Everything We Keep: A Novel (14 page)

He rolled his shoulders and grinned, slow and sexy. My stomach quickened.

“Come here, baby.” He pulled me into his arms and leaned down to kiss me. Before his lips reached mine, his entire body tensed. He lifted his head, his gaze sharp beyond my shoulder.

Gooseflesh rose. “What?”

He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head before looking down at me. “Thought I heard something.”

“An animal?” I peeked over my shoulder and saw only shadows, eerily frozen in the moonlight.

“Maybe,” James said. He kissed my nose. “You look beautiful.”

I grinned and stepped from his embrace, tugging my light sweater over my head. I let it fall to the ground. James chuckled until the sound of my skirt zipper cut through the night. His face sobered, his gaze trailing the skirt I let pool at my feet. I stepped out of my flats and over my skirt.

A gentle breeze scented with wet pine and wood smoke whispered against my flesh, puckering the skin. I fisted my hands. “Cold here.”

“You’re so beautiful.”

James closed the distance between us, his mouth landing hard on mine. He hands circled my waist, fingers dipping under the elastic of my panties. He slipped them off, dropping to his knees and kissing my leg. I inhaled sharply, shivering from the damp air and his moist kisses.

He tossed aside the panties onto my discarded clothes and tugged me down. He unhooked my bra, kissing the exposed flesh, and stretched me out on the blanket, covering me with the other one to keep me warm. He stripped fast and crawled underneath, pulling me close.

“I love you,” he whispered against my mouth and kissed me.

“I love you, too.”

He moved above me and I heard foil tear. He shifted, adjusting, pushing inside, and then he was moving within me. I locked my arms around his neck and clamped my legs around his waist, matching the rhythm he set.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered in my ear. He thrust deeply, his movements frantic.

“Never.”

CHAPTER 15

It had been fourteen months since James left for Mexico and one year since I’d buried him. In some ways, I had moved on with my life. In other ways, not so much. James’s clothes still hung in our closet. His art supplies collected dust in the studio.

I sat at my desk, clicking through the images Kristen had e-mailed from this morning’s opening. I searched each one, hoping to find the one woman I never expected to see again. There were pictures of family and friends, my neighbors, and staff. Snapshots of the baristas and Mandy in the kitchen. Ian behind the espresso machine. Ian with my parents. Ian with Nadia. Ian standing beside his framed pictures on the wall. I clicked through more pictures. Ian, again. Damn you, Kristen, for taking so many pictures of him. And damn you, Ian, for looking so good.

I clicked to the next picture and exhaled in a rush. There she was, sitting at table number eight in the corner where the walls displaying James’s paintings and Ian’s prints met. Lacy. She held the postcard she’d given to my waitress Emily and was looking straight into Kristen’s camera, her eerie lavender-blue eyes bright and wide. She hadn’t expected Kristen to take her picture.

Why had she left so quickly after dropping off the postcard? And why hadn’t she given it directly to me? Had Kristen and her camera scared her off? Had something—or some
one
—else scared her off? Thomas? He’d seen someone leave the café, thought he knew someone. It changed his entire demeanor. He’d seemed upset. Maybe that someone he’d seen was Lacy.

I retrieved the art gallery postcard from my back pocket. The gallery, El estudio del pintor, was in Puerto Escondido, Mexico. The card was small, only three and one-half by five inches, and the thumbnail image of the acrylic painting even smaller. I studied the painting, rapping my knuckles against my teeth. I’d seen the painting years ago, in my parents’ sunroom, propped on James’s easel.
Impossible.
The postcard image was an exact replica of James’s
Withering Oaks
acrylic, a painting of the trees in the reserve behind his parents’ house.

I flipped the card over. The gallery was located in the same town as Casa del sol, the hotel on the card I’d found in my wallet almost a year ago. I yanked open the desk’s middle drawer and dug through paper scraps until I found the business card I believed Lacy had tucked in my wallet.

Opening a new browser window, I brought up Casa del sol’s website. Nothing had changed on the site since the last time I looked. Nothing appeared unusual about the resort hotel. Then I searched for El estudio del pintor. Nothing. No website or page link. I tried several other search engines. None of them located an “El estudio del pintor” art gallery in Puerto Escondido, Mexico, so I Googled the address. An image of a storefront popped up and I clicked on the link. In the picture, which was embedded in a real estate website, the building appeared old, paint cracking and stucco chipped. It had no signage. The listing was at least two years old and indicated the property had been sold. Whoever purchased the site had recently opened the studio, sometime within the last twenty-four months.

