CHAPTER 23
JAMES
Present Day
June 28
Hanalei, Kauai, Hawaii
After a quick excursion with Marc back to the art and toy store, where they purchase paints, brushes, acrylics, canvases, and portable easels because there’s no better time than the present to start Marc’s art gallery, they return to Natalya’s. James pulls into the driveway behind a truck that’s seen its share of saltwater. Three surfboards angle up from the rear bed. Julian’s shooting hoops with an older man whose long, athletic strides and sinewy frame forecast the body Julian’s growing into. Gale Hayes, retired world-class surfer and the owner of Hayes Boards. This man is his son’s grandfather. His father-in-law.
He’s also the one Carlos punched in his face at his wedding.
For once, he’s thankful he can’t remember.
Gale catches Julian’s rebound and pitches him the basketball as James cuts the engine. He squints at the car, hand raised to block the high sun. James exits the car, and Gale, lowering his arm, approaches him with a purpose.
Oh boy. This should go well, James thinks grimly. He shuts the door, pushes back his shoulders, and thrusts out his hand. Might as well reintroduce himself, and then apologize on behalf of his other self. “Mr. Hayes, I’m—”
“James, yeah, I know.” Gale clasps James’s hand and claps his upper arm. Weathered skin folds under a dusting of strawberry-gray whiskers, revealing teeth tinged yellow with age. Julian dribbles the ball up behind him, listening to their conversation. Gale grips his hips and widens his stance, ducking his head against the sun’s glare to peer at James. “Nat tells me you don’t remember anything about the last seven years.”
James lifts his Maui Jims to rest on his head. His eyes immediately tear from the intense daylight reflecting off the light-colored asphalt. “Aside from the past six months, not a thing.”
Gale grins. “Then we’re going to get along just fine. Although”—he loosely grasps James’s upper arm—“it’s a shame you don’t remember Raquel.”
Julian’s dribble slows. He’s angled his body away, acting as though he doesn’t care, but James knows he’s listening intently. “She’s the mother of my sons, and for that reason alone, I’ll always be grateful.”
Gale nods and pats James’s arm. “She was a good woman.”
A car door shuts behind James, and Gale cranes his neck to get a better look around him. Green eyes the same color as Natalya’s widen. “Who is this lovely beach bunny?”
James turns around in time to see his mother blush.
Marc swings from the Jeep’s roll bar. “She’s papá’s mamá.”
The dribbling stops. Julian gawks at his brother. “Don’t be stupid, Marc. She was our neighbor.”
“It’s true. I heard papá call Señora Carla ‘Mom.’”
Julian swivels his head and glares at James.
James’s heart drops to the ground. He swears under his breath. Marc had heard him. And he was old enough to connect the dots. He watches the color drain from Julian’s face, how his hands flex, fingers splayed and bent gripping the ball. Emotions come in a quick succession of waves, rippling across his face—disbelief, fear, anger, and then the worst. Betrayal. James knows that feeling well.
Julian’s body tenses. He chucks the ball at James, hitting him in the ribs.
He grunts, choosing to absorb the impact of Julian’s anger rather than deflecting the ball. He catches and holds the ball against his chest.
“You’re an asshole,” Julian shouts. He takes off toward the beach at a full sprint.
“Aren’t you going to go after him?” Claire asks, her voice pitching high with her dismay.
“In a moment. He’s been angry with me for a long time. He needs to run off some steam.”
James gives the ball to Gale, letting it roll off his fingertips. His mother glowers at him. “It’s probably for the best,” she says sanctimoniously. “They would have found out sooner or later. I should have told them—”
James holds up a finger, stopping her. “What you did in Mexico is a whole other matter. Right now, I need to go talk with my son.”
James finds Julian about a football-field length down the beach crouched under the shade of a palm, elbows parked on knees and head buried in his arms. James eases down with a long sigh to sit beside his son; then he unlaces his shoes and dumps the sand. Taking off his socks, he stuffs them in his shoes and digs his heels into the sand in search of the cool granules underneath.
