CHAPTER 27
JAMES
Present Day
June 28
Hanalei, Kauai, Hawaii
They dine on the lanai under a darkening sky with the heady scent of barbecue in the air. During the meal, talk is lively between his sons and their grandmother and grandfather. Gale and Julian compare their rides on the waves; then Marc takes his turn sharing his first experience using “grown-up” paints. In between steaks cooked to perfection and ice cream for dessert, Claire enlightens the table about her travels to Italy. She became an expert at haggling over furniture prices. Other than a smile or small exclamation to acknowledge a feat Julian or Marc shares with the group, Natalya has been quiet. James also notices she intentionally sat between his sons. He’d deliberately set her plate beside his, hoping for a chance to talk with her, but she moved it to another place setting when he went back to the grill for Gale’s steak.
After dinner, Natalya kisses the kids good night and escapes to the kitchen. James takes them to their rooms and tucks them into bed, which amounts to a fist-bump and a “See ya in the morning, Pops” from Julian. Marc still wants a story. As expected, he falls asleep against James’s shoulder halfway through the book. Next time he’ll start reading from the middle so they finish the story for once.
Gale has taken Claire back to her hotel, so he goes looking for Natalya. She’s still in the kitchen, rinsing dishes. He joins her at the sink, grabs a towel, and wipes down a pot drying in the rack.
Natalya glances at him, her rubber-gloved hands elbow deep in soapy water. “Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”
He gives her a funny look. “I made the mess.”
“You cooked. I’ll clean. It’s how we—” She presses her lips tight and scrubs harder.
“It’s how we always do it,” James finishes for her, his tone gentle. “I’d still like to help.” He puts the pot aside and picks up another.
Natalya puts her hand on the pot, stopping him. “I’ll do it.” She glances over her shoulder. “Why don’t you grab a beer and go relax on the lanai.”
Outside, and out of the kitchen. James may be a little slow catching up on the six-plus years missing from his life, but he knows when he’s not wanted. Abandoned for years in a foreign country taught him that lesson well.
He refolds the towel and moves aside to lean against the counter. He folds his arms, crosses his ankles, and watches Natalya. She scrubs with rough, jerky movements. Moisture shines on her cheek where she scratched herself with a gloved hand. She’s rushing through the dishes and refuses to look at him. She’s obviously uncomfortable around him.
“Do you want us to leave?” he asks before he thinks better of it. He and the boys can get a hotel room for a few days. Then what? Where would they go? None of them wants to return to California, but that’s where they’ll probably end up. He should start looking at real estate listings since there’s no way he’ll stay in his parents’ old house. It holds too many memories he prefers to forget. He never liked that house.
“No . . . no, I don’t want you to leave.” Natalya adds a dish to the dishwasher. “It’s just—” She scratches her forehead with the back of her hand.
“It’s just what?”
“I can’t do this.” She closes her eyes and James gets a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. “I thought I could but it’s too hard.” She snaps off the gloves, tosses them into the sink, and leaves him standing there, bewildered at her abrupt departure.
The front door slams. “Nat?” Gale calls.
Feet bound down the hallway.
“Nat? What’s wrong, hon?”
James pictures Gale calling down the hallway for her. He rubs his forearms; then, realizing what he’s doing because he always rubs his arms when he must make a tough decision, he rubs his face instead. Stubble scratches his palms and he groans into his hands. He was tired of feeling unsettled, and now they have to leave once again.
He should pack tonight so they can go first thing in the morning. The longer they stay, the harder it will be for Julian and Marc to leave their aunt and grandfather. Leaving Kauai is the best option, and it makes him angry. His sons will hate him all over again.
Gale saunters into the kitchen, spinning a set of keys around his index finger. He takes a long look at James. “Want a drink?”
James sighs. “Yeah.”
Gale tosses the keys on the counter, where they slide into the backsplash. He opens a cabinet. “Scotch?” he asks, showing James a bottle of Macallan.
“Sure.”
“When it comes to women, I’m not the most committed guy,” Gale says. James arches a single brow and Gale chuckles. “Ah, so Nat’s told you some stories.”
“A few,” he says, although he knew more about her father from what he read in the journals.
Gale selects two lowballs from another cabinet. “Ice?” James nods and Gale goes to the fridge. “I’m also, by no means, an expert on women.”
“What guy is?” James scoffs. He dated Aimee for a decade and there were plenty of occasions when he had no clue why she was upset with him.
