing she didn’t know him at all, she wasn’t sure where one emotion ended and another began.
?
Alfie Logan sat on the bottom tread of the historic staircase, built by hand out of solid limestone. It was an astoundingconstruction, the work of many enslaved people. The surrounding walls were nearly a hundred feet high and draped with vegetation. While the area was often crowded during tourist hours, it was dark and silent now, with only moonlight as illumination.
Alfie’s heart was racing.Would she come? Had she read the pages?Although so much of his life was a rewind, this was all-new. He had no idea how the night would end, only that he would suffer a stroke at six minutes after midnight, according to his calculations. He hadn’t allowed for much time with Gianna. That was deliberate. If she was open to hearing his confession, it wouldn’t take long, and he could endure what came next with a certain peace of mind.
And if she didn’t show up? Well, he didn’t want a lot of time brooding while he waited for a blood vessel to burst in his brain.
“Alfie?”
And there she was, walking toward him, bathed in blue moonlight. The one true love of his life.
She lowered her sweatshirt hood, pushed two hands through her hair and smiled like she always did when she saw him, as he croaked the words, “Gianna. You came.”
“Of course.”
She sat down next to him. Her voice dropped. “Alfie? What’s going on?”
He realized she now knew everything. The notebook had revealed a lifetime of secrets.What’s going on?The question seemed too big to answer.
“Please, Alfie. You can tell me. Are you sick? Has something affected your... thinking?”
“My thinking is fine,” he said softy.