Julian lifts his head. He wipes his damp face with the base of his palm and glances away. His lungs rattle and shoulders vibrate.
James quells the instinctual urge to hug his son. He’ll be twelve soon, on his way to becoming a young man. Instead, he picks up and inspects a dead leaf.
“Why—” Julian snorts. He swipes the back of his hand under his nose. “Why didn’t you tell us she’s our grandmother?”
James twirls the leaf. “Because I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember who she is and she never told me. I don’t think she told any of us because I didn’t read anything in the journals that would make me think Señora Carla was my mother.” He phrases his words carefully. He wants Julian to perceive him and Carlos as the same man. He wants Julian to see him as his father, which means he must do the same. As Natalya told him years ago, and again last night, “same body, same heart, and same soul.” Just a damaged mind he was doing his best to fix.
“I didn’t know Señora Carla and my mother were the same person until she showed up at our house last week.”
Julian swipes his nose again. He picks up a twig and jabs it into the sand. “I bet you were mad at her.”
“I’m still mad,” James says, staring off to the ocean. The sun has passed the day’s highest point. Their patch of shade shifts away. Sweat beads along his hairline. He feels a drop trickle down his spine. “I’m angry with my whole family. Not you and Marc,” he clarifies at Julian’s quick intake of breath. “Just my mother and brothers. But you know who I’m angriest with the most?”
Julian shakes his bent head. He jabs the twig harder. It snaps.
“Myself.” He’s made more than his share of poor decisions, each one leading him further away from the future he and Aimee had plotted like a road trip. But each mistake had brought him closer to Julian and Marc. “I wish more than anything that I remember the years I forgot.” Julian’s chest rattles and James presses on. “I wish I remembered your mother, and everything you and I did together.”
Tears roll freely down Julian’s face. They drop into the sand, creating divots. James gently knocks his bent knee against Julian’s. “You know what?”
“What?” Julian sniffs.
“I was smart. I wrote everything down, and I remember reading all about us and our time together in Puerto Escondido. And as I read, pictures formed in my head like real memories.”
Julian nods, considering. “Why did you have to change?”
“I don’t know, Julian. My mind is sick and I’m trying to heal.”
Julian frowns. “How did it get sick?”
He shrugs. “I can’t remember. I don’t know what made me forget being James, and I don’t know what made me forget being Carlos.”
Julian blinks. His lower lip trembles. “Are you scared?”
“Very much so.”
“Me, too.”
James rubs his son’s back. “It’ll get easier for us, I promise. But whether I go by the name of Carlos or James, I’m still your father. Yo siempre voy a ser tu papá.” I will always be your dad.
Julian sucks in a ragged breath. Fresh tears flow like a clear stream over rivers rocks. “I still wish you remembered everything for real.”
“Me, too.” And he honestly did.
“Do you wish you remembered Tía Natalya?”
James dangles his hands between his knees. “Yes.”
“She’s very sad you don’t. I heard her crying last night.”
Something James can’t explain twists inside his chest. He’s been so focused on putting some distance between them and his brothers until he has the chance to think straight that he didn’t consider how difficult his being there, sleeping under her roof, must be for her.
“She loves you.”
“I know,” James says quietly. The way she looks at him, reaches out to touch him only to pull back, how she feels she must ask to hug him and not just do it. She’s opened her home, given them sanctuary without asking for anything in return.
Julian traces his finger where he’d been jabbing the twig. “I miss our home.”
James doesn’t know how he should respond to that. They’ll never move back to Mexico. He doesn’t belong there. And he isn’t in a rush to return to California. He doesn’t feel like he belongs there either.
“Can we live here?”
James arches a brow. “In Hawaii?”
“Tía Natalya wants us to stay.”
“Do you like it here?”
Julian extends his arms to encompass Hanalei Bay’s crescent beach. He gives James a look like he’s nuts not to consider otherwise. Julian grew up living beside the ocean. It makes sense he’s drawn to this one.
