CHAPTER 14
CARLOS
Five Years Ago
August 13
Puerto Escondido, Mexico and San Jose, California
It took two weeks after Natalya left for me to work up the courage to book my travel reservations to California, which I made for another two weeks out. Even though I gave myself time to prepare, nerves twisted my stomach days before my flight, and not solely because of my fear of traveling with my condition. Going to California meant that I trusted Thomas’s word, that my identification wasn’t forged and that I wouldn’t be stopped by Customs and imprisoned or deported.
Despite my fears, I had to go. I had to learn whether I could trust James to care for Julian and Marcus. I also wanted to know more about why and how Jaime Carlos Dominguez came to be. Thomas wouldn’t give me the answers over the phone. He had to tell me in person. If that was the case, then it would be on my own terms, which was why I didn’t tell Thomas I was coming. I didn’t want him censoring who and what I saw just to convince me to stay, or to provoke me from the fugue state.
The boys would stay with the Silvas while Pia would manage the gallery. Carla had been taking weekly classes from me, so the morning of my flight I went to her house to reschedule for when I returned.
She invited me upstairs. “I want to show you my studio.”
I followed her up. “Wow!” Natural light spilled across the loft like liquid gold, but what astounded me was the number of paintings she’d produced in the last four weeks.
“I found the art store you mentioned.”
“Yeah, you did.” Three easels had been erected by the windows with canvases in various stages of completion. Paint tubes, brushes, palette boards, and mason jars filled with turpentine crowded the table in the middle of the room.
“I’m trying my hand at watercolors, too.” She showed me a smaller table in the corner of the loft. She drew a brush from a jar and rolled it between her palms. The handle clicked against her rings. “I can’t stop painting. It’s like I’m making up for lost time.”
The corner of my mouth lifted. I was well acquainted with the feeling. The glide of paint across canvas, the pungent scent of solvents, and the scratch of the palette knife through pigment. They lured me back to the studio like the scent of a woman in my bed. I thought of Natalya, back home in Hawaii. I missed her. November couldn’t come soon enough.
I studied an oil canvas set aside to dry. The color layering was technical and advanced. “These are masterful.” The brush clicked faster in her hands and I loosely gestured at it. “I do that, too, when I want to paint.”
“Oh.” Carla stared at the brush, then stabbed it into a mason jar and grasped both my hands. “Thank you for bringing art back into my life.”
“You’re welcome.”
She grinned and released my hands. She capped an oil tube and a turpentine flask.
I picked up a clean brush and stroked the bristles. They snagged underneath a nail bed. “I’m curious. Why did you stop?”
Carla was quiet, her back to me. She sorted pigment tubes by color, then gracefully laid a hand over them. “My father didn’t approve of a decision I’d made and the punishment was severe. He took away the one thing I was most passionate about.”
“Painting. He made you stop?”
“He did more than that. He forbade it. He also threatened to disown me should he find a single paintbrush in the house.” She raised a finger. Already thin-boned and delicate, Carla appeared smaller and more fragile with the admission. I sensed her withdrawal and my heart went out to her.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, folding my arms. I cleared my throat with the intention of changing to the subject that had brought me there. My flight left in a few hours.
“I’m doing fine now. It was a long time ago. We lived in an old stone house in upstate New York with a large fireplace.” She sorted clean brushes, aligning them in a wood case. She glanced over her shoulder at me and a sad smile curved her lips. “I used to love that fireplace, and I loved to read beside it. My father built fires during the winter that smoldered long into the night. That was until . . .” She paused and worried a paintbrush, fanning the bristles, then took a deep breath and put the brush away. “That was until my father gathered up my paintings. He built one of his roaring blazes. Flames shot up the chute. I could feel the heat on my cheeks from across the room. He ordered me to toss my canvases into the fire, and then he made me watch them burn.” She snapped shut the brush case, but she didn’t turn around.
My gaze roved over her paintings. Each one made it less obvious to the inexperienced eye she hadn’t painted for decades. I had a difficult time believing the long hiatus. “You never tried painting again once you moved out?”
Carla shook her head. She angled her face toward me, revealing the right angles of her chin, the upward swoop at the end of her nose. “At the time, I was underage with a child my parents abhorred, and my father forced my brother, who was six years older than me, to raise him. I married a couple of years later, and soon had two more children. There wasn’t time to paint, and eventually I simply lost interest. For a long time, everything about painting—the smell, the supplies, even watching someone else paint—reminded me of the horrible shame I’d brought upon my family. It still does.”
