CHAPTER 21
JAMES
Present Day
June 28
Hanalei, Kauai, Hawaii
Wired for an earlier time zone, James wakes before the sun. Rain drums outside, as it did on and off through the night. He changes into the running shorts and shirt he set out the night before and laces up his Nikes. It’s been too many weeks since he left the boys alone. Last winter he just didn’t care. He’d take off for a ninety-minute run and think nothing of leaving a five-year-old with an eleven-year-old who threatened daily he’d hitch a ride to the airport. His mind was damaged and the world he knew had moved on without him. He had to get outside and run, hard and fast until his lungs burned and calves cramped. So he did.
This morning, though, he runs for pure enjoyment, that rush of adrenaline that comes as the miles build. Because this time, his boys are safe, sleeping soundly under their aunt’s roof.
He slips on his iWatch, swipes over a text message from Thomas without bothering to read it, and preps the settings for his run. It will be a good one, and he plans to make it a long one.
He runs toward Kuhio Highway, maintaining a steady pace past homes shrouded under grayness. He knows the trees overhead and lawns yawning outward from the road are as green and bright as an acrylic painting. He saw them yesterday while driving to Natalya’s house. Where Carlos had loved the heat and rustic appeal of Puerto Escondido, its air pregnant with salt and dust, dry like the surrounding hills, James prefers the vintage feel of this beachside community. Hanalei is a 1950s postcard and running past the storefronts, elementary school, and little green Wai’oli Hui’ia Church, is like going back in time. As he eats up the miles, his shoes pounding the rain-drenched asphalt, he lets his mind wander. Back to the hours he pushed himself in football conditioning, running sprints, leading the pack. Then his mind meanders further. Back to the time they lived in New York and everything changed.
James was nine that Thanksgiving weekend when he, Phil, and Phil’s friend Tyler had walked in on his mother with Uncle Grant, Phil’s dad, in the woodshed, their limbs roped around each other and clothes askew. After a stunned moment, Tyler grabbed Phil’s collar and dragged him away. Grant ran after them, pleading for his son to wait.
James’s mother straightened her skirt and gripped his shoulders. “You have to forget what you saw,” she pleaded. “Your father can’t ever know, and you can’t tell Thomas. Promise me.”
How was he supposed to forget this?
His mother shook him when he didn’t answer. “Promise me.”
He did, but it wasn’t through him his father eventually heard about James’s mother and her brother in the woodshed.
Phil had been told at a young age his mother abandoned him, leaving his father to raise him as a single parent. But after the shed incident, Phil went looking for his birth certificate. He’d always thought his mother and aunt had the same name, but after seeing his father and aunt together, the truth of his parentage was there in his aunt’s crisp penmanship, handwriting he recognized now that he was older. Claire Anne Marie Donato. Unfortunately for Phil and the rest of James’s family, Tyler was with Phil when he found the birth certificate. Shortly after Phil learned the truth, so did their friends at school, and eventually their small community, and their church. Soon the corridors and cubicles of Donato Enterprises, which had been headquartered in New York at the time, were buzzing about the Thanksgiving debacle. Because news about Grant Donato and his sister was gossip too shocking not to spread.
Disgraced, his father, Edgar, packed up the family and moved them across country, but not before he negotiated a windfall of a deal that landed him as the second largest shareholder next to Grant. He opened Donato’s western division, which eventually became the company’s headquarters upon Uncle Grant’s death. Strangely enough, Edgar still loved his wife, but he loved the company more.
Although Phil hadn’t been aware of it at the time, it was because of that deal and what he’d witnessed in the woodshed that had lost him any chance of inheriting Donato Enterprises.
Gasping as much from the memories as from pushing his body, James reaches Haena Beach Park quicker than he initially calculated. He ran the six miles from Natalya’s house at race pace. He bends over, hands on knees, lungs heaving. Sweat drips off the ends of his hair, his nose and chin, and lands in the grass. Phil changed with the knowledge of his parentage. Hell, they all did. In the end, though, Phil accomplished what he set out to do. The Feds seized a majority of Donato Enterprises’ assets and James lost Aimee. It would be easy to blame everything on Phil, but all three of them—Phil, Thomas, and James—lit the fuse that blew their family apart.
