CHAPTER 25
JAMES
Present Day
June 28
Hanalei, Kauai, Hawaii
James stands outside Natalya’s office debating whether he should interrupt her. She obviously returned. He can hear her on the phone. He can’t stand the thought he’s the reason she was upset earlier. He doesn’t know how he’ll make her feel better, but he wants to see that quirky half smile on her face again. But her voice rises with determination. She’s in the middle of negotiating the price on something so now is not the time to disturb her.
He returns to Marc’s room and selects an assortment of paints, brushes, blank canvases, and the portable easels. He heads for the lanai, passing Julian in the main room, who’s sprawled on the couch. Headphones clamped over his ears and feet propped on the couch arm, his fingers fly across his phone’s screen. A multicolored beach ball sits waiting on his stomach.
Julian slips off the headphones when he sees him and holds out his phone. “This guy keeps texting me. Says he’s Uncle Thomas. He wants you to call him.”
James unloads the art supplies on the coffee table and takes the phone. He immediately recognizes Thomas’s number. It shouldn’t surprise him his brother would stoop low enough to reach him through his son’s phone number. It was exactly the contrived tactic Carlos did not want his sons put in the middle of.
But James is partially to blame. He’s been ignoring him. He reminds himself to call Thomas later, else he’ll show up at Natalya’s door.
“Have you called or texted him back?” he asks his son.
“I’ve only texted Antonio since we’ve been here.”
James checks the phone log. He skims through their exchange, then taps the information icon beside Thomas’s phone number and selects the “Block This Caller” link. He gives Julian back his phone.
“He won’t bother you anymore,” James says with the wry thought he should do the same on his phone.
Julian tucks the phone into his pocket and bounces the beach ball against his raised knees. “What’s up with you and your brother, anyway? He seems nice. I mean, he was nice to me and Marcus.”
“When was that?”
Julian dramatically rolls his eyes. “Last December, when Uncle Thomas visited. All you guys did was yell at each other. I thought Señor Martinez swore a lot.”
Señor Martinez was the father of one of Julian’s soccer teammates. His mouth flew as freely as the ball was passed around the field.
But those first weeks last December had been the worst weeks of his life. He hadn’t felt such rage toward his family since Phil assaulted Aimee. Had Phil hit James’s head any harder so that he didn’t wake, he would have . . . Ugh! He doesn’t want to imagine what would have happened.
He sighs, releasing the anger the memories bring back, and sinks onto the couch beside Julian. He presses his back into the cushions and stares at the ceiling. Julian sits upright and hugs the ball. James rolls his head to look at him. “It wasn’t easy between us last winter.”
Julian shakes his head.
“You know a little about my memory loss. Someday, when you’re older, I’ll tell you why I think I lost my memory.”
“Why not now? I’m almost twelve.”
James leans forward, elbows on his thighs. “You’ve watched the news. There are some scary people out there, and some scary things happened to me.”
Fear darkens Julian’s expression, a passing cloud of emotion. “Like what things?”
James debates how much to tell him. “My brother knew I lost my memories but he didn’t tell me who I really was.”
Julian’s brows knit. He bounces the ball once, then again. “Maybe he was trying to keep you safe from the scary people. Maybe he wanted to keep an eye on you, like you’re always telling me to watch Marcus so he doesn’t do anything stupid or get himself hurt. Uncle Thomas is your big brother. Big brothers are supposed to look after little brothers.”
James absorbs the impact of his son’s words. “You know, you’re a pretty smart kid.”
Julian bounces the ball on the coffee table. James snags it on the upswing.
“Hey!”
He holds the ball from Julian’s reach. “Not in the house.” He sets the ball on the floor.
Julian groans and flops back onto the couch.
Marc walks into the room. Bread crumbs and spilled juice mar his shirt like splattered paint. Mayonnaise streaks his chin. He spots the arts supplies and his face brightens. “Are you going to paint, papá?”
“I am. Do you want to paint with me?”
“Sí!”
“Go wash your hands and face. I’ll meet you on the back deck.”
Marc runs to the bathroom.
“Want to paint with us?” James asks.
Julian scrunches his face. “No way, dude.” He slips on his headphones and slides out his phone, back to texting his friends.
Aside from art classes taken during college, James has never painted with anyone. And aside from the Tierney family and the few friends who frequently hung out at Aimee’s house while growing up, no one knew about James’s art. Painting has always been a solitary venture. He never discussed his work, and aside from the canvases the Tierneys hung on their walls, and later on the walls of the home he rented with Aimee, he never displayed his work.
