AIMEE
When Ian first told me about his mom’s arrest and imprisonment, he explained that he wanted to be up-front with me. James hadn’t been open and honest about his family history and Ian respected my need to know about his childhood, and why he was estranged from his dad. Over dinner one evening, he relayed the sequence of events, from being abandoned on the roadside to being dragged in a truck-stop parking lot, with the detachment one used as though talking about someone else. I listened in stunned silence, my heart going out to the young boy he’d been. My soul ached for the man he’d become. That detachment spoke volumes. His past was as much a part of him as the humor and carefree spirit that made up his character. And he hadn’t moved on from it.
Ian had told me previously his mom didn’t physically abuse him, but emotionally? I couldn’t understand why he wanted to find her after the years of turmoil he endured. His love for her, though, was unconditional. He didn’t blame her for how she was. It wasn’t her fault her mind fragmented. But after hearing the full story today, I better understand his pursuit, and his guilt. He believed he owed her an apology for taking the photos the prosecution subpoenaed—the photos he thought would help her case, not imprison her. He blamed himself for why things were the way they were with his parents. That’s an enormous burden to be carrying all these years.
I watch him talk with his dad, head bowed and hands on hips. Their voices are low and Ian keeps his face averted from mine. I can’t hear them so I don’t know how Ian’s taking everything in—seeing Stu for the first time in a long time, Stu’s sickness, and whatever Stu’s telling him—until he turns to me. They both look my way. While Stu’s expression is curious, Ian’s demeanor is all sorts of anger, confusion, and hurt.
I want to go to him. Everything inside me is pushing me his way. But other than waving, I don’t move a muscle. I give him the space he asked for.
Ian’s eyes latch onto mine. We watch one another for a long moment, and when I smile, a smidge of the tension straining his face eases.
They walk off together and talk under a large tree behind the house, a bench and leaf-sprinkled ground giving the yard a parklike setting. They talk for a long time, and I wait. I’d wait for as long as Ian needed me to, for he’ll need me when it’s over.
I catch up on e-mails. I call Kristen and ask about the new baby. Theo is nothing short of perfect. He’s a good eater and sleeper and isn’t fussy. It’s Kristen’s third child. I figure she has a good handle on motherhood by now and anything Theo does will seem like a stroll through peppermint frosting compared with the first child. Short of the usual exhaustion that accompanies a newborn, life is grand for the Garners.
I call my mom, dodging her questions about Idaho and Stu. This is Ian’s story to tell, and perhaps he will share it with her one day during our Sunday lunches at my parents’. For now, I let her know we’re flying home in the morning.
I’m reading a book I’d brought along with me when Ian settles on the porch chair beside me some ninety minutes later. His face is drawn, the conversation with Stu, jet lag, and the National Geographic assignment taking its toll. He takes my hand, kisses each knuckle, and asks if I don’t mind spending the afternoon at the house, which I don’t. Finding my way into town, I buy us lunch, deli sandwiches and sodas. Ian spends the next five hours working himself to exhaustion. He patches the hole in the laundry room and repairs the porch. He’s sweaty and dusty by the time he’s done and I get the sense he’s making up for lost time by cramming as many odd jobs around the property as he can in these few hours.
We learn that Stu moved into an assisted-living facility five months ago. He makes it out to the farm every few weeks to check on the house. He collects the mail and papers, and when he agrees to my offer, I go online and arrange for both to be forwarded to his new address, little things he never got around to doing when he moved out.
It’s late afternoon when we say our good-byes. Ian reassures Stu he’ll call to schedule a date to sign the paperwork, for what, I don’t know. He’s quiet on the drive back to Boise, lost in his thoughts. I hold his hand so that he knows I’m here for him when he’s ready to find his way back.
We check in to a hotel near the airport and Ian immediately shuts himself in the bathroom and takes a shower. When he’s done, his hair still damp and jaw overdue for a shave, his skin smelling of soap, he settles at the table with his laptop.
“Al moved the feature up an issue. He wants my pictures tomorrow morning.” He powers up the laptop and types in his password.
“Did you just find that out?”
“He e-mailed this morning.”
“That doesn’t seem right. He isn’t giving you much time to edit your work.”
Ian shrugs.
“Does he expect you to edit them?”