With James hidden in Mexico, Phil locked up in prison, and Thomas rebuilding Donato, he wonders if the past few years have only been the eye of the storm. What does Phil want with him? Has he burned off his need for revenge or is he still out for blood? Or could it be something else entirely? Damn, he wishes he could remember what happened inside that dive bar and on the boat.
As much as he would love to stay in Kauai, he knows he must return to California and meet with Phil. Find out the truth about what happened the day his mind crashed. If Phil indeed tried to kill him, James is in full agreement with Thomas. They have to do everything possible to lock Phil back up again.
On the run back into Hanalei, the sun’s morning rays peek through low-lying clouds and shimmers through the tree canopy, casting golden hues. His fingers twitch as though holding a phantom brush. For a moment, maybe two, he considers Googling where art supplies are sold on the island until he remembers Carlos’s acrylics, paintings as vibrant as the floral color palette in Natalya’s backyard. Canvases painted with a skill he can never hope to replicate.
Natalya loved Carlos’s work. Three of his pieces hung in her house. Scenes from Puerto Escondido, and none of them had a sunset.
In Hanalei, he stops for coffee, ordering one for himself and Natalya, then returns to the house. He leaves his shoes on the lanai and opens the glass slider. Raucous laughter and banging pots fill the rooms. He follows the noise and the sweet, syrupy scent of pancakes to the kitchen. He finds Natalya at the stove spooning batter into an iron skillet. Julian pours bright-pink juice into plastic cups and Marc waves a butter knife in an imaginary sword fight as he sets the table. His mother slices fruit with the skill of an executive chef.
He blinks, and if he weren’t holding steaming cups of coffee, he’d rub his eyes because he clearly questions his vision. First the egg sandwiches in Los Gatos and now this. Since when has his mother enjoyed working in the kitchen? He doesn’t recall ever seeing her cook anything. Their housekeeper left their after-school snacks waiting for him and Thomas on the kitchen counter. She was the one who cooked their meals. And, dear God, what is that floral tent his mother is wearing? It’s so bright that it shimmers.
Claire slides the blade through a ripe papaya and catches his gaze. She gives him a smile as dazzling as her attire. “Good morning, James.”
His mouth parts. “Uh . . .” He can’t take his eyes off her. The outfit, which he figures is a swimsuit cover-up, makes her look young, and artsy, and fun. She wants to be the fun grandma.
She puckers her lips, the fine lines deepening.
Ah, there’s his mother.
“Really, James. Close your mouth. The geckos I’ve seen running around here may think it’s a new home.”
Yes, it’s definitely her.
Marc giggles. He snorts in merriment.
“You think that’s funny?” James asks wryly.
Marc nods. “Uh-huh.”
“Hilarious,” Julian drawls in a flat tone.
“Julian,” Natalya warns.
James looks at her from across the kitchen. His hands sweat from the coffee’s heat. Natalya smiles. Good morning. Her lips shape the words. A rubber band loosely holds her hair in a messy bun at her nape and purple semicircles prop her green eyes. She’s the only one among the lively bunch who looks tired. It can’t be any later than eight, but everyone aside from her is functioning on Pacific time.
She flips a few pancakes onto a pile of others and turns off the stove. Then she beckons him to follow her into the main room.
“You don’t have to cook for us,” he says when she starts straightening magazines on the coffee table.
“I don’t mind.” She relocates them to the shelf under the TV console. “The boys love to help in the kitchen.”
That’s news to him. Though he doesn’t necessarily cook any meals. They mostly eat out. He sets down the coffee cups and makes a mental note to go to the grocery store today. He misses barbecuing and enjoyed helping with dinner last night.
