CHAPTER 6
CARLOS
Five Years Ago
June 17
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
Marcus upended a bucket over his head. He squealed, kicking his chubby legs as sand spilled over his naked body, sticking to patches of sunscreen-soaked skin. I added another tower to the castle that I was building and Marcus was determined to destroy it. He waved his arms, knocking over another wall.
“Marcus.” I grabbed him by the armpits and planted his bare ass farther from our sand masterpiece. I passed over his bucket and shovel. “Here, knock over your own castle.” He grinned and stuffed a fistful of sand in his mouth. “Don’t eat it.” I grabbed his wrist and swiped my fingers across his tongue.
Marcus started to chew and I heard the crunch of coarse granules. His face scrunched up like a wad of paper and his brown eyes widened as he looked up at me in confusion.
“See what happens when you eat sand?”
He blew raspberries. Saliva-drenched sand drooled from the corners of his mouth.
I chuckled, turning back to the sand castle, determined to fix the wall Marcus just blasted. Near the entrance to our backyard, Julian passed a fútbol to his two friends, Antonio and Hector. He narrowly missed our new neighbor lounging under the umbrella she’d painstakingly erected in the sand about a half hour earlier. I finished the wall, added one more tower, then went searching for my phone in our pile of towels. Natalya wanted a picture of Marcus’s latest sand castle.
I watched Julian steal the ball from Hector. He kicked it, a beautiful pass that soared over Antonio’s head, landing smack-dab in the middle of our neighbor’s sun umbrella. The umbrella toppled over, burying its owner underneath. She shrieked.
“Santa mierda,” Antonio swore.
Pale legs shot out from under the toppled umbrella, kicking like eggbeaters. “Help!”
Julian’s jaw unhinged.
I grabbed Marcus. “Help her out,” I yelled to Julian.
“Oh, right,” he said, shaking off his surprise. He followed my lead speaking English. Judging by the screeches emanating from underneath the umbrella, our neighbor was American.
I deposited Marcus in the sand with a stern warning that his butt better not move.
“Get it off, get it off me!” Legs kicked maniacally. A hand shot out.
I pointed at Hector and Antonio. “Grab the post.” I moved behind the woman and gripped the top of the umbrella. “Now lift.” I closed the canopy as we did so, making sure the aluminum spokes didn’t snag in her hair or clothing. We side-shuffled and dropped the damaged umbrella in the sand.
Our neighbor lay sprawled in a beach chair that teetered on its side. The feet had sunk into the sand. She removed the wide-brimmed hat smashed low on her head and pushed back damp silver hair plastered over her eyes and forehead. Breathing heavily, face flushed, she pointed a bony finger with a sharp maroon-tinted nail at Julian. “You . . . ,” she started, leaning forward. Her chair wobbled and both hands flew out to grip the arms.
Julian shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. He ran a hand over his sweat-drenched, sandy head, shifted some more, and again ran his hand through his hair. The thick, short mass stuck straight up. “Lo siento, señora.” His gaze jumped to me before casting to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he repeated in English.
“And well you should be.” She pushed from her chair and stood over him. “I was going to holler ‘fantastic kick,’ but you need work on your aim.”
“Sí, señora. I mean, yes, lady.” Julian swiped his hand across his chest, leaving a trail of sand. He brushed it off, scratching his skin.
I grabbed his wrist and gave him a stern look to stop fidgeting.
Our neighbor smoothed her paisley-printed tunic. Colors swirled across the sheer material. Gold sequins edged the sleeves and dress hem, sparkling in the sunlight. “I seem to be short an umbrella,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the mangled shade structure. She squinted at the sun. It blazed down on us, the air dry and stifling today. Sweat dripped down my chest and back. Perspiration glistened along our neighbor’s hairline. Julian and his friends continued to shift, the sand burning the soles of their feet.
“Well, then.” Our neighbor brushed her palms together, wiping off sand. “I guess I better head inside before I burn.”
“We’ll buy you another umbrella,” I offered, my eyes narrowing on Julian. He’d be spending the next few Saturday mornings assisting my gallery receptionist, Pia. Floors needed to be swept and displays dusted.