He shakes his head. “He wants the raw images. His team narrows the selection to support the article and edits them. But that’s not how I roll.” They’re his photos, his work and reputation on the line. I don’t blame him for putting in the extra effort, but after sailing in a similar boat, I worry he’s taking on too much. Squinting at the computer, he opens his apps and gets to work. He barely registers when I kiss his cheek and tell him I’ll pick up dinner.
I walk across the street to Applebee’s and order dinner to go. The hostess hands me a pager and I slip outside to make a few phone calls. I explain to my banker that I’m certain I want to cancel the loan application and I tell the property owners of the two sites I’d been considering that I’m no longer interested. When I finish, gone is the desire to conquer the coffee world, as Ian once described to me. In its place blossoms the same excitement and nerves I felt when I first opened Aimee’s Café. It makes me eager to get back to milk-and-butter basics. Baking cakes and breads and delicacies. Crafting new specialty drinks to add to my ever-growing menu. Taking down James’s paintings.
Yeah . . . that.
I should have removed them years ago. Good thing James is expecting to receive them.
I’ll take care of it this week, I decide, adding a note on my calendar to pick up packing material, and the Applebee’s pager vibrates.
After I get our food and start back toward the hotel, Nadia calls me. I stop at the sidewalk and stare at the image on my screen, the two of us at the Garners’ ugly sweater party last Christmas. Time to change that photo, but I’m not sure I’m ready to talk with Nadia. Still, I answer the phone.
“Hey, are you OK?” she asks after I greet her.
“I’m fine.”
“I’ve been trying to reach you. Did you really go to Spain?”
“I did, but we’re in Idaho now.”
“Idaho? What in the world are you doing there?”
“Visiting Ian’s dad. Hey, can we talk later? I just picked up dinner and Ian’s waiting.”
“Yeah, whenever you what. But, Aimee, about Thomas. I’m sorry.”
At the sound of Thomas’s name, I slow down and turn around, spotting a bench off to the side of the hotel entrance. I sit down. The stale odor of nicotine clings to the air. Cigarette butts litter the receptacle beside me, ends sticking out of the sand like rotted dock pilings on a beach.
“I went to see him.”
“Thomas? You went to his office? About me?”
“Another matter, but yes, your name did come up. I’m still having a hard time understanding why you took the job.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line before she comes on to say, “Do you remember Thomas in high school? He used to be funny and real.”
“And then he changed.”
“Yes, he changed,” she agrees, her voice quiet, reflective.
“Now he’s cold, calculating, and manipulative,” I point out. “You can’t forget that.”
“I know, you’re right.”
“So, you didn’t go to dinner with him the other night?” I ask, recalling their text message exchange.
“I did, and . . .” Her voice trails with remorse.
“Please don’t tell me you slept with him.”
“Jesus, no. We didn’t even kiss.”
“What did you do, then?”
“We ate, Aimee. And we talked. He’s lonely. He has a lot of regrets.”
“Nadia.” I drag out her name. “Do you have feelings for him?”
“I don’t know if I’m attracted to him, or just got caught up with the man he used to be. The guy sure can turn on the charm.”
“I repeat. He’s manipulative.” I don’t say anything further, and for a moment we’re both quiet, lost in our thoughts. I’m not sure I can handle Nadia dating Thomas, but I don’t want to lose her as a friend either. “Are you still working with him?”
“Yes, but not for much longer. I send off the plans next week. Unless he makes any changes, my contribution to the project will be done.”
“Are you going to see him again after that?”
“I won’t if you don’t want me to. Our friendship is too important.”
“I can’t tell you who you can or can’t date. Just know that I don’t trust anyone in the Donato family, especially Thomas. You shouldn’t either. Be careful around him. I care about you too much.”
“Don’t worry about me. I will.”
“Good. Now I need a favor from you. Meet me at the café Thursday evening.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see. I’ve got to go. My dinner’s getting cold.”
I end the call, and on the way back to the room, I purchase two beers in the lobby bar. Ian’s still at the table upon my return. He briefly looks up when I set his dinner and open beer beside him, but he doesn’t touch his food. I quietly eat mine so as not to disturb him, then take a shower. When I’m finished, dewy and wrapped in the hotel’s terry-cloth robe, I return to his side. He’s turned off the lights and shut down his laptop. He faces the window, which he opened in my absence. The sheer curtain billows like an ocean surface. Our room is on the second floor and the soft glow of the parking lot lights cast Ian’s profile in muted grays like an old black-and-white movie. He still hasn’t touched his food.