“Your mom got here about an hour ago. She knew the boys would be up early.” She sorts the drawings Marc left scattered on the couch. He joins her there and picks up his son’s colored pencils. “And no,” Natalya says, giving him a crooked smile, “they don’t know who she really is. I’ll leave the big reveal up to you.”
“Thanks.” James grimaces, aligning pencils on the coffee table. One drops to the floor and rolls toward Natalya’s bare feet. She hands it to him, which he adds to the pencil queue, then sits down on the couch. “I didn’t think you’d tell them.”
“Claire’s not keen about that. Gosh, it’s weird calling her that.” She kneels on the floor and looks under the couch for wayward pencils, finding two. “Did Marc bring any paints?”
James shakes his head. “I didn’t want him to make a mess.”
“I have a vinyl tablecloth. He can use the kitchen table or the patio table on the lanai. The toy store in Princeville sells art supplies.” She scratches the base of her scalp with a pencil. “My dad called this morning.” Her crooked smile appears again. He likes the way it looks on her. “He woke me up, not your kids, in case you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t, but is everything all right?”
“Yes, he’s fine. He’s flying in earlier than I expected. Like this afternoon.”
“Ah. Are you telling me or warning me?”
She chuckles nervously and sits beside him. Her attention falls to the pencils, which she nudges back and forth. “I was kind of hoping he wouldn’t arrive for another few days so it could be just us for a while. By the way, how long do you plan to stay?”
Indefinitely.
The word appears on his tongue faster than he can come up with a more realistic answer. He presses his mouth closed to keep from saying it, though he wishes it were true. Life in California isn’t what it used to be, and the one person he wanted most who is there is no longer his.
But he knows he must return soon.
“I’m thinking a couple of weeks, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all. You’re welcome to stay longer. In fact, I’d love for you and the kids to stay longer. I haven’t seen them for a while. They don’t start school until August, right?” He nods and she rests a hand on his forearm. “Will you stay?”
“I think the boys will like that.”
“What about you?” Her gaze searches him. “Do you want to stay?”
James thinks of the engagement ring in his suitcase, which he’ll probably transfer to his pocket after he showers and changes. He thinks of his sons eating in the kitchen and how this woman beside him offered to help bring them all together.
“Yes, I want to stay.”
“Excellent,” she says, smiling. “Though you might change your mind when Dad arrives.”
“Have we met yet?”
“Once. At your wedding.”
His stomach drops and his mind jumps to Aimee and the wedding they never had. Instead, she spent that special day they’d reserved on their calendar for almost a year at his funeral and burial. Then he remembers Carlos married Raquel.
“What happened at the wedding?” There wasn’t much information in the journals. At that time, Carlos hadn’t been writing as though the journals were a life preserver.
“Well . . .” Natalya rubs her hands and stands. She picks up Marc’s backpack and pulls out his books. She stacks them on the coffee table. “Dad’s a womanizer and he was harassing Imelda, the woman you were told was your sister,” she adds when he frowns. “He wasn’t being too obnoxious. But she was annoyed, so you clocked him.”
James’s brows shoot to his hairline.
Natalya unzips each pocket. She shoves her hand inside and adds whatever she finds to the growing pile on the coffee table. “When you were Carlos, it didn’t take much to get you fired up. You were a very physical man.”
She ducks her head and the loose bun comes undone. Her hair falls forward, obscuring her face, but not fast enough. James caught the blush tingeing her cheeks. She’s embarrassed; nervous, too, judging by the way she’s searched each pocket more than once.
James stands and takes the pack. He wants to tell her she doesn’t have to be nervous around him, but she looks so darn uncomfortable that he’s concerned he may spook her and she’ll retreat behind her cold front again.
He sets the backpack aside. “I take it your dad doesn’t like me very much.”
“Not really.”
For some reason, the admission makes him laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
He laughs harder. He wipes the corners of his eyes. “Oh God. I can’t tell you how good it is to hear I’m not the only one with a screwed-up family. Here I thought you were perfect.” His tone is light and teasing.
“Well . . . he is your father-in-law.”