James fists the sand, then lets it spill between his fingers. “It is pretty nice here.”
Julian buries his toes. “I didn’t like California.”
“Hey, I didn’t say no. But we should get Marc’s opinion, too, before we decide.”
A watery smile pulls Julian’s mouth wide. Then he frowns and the smile disappears. He watches a trail of ants hike the hills and valleys beside him. “What’s Señora Carla’s real name?”
“Claire Donato.”
“What should I call her?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“Why did she lie to us?”
“She was afraid I would have sent her away.”
“Would you have?”
James opens his mouth to say yes but stops himself. He debates telling Julian the truth else he continues to see him as the bad guy. The one who’s tearing their family apart when all he’s really trying to do is put the pieces together. Then he remembers what got him into this mess. Withholding the truth. And he was starting to despise his shame more than the flaws that make him human. One of those being he has a terrible relationship with his mother.
“Yes,” he finally says. “I would have sent her away.”
Julian opens his mouth and closes it. James watches his son’s mind tick.
“Will you send Marcus and me away?” he hesitantly asks in a voice tinged with fear.
There it is, James thinks on a long sigh. What Julian has feared most these past six months. In quite a few entries, Carlos commented on his fear that James would abandon his sons. Carlos had expressed that fear with Julian. Talk about a heavy load of responsibility on shoulders so young.
James faces his son. “Look at me,” he says, and waits for Julian to lift his head and wipe his eyes. “I will never send you and Marc away. I’ll never leave you either.”
Julian inhales a sob and nods.
“I’ve never stopped loving you. Even last December when I first couldn’t remember you. I loved you back then. You’re my son, Julian. You will always be my son.”
Julian sucks in another sob. His body vibrates as he cries. James drags his son against him. Then he just holds him.
Marc’s eating at the kitchen table and Natalya’s storing condiments in the fridge when James and Julian return to the house. She lifts her head above the fridge door when she hears their arrival. “I made lunch.” She nods at the plates on the counter.
James lifts a brow at Marc, amazed he’s devouring the Spam-and-pineapple sandwich.
“Muy bueno,” Marc exclaims around a mouthful of food.
“If you say so, kiddo.” James eyes the sandwiches. He has his doubts.
“Gracias, Tía Natalya.” Julian selects a plate and takes it to the table.
“Thank you,” James says to her from the doorway. “I’ll take care of dinner.”
She nods. “I put away the groceries for you.” Natalya twirls the bread bag closed and puts the loaf in the pantry. “And your mom”―she lowers her voice, her gaze darting to the boys―“went back to her hotel.”
James isn’t surprised. She’s next on his list of family discussions and she knows it, too.
“She left with my dad.”
He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Really?”
“He’s a womanizer, remember? Don’t worry.” She waves a hand. “It’s platonic, I’m sure. She wanted to freshen up, and Dad offered to drive. By now, they’re probably having lunch, cocktails, and a dip in the pool.”
“That doesn’t sound platonic to me.” James doesn’t know what to think about this development. His father passed shortly before his own disappearance. Granted, his parents had never been close, even slept on opposite ends of the house in later years. But he never thought of his mother being with someone other than his father or uncle—Ugh! Don’t go there. He moves into the kitchen and peeks inside his sandwich. He hasn’t had Spam since college, and only because his dorm roommate dared him.
“I put your art supplies in Marc’s room. I’ll show you.” She drops dirty utensils in the sink.
James follows her down the hall. She’s showered recently. Damp hair is clumped into a messy bun. A smattering of freckles speckle her shoulders like paint drops. She wears a loose lavender tank top and white cutoff shorts. Sleek, toned, and tanned legs stretch to the floor. He can’t look away from those legs. His fingers twitch, the way they do when he needs to paint. He wants to paint her legs. He wants to . . .
“James.”
He jerks his head up.
She frowns and he inwardly squirms. Heat warms his chest. “What?”
“You bought a lot of stuff.” She moves into Marc’s room and opens a cabinet. The supplies crowd two wide shelves, enough to keep Marc busy for weeks.