Julian mumbled another apology.
Our neighbor’s mouth knitted. “That won’t be necessary. But, perhaps”—she looked over the sandy crew, tapping her chin—“your son and his friends will help me carry my chair and bag inside.”
I wholeheartedly agreed. It was the least they could do. “Boys?” I prompted when no one moved.
“I have lemonade and I picked up some . . . what do you call them?” She snapped her fingers. “¿Bizcochitos, sí? I think that’s what the cookies are called. You’re welcome to some.”
“Sí, señora,” the boys chimed in unison. They gathered her belongings—chair, bag, and towel—and ran into her yard.
I scooped up Marcus, who had just rubbed sand in his hair. “I’m Carlos, by the way. Your neighbor.” I tilted my head in the direction of my house and extended my hand in greeting. She didn’t take it because she didn’t see it. She stared fixedly at Marcus. Her eyes sheened. I wondered if she had grandchildren; then I realized the sun blazed behind me. I shifted to the side so that neither of us looked directly into it.
She blinked a few times, briefly shifting her gaze toward me before landing on Marcus again. “I’m Cl—” She cleared her throat. “I’m Carla. Is this your son?”
“Sí. This is Marcus.” I juggled him under my arm, and he giggled.
“¡Mas! ¡Mas!” He clapped, begging me to bounce him again.
Carla clasped her fingers, holding her joined hands at her chest. “How old is he?”
“Almost seventeen months.” I glanced at Marcus, who waved at Carla with both hands. “I think he likes you.”
The corner of her mouth lifted slightly. “I like him, too.”
Marcus squirmed in my arms. “Por, papá!”
A breathy laugh broadened Carla’s smile. “Papá.” She watched Marcus squirm in my arms. Her eyes welled further and she looked down at the sand. “Ah, I better go.” She wiped her hands against her hips. “Your son and his friends are waiting for their treats.”
“It was nice meeting you.” I offered my hand again. This time she took it.
“You, too, Carlos.” She said. She sounded lonely.
“Señora Carla,” I called when she reached the gate to her yard. “Join us for dinner tomorrow night? It’s taco night. I barbecue lingcod.”
Her fingers fluttered to her tunic’s neckline. “I—I have plans to eat out.”
“Should they change, just come on over. Six o’clock.”
She lifted her hand in a half wave and proceeded into her yard.
“Come on, Marcus. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Five Years Ago
June 18
The sun hovered low on the horizon, kicking up a dry breeze. It offered little relief as Julian and I passed the fútbol in the backyard. With each return kick, Julian inched closer to the barbecue.
“Watch out. It’s hot.” I kicked the ball to the far side of the yard, away from the grill. It rolled to a stop by the gated entrance to the beach. I went to check on the grill.
Julian dribbled the ball to the center of the yard, cranked back his foot, and kicked, connecting hard with the leather. The ball soared into the air, over the adobe divide, and into Señora Carla’s yard. Julian groaned dramatically.
I waved a grill brush in the air. “Go get it before Señora Carla returns,” I said, assuming she went out to dinner as planned.
Julian darted through the wrought iron gate and ran to the neighbor’s. I scraped clean the grate and closed the lid so the grill could warm a bit more. “Ready for tacos, little man?” I asked Marcus. He pushed a toy truck across the grass.
“¡Un taco!”
“Say, ‘I want a taco.’”
“Taco!” he repeated, grinning.
“Close enough.” I smiled back.
Julian returned, ball tucked under his arm. He held open the gate for Carla. “The lady was sitting in her yard all by herself.” He blurted the words and slammed the gate. Carla jolted. She shot him a look and Julian grinned. “I told her she could eat with us.” He dropped the ball to the ground and juggled it across the yard, where he left it in the dirt.
Carla remained at the gate, even reached for it before her hand fluttered up and smoothed her hair. She’d clipped the slate tail at her nape, an elegant accent to her white-linen trousers and pale-pink blouse. She looked uncomfortable and ready to leave. She reopened the gate.
I set the grill brush aside and strode quickly across the yard. “You’ll stay for dinner?”
