CHAPTER 3
JAMES
Present Day
June 21
San Jose, California
“Papá will be angry.”
“Who cares? He’s always angry. He’s also not our real papá.”
Julian reprimands Marcus for what James thinks is the millionth time. Marcus, or Marc, as he’s come to call him, must be sick of his brother’s attitude. James sure is.
From the conference-room entrance, he watches Julian launch a spitball at the window. He’s been busy while James was with Thomas. Spitballs dot the glass like falling snow. Julian shreds a napkin, wads the paper in his mouth, and blows through the plastic straw they found for their sodas in the lunchroom. The gooey wad splatters against the window and sticks.
Enough.
“Julian,” James snaps with authority, a tone he adopted too quickly after first “meeting” the boys last December.
Julian jolts. He tosses the straw under the conference table.
James narrows his eyes on the wadded masterpiece. What a mess.
Most of the office staff has gone home. He left the boys alone in the conference room with chip bags and sodas from the lunchroom vending machines. Probably not the brightest idea he’s had, but his lack of good ones has been on a downward slide since before he left the States years ago.
He glances down at where Marc sits. Doritos fragments litter the floor around his chair like speckled paint on a drop cloth. “Let’s clean up. Time to go.”
Julian chuffs—a short, sharp exhale that fluffs his bangs. “Go where?”
“Home.”
“We sold our home.”
“Don’t start, Julian,” James warns. “Now, clean up.”
Julian groans and picks up the straw. He launches it into the trash.
“Nice aim,” James compliments. The kid’s a natural athlete. He’s seen him dribble a soccer ball in the sand with his friends and shoot consecutive three-pointers on their driveway back in Puerto Escondido.
Julian slides James a look and pulls his backpack over his shoulder. He rises from his chair and starts walking to the door.
“Forgetting something?”
Julian’s shoulders slump and he turns around, dragging his feet. James gestures at the window.
“Fine. Whatever.” Julian drops the backpack into the chair he vacated.
“You too, Marc.” He points to the floor.
Marc looks at the floor. His mouth forms a small circle, surprised at the mess. He slides off the seat and picks up the pieces, popping a couple into his mouth.
“Don’t eat them.”
His son looks up at him. A chip hangs from his lower lip. He wipes it off. “Lo siento, Pa—. I mean, sorry.”
James drags a hand down his face. He kneels beside Marc. “No, it’s my fault. I didn’t mean to snap. Here, let me help.” He cups his palms and motions for Marc to give him the chip fragments. “People have walked all over this carpet. What if they’d stepped in dog doo-doo?”
Marc scrunches his face. “Doo-doo?” He giggles at the funny word, then cocks his head. “What’s doo-doo?”
“Dog shi—” James catches himself with the shake of his head. “Um . . . caca?”
Marc’s mouth stretches wide over his teeth.
“Gross, huh?”
Marc nods vigorously and wipes his tongue on the back of his hand. James laughs. “I think you’ll be fine.”
He tosses broken chips into the trash, then picks up the colored pencils scattered across the table. Marc’s open notepad catches his attention. The sketch of a wolf head is rudimentary, but well beyond the talent of an average six-year-old.
“You did this?” James points at the sketch.
Marc drags the pad toward him and flips the cover closed, sliding it into the open mouth of his backpack.
“It’s very good.” James gives him the pencil case. Marc averts his gaze as though embarrassed by the compliment. He adds the pencil case to his backpack and zips the pack closed.
James sighs, wondering how he’ll ever get through to the kid. Aside from the lack of memory, he’s still the same guy. He’s still their dad. Someday, hopefully, Marc will see that. Julian, too.
James joins Julian at the window. He plucks a few spitballs. Their hands brush.
Julian shifts away. “I’ve got it.”
“Fine,” James replies in the same short tone. Six months living under the same roof together in Puerto Escondido and they were starting to sound alike. Maybe they always did. He lets Julian finish the rest.
His son dumps the soggy wads into the trash, brushing his hands together, then wipes them dry on the back of his jeans. Snatching up his backpack, he leaves the conference room. Marc walks in a wide circle around James and jogs after his brother.