Why was Lacy leading me to Puerto Escondido? James had flown to Cancún. He had checked into his hotel in Playa del Carmen, and he had fished off the coast of Cozumel. Thomas told me he had retrieved James’s body from the Mexican state of Quintana Roo. Not Oaxaca.

If this wasn’t the case, why would James lie to me about his travel plans? Maybe Thomas was the one lying, which meant Lacy had been the only one telling the truth all along.

James was still alive.

My heart slammed in my chest. I called Kristen. “Can I come over?”

Kristen and Nick Garner lived in Saratoga, a ten-minute drive from my house. Dressed in terry shorts and a Hello Kitty shirt, Kristen answered the door. Her ponytail bounced high on her head as she led me through the house. “Nick’s in the kitchen. Do you mind that I asked him to join us?”

I shook my head. “He knows Thomas better than either of us.”

“That’s what I figured. Aimee”—she stopped in the hallway and faced me—“I have my doubts. Everything you told me on the phone seems so . . .”

“Crazy, I know.” I adjusted my purse strap. My fingers were shaking. “But I have to find out what’s going on.”

She rested her hand on my upper arm. “Is this why you haven’t dated since James, um . . . disappeared?”

“It’s always been in the back of my mind.”

She gave me an abbreviated nod. “Let’s see what Nick has to say.”

Nick was standing at the butcher-block island pouring a brown ale into a frosted glass. He wore a T-shirt and workout shorts, and his hair was damp. Nick played soccer in the city’s recreational department adult league. He looked as if he’d recently returned from a game.

He offered me a beer and I declined. “Congratulations on the opening today,” he said.

“Thanks. What did you order?”

“The Mediterranean omelet.” He patted his stomach. “My new favorite.”

I grinned. Overflowing with goat cheese, brine-cured olives, and fresh fennel and dill, the omelet had been a popular selection. “I expect to see you back.”

“Without a doubt.” He drank his beer, then rubbed his hands together. “So, what have you got?”

I retrieved the gallery postcard and business card from my purse and aligned them on the island. “Lacy slipped the hotel’s card in my wallet.”

Nick arched a brow.

“Long story,” I said and pointed at the gallery postcard. “She had my waitress Emily give this one to me.”

Nick’s head snapped up. “She was there this morning?”

“Apparently so.”

“Aimee says I took a picture of her,” Kristen explained.

Nick straightened, inching closer to his wife. “Did she say anything to you?”

She shook her head. “There were a lot of people there. I’ve never met her so I don’t know who she was.”

“I’ll show you what she looks like.” I launched my phone and scrolled through the camera roll to Lacy’s photo.

“I remember her,” Kristen said. “I think I spooked her when I took the picture. She bailed right after.”

“Her name is Lacy Saunders, and I think she left because she saw Thomas. She’s a psychic profiler specializing in unsolved mysteries and missing persons,” I explained for Nick’s benefit.

Nick studied the picture. “Kristen mentioned you first met this woman at James’s funeral.”

“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” I admitted.

“Lacy chased her down in the church parking lot,” Kristen clarified. “She told Aimee that James was alive. Nadia thought she was a con artist, and I have to agree with her.”

“I did, too, until I realized most of James’s paintings were missing, and then I received this.” I tapped the painting on the postcard. “I’m afraid Lacy has been telling the truth.”

Nick rubbed his right shoulder. “Don’t jump to conclusions. At least not yet,” he advised. “What did the cops say when you reported the theft?”

I’d told Kristen I reported the missing paintings to the police when I initially discovered they were gone. She must have mentioned this to Nick, too. “There wasn’t much they could do. There weren’t any fingerprints in the garage other than mine and James’s. No signs of forced entry so it’s questionable whether the paintings were even stolen. The best I could do was file a report. If anything surfaces at auctions or on the black market, they can match the description.”

“They can be anywhere by now,” Kristen surmised.

“Mexico?” I suggested.

Nick shrugged. “Europe, Asia. The next town over. Your neighbor’s living room.” He tapped the painting image. “If this is James’s, it’s possible the gallery owner purchased the canvas from an unreliable source. I want to know more about the woman who gave you this. I’m not comfortable with either of you interacting with her. She’s suspicious.”

“I don’t have much to add other than she lives in Campbell. There’s a sign on her lawn promoting her psychic counseling services. It also advertises her—” I broke off, glancing between them.

“Advertises what?” Nick prompted.

“She reads palms and tarot cards.”

