Everything We Keep: A Novel (16 page)

“I’ve tried . . .”

“Not hard enough.”

“The restaurant—”

She waved in dismissal. “OK, so you opened a restaurant. Good for you. Great progress on the outside. But in here”—she poked my sternum—“you’re stuck. You’re a textbook case when it comes to grief. You’ve plowed through every stage but one. People die, Aimee. There’s nothing you can do but pick up the pieces and move on. Why can’t you accept James is dead?”

“He’s
not
dead,” I vehemently objected.

She propped her fists on her hips and closed her eyes. Moisture glistened on her lashes. “Listen, I get why you’re doing this. After my dad left my mom, I had a really, really hard time getting over it until I accepted the fact he was gone. He’d left us. So, I let him go. Completely. Cut him off.” She slashed a hand between us. “But you know what the problem with that was?”

I slowly shook my head, hesitant, unsure where she was going with this.

“It was very easy for me to dump any guy who tried to get close to me. I didn’t trust them. They’d leave me, too. Maybe not that day, or a month from then. But eventually. They’d tire of me and move on. So I’d move on before they got the chance to.” Her breath hitched as she inhaled. “You know what sucks about that?”

“What?”

She folded her arms tightly in front of her chest. “I’m lonely. There. I admit it. I’m really lonely. And I know you are, too. You’ll always be lonely until you can let James go.”

I stared at the floor, blinking rapidly. I was lonely, but my situation wasn’t the same as hers. “There have been more times than I can count when I’ve come close to boxing James’s clothes, packing up his art supplies. They’re covered in dust; it’s been that long since I’ve touched them.” I motioned toward the room James had used as a studio, the one I now used for my home office. “Every time I try to get rid of his stuff, something stops me. Whether a gut feeling he is alive, or hope he’ll show up on my doorstep one day, I don’t know. But that feeling is there, and I can’t ignore it.

“So, you see? Our situations aren’t the same. You knew your father was never coming back. As for James, there’s a good chance he’s out there, somewhere. And I have to find out. I have to know for sure.”

“That’s why I want you to go to Mexico.” She jabbed a finger at me. “I want you to see how that psychic bitch has manipulated you. Maybe then, once you know she’s been leading you on, lying to you about James, maybe then you’ll let yourself mourn. And finally,
fucking
move on.”

I stood motionless. There was the very real possibility Nadia was right. Lacy was manipulating me. “What if I find him?”

“Seriously?” She cocked a brow. I crossed my arms. Her expression sobered. “Assuming he’s alive, have you ever wondered why he’s stayed away?”

I nodded.
All the time.

“What are your plans?”

I glanced beyond her shoulder and locked on to James’s
Meadow Glade
, the painting of “our spot.” The entire scene was done in shades of green, capturing our meadow on a crisp morning when winter had phased into spring. It was soft, warm, and inviting. Pristine, like the way I wanted to remember it. Not foul, the way we’d left it.

The day after James had proposed, I’d taken down the painting. He was furious and insisted it remain. We had to keep up pretenses that nothing had happened in our meadow, that Phil hadn’t come as close as he did to destroying our dreams. For James, the painting still hung on the wall. I wondered if Lacy somehow knew this when she sent the smaller original. “I plan to tell James how much I love him. I miss him, and I want to bring him home.”

“What if he doesn’t want to come home?”

My gaze dropped to the floor.

She harshly inhaled. “You aren’t planning to stay there? What about the café? You’ve worked so hard to get where you are. Are you going to just give it up?”

“No! I—” I didn’t know what I would do. I loved my café and the new life I’d built, and I couldn’t walk away. But I couldn’t walk away from James either. Not yet. I had to find him, and I needed to know why he’d left.

“I have to go to Mexico.”

Nadia watched me for a long moment. She huffed, put hands on hips, and shook her head before wrapping me in a hug. She rested her chin on my shoulder. “I know you have to go, but don’t go alone. Wait here.” She walked across the room and, opening the front door, motioned to someone out of view. Ian walked in, carrying a duffel bag and camera case. He dropped them on the floor next to my roller and cautiously looked at me.

