CHAPTER 11
JAMES
Present Day
June 25
Saratoga, California
James doesn’t see any other option. He and the boys must go to Kauai. Natalya’s home. Thomas wants James and Phil to meet at his office, but James doesn’t see the point. He still doesn’t remember what happened that day and as long as he doesn’t, Phil will deny he fired the gun at James. What has James running from his brothers is Carlos’s desperate plea to keep Julian and Marc safe. And he can’t do that when the chance of coming home to Phil in the kitchen instead of his mother is anything greater than his remembering what had incited the fugue state in the first place.
He also needs a place to think, about where he and his sons go from here. Because he has come to accept he can’t live in the same town as Aimee and not be with her. His decision to return to Los Gatos is just another in a long line of bad judgment calls.
But Nick thinks going to Kauai is a mistake. James’s best friend told him as much in the Garners’ backyard over the heat of the Bull grill searing their steaks. James had just happened to mention his relationship with Natalya.
“Is that wise?” Nick asks.
Staying at the house of a woman he’d been in love with? Probably not. They’d known each other for almost seven years. Been intimate for five, sharing a bed, their desires, and their fears. And other than the photos he’d seen on the wall, he can’t recall her face, let alone a single moment spent in her company. No, staying at her house won’t be awkward at all.
His stomach bottoms out as it always does when he thinks of her. Maybe he should get a hotel room.
“The boys trust her.” He swirls the amber ale he’s drinking.
Nick seems to consider this. He reduces the temperature on the grill and removes two steaks, leaving Kristen’s and Julian’s on a bit longer. He grilled hot dogs earlier for his daughters and Marc. Tongs in hand, Nick drags the back of his wrist across his sweaty brow. “Putting an extra thousand miles or so between you and Phil won’t stop him from going after you.”
He knows that. But avoiding Phil isn’t the only reason he’s leaving. He takes a massive drink from his beer. Deep in the pocket of his flat-front shorts, he flips Aimee’s engagement ring on and off his fingertip.
“Julian and Marc will be safer there with her.”
Nick almost drops Kristen’s steak. “You’re leaving them with her?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Now might be a good time to start.” Nick looks pointedly at him.
James flips him off.
But his friend is right. Here he is, running off again. He was reckless when he followed Phil to Mexico. And he was reckless when he approached Phil outside that dive beachfront bar.
James freezes, his mouth poised over the lip of the bottle, as a memory blinks in and out of his mind like a blip on a radar screen: Phil at a table with two other men. Locals given their attire, skin tone, and casual demeanor. The image is gone before he can make out the men’s faces and the location. James squeezes his eyes shut. Forcing the images makes his head ache.
Kristen calls from the house that the salad and potatoes are ready. Nicole squeals at the patio table, followed by Marc’s answering laugh. Nick adds the last steak to the plate and brushes down the grill, scraping off food bits. James picks up the plate to take inside.
“Like I said, the boys trust her. And from what I’ve read, I do, too.”
Present Day,
June 27
Two days later, James and his sons are back at the airport and he’s wondering about the woman he’ll see in six hours. She’s family, James thinks as he follows Julian and Marc through airport security. So far, she’s the only member of his family who hasn’t either screwed him over or tried to control some aspect of his life. Quite the opposite, actually. She’s been more than a sister-in-law to him and aunt to his sons. The way he sees it, he owes her. Call him curious, but he wants to meet the woman who once loved him.
By the time they collect their belongings from the carry-on baggage conveyer and James puts on his shoes, Marc is dancing on the balls of his feet. “I have to pee.” He cups a hand over his privates.
James motions to Julian. “Restroom, both of you, then breakfast.”
After a visit to the bathroom and a brief battle with Marc to wash his hands, he orders hot chocolate and pastries for the boys and a coffee and oatmeal for himself. They take their food to the gate, which is packed with vacationers in a multitude of colors and tropical prints, and find a single seat by the window. Marc climbs up on his knees to watch the plane and promptly drops his doughnut behind the chair. He looks at James and his lower lip quivers.
“Idiot,” Julian remarks at the same time he’s splitting his doughnut. He offers the half to his brother.