But he had dreamed.
He visualized owning a studio, teaching others what he’d learned and fine-tuned himself. He imagined his paintings on display at galleries. And he dreamed about painting with his own children, where he’d encourage their talent, not repress it.
As Carlos, he achieved those dreams. Would he be able to do it again? He thinks of the retail space in Princeville. Puerto Escondido wasn’t his home and California isn’t his sons’ home. He isn’t sure it’s his home anymore either. Maybe they could start a new life here.
James glances at the house. His gaze roams over the yard and trails to the beach. They already had a foundation in Kauai. Natalya is family. She’s his sons’ aunt and his sister-in-law. She was his lover.
Thoughts lunge to Aimee, his one true love, and he feels that familiar dull pang in his chest, like bumping an old contusion into a sharp corner of furniture. He wonders if he’s capable of falling in love with someone else when he still loves Aimee.
Carlos wanted him to fall for Natalya. He’d spun every phrase and polished each word in that damn journal so that James found himself caring for a woman he had yet to meet face-to-face. But to love her? He doesn’t see how that’s a possibility when Aimee still owns his heart.
He will admit, though, he’d been envious of Carlos for the time spent with Natalya. He’d also been envious of Carlos’s artistic talent, which has kept James from his own art. That’s going to stop today, he thinks. He’s going to paint with the freedom he never allowed himself previously, and he plans to teach his son to do the same. No more hiding.
James sets up the easels in a corner of the lanai and positions two patio chairs in front. He’s arranging paint tubes and brushes when Marc joins him.
“What are you going to paint, papá?”
“We”—James corrects his son, handing him a set of brushes—“are going to paint that palm tree, the tall one in the middle.” He points across the yard.
Marc’s mouth forms a small circle as he takes in a cluster of palms of varying sizes. “I’ve never painted a palm tree before.”
The corner of James’s mouth twitches. Marc painted animals, boats, and trucks. “There’s no better time to start than the present. What do you think?”
“Can I put birds in my trees?”
“Sure, why not. Now, look at the greens in the tree. Which colors should we use?” He gestures at the array of paint tubes.
Marc scratches the tip of his nose. The skin bunches between his brows and for an instant, James sees Raquel in his son. It’s the first physical connection he’s been able to make between his son and the woman he married six years ago. She was beautiful like her sister and James regrets his son will never have the chance to know his mother.
Marc selects the cadmium and sap green tubes and shows them to James.
“Excellent choices.” He claps his son on the shoulder and pulls out a chair.
Marc sits and swings his legs. “Are you going to teach me what you taught the other kids at your studio?”
He glances up from where he’s adding dabs of paint on the palette boards. “I taught kids?”
“Lots of them.”
He doesn’t recall reading anything about kids in Carlos’s workshops, but the news makes him happy. While in the fugue state, James had been a man he could admire: a devoted father, a loyal spouse, and respected individual within the community. Perhaps he can be that way again.
“Yes. I’m going to teach you what I taught them.”
Marc grins broadly and the bond James has started to sense between them strengthens.
A few hours later, palm-tree paintings complete and tropical-bird paintings started, Claire and Gale return. His mother’s laugh floats from inside the house, making his skin tighten. Then he realizes his mother is giggling and he twists around, looking for her. Never in his life has he heard his mother giggle. The laugh rises in volume as she opens the glass slider and joins them on the lanai.
Behind her, he sees Julian follow Gale. He asks his grandfather if they can go surfing. Claire approaches him, blocking his son from view. Her cheeks are rosy and the smile she wears softens her usually harassed face. She stands behind Marc and admires his painting. “Very nice,” she remarks before turning to James.
He holds his breath as though waiting for a compliment, and he fumes, especially when her gaze narrows and lips twist.
He looks away, silently tolerating her scrutiny, which further irritates him. He drums the brush handle on his thigh and stares at the horizon. Glassy blue and bleached yellow tint the sky. Water glitters like decorative white quartz. The sun has sunk lower and soon the cool colors will warm to purple and orange. He thinks of Natalya. She’s wanted him to paint her sunset.
Claire clicks her tongue and his back stiffens. “You’ve done better.”
James tosses the brush on the easel ledge. “I’m a bit rusty.” He stands and straightens his shorts. Moving aside the chair, he dunks the tips of the used brushes in a jar of turpentine.
“I’m not done yet,” Marc says, painting faster.
“You have time to finish. I have to start dinner.”