Nadia closed the door and stood by Ian. “He’s packed and ready to go, but he needs your flight and hotel info.” I scowled, and she raised her hands in defense. “His idea. Not mine. He offered to travel with you.”

I groaned. This arrangement was ludicrous.

Ian held up both hands. “Don’t worry. Everything’s been arranged at the café. Trish is filling in; she’s there right now. Mandy will help, too.”

Trish was my other shift manager, but I’d never left her in charge. Ian was supposed to be my go-to guy when I couldn’t be at the restaurant. How was I supposed to leave Ian in charge if he was with me?

“Kristen and I will help open and close, as well as with anything else that comes up,” Nadia volunteered. She chuckled, nervous. “Hopefully there won’t be too many fires to put out.”

I gnawed my lower lip. My eyes shifted between them as they stared back. Ian shoved his hands into his jean pockets and walked over. He whispered in my ear. “Let’s go find him.”

I frowned at the dejection in his voice. The longing for me I’d glimpsed from time to time in his expression was gone. I yearned to see it again. An emptiness spread from my chest and down my arms.

Going after James is a mistake.

The coffeemaker beeped and I jerked. Whatever I’d been thinking scattered away. I lowered my arms. “Well, then . . . I hope you remembered your passport.”

Faster than a magician could pull cards from his sleeve, Ian whipped out his passport from his back pocket. “I never leave home without it.”

PART TWO

The Emerald Coast

Puerto Escondido, Mexico

CHAPTER 17

After a nineteen-hour flight with two layovers, I checked into Casa del sol, a boutique beachfront resort overlooking Puerto Escondido’s Playa Zicatela, and waited in the lobby for Ian’s flight to arrive. It was late Thursday afternoon, two days before the Torneo Internacional de Surf, something I hadn’t been aware of in my rush to book a reservation. The tournament was one of many events taking place during Fiestas de Noviembre, an entire month of festivities celebrating local culture and traditions.

The open-air lobby bustled with tourists and surfers, their boards propped against walls or left on the floor with other luggage. Suitcases rolled across adobe tiles. Boisterous laughter vibrated the salt-heavy air. Waves thundered beyond the arched doorways. The scent of ocean spray drifted into the lobby, clashing with the acrid body odor of travel-weary guests drenched in sunscreen. All of this faded into the background as I stood away from the crowd.

Nerves pinged like firecrackers. I’d felt uneasy the moment I stepped onto the plane in San Jose and was nauseous, my skin clammy by the time the cab pulled into the hotel’s parking lot. While I wanted to find James, I feared I would find him. His death and funeral had been a sham. For months Thomas had lied to me and James had remained hidden. They’d let me and everyone else believe James had died.

After all this time, and all the lies, would I want to take him back?

I didn’t have an answer.

Feeling dizzy, I leaned against a support column and continued waiting for Ian, who’d taken a separate flight since mine had been fully booked. According to his last text, he was in a cab on his way over.

A woman with chicory eyes and high cheekbones approached. Her midnight-brown hair fell in sleek waves over slender shoulders, skimming the edges of the hotel manager badge pinned on her lapel. Her name tag read I
MELDA
R
ODRIGUEZ
, and she gave me a glass of water.

“
Hola, señorita.
Welcome to Casa del sol.” She frowned. “Are you feeling all right?”

I graciously accepted the water and drank greedily. “Yes, I’m fine now. Thank you.”

“The humidity is an evil spirit around here. It sneaks up on you. Best to stay hydrated.” She smiled and gave me the once-over. “Are you here for the
torneo
?”

“The what?” I blinked. “Oh no. I don’t surf. Never have. I live near the ocean but haven’t been in a long time. Not since—” James died. I buried my face in the glass and finished drinking, resisting the temptation to flash James’s picture. Lacy’s mention of danger hovered along the edges of my mind.