“Thanks.” Marc wipes a hand under his nose and bites into the doughnut.
James watches his oldest son sink to the floor, back propped against his pack, and is hit with that rapid free fall that comes with déjà vu as though he stepped off the edge of a diving board. He sees himself in Marc. How he curls his fingers as if holding a brush when he has the itch to paint. The tilt of his head when he’s listening to something important. And the reverent way he looks up to his big brother as though Julian’s words are gospel. But for the first time, he sees himself and Thomas in the way Marc and Julian interact. Julian is antagonistic and bossy toward his younger brother and James blames himself. The boys have been through several life-changing events in the last six months. But despite the upheaval, Julian still watches out for Marc while Marc continues to idolize his big brother. They’re closer to each other than to him, which had been the same for him and Thomas with their parents.
He removes the coffee-cup lid and blows across the surface, recalling one event in particular when Thomas had saved his hide. James had swung by the art store after school one afternoon to buy new brushes and pigment tubes. But in his haste to get home and change clothes to meet Nick and their buddies for a pickup football game in the park, he’d left his backpack with the supplies on the couch in the great room. He arrived home a couple of hours later, sweaty, grass-stained, and muddy, to find Phil in the dining room skimming through his geometry notes. The textbook, cracked to the latest chapter James had studied, lay open at Phil’s elbow. Phil had left the wide-open backpack on the chair beside him.
“What’re you doing with my stuff?” James’s gaze jumped from Phil to the backpack and back. He didn’t want to make it obvious he was looking for the art supplies, but where were they? The shopping bag was gone. He heard his mother on the phone in the other room. Did she take the bag?
James glared at Phil, who glanced up casually from the notebook.
“Mom said you failed your last test. I thought I could help you study.”
James narrowed his eyes. Math was his best subject. He might have missed two questions, and so what if Mom thought that was failing an exam. He didn’t need Phil’s help studying. And he sure didn’t want Phil going through his stuff without asking.
James flipped the textbook closed, dropped it in his pack, and tugged the notebook from under Phil’s forearm. It didn’t budge. He tugged again and Phil slowly grinned, leaning back in the chair. He hooked an elbow on the chair back and nodded his chin at James. “Watchya been up to?”
“Football with the guys.” He tucked the notebook away.
“That’s all?”
James zipped up and shouldered the backpack. “That’s all,” he replied, leaving the dining room.
“I was only trying to help,” Phil called after him.
James flipped him the bird over his shoulder. Then he swept through the great room looking for the shopping bag, first under the couch, then behind the table. His gaze skimmed the kitchen counters before he went to his room. He underhanded the pack onto the bed and stood there, rubbing his forearms. Had he left the bag at the store? No, he distinctly recalled stuffing it into his backpack before he hauled his ass home.
Too stressed to realize he was caked in filth, he sat at his desk and tried to study. He rolled the pencil between flat palms. He bounced the tip on the opened textbook. He shoved fingers into his crusty hair and squeezed. Complementary and obtuse angles blurred on the pages as his heart beat in his throat. His throat was dry and he wished he had a glass of water, but didn’t want to get one in case he ran into his mother. The longer he sat there, staring at his homework, the more he believed his mother had searched his backpack and found them. It was only a matter of time before she’d realize he was home. She’d ground him for months.
A light tap rapped on the door. James twisted in his chair and stared wide-eyed at the door. It cracked open. The shopping bag appeared, swinging from a hooked finger. Seconds later, Thomas’s wide shoulders filled the door frame. His brother shut the door behind him and tossed the bag at James. He caught it midflight.
“Where’d you find it?”
“On the floor in the dining room.” Thomas launched himself on the bed, landing on his back, hands behind his head and legs crossed at the ankle. “I bet it fell out when Phil snooped through your books. What an ass.”
“Thanks for covering mine.” James shoved the shopping bag into the desk’s bottom drawer, under a pile of old school notebooks. “He would’ve been a jerk about it.”
“It’s not his fault he is the way he is.” His brother grabbed the baseball tucked inside James’s glove abandoned on the floor by the bed. He shot the ball straight up, catching it before it landed on his nose.
“So it’s my fault he went digging through my stuff?”