“I had plans to go out, but they . . .” She kept her gaze focused somewhere on my chest. Her fingers flexed around the wrought iron.
“They what?” I searched her face for why she seemed indecisive about joining us.
Her expression briefly darkened, turned sorrowful. Then she schooled her features and lifted her chin. Her eyes didn’t meet mine. “They fell through.” She offered a small smile.
“Then stay,” I insisted. “We have more than enough fish.” I gently closed the gate when it occurred to me her reluctance might not have anything to do with her embarrassment over her plans falling through, or that we were strangers. “You aren’t allergic?”
“To fish? No. I love fish.” She wrung her hands.
“Then you’ll love our fish tacos. They’re el mundo famoso.” I led her across the yard and pulled out a chair at the patio table. “Drink?”
“Sí.” She sat down.
I grinned, studying her. “I bet you don’t drink tequila.” I tapped my nose and pointed at her. “Gin.”
She inhaled, the gasp just audible enough.
I clapped my hands. “Gin it is. One gin and tonic coming up.” I waved a finger, retreating toward the house. “Lime?” I called out from the kitchen slider.
“Sounds lovely.”
“Julian, come get the chips and salsa.”
After I mixed her drink and grabbed a beer for myself, Carla watched the boys while I grilled the fish. “What brings you to Puerto Escondido?”
She circled the plastic stirrer inside her glass. “It’s a place I’ve never been.”
“Have you been to a lot of places?” Julian popped a salsa-loaded chip in his mouth. He crunched loudly.
Carla frowned. “Yes, many.”
“Do you travel a lot?” Julian asked with his mouth full of chip.
Her eyes narrowed and I caught Julian’s attention, motioning at my mouth. Julian swallowed loudly. “Do you travel a lot?” he repeated.
Carla set down her glass. Condensation glistened on the base. “I used to.”
“Really? Where have you been?”
I tested the fish’s readiness, curious myself.
“All sorts of places.” She dreamily sighed. “Italy, France, England. I’ve also been to Hong Kong, Tokyo, Saint Petersburg.”
“Where’s that?”
“Russia.”
Julian whistled.
“Business or pleasure?” I removed the fish from the grill.
“Mostly business. But this trip . . .” Carla removed the stir stick. She squeezed the lime in her glass. “This trip is for me. I’m here for the summer.”
“Hmm.” My mouth turned down as I considered what she said. Typically, a steady stream of foreigners rented the house next door throughout the summer months. Surfers, vacationers, college graduates traveling Central and South America before returning home to start their careers. At least once a week I lodged a noise complaint. The excessive partying kept my sons awake. I doubted we’d have that problem with Carla.
I set the fish platter on the table between the tortillas and cabbage. Carla moved her glass out of the way and her wedding band reflected the waning sunlight. “Will your husband be joining us?”
Carla flinched. She gave me a blank look. I pointed with the tongs at her wedding band.
“Oh.” She splayed her fingers and stared at the ring. “I always forget it’s there. No, no, he won’t be coming. He passed away several years ago. I’ve worn it for decades. It doesn’t make sense to remove it just because he died.” She tucked her hand in her lap. “I don’t have any interest in meeting anyone else.”
“You never know,” Julian said, fixing himself a taco. “You’re old, but you can’t be that old.”
“Julian.” I firmly set down the tongs.
He jutted a shoulder. “She’s still pretty.”
“Julian,” I harshly whispered.
Carla’s cheeks took on a rouge hue. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair.
“He’s six and a half,” I told Carla as though his age was an excuse. I handed her a plate and glared in warning at my son. “Please apologize.”
“Sorry,” Julian muttered. He flopped into a chair and stuffed a chip in his mouth.
Marcus toddled over, catching Carla’s attention. “Your son is beautiful. I see you in him,” she said.
I glanced down at Marcus. He had my brown hair and eyes. But his cheekbones and skin tone favored his mother.
My breath tripped up my throat, the tightness fainter now than in the past when I thought of Raquel. She’d been gone for nearly a year and a half.
Marcus raised both arms, trucks in his hands. I lifted him into his high chair. “How about you, Señora Carla? Any children?”