Imelda took the empty glass from me. “What brings you to Puerto Escondido then?”

“Art.”

“
Sí,
very nice,” she agreed. Her English, crisp and articulate, dripped with Spanish flavor. “Oaxaca has a lot to offer. Our village has much fishing and surfing, but there are a few galleries.”

“Can you tell me where this one is?” I dug into my bag for the postcard from Lacy and showed it to Imelda.

“This is a good one. It is very close. You can walk from here.” She pointed toward the front lobby archway to the road beyond the hotel’s property. “Let me show you.
Un momento.
” She raised a finger and I followed her to a pamphlet kiosk by the concierge desk. She opened a map of Puerto Escondido and pointed to a spot between Playa Marinero and Playa Zicatela. “We are here, and you want to go here. The gallery is on el Adoquin, a street the tourists enjoy.”

She tapped the map again, a different location. “This is our city hall. There will be music there tonight if you are interested and dancing and a parade in a few days if you plan to stay until then. The festivities are fun.”

I took the map, memorizing the route and surrounding roads before I folded the paper.

“Here is the studio’s brochure.” Imelda lifted a glossy postcard from the kiosk, larger than the one Lacy had sent me. “Carlos’s work is exceptional.”

J. Carlos Dominguez, El estudio del pintor’s owner, wasn’t pictured, but the card face featured several of the gallery’s acrylic paintings. They weren’t James’s missing canvases, but the artistic style was similar.

“Does Carlos feature other artists in his gallery?” I asked.

“A local sculptor uses his floor space, but most is Carlos’s art, acrylics and oils. Several of our artists have made quite a name for themselves within the Oaxacan art community. Is there someone you’re looking for in particular?”

“An old friend.”

Imelda’s smile faltered.

Voices rose across the lobby, snagging her attention. Newly arrived guests expressed their unhappiness with the accommodations. They’d reserved a bungalow, not the junior suite.

Imelda turned back to me. “Good luck finding your friend and do enjoy your stay. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

She walked away before I could thank her.

A text message buzzed through. Ian had arrived. I met him outside the lobby entrance. His clothes were wrinkled and jaw unshaven. The entire flight, with layovers and delays, had taken him more than twenty-two hours. He looked as though a truck had dragged him several blocks. He waved when he saw me, his weary face splitting into a large grin.

I smiled and waved back.

He paid the cab driver and slung a camera bag over his head and shoulder while grabbing his luggage at the same time.

“How was your flight?” he asked when he reached me.

“Long,” I said, groaning.

“Tell me about it,” he complained. He swung an arm toward the reservation desk. “Let me check in. Watch my bags.” He dropped them at my feet.

Several minutes later, room card in hand, he returned to my side. “I need a beer.”

I wrinkled my nose. “You need a shower. The café on the terrace overlooks the ocean. Go clean up. I’ll meet you there.”

He tugged his shirt to fan his chest. “Good idea.”

Twenty minutes later, I was seated at a table with a view of the shore below. Large waves crashed into the white sand beach stretching on either side of the resort. Palms rustled along the café’s perimeter. My iced tea arrived the same time as Ian. He scrunched his nose at my drink. “Really?” He held up two fingers for the waiter.
“Dos cervezas.”

“Sí, señor.”
The waiter tossed coasters on the table and left to place the order at the bar.

Ian had changed into linen shorts, a rumpled oxford shirt, and flip-flops. His hair curled around his ears, still damp from the shower. He sat across from me, dropping a camera case on the chair between us, and inhaled deeply. “God, I love Mexico.”

I inhaled and only smelled Ian. The heat of arousal washed over me. Strong and pure. I took a startled glance away and fixed my gaze on the pool patio.

“You OK?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I lifted the hair off my neck. It didn’t do much to cool me down.

The waiter returned with our beers. I pushed mine aside and raised my tea glass when Ian lifted his bottle. He frowned. “I’m not toasting over tea.”

