Instead of presiding endlessly behind the high counter, Fulgencio now spent time with Carolina and Paloma Angélica, the sources of his joy and rejuvenation. The three were inseparable. In the years before Paloma Angélica left for college, they traveled the world, seeing it all for the first time together. Wandering like three awed children, they held hands as they roamed through the grandiose palaces and cathedrals of Europe, climbed the pyramid of the sun in Teotihaucan, savored the spicy foods of East Asia and India. Learning. Absorbing. Relishing. They explored the world not with the thirst of those searching for meaning, but rather with the appreciation of those who have already found peace. And from their travels they returned with countless artifacts to adorn their homes, both the one on El Dos de Copas and the one across the border in La Frontera.
For when Paloma Angélica began middle school, they moved into the Mendelssohn’s sagging and cloistered home. However, it was not proximity to Paloma Angélica’s new school that Fulgencio sought, he confided to his daughter.
Over the next few months, Carolina and Paloma Angélica transformed the decaying home into the warm and wondrous Norman Rockwell portrait Fulgencio had longed for in his youth. Fresh coats of paint, new furnishings and rugs, larger windows and skylights in the stairwell filled the home with life and light. And Paloma Angélica’s laughter rang throughout the house.
Carolina’s mother was so reinvigorated by the presence of her daughter and granddaughter, that she too underwent a transformation. She worked harder than ever in the gardens, imparting upon Paloma Angélica her vast knowledge of botany and horticulture.
But as the first school year came and went, Fulgencio seemed to grow increasingly antsy. On Valentine’s Day, he appeared in the kitchen doorway with two-dozen red roses for Carolina.
Dropping to one knee, he proposed: “Marry me again, Carolina. Marry me right here in this very house.”
Her smile illuminated the freshly painted kitchen as if a roaring fire had suddenly been ignited in its hearth.
That summer, the family gathered in the backyard. All of Carolina’s uncles and aunts were there, as were all of her mother’s friends. Fulgencio’s family came as well. Little David was his best man. Nicolas Junior and Fernando brought their new brides and babies. And Ninfa del Rosario thanked God that—at long last—Fulgencio and Carolina would be married officially by a living and properly ordained Catholic priest. (Although she noted that since the ceremony was not taking place within a church, it still might not count.)
The gardens behind the house were sculpted and trimmed to perfection. The wedding scene was set in white. Roses, gardenias, and calla lilies saturated the breeze with their scent. Fulgencio, clad in a black tuxedo, awaited Carolina beneath an arched trellis decorated with white blooms.
As the mariachis began playing the wedding march, Carolina stood in her white wedding dress at the start of the long runner leading to her groom. Suddenly, she felt a tugging at her elbow. It was Paloma Angélica pulling on her sleeve.
“Mamá. There’s a man inside that says he’d like to walk you down the aisle.” She pointed toward the house. Standing by the back door, in a perfectly pressed black tuxedo, appeared Carolina’s father.
Paloma Angélica would never forget the expression of awe and love that graced her mother’s face as she took her father’s hand.
As the music played, he walked Carolina slowly down the aisle, toward Fulgencio. When they reached the makeshift altar, he took their hands and placed them together, looking deeply into their eyes.
“Forgive us, father,” Carolina said, her voice trembling with emotion.
“Forgive me, sir,” Fulgencio added. “It was all my fault.”
Arthur Mendelssohn put his arms around them and replied, “Forgiveness has never been mine to give, but I gladly give you my blessing.”
So the two were wed again, before the teary eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Mendelssohn who embraced each other with Paloma Angélica giddily pressed between them.
One night, not long after the vow renewal, in the shadows of Mr. Mendelssohn’s den with Nat King Cole crooning in the background, Paloma Angélica studied at her grandfather’s desk as her parents warmed themselves by the crackling fire and Arthur Mendelssohn lounged in his leather chair.
Holding Carolina’s hand, Fulgencio asked his former mentor, “Why did you wait so long to show yourself?”
“I was gathering my strength,” he replied. “It wasn’t easy. The last years of my life left me somewhat weak and disillusioned. I was tired, but Paloma Angélica came and spoke to me here in this room. She couldn’t see me, but, nonetheless, she believed in me. She invited me. She told me how much it would mean to both of you. How could I turn her down?” He shifted, gazing at Paloma Angélica, smiling tenderly. “If it comes from you, it must be good.”
***
A faded black-and-white photograph of Arthur Mendelssohn in his navy uniform was the last item Paloma Angélica placed in her suitcase before closing it, right next to the disk containing her father’s songs. She stood in the emptied apartment she had once decorated with her drawings and her pictures and her things from home. She marveled at how paradoxical life was. That the things that pained her and hurt her the most all these years away, the things she missed, were also the very ones which held the power to heal her soul, the glue which kept her identity and her vision of the future together. The old typewriter in its case. Her great-grandfather’s leather suitcase. The dog-eared black and white image of her grandpa. The voice of her father. And—she clasped the tiny gold medallion of the Madonna and Child—the soothing memory of her mother.
As the taxicab pulled away from the ivy-covered walls of her brownstone, she looked out the window wistfully as her recent past rushed by. Six years in Cambridge. Her bachelor’s and her master’s in hand, her papelitos as her father called them. Then another handful of years in New York, winning awards for her innovative bridge designs, bridges as meeting places rather than simple crossings, bridges as places to exchange and share cultural experiences rather than simply goods and merchandise, bridges as communities, bridges as the cities of the future. She had worked tirelessly, just like her father had taught her. How she had missed Fulgencio and Carolina despite their frequent visits, despite having friends to fill what little free time her work permitted. They were her best friends, she thought, the two lovers who still behaved like children in each other’s presence.
As the cab cruised down the West Side Highway, she smiled in anticipation of seeing them again. Sailboats out on the water beneath a perfect blue sky. The downtown towers gleaming like crystal beneath the golden sun. Rolling down the window, she felt the soft breeze on her face and she felt as if she were halfway home already. She remembered her father’s words one day as they sat alone in the drugstore. He had said, waving his arms in a grand gesture, “It took me years to figure out that what truly heals is not all these drugs and medicines. No, no señorita. Only love can heal. The love between two people. The love of family and home. The love you hear in a song or see in a painting or design. El amor vive eterno.” Love lives eternal.