His eyes bug. “Good point. Don’t worry about him, though. I’ll do what I can to make amends. God knows what that’ll be.”
“Just be yourself. He’ll like you.”
He fights a smile as he looks down at her. He catches the scent of her lotion Carlos wrote about more than once. Warmth coils inside him as he breathes her in and his pulse quickens.
“And James?”
“Hmm?” he asks, his gaze transfixed on the line of her collarbone that disappears under her shirt’s neckline. He has the urge to kiss the dip between that bone and her shoulder.
“You stink.”
“Oh jeez. I ran twelve miles today.” His face heats. He chuckles and moves back, circling to the opposite side of the table.
“Is that for me?” She gestures at the coffee.
“Yes. I picked them up at the roasters a couple of blocks from here.” He gives her a cup.
She lifts the lid, blows across the top, and takes a cautious sip. Her eyes open wider. “How did you know the way I like my coffee?”
“It’s your favorite, right?” A touch of coconut milk with a shot of macadamia-nut syrup.
“Yes, but . . .” She traces a finger around the lip, looking uncomfortable. He can tell she’s thinking about Carlos’s journals. Maybe he shouldn’t make it obvious about how much he knows about her. The situation between them is already weird enough as it is.
“It doesn’t seem fair you know so much about me and I have to get to know you all over again,” she says, her thoughts aligning with his. But there’s an invitation in her observation.
“Do you want to, though?”
She taps the cup rim and nods.
He smiles, pleased she does. He picks up his cup, toasts hers, and sips through the lid opening. “Don’t worry about your dad. I’m looking forward to meeting him.” He grins broadly. “Again.”
While Julian surfs with his aunt, James borrows Natalya’s car and takes Marc and his mother grocery shopping. They barely make it through the produce aisle before Marc starts complaining. He’s bored. He wants to build sand castles at the beach with Tía Natalya. And he wants to color.
“Help me select the zucchini,” James suggests, bagging the squash he plans to grill.
Marc slumps, arms hanging loose. “This is booooring.”
James pushes the cart to the tropical fruit bin. Marc reluctantly follows, his flip-flops sliding along the linoleum floor. James selects two pineapples and compares their weight. “I can’t tell which one is ripe.” He had no problem selecting a cut of meat to go with potatoes and salad. Aimee always did the shopping for the other stuff. She’d been the cook in their relationship.
“Smell them.” Claire drops a bag of spiny maroon fruit in the cart. James sniffs each pineapple. “Scent or no scent?” his mother asks.
“This one smells sweet.” He bounces the pineapple balancing in his dominant left hand. “And this has no scent.”
His mother points at the unscented pineapple and he returns the sweet, overly ripe pineapple.
Marc peeks inside the cart and points at the spiny fruit. “What are those?”
“Dragon fruit,” Claire says.
“Whoa.” He pokes the fruit. “Do dragons eat them?”
“Maybe,” Claire says, playing along. “We’ll try one when we return to your aunt’s house.” She inspects the apple-bananas, a smaller, more flavorful banana varietal, as noted on the label James reads beside the price. He adds the pineapple to their groceries.
Marc swings from the cart. “Are we done yet?”
“Almost. We’ll go to the toy store next.”
“How about I take him there now?”
“What?” James tightens his grip on the cart handle.
“Sí, sí, sí!” Marc tugs Claire’s hand. “I mean, yes! Let’s go.” He tries dragging Claire away.
“I won’t wander off with him. I have no car.”
He scowls, and not because he suspects his mother will leave with her grandson like she thinks he believes. He wants to spend time with Marc.
“You don’t want to help me shop?” he asks his son.
Marc vigorously shakes his head. He tugs Claire’s hand. “Let’s go, Señora Carla.”
His mother grimaces at the name and James can’t help humming a laugh at her expense. Then he leans his forearms on the cart handle, narrowing his eyes, watching her.