Gale pushes a glass against the ice lever. The ice maker rumbles to life and cubes tumble into the glass. “Kylie, though, that’s Nat’s mom,” he clarifies. “She was my first and only. Only real love and only wife.”
He peeks over at James as he unscrews the liquor cap. “I know what you’re thinking,” he guesses. “I did love Raquel’s mom, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same with the mothers of my other kids.”
James hadn’t been thinking of Raquel, but as he watches the amber liquid splash into their glasses, he does find himself wondering. “Do you think a man can love more than one woman in his lifetime?”
“Sure he can.”
“I’m talking about that deep, all-consuming love, like what you felt for Kylie.” And what he feels for Aimee.
Gale spins the cap back on the bottle. “Depends on the man and the woman he wants. I wasn’t so fortunate; then again, I didn’t want to find that love again. You’ve got to want it. In here.” He thumps his chest then gives James a glass. They toast and James tosses back half of it. The liquor sears, warming his gut.
Gale swirls the ice in his glass. “What I’m trying to say, and doing a piss-poor job at, is—”
“Natalya’s like her mom,” he murmurs to himself.
“What did you say?”
“Your daughter is like her mother. She wants commitment.” She doesn’t want to be left behind, not like her father had done with the mothers of her siblings. It’s why Natalya always did the leaving, and why she never moved to Mexico and married Carlos. She knew when he came out of the fugue he would return to the States. He would leave her. Exactly as his father had done with the women in his life.
Gale watches him for a long moment. He sips from the glass without taking his eyes from James. “Nat may be unfamiliar to you, and it may seem strange being with her. But your not being with her, not talking to each other, not touching or kissing, and all that other stuff couples in love do, well, that’s weird for the rest of us, especially for Nat.
“You and I might not have seen each other since Raquel’s wedding, but Nat talked about you over the years. A lot. And she’s hurting.”
James watches the ice bob in his glass. “I know.” He could punch himself that he hadn’t figured that out earlier.
“She knew this day would come, you not remembering her. Thinking about it, though, and experiencing it? Well, like the waves outside those doors, they may look and sound the same, but when you’re up there on your board, each one is a different ride indeed.”
James recalls the passage when Carlos first met Aimee and learned of the fugue. He’d been outraged and conflicted. He didn’t have any interest in learning more about his original identity or his relationship with Aimee, which, from what he’s read about his condition, is typical of people with dissociative fugue. The fear of losing one’s current self is palpable and Carlos had been terrified. He couldn’t remember Aimee and he didn’t want to remember Aimee. It had driven her away.
The same would happen with Natalya.
His sons will be devastated if she doesn’t want to see them because having him around is too difficult for her to bear. His situation with Natalya is different from Carlos and Aimee. Carlos prepared him for this. He left behind passages filled with his wants and desires. He drew such a detailed picture, inside and out, of the woman he loved, and gifted it to James in hopes he could find it again. But can a man love a woman when he still loved someone else?
“Do you care for Natalya?” Gale asks.
“Yes,” James answers.
“I don’t get much about what’s going on with you up here”—Gale waggles a finger by his temple—“but I think you still love her here.” He puts a hand over his heart. “That brain of yours just needs to heal and catch up.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do, sir.” It’s why he is here.
“Well, then.” Gale sets his empty glass in the sink. “I’m done with the mush talk. I’ve said my piece. Time to hit the sack. That son of yours is one crazy beast on the waves. Wore me out today.”
“Good night, Gale.” James follows him to the front door so he can lock it behind him.
“One more thing.” Gale stops in the doorway. “If you feel anything for Natalya, go to her.” His gaze slides toward the hallway. “You can figure the rest out later.”
After Gale leaves for his cottage at the front end of the property, James finds himself outside Natalya’s bedroom. Head bent, ear to the door, he lightly knocks with the knuckle of his pointer finger. He hasn’t figured out what he’ll say. He figures they’ll talk, discuss how to make their relationship work—whatever relationship that is—so he doesn’t have to uproot the kids again.
He knocks again, a little louder this time. She doesn’t respond, so he cracks open the door, wondering if she’s even in the room. The last time she seemed agitated, she’d taken a walk.
“Natalya?” he calls quietly.
He steps into the room, his vision slowly adjusting. It’s dark except for the yellow glow of light that outlines the bathroom door. Great, she’s getting ready for bed and he’s invading her privacy. Talk about overstaying his welcome. He feels like a cad and goes to leave when his gaze lands on her. She’s tucked in a chair in the far corner of the room, legs curled underneath. Moisture glistens on her high cheekbones like a coat of fresh paint.