“I don’t want alcohol on my breath when I see James.”

“
If
you see him.” He took a long draw from his bottle and searched my face.

My expression turned wary as I accepted the obvious. Ian wanted me, as much as I wanted to find James. And I had to find him, or at the very least, find answers to the questions about his death. It was the only way I knew how to move on.

I showed Ian the new postcard. He cocked a brow. “Is this the studio?”

I nodded. “Don’t these paintings look like James’s?”

“Do you really think James has been in Mexico all this time painting?” He studied the card and shrugged. “The style seems close. Hard to tell. The pictures are too small.”

I peered at the card. “I can tell.”

He took another swig of beer. “All paintings look the same to me.”

“Like all your photos look the same as every other photographer’s?”

He returned his beer to the table and grimaced. “Point taken.”

I pushed the card back to his side. “James once told me every painter has a distinct characteristic to their artistic style. Van Gogh painted in blots of color. Monet broke colors down to create the perception of light within the paint. Kinkade’s painted lights look so authentic; his paintings seem to illuminate themselves. James had his own trait, too.”

Ian leaned over the table. “So, what am I looking for?”

“Acrylics were James’s preferred medium. They dry faster than oils. On a big project, he’d mix a large batch of paint to ensure color consistency. One of the colors he mixed was a bluish-green. He called it
Les bleus de mon
bébé
—”

Ian snorted. “My baby’s blues?”

I waved my hand dismissively. “The color matched my eyes.”

Ian rolled his.

I ignored him. “James used it to sign his name on every painting. Like this artist did here.” I tapped a blotch of Caribbean blue on one of the images.

Ian squinted, our foreheads almost touching as we inspected the postcard between us. He leaned away and sighed. “Are you sure you’re not forcing yourself to see something? I can’t tell.”

“Here, look at one of James’s paintings.” I scrolled through my phone’s camera roll, landing on a photo of the Napa Valley painting where James’s signature contrasted with the painting’s yellow mustard fields. I gave Ian the phone.

His face paled, and his gaze snapped to mine. “Where was this picture taken? Is this at the café?”

My cheeks flushed. “You haven’t seen this painting. It’s in my bedroom.”

“This isn’t a painting.” He quickly flashed the screen. I caught a glimpse of blonde hair.

“Oh, sorry.” I must have flipped the picture on accident. “Let me find the right one.”

“Who’s the woman?” He showed me the screen.

It was the picture Kristen had taken of Lacy at the café’s soft opening. “She’s the psychic counselor who told me about James. Her name is Lacy.”

“You mean Laney. When was she at the café?”

“The soft opening. Kristen took her picture.”

Ian cupped a hand over his mouth. He stared hard at the photo, eyes narrowing. “I can’t believe I didn’t see her.”

“She didn’t stay long.” I looked at him, suspicious. “By the way, her name is Lacy Saunders.”

He shook his head. “Laney. Elaine Saunders. She’s the psychic profiler my dad had hired. I’ve been trying to locate her for years.”

I gaped. “She’s your angel. Why would she change her name?”

“Simple. She doesn’t want to be found.” He returned the phone. “Will you text me the picture?”

I nodded and tapped a few icons. “At least there’s one thing we know about her.”

“What’s that?” he asked. His phone beeped with my incoming message.

“Lacy has been here. Her memo was on notepaper from this hotel. Someone here had to have seen her. Maybe the hotel has her address.”

“Maybe,” he said his tone distant. He lifted his face toward the ocean’s horizon, lost in his thoughts.

The untouched beer bottle sweated beside the barely touched iced tea. What the heck. I snagged the bottle. “Let’s toast.”

He dragged his attention back to me. “To what?”

“To us, and that we both find what we’re looking for.”

Ian studied me, his expression leading me to believe he didn’t want me to find what I was looking for. It would mean he’d lose any chance of having something more with me. I swallowed uneasily. He finished his beer and stood, tossing Mexican bills onto the table. “All right, then, let’s go find your painter.”