Her eyes remained fixed on Marcus. Her expression turned sorrowful. “I had three sons. Once.”
Late that night, I stared at the framed photo of Raquel and me, the one I kept on the bureau in my room. Our foreheads and noses pressed together, we shared a laugh. About what, I didn’t remember, but Raquel’s dry wit often left me lurched over, stomach cramped and eyes watering. Laughter dissipated the shadows that lurked in the recesses of my mind, even if only for a short time.
We’d just been married on the patio of Casa del sol overlooking the wild, chaotic surf of Playa Zicatela. Our love had been like that. Swift and dynamic. I often wondered if I would have fallen so deeply and quickly had I not been terrified and broken. But I had loved her from the moment she walked over to where I waited in the physical therapy office. She pushed her hair behind an ear, where I caught a glimpse of the unadorned divot in her lobe, and extended a hand in greeting as she introduced herself. For me, that first touch peeled off the outer layer of anxiety that had kept my heart racing since the moment I woke up in the hospital a month before. A rush of air left me, and I recognized the inklings of hope. I would be all right.
Within moments, she coaxed me out of my sullenness and the chair with a determination I initially envied and rapidly adopted. If I couldn’t fix my brain, then I needed to focus everything I had within me to repair my body.
My wounds were mostly superficial. Facial bones knitting, lacerations healing to pinkish scars, and soon my shoulder would improve. Judging by the condition of my body, Raquel remarked on that first day, I’d been athletic my entire life. Doing what, I had no clue, but within four months I was running 10Ks. I’d been training for a marathon when Aimee showed up and knocked my world on its ass. On race day, a week after she’d left, I nursed a hangover and wallowed in self-deprecating grief, rising from bed hours after the starting-line gun fired.
I smoothed a thumb across the glass, tracing the line of Raquel’s loosely coiled updo sprinkled with baby’s breath. Golden-brown tresses and honey eyes, she’d never looked more stunning. Dressed in white silk, the waistline loose over our child growing inside her, she radiated happiness. I’d been drawn to that joy. Raquel had been a bright light, the beacon in my dark world.
I missed my late wife, more so tonight than in past months. But I always longed for her whenever I tucked in the boys. Some nights I saw her there, seated on the edge of the bed, her long, graceful fingers tracing the lines of Julian’s face as she sang a lullaby. Tonight, the illusion seemed real enough that I swore I heard her voice. How often I’d wished Marcus had the chance to hear her say “I love you.”
She’d died on his birthing bed, of an aneurysm, while I watched as my newborn son, freshly cleaned and swaddled, wailed in my arms. We both cried.
I returned the photo to its spot on the bureau and thought of Carla. Her despair over losing her loved ones—how, I did not yet know—had been palpable. It got to me.
The air inside my room had become hot and stifling. I flipped on the ceiling fan, snatched my phone from the bedside table, and slid open the door to the deck off my room. Boards groaned as I strode across the rough wood. Leaning against the rail, I swiped aside a notification from Imelda—Please come see me after you close Monday—and called Natalya.
“Hey, you,” she murmured. The dusty softness of her tone washed over me, easing the emptiness. Her voice did that to me, calmed and soothed.
“Did I wake you?”
“That’s okay.” She yawned. “I fell asleep on the couch.” Fabric rustled, a lock clicked, and a door slid open. Wood creaked and she sighed. I pictured her easing into a patio chair, gazing at the same ocean before me, thousands of miles away.
I parked my elbows on the railing. “Long day?” It was midnight here, making it seven o’clock in Hawaii.
She hummed an acknowledgment. “I went paddleboarding with Katy and her students,” she said of her friend. Katy ran a surf-and-paddleboard summer camp in Hanalei. “We fought the wind the entire time. The sunset was unbelievable, though. It looked like an orange-cream Popsicle melting into the water.”
The corner of my mouth lifted. “Now I’m craving ice cream.”
She laughed softly. “Me, too. What flavor?”
“Chocolate chip.”
She groaned. “That’s so boring.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“Poi.”
“Poi?”
She hummed again.
“As in the taro root?”
“Yes.” She laughed.