“Yeah, I did.” He gives her an embarrassed look.
“One would think that you’re planning to stay awhile.” She closes the cabinet and swivels around. She leans her shoulder blades against the cabinet and crosses her arms. “Or that you plan to start painting again.”
James hears the hope in her voice. He rubs his nape and sinks onto the edge of Marc’s twin bed. “I want to spend time with Marc doing what he enjoys doing. We’ll see where the painting takes me from there.”
She looks out the window, tugging a tendril behind her ear. Her gaze focuses beyond the glass and she slowly blinks once, twice. Then she pushes away from the cabinet, moving toward the window. “My room has the best natural light. You’re welcome to paint there,” she offers without looking at him.
James admires her profile. The high forehead and feminine slope of her nose. Freckles adorn the bridge, spilling down her cheeks like autumn leaves. His fingers twitch again. This time he wants to do more than paint her. He wants to touch her. In his mind, it’s been over a year—and in actuality, seven years, given James’s identity was buried that long—since he’s touched a woman. For a man who’s more physical than reserved, tends to feel more than think, and responds more empathically to the emotions of others, seven years is a very long and lonely time. It’s one hell of a dry spell.
“You wouldn’t want the smell in there while you slept.”
“That’s right. I forgot about that.”
“I was thinking we could paint on the lanai. It’s not serious artwork, just a way for Marc and me to hang out together.”
“Your mom, too? You bought three easels.”
He did, but only as an afterthought. James clasps his hands between his thighs. “That’s a good question. I’ve never painted with her.”
“But in Puerto Escondido—”
“Before that. Did you know she despised my painting?”
Natalya frowns. “How could she? She’s an incredible artist.”
“I didn’t know that until I read the journals.” He brings forth those entries about Señora Carla and the time she spent painting with Carlos. Anger and sadness mix like paint as he recalls several of the paintings he packed and shipped to California had been hers. As Carlos, he’d hung them on his walls in his house. His mother never displayed a single painting of his.
“She had her reasons, which I understand more so now since she told Carlos. But she did everything she could to keep me on track for a career at Donato Enterprises.”
“How did you paint, then? I’ve seen your work. It’s obvious you’ve been painting for years.”
“Aimee’s parents set up a studio for me in their house. I’m self-taught.”
At the mention of the Tierneys, Natalya shifts uneasily. “I met them.”
His gaze catches hers. “I know.”
They watch each other for a moment until Natalya’s attention dips to a spot on the teakwood floor. She undoes the bun, and damp hair spills over her shoulder. James sucks in a quiet breath at her natural beauty.
“Do you miss her?” There’s a hitch in her voice.
“Yes.”
“Do you still love her?”
He nods.
Natalya rolls her lips inward and stares at her glossy coral toenails. “How was your talk with Julian?”
He blinks at the subject change. He wants to tell her Aimee had let him go, that she moved on, and that every day, every single waking moment, he’s trying to do the same. To build a new life from the rubble of his previous life. But now is probably not the best time. He’s still working through his emotions.
“We had a good talk. He got a lot off his chest. We both did.”
Natalya twists her hair. Her hands shake and her lips pull into a contorted smile. “Okay, then . . . um . . . I guess you’ve got everything under control with the boys, after all.” She angles her head at the door. “Unless you need to use your room right now, I have some work to do.” She turns to leave.
James frowns, not at all liking her mood change.
“Oh.” She snaps her fingers, stopping in the doorway. “I saw the steaks you picked up. I can help with dinner, unless you’ve got that under control, too.”
“I’d like your help,” he says, standing. He takes two steps toward her. “Natalya, what’s wrong?”
Her lower lip quivers and she raises a hand, stopping him. “I have to get to work,” she whispers harshly before leaving.
He hears the thump of her feet bounding down the hall, then the slide of the glass door opening to the lanai. She hadn’t gone to the office where he’d slept last night. Instead, she raced outside and away from him.