Now he really feels like an ass. He made her cry. “Natalya?” He moves farther into the room.
She glowers at him and he stops. Wiping away the moisture with the heel of her palm, she unfolds from the chair and goes into the bathroom. Light briefly drenches the bedroom as the door swings open then slams shut. James sighs, defeated. He’s not welcome. He starts to leave but a noise has him turning back around. Natalya stands outside the bathroom door, watching him. She dabs the corners of her eyes with a tissue.
“I apologize,” he says. “My being here bothers you.”
“Here at my house or here in my room?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Both?”
She sighs, long and wistful, and her arms fall to her sides. “I can’t tell you the number of times I imagined you standing right there. And here you are”—she lifts an arm slightly—“looking at me as if you just met me.”
James’s heart cracks a little. The urge to soothe her powers him forward. “Natalya.”
She holds up a hand, stopping him. “There were so many nights while you were in Mexico and I was here that I fantasized about our making love in my bed for once.” She closes her eyes. “I desperately want to be with you and you won’t even hold my hand.”
Her breath hitches and she bites her lower lip. Her eyes well and a tear spills over, followed by another. “I told myself I could do this, that if you came out of the fugue, I could be your friend. I could help you sort things out with the kids and be there for you should you need me. You know what?” She stares vacantly out the window in the direction of the beach. “I used to crush it surfing fifteen-foot waves. That’s not an easy feat, but it’s a cake walk compared to what happened yesterday.”
“What happened yesterday?” he asks uneasily.
She lifts her face and her brilliant green eyes meet his. She drinks him in as though he’s completely lost to her. “The hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life was shake your hand at the airport and act as if we just met when all I wanted to do was run into your arms.
“I haven’t seen you since November and it’s killing me.” She thumps her chest. “Killing me that you haven’t kissed or hugged me. You used to hug me as though you were afraid to let me go. God . . .” She sucks in a ragged breath. “I want you to touch me. I just want you to hold me.” Her voice breaks on the last word.
James desperately wants to hold her, too. She’s destroying him. But he isn’t the person she truly wants. He isn’t her Carlos. He cares about her, but he doesn’t love her, not the way Carlos did, or the way she expects him to. He isn’t sure he can love like that again.
“I’m sorry, Natalya. I’m so, so sorry I’m not the man you want me to be.”
As the words leave him he feels as if he’s apologizing for so much more. For demanding Aimee bury Phil’s assault. For not listening to Thomas when he told James to back off on Phil’s case. For chasing Phil to Mexico without asking for anyone’s help. For uprooting his sons from their birth country. And for not remembering how much he once loved Natalya.
Overwhelmed by his own emotions—anger, despair, grief, and shame—he lets his gaze slide to the room’s door out to the lanai. God, he’s an asshole for coming to her room, but at this moment, he needs to get out. Run, bellow, rage, or even punch something. “I should leave.” He shouldn’t have tried to fix what was wrong with them because he royally sucks at repairing relationships.
“I love you, James,” she says when he grips the doorknob. “I loved you as Carlos and I love the man you are now.”
His arm shakes, rattling the knob. He lets go and turns to look at her. She stands alone in the middle of the room, her face tear-streaked, hands twisting a ratty tissue. “You’re a brilliant human being and a wonderful father. I knew you would be.”
Go to her!
A voice shouts in his head, and for a split second of insanity he wonders if it’s Carlos.
She gives him a sad smile, and it’s as though everything settles into place. Carlos gave him the gift of his memories in the form of the written word. I am you, he’d written.
That’s when it hits him. James is her Carlos.
He crosses the room in three long strides and grabs her up in his arms. She cries out, tensing at the quick, unexpected contact. Then her hands latch around him and he feels her melt. He tucks his head into the crook of her neck, curving his body around hers as though he’s her shelter, and groans against her skin, a cry of anguish. It’s been far too long since he’s held anyone, or that anyone has wanted to hold him.
His hands glide up her back and he realizes that she’s shaking. They both are. Large, hoarse sobs rack her body as her fingers dig in his hair and he just holds her. He drags his mouth over her shoulder, her neck, and then the shell of her ear. That feeling of having a woman who loves him touch him, hold and caress him, rocks him to his core. His own eyes well.