James blows out a breath and grabs Marc’s pack, tossing it over his shoulder. One fun-filled day of parenthood in the States down. A gazillion more to go.
James stands with the boys in the empty hallway of his childhood home. Aside from a few pieces of furniture—his mother’s Henredon & Schoener couch in the living room and the antique Italian walnut table in the dining room—the house is empty.
Julian drops his backpack on the floor and kicks it against the wall. “This sucks. Where are we supposed to sleep?”
Good question. Hopefully there are beds.
It’s past ten. Too late to find a hotel in an area that typically has a 100 percent occupancy rate during the workweek. He leads his sons through the house, tossing the pizza box with their leftover dinner on the kitchen countertop.
Marc sniffs the air and scrunches his face. “It stinks in here.”
Yeah, it does. James noticed the stale, sour “old house” smell he once associated with his dying father as soon as they opened the front door. He also smelled a subtle, powdery aroma as though his mother’s perfume had gone bad. It reminded him too much of growing up here and why he spent so much time at Aimee’s house.
“The house has been closed up for a long time. It’ll go away when we open the windows,” he tells his son.
Marc wanders over to the great room’s French doors and presses his nose and hands to the glass. He peers into the darkness of the backyard. “Where’s the beach?”
“There isn’t one.” Julian flops onto a leather couch. That piece is too new to have belonged to his mother. Thomas must have brought it over from the Donatos’ warehouse. Hopefully he had beds delivered, too.
“There is a beach.” James cuts Julian a look and joins Marc at the door. “But it’s twenty minutes from here. Back there is a forest. I’ll show you in the morning. We can walk the trail. We might see a bobcat if we’re lucky.”
Marc’s fingers curl against the glass. He gnaws his lower lip. James takes it as a sign of interest.
“So, where do we sleep? The floor?” Julian slips on his Beats and cranks up the music on his iPhone.
James sighs. God, he hopes they don’t have to sleep on the floor. Thomas said he stocked the house with the basics. Towels, dishware, milk, a few dry goods. He hopes he remembered sheets and pillows. And beer.
His mouth salivates. He could really use a cold, dark brew after today. They’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours. The boys caught a few hours of sleep during their layover in Mexico City, but James had been afraid if he closed his eyes, the boys wouldn’t be there when he woke. So, he stayed awake.
Selling their home and his gallery in Puerto Escondido had been an easy decision for him. He would have returned to California sooner if it hadn’t been for his sons. They didn’t want to leave. After he first told them, he only mentioned their “grand adventure” every so often, giving them a chance to get used to the idea. He also had them finish the school year. Better to wait for summer when they had time to get used to their new surroundings. Besides, he had to wait on the boys’ visas and his own identification paperwork.
Soon, Julian and Marcus took to the idea of a big move, until the FOR SALE sign was posted in their front yard. That was when the idea became reality and James became the instant family “bad guy.”
And he’s tired of being assigned that role. All he wants is to get settled and get on with his life. Kids adjust. Eventually they’ll get used to the move, and to him. He hopes.
Marc yawns. James gives his shirtsleeve a gentle tug. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s find a bed for you.”
They find queen-size beds made up with sheets, blankets, and pillows in James’s and Thomas’s old rooms. Marc whines. He doesn’t want to sleep alone. After a bit of prodding from James, Julian reluctantly offers to share a bed with his little brother.
James retrieves the luggage from the car his eco-conscious brother bought him—a freaking Prius—and leads the boys down the hallway. “Which room?” He points to his old door, then Thomas’s.
“This one.” Julian walks into the room on their left. James’s old room. He’s surprised how good that makes him feel, and he doesn’t breathe a word about that to Julian. The kid will just change his mind.
James shows them the bathroom, then waits nearby as they ready for bed. Once they’re under the covers, James leans over as if to kiss Marc’s head. Marc’s fingers squeeze the sheet he’s pulled to his chin. James hesitates, hovering over his son. All of Julian’s talk about James not being their “real dad” has left Marc confused and withdrawn where James is concerned. The kid was more affectionate with his teachers and the neighbor’s dog. At least he hugged them. James can’t remember the last time someone has hugged him, let alone touched him, other than resting a hand on his shoulder, or poking an arm to get his attention.