He made an impatient sound before his gaze hardened. “You went to her house?”

“I didn’t go inside,” I rushed to defend myself. “She creeped me out.”

“Probably best to stay away from her,” he suggested.

“Aside from that one time, she’s always approached me, not the other way around. She’d talked nonsense about James. Or, I thought it was nonsense.”

Nick drank more of his beer. “Sounds like she’s a nut job.”

“Why is she being so secretive?” Kristen asked.

I nodded in agreement. “I wished she’d just come out and explain everything.”

“Lots of reasons why she hasn’t,” Nick said. “Someone hired her to pass on information to you. Or, lure you to them. Whatever the reason, they want to keep their identity a secret, which is the least likely explanation.”

“And the most?” I asked.

“She’s a con artist. She gives you bait”—Nick waved the postcard—“gains your trust, and insinuates she has more information. Then she starts charging. Does she contact you often?”

I shook my head. “She’s never asked for money.”

“She doesn’t have you in the position to do so. Ignore her and she may go away.”

“What if she continues to bother Aimee?”

“Get a restraining order.”

I chewed my lower lip. “What if”—I hedged, gently knocking my shoe against the cabinet—“she’s telling the truth?”

Nick looked at me seriously. “I feel for you, Aimee, I really do. James’s death was hard on all of us, especially Thomas. He loved his brother and was extremely protective. It wasn’t easy growing up with their parents.”

“I know.” I nodded, thinking of all the sacrifices both James and Thomas had made over the years.

“Thomas inherited a mess of a company I’m not sure he wanted, and running the operation sucks the life out of him,” Nick continued. “Truthfully, I was shocked to see him at your opening this morning. He barely has time to eat. He’s a good, honest man who wouldn’t stand aside if there were any questions about James’s death. If there were, he’d be the first one flying to Mexico to uncover answers.”

He exhaled, his face softening, and propped his forearms on the island. “I find it very hard to believe James is not dead. Why would he leave his family? Why would he leave you? I’m sorry, Aimee. James is dead.”

My eyes burned and I blinked back tears. Nick asked the same questions I’d repeatedly asked myself. Though my opinion of Thomas wasn’t as generous as his. Not anymore. As for Lacy, she was still a mystery. I collected the cards and slipped them into my purse.

Nick rested his hand over mine. “If it helps any, I have a PI who’s done some work on my civil cases. His name’s Ray Miles, and he’s a bit . . .” Nick hedged. “Well, there’s no way to say it but straight out. He’s shady . . . but damn good. He’s not cheap either. I’ll text his contact info. Give him a call. He can run a background check on Lacy, look into the gallery, maybe find out the name of the artist on the painting and where it was purchased.” Nick tapped his phone and a few seconds later mine pinged.

We chatted a few minutes more before I left. I had to be up early the next morning to prep for Aimee’s official opening.

By late morning the next day, I slipped into the café’s office and called Ray. We spoke briefly about my situation, how I wanted proof Lacy was who—and what—she claimed, if James had indeed traveled to Cancún, and where the gallery in Puerto Escondido had obtained his painting. Ray quoted me a price and Nick was right. His PI was damn expensive, and the spare change in my coffers was dwindling fast since the final payments for the contractor and subs were due. Since my issue wasn’t time sensitive, merely a curiosity, Ray agreed to handle my case when I had the cash. Besides, he had other cases he was working on and wouldn’t be able to help me for another eight or ten weeks. Enough time for me to put money aside.

I never saw Lacy again. It was as though she’d never appeared. In and out of my life before I could make sense of our paths intersecting. During the first month after Aimee’s opening, Thomas stopped at the café for coffee several times a week until his visits dwindled and he stopped coming regularly. The times I did see him, he appeared more withdrawn, cheeks hollowed and body leaner. Donato Enterprises was taking its toll. Where Edgar Donato had gained weight, Thomas was positively gaunt.

By mid-October, right after my twenty-eighth birthday, I had more than enough funds to hire Ray. If anything, his findings would help me close this chapter of my life. I could fully move on, mind, body, and spirit. Ray confirmed he’d send a report within a couple of weeks, and then I could decide how to proceed.

When we had worked out the particulars, I sat on the chenille couch in the front room. To my surprise, it was Ian who broke into my thoughts. His unwavering support this past year and deepening friendship. The smile that stirred something deeper within my soul, and the warmth of his skin whenever he stood near. With Ray’s help, I could finally give Ian what he wanted. Did I want the same from him?

Yes!

But what if Ray did find James?