“He’s just trying to get a rise out of you, but listen.” Thomas tossed the ball again, then curled up, sitting on the bed edge and catching the ball in one move. Resting his forearms on his knees, he lightly juggled the ball side to side. “Mom dragged us along to the Valley Fair Mall a couple of days ago. We ran into Dad’s secretary.”
“Mrs. Lorenzi?” She was as cavalier as their mother and should have retired a decade ago.
“You know how Mom and Dad and Uncle Grant won’t acknowledge Phil in public as Mom’s son?”
“Yeah, so? What happened?”
Thomas shrugged. “You know Mom. She can’t help talking about how great he is. ‘My nephew this. My nephew that.’” Thomas mimicked the tone and cadence of their mother’s voice. Then he scratched his head, ball in hand. “You’d think Phil would be cocky as shit with the compliments. He looked ill, and a little sad. I felt sorry for the guy.”
James frowned. “What does that have to do with his being an ass?”
Thomas shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. I got this feeling our parents and Uncle Grant are creating their own hell storm. One of these days Phil’s going to get sick of us calling him cousin.” His brother underhanded the ball and James caught it, putting it aside. Thomas stood and went to the door. “Does Aimee know about Phil?” His tone was curious.
James screwed his lips and shook his head. He was too embarrassed to tell her the truth. It disgusted him that his mother had sex with her brother. That would be like sleeping with Thomas if he were a girl. How gross was that? He still remembered the ridicule his family endured right before they left New York.
“Yeah, I think we’ve both done a good job sweeping that scandal under the rug. I haven’t told anyone either.” Thomas turned the handle and paused before opening the door. “Word of advice?”
James had turned back to his desk and homework. He cocked his head toward Thomas. “What?”
“Do the same about your art. You’ve slipped a couple of times lately.”
James agreed. He’d gotten careless. He looked at the drawer where he hid the shopping bag. “If you didn’t have to work for Mom and Dad’s company after college, what would you want to do?”
Thomas was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”
“If you did think about it?”
“Brian Holstrom’s dad works for the FBI. He’s told us some really cool stories.” He shrugged, then held up his hand, fingers splayed. “Dinner in five.” His brother shut the door, leaving James with exactly four minutes to clean up and one minute to get his rear to the table. He sprinted into the bathroom, thoughts of Phil rinsing away with the dirt and grime.
The loudspeaker crackles overhead, reminding James of where they are and why. Boarding would begin shortly for their flight. He nudges Julian’s shin with the toe of his sneaker. “That was nice of you,” he says, referring to the doughnut half Julian sacrificed. “You’re a good brother.”
Julian doesn’t reply, just looks at him, then buries his face in his phone, cramming the rest of the doughnut in his mouth.
Standing beside his sons, James finishes his coffee and juggles his oatmeal, mixing in a packet of nuts and dried fruit. Flip-flops and loafers cross his line of vision while he eats. He scrapes the bottom of the bowl and takes his last bite when a pair of strappy, rhinestone slides fills his vision. They sparkle like crazy. Then he feels the owner’s presence and his entire demeanor hardens. The pulse in his neck throbs. He doesn’t have to see who’s wearing the tailored sundress with the thin leather belt tightened at a slender waist as he draws his gaze upward. He doesn’t have to look past the tiny pearl button at the neckline and into her pinched face to know who’s standing beside him.
The oatmeal he just ate lands hard in his stomach. What the hell?
“Hello, James.” His mother greets him with the closed-lipped curve of a smile.
For the second time this week, his jaw lands on the floor over her unexpected appearance. He has to stop himself from asking Marc to pick it up along with his dirty doughnut.
James gapes at the woman who lied to him and his sons for five years. The same woman who abhorred his artistic talent, so much so she’d ordered him to return the first oil-paint set Aimee had gifted him on his twelfth birthday. A frivolous talent, James, and not worth wasting your time on.
This came from the same woman who’s an artist herself. A brilliant one, too. He’d seen the piece displayed in the upstairs hallway of their house in Puerto Escondido. Carlos had also described in his journals the other works she’d painted during her extended stays in Mexico.
His pulse pounds in his ears. “Why are you here?”
Claire’s face twitches. Her barely there smile falters.