I made a face. “Sounds disgusting.”
“It’s to die for. You’ll have to try it.”
I made a noise of objection. When? I thought. You couldn’t get poi ice cream here and I wouldn’t travel. For the past six months, I’d refused to leave the state.
Under the moonlight, the tide lapped the shore like a dog’s tongue in a water bowl. Lazy and rhythmic.
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Nat, don’t.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Don’t apologize.” She hated reminding me about my condition. For a few moments, neither of us spoke. We listened to the rhythm of our breaths and I longed to have her here.
She sighed. “Since you didn’t call to chat about ice cream, what do you want to talk about?”
I had so much to say to her, and something bigger to ask, but the words dissolved in my mouth the way water does on hot pavement. “Nothing in particular,” I said. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
A throaty laugh reached my ear. “I sound like a frog.”
“I should let you go. What time’s your flight?”
“Too early.” She groaned. “And I have meetings in LA all afternoon. See you in a few days?”
“Yes. We’re looking forward to it.” Because the way I saw it, Natalya was the only way I could keep my promise to Raquel, the one I’d made when I kissed her lifeless body for the last time.
I’ll keep them safe.
Five Years Ago
June 22
I found Imelda exactly where I expected at two forty-five in the afternoon: working on her laptop at La palma. Casa del sol’s open-air restaurant had the best view in the entire hotel. The Pacific Ocean stretched far to the horizon, and the breeze coming off the water, fanned by the surrounding palms, was always welcome. On days like today, where the air smelled of wood smoke and the heat could singe eyebrows, my shirt was often drenched by noon. The loose sky-blue, button-down linen I’d changed into only an hour ago already had a sweat spot where my back had been pushed against the leather car seat.
Imelda ate lunch at La palma every day. At the same time and at the same table. She’d linger over her meal for hours, meeting with staff and updating spreadsheets. I trusted Imelda as much as I trusted Thomas, which pretty much amounted to zilch. Nada. But there was one thing I could rely upon, and that was her schedule. If anything, Imelda was consistent.
I veered around tables until I stood opposite her, my back to the ocean. She typed rapidly on the laptop, a Bluetooth in her ear, her brows pinched. She wore a white silk blouse and one of those super-straight, fitted skirts in gray. Basically the same type of outfit she wore every day, including that day in the hospital she introduced herself as my sister.
God dammit.
Just like that, I was angry with her all over again.
From behind the polarized lenses of my Maui Jims, I silently counted to ten, watching a surfer disappear into the hollow of a tube, then rapped my knuckles on the table to get Imelda’s attention. Time to get this over with.
She looked up with surprised impatience. Then her eyes peeled wide. “Carlos. What are you doing here?” She stood, snatching a ballpoint from the table. She held the ends of the pen between her fingertips and thumb, rolling it back and forth, and smiled.
“You called me. What’s so important that you can’t tell me over the phone?”
“Sí, sí, of course.” She gestured at the chair beside me. “Please sit.”
I made a show of looking at my watch, then sat down, knees spread, back pressed into the chair, and elbows parked on the chair arms. My leg bounced.
Imelda returned to her seat. She clicked the ballpoint. “How are the boys?”
My eyes narrowed on that pen. She’d had one like it, annoyingly clicking away, while she confessed that she wasn’t my sister and told me I wasn’t Carlos. Between her sobbing and the compulsive clicking, it had taken an excruciatingly long time to get the entire story from her. Either it seemed that way or time slowed, I couldn’t recall. That whole week was a blur.
Looking back, I think I always suspected she’d been hiding something from me. Those infrequent dreams of Aimee and my obsession to paint her face. That alone should have been motivation enough to realize something wasn’t right. I could blame my reasons for not asking questions on any number of things—recovering from my injuries, falling for Raquel, caring for my sons, everyday life. But those were only excuses. When it came down to it, I had been afraid. Which only made me more disgusted with myself.
I smoothed a hand down the back of my damp head. “The boys are fine. They’re at the Silvas’ house.”
Imelda spun the pen like an airplane propeller. Her mouth parted. She wanted to ask more questions about them but a waiter approached. He presented the menu.