Natalya presses her lips to his shoulder. He feels the heat of her breath through his shirt, then the nip of her teeth against the skin exposed above the neckline. The sensation ripples across his corded muscles, and he groans. He roughly breathes her in―her distinct, warm scent and the salty, musky aroma of her arousal―and he suddenly wants nothing more than to have her. He needs her.
Her lips move over him. She murmurs his name—James—and God help him, his heart beats faster and his blood runs south. She tugs his shirt, and heat bursts through his body. Every part of him ignites, like a dry forest after years of drought.
“I want you. I want you so badly.” She tugs his shirt again.
“I know, baby.” But he keeps his shirt on.
“Kiss me,” she breathes against his mouth. And he does. He allows himself that one thing. It’s almost his undoing.
Every passage in the journal describing what it feels like kissing Natalya pales in comparison to actually kissing her. He wants her with the desperation of a man who’s been lonely for years and the longing of a man who’s lost so much.
But he had started his relationship with Aimee based on lies and half-truths. He kept secrets guarded for years, and in the end, he had destroyed them. As ashamed as he is of his family, as well as his own behavior, he won’t make the same mistakes. Whatever this is with Natalya, whatever it has the chance to become, must start right. She needs to know who he is, not what she learned of him through Carlos. And she needs to know what he’s done.
He cups her face and slows their kiss. Natalya whimpers, and when he lifts his head, she blinks up at him, confused. Her lips are wet and swollen, and it takes all his willpower not to dive back in.
“What’s wrong?” Her eyes search his. Apparently she finds an answer, and her face falls. “You don’t want me.”
“No, that’s not it at all. I do want you. Can’t you feel how much I want to be with you?” The corner of his mouth lifts as he pulls her hips tighter against him.
Her eyes shift left and right, looking into each one of his. “Then why won’t you . . .” She stops as it dawns on her. Her shoulders drop, and she seems to shrink an inch or two. She lifts a shaking hand to his chest and rubs a pinch of his shirt between her fingertips. “It’s too soon for you.” She smooths her hand along his shirt.
He clutches her hand to his chest. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, and my body is raging at me for stopping, but, yes, I need more time.”
“O . . . kay,” she murmurs. Her gaze casts downward. Rejection mars the passion that had put a blush on her cheeks mere seconds ago.
He pulls her against him and cradles her head. His fingers dive into her glorious hair. “I’m not saying no, Natalya. I just need to figure things out. Just give me a little bit more time to catch up on us.”
Present Day
June 29
James slowly wakes with the previous night on his mind. He’s slept with three women in his lifetime and can only recall one. Aimee. As for Raquel, he doesn’t know too much about her, which pains him because she’s the mother of his sons. The journal entries at that time hadn’t been as detailed as those that came after Carlos learned about his original identity. What James does know is that he once loved her immensely, their mutual affection immediate and intense.
His thoughts move to that woman’s half sister. Natalya. They spent the better part of the night on the lanai, drinking beers and talking. She told him about her fears. As much as she wanted to marry Carlos and be a mother to Julian and Marcus, she’d been afraid to commit, terrified he’d see her as another burden, or an obstacle that kept him from returning home when he surfaced from the fugue. He’d divorce her for Aimee. Because that’s the woman James loves.
When Natalya asked, he told her he had seen Aimee. Just last week and not fighting for her had been one of the most difficult decisions he’s made. But it was the right one. She had moved on and was in love with and married to another man. He then shared the parts of his past he’d kept from Aimee. His family’s shame when their community and church on the mainland’s East Coast shunned them because his mother loved her biological brother and had a child. It was why his family relocated to California. They wanted to start fresh where the family’s scandal and his father’s humiliation remained hidden. He explained how it had been beaten into him and Thomas to never acknowledge Phil as a brother in public.
It was after three a.m. when Natalya fell asleep on the lounge chair. James carried her to bed, and when he turned to leave, she grasped his hand. “Please stay.”
He did, stretching out on the bed as she curled into his side. With his arm around her and her hand resting over his heart, they fell asleep. It’s where they lie now. It can’t be later than six in the morning, which leaves him wondering why he’s awake. He slowly opens his eyes in search of a clock when what feels like a foot jabs him in his side.
He grunts and his eyes shoot wide open. The room is a dusky yellow gray. His internal clock tells him it’s not even close to six, more like five thirty. Under the sheets, his hand searches for the culprit that jolted him awake and latches onto a small foot. He yanks up the sheet and peers underneath. Marc is sprawled on his back between him and Natalya, mouth wide open and face relaxed. He’s sound asleep.