“Ian?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Al won’t contract me again if he doesn’t have the shots by morning. I’m not even halfway done.”
“They seem to be in an awful rush for this feature. Can you get an extension? Tell him you’ve had a family emergency.”
“Oldest excuse in the book. He won’t buy it.”
He looks at his hands and runs a nail around his thumb cuticle. “Stu knows where Sarah is.”
My breath catches in my throat. “Did he tell you?”
He nods. “He bought a condo in Paradise and set her up there after her release. He found her a job, too. She’s a seamstress at a dry cleaners in Las Vegas.”
“Ian.” I can’t even.
I sink to my heels, looking up at him, and grip his hand with both of mine.
“He’s been supporting her and he expects me to take over when he’s gone. Thing is, I can’t see her. Unless it’s a medical or financial emergency, or she reaches out to me, I’m not fucking allowed to contact her.” He snatches his beer and downs half.
“Why not?”
“Jackie was violent. My mom doesn’t trust herself around me. She doesn’t want to hurt me.”
“But that was a long time ago. Surely she’s had time to better understand and manage her condition.”
Ian shrugs. He finishes his beer and sets down the bottle. “She has a companion. She’s a nurse or something like that, and she lives with my mom. She helps her with her schedule and accompanies her when she leaves the condo. I’m expected to communicate through her.” He looks down at me and smiles. It comes across as a sneer. “It all makes sense now, why my dad took on those extra assignments. He was saving money. He and Sarah hatched the plan long before her sentence was up and he kept everything from me. He let me believe my mom needed distance and that she didn’t love me. Turns out that’s why she left. She loved me too much to risk hurting me again. All these years I thought she hated me and all I wanted was to tell her, ‘I’m sorry.’”
My heart breaks for him. I kiss his hand, turn it over, and kiss his palm. I press his palm against my cheek.
“I don’t think I can do it, Aimee. I can’t make financial and medical decisions on her behalf and not see her.”
Crawling into his lap, I wrap my arms around him, threading my fingers in his hair, now dry and wavy. He lowers his forehead to my shoulder and ropes his arms around my back. He sighs, a long exhalation full of sadness.
Ian, my Ian.
I kiss his head and he murmurs something incoherent. His hair tickles my nose as I inhale his scent. Tea tree shampoo and hotel soap. I want to absorb his pain, take it all away from him.
He murmurs my name and lifts his head. We look at each other. His eyes are dark and full of anguish. I want to comfort him, but he has other things on his mind. As the sheer curtains surge with a breath of night air, Ian takes my breath. He kisses me and kisses me again, deeply. His hands move to my front and untie the belt at my waist. He parts the flaps and cool air moves over my skin like morning mist over water. Slowly, gently, his hands trace the lines of my waist, the edges of my breasts. His thumbs carefully outline my nipples, and still, he kisses me.
I meet his kisses, take in the lingering taste of hops on his tongue. Then everything changes, happening fast. My robe is off, I’m in the air, the muscles in Ian’s arms twisting and cording underneath me as he carries me to the bed, his lips never leaving mine. My head has barely settled on the feather pillows before he’s stripped and covering me, his flesh on my flesh, his hips between my legs. I close him in my arms and open for him, and he moves against me as though he can’t get enough. He can’t keep still. His hands are everywhere and it’s exquisite.
Our lovemaking has ranged from sensual and seductive to wild and rough, leaving us sore and exhausted. But his fervor, it takes us to a whole new level. It’s lewd and beautiful, dirty and glorious.
He stirs everything inside me as he kisses me, as he flips me over, as I take him deep, and deeper still. Only then does he consume me, his fingers biting into my skin. He moves in a way that makes me hunger for him, and makes me aware he’s exorcising years of pain and unrest. And I take it. I take it all. Everything he has to give me, and when he’s spent, our breathing erratic, his forehead drops to rest between my shoulder blades. We lie like that, in the quiet, enveloped in darkness, until our heartbeats slow. I start to drift off to sleep when I feel a drop on my back followed by another.
Ian.
I roll over. He lifts his head and I cup his face. His jaw is tight and the skin is tense around his eyes—his beautiful, soulful eyes.
“Ian.” My love.
I kiss the moisture from his cheekbones, then hold him to my breast, where he falls into a fitful slumber.