She gives him a perturbed look. “I won’t say anything. Both you and Natalya have been quite clear about that. But James,” she adds, letting Marc tug her away, “grocery shopping isn’t how Marc wants to spend time with his father.”
James ducks his head and sighs. He hates to admit it, but his mother is right. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll meet you over there.”
She finger-waves good-bye. “See you soon.”
James watches them leave, their clasped hands swinging between them, and wonders when his son will voluntarily do the same with him. Once they’re out of sight, James checks the time on his phone. Voice-mail notifications litter the screen, one from his buddy Nick and several from Thomas. He slides the phone back into his pocket, making a mental note to call Nick later. Thomas can wait. Though he is curious if Thomas knows their mother tagged along to Kauai. Probably not. Thomas might be keeping their mother updated about his whereabouts, but he doubted she returned the favor.
James shrugs. Not his problem, he thinks, pushing the cart toward the meat department. He’s dying for a steak.
Thirty minutes later, James stands in the doorway of the Spotted Frog Toy & Art Supply, a quaint nook of a store. Rows of display shelves overflow with an assortment of puzzles, games, books, and paints. His gaze darts around the shop and a brush of panic sweeps through him. There’s no sign of his mother and son. He’s ten minutes late and they’ve already come and gone. But where to?
James glances around the shopping plaza. Marc’s attention span is shorter than the colored pencils he loves to draw with. His mother promised to stick nearby so she must be wandering through the shops to keep his son occupied. His gaze strays toward the parking lot and his hand slides into his pocket to fist the keys. Could he trust her not to leave?
He wants to, but this is a woman who lied to him and his sons for five years. He reluctantly pulls himself away from the paints, brushes, and canvases and goes in search of them. After scoping out the women’s clothing boutiques, the stores where he expected to find his mother and an extremely bored son, he finds them in an empty retail space, and only because he heard Marc’s laughter.
He utters a sigh of relief, forcing the panic to subside, and watches his son from the doorway. Marc shuffles from wall to wall, answering Claire’s questions. How many paintings? What will the paintings be of? Will he keep the same ceiling lights or install new ones? How many employees? Where will he paint? What will he name his gallery?
El estudio del pintor, Marc replies. Just like his papa.
Then he sees his papa standing there. Marc’s excitement disappears like the eraser bits he brushes off his drawings. James feels his heart drop to the floor with those tiny particles. He wants Marc’s smile back. He wants his son to look at him with the same excited expression he had when talking about Carlos. He wants his son to call him Papá.
He moves into the space and Claire turns around. “Good, you’re back.”
“What’re you doing?” he asks her.
Marc shuffles to the far corner of the room and picks up a bag. James notices the toy store’s logo.
“Marcus was telling me about the art gallery he wants to open when he grows up. Weren’t you, Marcus?”
“Sí, Señora Carla.” He nervously glances at James and clears his throat. “I mean, yes, Ms. Carla.”
Claire makes a sound in the back of her throat. “Well, gentlemen, it’s dreadfully hot in here. I’ll meet you at the car.” She glides to the door and slows as she moves past him. “This space would make a lovely gallery. The lighting is perfect.”
After listening to his mother for half a lifetime tell him painting was frivolous, James forces himself not to gape. Who is this woman? Why did she change her tune after all these years?
Perhaps they’re all changing.
“Mom.”
Claire swings around and arches a trimmed brow.
“Thanks for watching Marc.” And for encouraging him to paint, he wants to add. But the emotion in his throat is too thick. It’s too much of a reminder as to what she didn’t do for him.
She dips her chin and then she’s gone, walking around the building and toward the car.
A plastic bag crinkles behind him. James glances down at Marc’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression. “Ready for the beach?”
“Sí, I mean, yes.”
“Me, too. And Marc?” He holds out his hand. “As long as you understand and speak English, which I know you can, and do so very well, you can speak whatever language you want around me.”
Marc beams. “Gracias, papá.” His son clasps his hand and James looks away when they leave Marc’s imaginary art gallery. His eyes burn as though he’s been looking directly into the sun.