“Señora Carla!” Marc launches to his feet and hugs Claire, smearing sugar and sprinkles on her sundress. She doesn’t blink an eye, but her smile is back, brighter and wider.
“Are you coming to Hawaii? Will you stay with us? Tía Natalya will be very happy to see you.” Marc speaks rapid Spanish, unable to contain his excitement.
Julian looks up from where he’s sitting and stares bug-eyed at Claire, just as surprised as James to find her there. He slowly rises to his feet, sliding off his headphones to drape around his neck. He glances to James, then back to Claire, and James knows it won’t be long before his son figures out who Claire is, and what she’s been hiding from him for years.
Claire kisses Marc’s head, then does the same to Julian, who’s slowly warming up. She hugs him, then meets James’s hard gaze. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Give us a minute,” he tells his kids. He grips Claire’s upper arm and hauls her a few seats away.
“James,” she gasps.
He stops by the trash bin and tosses the oatmeal bowl, then launches into his mother. His teeth are gritted to keep his voice low and somewhat under control. “We might have had some messed-up friendship thing going on in Mexico, but fact is fact. You took advantage of my memory loss. Do . . . not . . . expect us to pick up where we left off.”
“Watch your tone with me.” Her eyes arrow left, then right, concerned they were making a spectacle of themselves.
James loosens his grip and lets his arm fall to his side. “Why are you here?”
Her polished nails flutter to the pearl button at her neck. “Thomas told me you were leaving. He thought I’d want to know.” Her face softens. “You can use my help. The boys know me.”
“As Señora Carla. I thought you weren’t speaking with Thomas.”
She grimaces. “We talk only when necessary. James, darling, please. You weren’t home nearly long enough and Thomas didn’t know when you’d be back.” She glances around James. “I miss them. I haven’t seen them since last December.”
A chill rappels down his spine like a rock climber on a cliff face. “You were in Mexico last December?”
She looks surprised. “Of course I was. I went every year right after Thanksgiving. I’d stay through the Christmas holiday.”
But he hadn’t seen her. Which only meant one thing in James’s mind. She’d known he surfaced and had left the country.
Over the speaker the attendant announces boarding for first-class passengers. Claire opens her purse and retrieves her ticket. “You aren’t the only parent in this family worried about their children’s welfare.”
Since when had she cared about him? “A box of expensive paintbrushes doesn’t make up for years of ignoring something I used to be extremely passionate about.”
Claire snaps shut her purse. She frowns. “What do you mean ‘used to be’?”
“You finally got what you wanted, Mother. I stopped painting.”
She tucks her purse under her arm and averts her face. She watches the luggage being loaded onto the plane. “I’m still going. I have a ticket and a hotel reservation.”
The gate attendant announces the next boarding group and passengers mill toward the gate. Julian looks impatiently at him and mouths Let’s go. James holds up a finger, a signal he’ll be there in a second, then turns back to his mother. “I can’t stop you. I can, and I will, determine when and how you interact with my sons.”
“When do you plan to tell them about me?”
“I’m not sure I will.”
“But I’m their grandmother. You have no right keeping me from them.”
“Are you kidding me?” A short laugh rumbles from his chest. He gives his mother a look of disgust. “I have every right.” He shakes his head, still laughing at her audacity, and returns to his sons.
Their row block is announced. “Grab your stuff, kids. Time to go.”
“Where are you sitting, Señora Carla?” Marc asks once they’re in line.
“I’m in the very front.”
“Of course you are.” James fumbles with the zippers on his pack, searching for their tickets.
Julian gives him a weird look. “What’s your deal?”
“Life, Julian.” He gives his son his ticket. “Don’t lose it.”
“Seriously?” he balks. “What do you think I’m going to do? Drop it between here and the gate?” A woman with a toddler rushes forward, bumping Julian’s shoulder, knocking the ticket from his hand. It floats to the floor.
James snorts a laugh. He can’t help it.
“Shut up,” Julian mumbles. But his mouth twitches into a smile when he picks up the ticket.
James pats Julian’s shoulder, leaving his hand there to rest as they inch toward the gate. To his amazement, his son doesn’t shrug him off.