I held up a hand.
“Are you sure? Diego’s lemon sole seviche is light and delicious. Perfect for this god awfully hot day.” She fanned her neck with a file folder.
I shook my head. “I have to leave in twenty. Nat’s flight lands in an hour.” Imelda dismissed the waiter and I gave her a bemused look. “Why do you work out here?”
She shrugged. “Habit. How’s Natalya?”
“Good.” She was flying here on business but planned to stay several weeks, which was typical during the summer months. She spent her vacation time with us.
Imelda sighed, knowing she wouldn’t get any further details from me.
The waiter returned with a cappuccino she’d ordered before I arrived. He set the cup and saucer beside her laptop, bowed slightly, and left. Imelda ripped open a raw sugar packet and stirred until the crystals dissolved. She lifted the cup, blew across the surface, and sipped, testing the temperature.
I jiggled my knee and tapped the chair arm.
“Thomas signed over the deed.”
I stilled. “When?”
She took another sip and set down the cup. “Last winter. The hotel is doing better than it was two years ago.” As part of her deal with Thomas to portray my sister while I physically recovered, and to waylay any interests I might have had to learn who I really was, Thomas loaned her money, but on the condition his name be added to the deed.
She got to keep her hotel and I got a glorified babysitter.
“Is he still sending you checks?” Thomas had also compensated her.
“Not since December. I stopped cashing them over a year ago.”
“Why did he keep sending them?”
She sipped her cappuccino. “Guilt would be my guess. He hates himself for what he did to you.”
I wouldn’t know. I hadn’t spoken with him since he left Puerto Escondido last December.
“He’s under investigation for faking your death. I guess your friend Aimee mentioned something about your being alive when she filed a restraining order against him.”
“He told you this?”
She returned the cup to its saucer and picked up the pen. “Sí. We still talk.”
“After everything he’s done?” I bit out the words. She clicked the ballpoint and I swore. “He’s keeping tabs on me.”
“He cares about you, Carlos.”
“I don’t give a shit about him. He can rot in prison for all I care.” Good riddance.
“He won’t go to jail for faking your death. There’s no law in your country—”
“My country?”
“I didn’t mean . . .” She cleared her throat. “You’re right. I apologize. The United States. Apparently designing a fictitious death isn’t illegal, and that’s what Thomas did. Your funeral and burial were for show. The authorities are looking into the consequences of your death. They want to know if Thomas gained financially.”
I pinched off the sweat from the bridge of my nose and pushed the Maui Jims back into place. “The Donatos are wealthy. I’m sure he has.”
“Quite the opposite. Donato Enterprises hasn’t fared well since Phil’s arrest. Your portfolio is still intact. Thomas has it all in a trust and has been managing it. He never collected insurance upon your death.”
“How kind of him.”
Imelda lifted her eyes toward the ceiling with an air of big-sister impatience. “Your investments, your accounts, everything. It’s all there when you want it.”
Which I didn’t. She clicked the pen. I wanted to snatch it from her hand and fling it over the balcony. “Thanks, but no thanks. When you get word of Thomas’s arrest, feel free to text the good news.” I pushed up from the chair, wood legs scraping on the tile floor.
“Sit down, Carlos.” There was the big-sister tone. I bristled, stopping midrise. She pointed her pen at my chair. “Por favor. This affects you. Hate me and Thomas all you want, but believe it or not, we both care about you. And I love your sons.”
I eased back into the chair, my head cocked as a chill swept over me. “What does this have to do with them?”
Imelda looked left, then right. She set down the pen and leaned forward. “The authorities are asking Thomas questions about your death. I’m concerned they might come looking for you to verify everything Thomas has told them. You and I are the only ones here”—she gave the tabletop two distinct taps—“who know about you. Thomas gave me your identification papers. I have no idea where or how he got them. They can be legitimate, for all I know, but if they’re not . . .”
I didn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe. My back slammed into the chair. “I can be imprisoned or deported.” Because I might be here illegally. Fake ID and no visa.
“No one can find out I helped you. I’ll lose my hotel. And you, Carlos,” she said, panicked, “you could lose Julian.”