James removes his painting and replaces it with a clean canvas. Below them, Julian and Gale cross the yard, surfboards tucked under their arms. James calls out and they turn. “Back in an hour,” Gale hollers up to him.
James waves, then repositions his chair in front of the easel. He invites his mother to sit.
Her eyes cast down to the chair, then slowly lift to meet his. “You want me to paint?”
He turns back to the table for the unopened art box and holds it out for his mother. Her face pales and he can guess exactly what she’s thinking. The box is almost an exact replica of the one Aimee had gifted him on his twelfth birthday. The one Claire demanded that he return.
Her fingers flutter to the top button of her shirt and her lips slightly part. He can sense she wants to paint but is unsure of her next move, especially since it’s him encouraging her to do so. They’d probably never talk about their issues and they’d probably never be as open with each other as she’d been with Carlos. He also doubts he can forgive her. They don’t have that kind of relationship. But he can live with a truce between them. The art box is his white flag, as the premium art brushes she’d gifted him last week was hers.
“Marc wants to paint with you,” James says.
“Sí, Señora—” Marc stalls, paintbrush poised before the canvas, a glob of paint clinging to the tip. Marc looks from Claire to James and back.
Sensing his distress, James asks his mother, “What should the boys call you? Grammie?”
Her eyes widen in horror. “Goodness, no. No!” She waves a hand in dismissal and forces a smile. “Nonna is fine. Call me Nonna,” she says to Marc, snatching the art box from James.
James tucks his hands into his pockets and ducks his head to hide the smile that creeps onto his face.
“Nonna,” Marc says, tasting the word on his heavily accented tongue.
“It’s Italian,” Claire explains, flipping open the art box.
Marc smears this brush across his canvas, leaving a trail of blue. “Am I Italian?”
“Yes. You’re also Mexican.”
Marc sits straighter. “I am? Radical, dude,” he says in a voice that mimics his grandfather.
Claire grimaces and James chuckles, leaving the two to paint.
In the kitchen, James removes the steaks from the fridge and selects spices from the pantry. He arranges the steaks on the counter so they’ll warm to room temperature; then he goes looking for the potatoes. He finds them in a basket on the pantry floor. He’s scrubbing them in the sink when Natalya joins him in the kitchen.
“How about some salad and veggies to go with those meat and potatoes?”
“Sounds great.” James grins at her over his shoulder.
They work in tandem, forearms brushing as Natalya rinses tomatoes beside him, and he’s hyperaware of every move she makes. The way she pauses while slicing when he reaches across her for his own knife, and the way her breath hitches when he rests a hand on her lower back, coaxing her to move aside so he can hunt for a bowl. He catches her scent, the faint essence of tangerine that’s unique to her and makes him ache with a familiarity he doesn’t quite understand. His mind doesn’t remember her, but perhaps his body does, which might explain why he feels so at ease around her in such a short time.
She makes a sudden turn into him, knocking his elbow. The cap to the grilling spices he was attempting to screw on fumbles from his fingers.
“Sorry,” she murmurs as they both lower to the floor. Natalya captures the cap where it’s rolled behind her feet. She drops it into James’s hand with shaking fingers. Their eyes meet and hers dart away.
The fading sunlight casts a warm glow to her freckled cheek. Her hair is a palette of reds and golds, which together make the copper he’s determined to paint. He can’t resist any longer. He touches her hair.
She sucks in a breath and jerks away.
He drops his hand.
Pushing against her thighs, she stands. James rises more slowly, sensing a new tension inside her. “You all right?”
She grips the knife and slices through another tomato. The blade connects hard with the board. She slices again. “We lost a contract today,” she says after a moment. “Usually I can predict when that’ll happen.” Finished slicing, she drops the knife in the sink. She rinses her hands, then roughly dries them with the dish towel.
James sets down his knife and swivels around to face her. He shifts his weight against the counter edge, leaning back on his hands. “Anything I can do to help?” He wants to know more about what she does during the day, more than what he’s read about in a journal.
“No, it’s a done deal.” She folds the towel and glances at the oven clock. “How much longer until dinner?”
James glances at the marinating steaks. “About forty-five minutes.”
She lifts a shaking hand and scratches her scalp. “I’m going to take a shower.” She leaves the kitchen, brushing past him so fast he feels a breeze.
His gaze falls on the sliced tomatoes, their juice bleeding onto the cutting board, the lettuce head, still whole, and the zucchini wrapped in the produce bag. Salad and vegetables forgotten, something had chased Natalya from the kitchen, and he’s positive her swift mood change has nothing to do with the lost contract.