James straightens and does his usual hair ruffling. Anything more than that and he chances Marc’s receding further than he already has.
Marc smiles and shimmies deeper under the covers. The air is cooler here compared to Puerto Escondido’s dry, salty nights.
Julian is sprawled on top of the covers on the other side of the bed, sporting a ratty T-shirt and gym shorts that reach his knees, still plugged into his music. James points to his own ears and motions for Julian to put away the headphones. “Sleep. Now.”
Julian exhales, cheeks puffing like a fish. Rolling to his side, he slips off the Beats and tosses them, along with his phone, onto the side table. He keeps his back to James, and within seconds, his breathing evens. He’s already fallen asleep.
“Good night,” James murmurs from the doorway. He flicks off the light and closes the door, leaving it cracked to allow in a ribbon of light from the bathroom down the hall.
A whispered “Good night” reaches him as he turns away. James stills, blinking away the burn. As Marc’s words sink in, James sends up a silent prayer.
He gives the door frame a couple of knocks and returns to the kitchen. When he puts the pizza in the fridge, he finds a six-pack of Newcastle on the top shelf. Thank God. Popping the top, he breathes in the ale’s roasted-nut aroma. Muscles bunched from traveling unwind. He tosses back half the beer before leaning against the countertop. He crosses his arms, letting the bottle dangle from his fingers, and inhales, long and deep. His eyes drift close.
He is finally home, but not really home.
This isn’t his home.
But he didn’t belong in Mexico either, so he left that life behind. Not just because California is familiar, but because Carlos had everything James wanted before the accident—an art gallery to display his work, a classroom to teach others, and a studio ideally situated to take advantage of a full day’s natural light. Then there was Carlos’s artwork, paintings well beyond James’s expertise.
As ashamed as he is to admit it, James is jealous of the man he was in Mexico.
He pushes away from the counter and stretches his arms overhead. His back pops and cramped legs ache. Feeling restless, he glances out the windows and considers going for a midnight run. He’d do it if he felt comfortable leaving the boys alone. They’re still too young, and it’s their first night in a foreign country and a strange house. A house that had been home to Phil during the months leading up to his arrest.
Beyond the glass, he stares into the dark woods of oak and pine, which looks peaceful during the summer months. A place of rebirth and renewal. But in the winter, it’s dark and sinister, with branches bare and bent like bones.
Skeletal like Phil’s frame.
Six days until he’s released. Six days to figure out how to avoid him, along with the rest of his family. Would Phil come here since it’s the last place he lived?
His gaze jumps to the dead bolt on the back doors. Swearing under his breath, he e-mails himself a reminder.
CHANGE THE LOCKS.
He slips his phone into his back pocket and looks around the room. Pent-up energy channels from jittery fingers to cramping calves. Maybe his old treadmill is in the garage.
James makes his way there, flicks the light switch. LEDs flood the four-car garage and his chest rises sharply. He knew his belongings were there, what he had before and what he shipped from Mexico. But knowing and seeing are two different things.
The bulk of his items take up the expanse of two car spaces, cardboard boxes stacked like fat square pillars. They hold everything he wanted to keep from a life in Mexico he wished had never happened, and a life before that he never intended to leave. Basking in the LED glow, his two lives converge atop the smooth concrete.
He moves into the garage, drawn by the thick black Sharpie lettering on a stack of boxes. ART SUPPLIES. He slowly sweeps his hand along the words, recognizing Aimee’s handwriting. When did she pack his stuff? Before or after she found him? He can’t imagine how difficult the months after Thomas announced his death had been for her. The need to hold her from just thinking about it nearly stops his heart.
The words blur and for the second time that night, James’s eyes dampen. Knowing Aimee, she would have packed his supplies neatly and orderly, even with the knowledge he would never use them again.
And he most likely won’t. The hunger inside him—that drive to create, to share his interpretation of the world—is gone.
So is Aimee.
He punches the box and returns inside.