She turned around and circled a hand in dismissal. “You didn’t come here to listen to my pitiful life. What brings you here today, Señor Jaime . . . Carlos . . . Dominguez?” she asked with an air of formality and the touch of a smile.
Ever since I told her what the JCD stood for on my paintings, she’d been teasing me with my full name. She even threatened to call me Jaime when I pushed her skills with the brush. My mouth twitched. “Well,” I began, “I have to reschedule your class tomorrow.”
Her lower lip popped out. “That’s a shame. I look forward to our time together. Is everything all right?”
My gaze dipped to the floor, where I toed a discarded paper clip. “Yes . . . yes, it’s fine. I’ve had a last-minute opportunity to attend an art conference in Mexico City.” I picked up the clip and flipped it through my fingers. Outside of Natalya, I didn’t want anyone to know my destination. I used the same art-conference excuse I did with the Silvas and Pia.
“Sounds like a lovely adventure.”
I grimaced. If she only knew.
Carla moved around the table and fiddled with a flower bouquet. She snapped off two wilting daisies. “Would you like me to watch your sons while you’re gone?”
My brows arched. “Um, no . . . but thanks. The boys are staying with friends. I wanted you to know that we’ll be gone for a few days. We can do two lessons next week.”
She patted the flowers, shifted a few stems. I spotted a sticky notepad on the table and jotted down the Silvas’ phone number. “Just in case you need to get in touch. You already have my cell.”
She read the note and put it aside. “I guess I’ll see you in a few days, then.”
I sure hoped so, because that meant my ass hadn’t been hauled to prison, or I hadn’t been refused entry back into Mexico. My chest clenched and palms dampened just thinking about everything that could go wrong over the next five days.
“Before you go . . .” Carla pointed at a room off to the left. “I’m having the devil of a time with my wireless connection. It keeps cutting out. Will you take a look for me?”
I glanced at my watch. “Sure,” I said, and followed her into the guest room.
Five Years Ago
August 14
The captain announced our descent into San Jose and soon we were taxiing to our gate. I’d called Natalya during the layover in Los Angeles as soon as I went through Customs. The officer had scanned my passport, asked the nature of my stay (visiting family), where I was staying (downtown San Jose), and the length of my visit (four days). After a brief moment of eye contact, he stamped my passport and welcomed me to the United States of America.
Natalya and I both heaved a long sigh. She even laughed off the nervousness. But I had to wonder. How the hell did Thomas create a new identity for me in such a short time frame? He had the paperwork in Imelda’s hands within a week or so after my accident.
After a short diversion to the men’s room, I called Natalya again on my way to baggage claim. She picked up after the second ring. “You made it!”
“I made it.” I sighed dramatically and she laughed.
“How was the last leg of the flight?”
“Quick. My seatmate left me alone this time.” On the flight to Mexico City, the woman sitting beside me could tell I was nervous. She was gorgeous if caked makeup and tamale-red nails was your thing. She kept offering me gin and tonics to calm those nerves.
Natalya laughed. “Good thing, else I’d have to come rescue you. So . . . the plan is . . .”
“The plan is: shower, eat, bed.”
“It’s only two in California.”
“Yeah, I know.” I scratched my stubbled cheek. I hadn’t slept at all on the plane or during the layovers. “I’m going to pick up the rental car and drive around for a bit. I’ll find Aimee once I get my bearings.”
My luggage flipped onto the carousel and I snagged the handle, releasing it and dropping the bag wheel-side down in one motion. “I’ll call you tonight,” I said, walking through the automatic sliding glass doors to the arrival pickup zone and straight into Thomas. I stopped dead in my tracks.
Dressed in a slate-gray suit, arms crossed, Thomas lounged against an obsidian-black metallic Tesla. He gave me a short wave and a tight-lipped grin.
“What time do you think you’ll call?” Natalya was asking. “I’ll make sure I’m back from the beach.”
Every nerve inside me hummed at full throttle. Blood roared in my ears. My heart slammed against my sternum. How the hell did he know I was here?
“Nat, I’ll call you back.”
“Wait. What?”
I disconnected the call.
Thomas uncrossed his ankles and pushed away from the car. His hands slid into his trouser pockets. “Hello, Carlos. Welcome to California.”