The sheet flutters down and he flops his head back on the pillow. His gaze finds Natalya’s across the bed. She’s curled on her side, folded hands tucked under her face, watching him. She shyly smiles and whispers, “Good morning.”
He rolls to his side, careful not to disturb Marc. “Morning.” Worried he said too much last night or that what he said—how he treated Phil when they were kids and how he handled Aimee’s assault but still carries around her engagement ring—might have Natalya looking at him differently this morning now that she’s had time to digest their conversation, he offers her a cautious half smile. “I didn’t mean to keep you up so late.”
“That’s all right. Thank you for talking.”
“Thank you for listening.” He smiles and she smiles back. He can’t recall the last time he’s woken up with his conscience feeling clear. He realizes being up front with Natalya has a lot to do with that and he wonders if that’s how their relationship has always been, open and honest. No secrets. “Is it always like this with us?”
The tan skin between her brows folds and she blinks a few times. “No,” she whispers with a slight hesitation as though she’s chewing on her response. “Usually, when we were together, we’re frantic, as if we couldn’t get enough of each other in the time we had together. I visited a lot for weeks at a time, so it’s not like we didn’t see each other. It was more like you knew your time as Carlos would end. Despite that, it was still good between us. Like crazy good.” She plucks the edge of the pillowcase. “I love being with you in that way.”
He holds her gaze for a long moment, then grins broadly. “Thank you. But that wasn’t what I was asking.”
Her face turns crimson. “No?”
James sweeps a hand over them lying there in bed. “Is it always like this? Is there always a kid crawling into bed? I don’t remember reading about that,” he teases, lifting the sheet to show a sleeping Marc underneath. He couldn’t resist. Her reaction was adorable and her cheeks turned the prettiest shade of rose.
Natalya buries her face in the pillow and groans. “I’m so embarrassed.”
He chuckles and nudges her shoulder. “In all honesty, I suspected it used to be pretty awesome between us. Don’t forget, I kept a very detailed journal.”
“I know.” Natalya groans the word, her face still smashed in the pillow.
“I guess that’s why my wanting to talk last night took you off guard.”
“Yes.”
He can’t help goading her further. “We spent more time screwing than sleeping, didn’t we?” He also guessed she was used to spending their nights together naked under the sheets, not fully clothed, and having deep conversations that lasted for hours.
The back of her head bobs up and down. She mumbles something he can’t make out, but it sounds as if she said he wasn’t a good sleeper. That made sense, because Carlos often had nightmares and, at one point, excruciating headaches.
“Look at me.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Nat.” The nickname rolls unhindered off his tongue. He prods her shoulder.
She rolls to her side and he props up on his elbow to look down at her. He cups the back of her head and his thumb traces the hairline along her temple. “Seriously, though, is it peaceful like this in the morning? We’ve slept for less than three hours, but I feel more rested than I have in months. Years,” he adds with a smirk.
“Like I said, you didn’t sleep well, so, no, it wasn’t like this. But I do like this.” She motions between them. “Do you?”
“Yes, very much.” His thumb drops to her lips and so does his gaze. He thinks about kissing her when they both get a strong reminder they aren’t the only people in bed. Marc shifts under the sheet and his elbow connects with Natalya’s breast.
Her eyes grow saucer round. “Ow.” She rubs the tender spot.
“Roll this way, kiddo.” James drags Marc closer to him. “What time did he crawl in here?”
“Four thirty, I think.” She yawns. “I’m going to need a nap today.”
“I’ll take one with you,” James says, yawning. Then it occurs to him there’s more than one way to interpret what he said. He gives her an embarrassed smile. “I meant that I need a nap, too.”
She laughs softly. “I got that. You’re welcome to sleep here with me.”
They watch each other as the room lightens and the birds announce the day. Their hands meet over Marc’s sleeping form. “Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on me, and for convincing me not to give them up.”
“Your sons?”
He nods. “In Mexico.”
“I knew you’d love them.”
“Unconditionally.”
James leans down to kiss her. A shrill noise shatters the moment. He tenses. Marc groans under the sheets.
“Sorry,” Natalya says, rolling away. “I’m expecting a call from the mainland.”
She frowns at the screen and answers the call with a question. Her gaze cuts to James before she hands over the phone. “It’s for you. It’s Thomas.”