Everything We Keep: A Novel (17 page)

CHAPTER 18

The Adoquin, the pedestrian walkway section of Avenida Alfonso P
é
rez Gasga, ran parallel to Playa Principal. Bright, bold storefronts lined the street and festival banners flew overhead. They crisscrossed the stone-paved walkway. Street performers stood on corners and banged steel drums. We wove our way through tourists, my pace quickening with each step.

“What’s the rush?” Ian asked. He snapped a picture of a turquoise building striped in long shadows cast by the setting sun.

“It’s getting late.” I jerked my head for Ian to follow and kept walking. The weekend’s competition had attracted surfing fans from around the globe. South African accents mixed with Australian. Tourists congregated in the street. They ate, laughed, and danced. They were also in my way.

Ian snagged my arm and yanked me back. He steered us away from a tourist jam, pausing to snap pictures of two old men. They puffed cigars in the doorway of a smoke shop. Their bellies hung low, exposed below the hems of their sweat-stained shirts. They looked unappealing and probably smelled worse.

What did Ian find so fascinating about them, and why did he bother taking their picture? He would never show the photos at his exhibits.

Ian released my arm and eased his pace. “Take a breath. Look around, there’s so much to see.”

“I didn’t come here to sightsee,” I complained.

He masked his face with the camera and pressed a button. Blinding light flashed. I saw stars.

“Shit.” He adjusted the camera settings. “I didn’t mean to do that. Rookie move.” He played back the picture and chuckled, positioning the preview screen for me to see. “Nice deer-in-the-headlights look. Suits you.”

“Stop taking pictures,” I snapped. The studio was a couple of blocks ahead, according to the map Imelda had shown me, and I wanted to get there.

“Why? The late-afternoon light is perfect.”

I huffed impatiently and he draped the camera around his neck. “Chill, Aims. You’re wound tighter than a roll of film.” He rubbed my shoulder. “There’s a good chance the studio’s already closed.”

He nodded toward the slipping sun. “It seems I’ve had a change of travel plans. My next exhibit has to feature Puerto Escondido, Mexico. I have a surfing competition to shoot this weekend. I also want to get a few pictures of local landmarks and culture.”

“But you don’t exhibit photos with people in them.”

“I might not have a choice this time,” he said, as though he found the idea unsettling.

Ian had planned to use his funds to travel to the rainforests of Costa Rica. Instead, he’d sacrificed his trip and followed me to Mexico.

Because he cares about me.

The thought knocked around my brain.

I rubbed my face and sighed into my hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. But promise you’ll enjoy the trip, even if you don’t find James. I need to know my money has been well spent.”

I nodded and lowered my arms. Ian was right. Just because James’s paintings might be here, didn’t mean the man was.

As Ian had suggested, I breathed deeply, inhaling cigar smoke and the scent of barbecued fish from the taco stand across the road. I made a mental note to add some Mexican flair to Aimee’s spring menu and let my body move with the drums’ tempo. A small smile curved my lips.

“That’s better.” Ian returned my grin and preserved the moment with a click of his camera. This time the flash didn’t go off. “Let’s get our bearings. Today’s goal is finding the studio. Tomorrow you can approach Carlos after you’ve had a solid night’s sleep. You won’t be so—”

“Tightly wound?”

“Yeah.” He dipped his head, looking at the camera in his hands. He tried to hide an amused grin.

I scowled. “You don’t think I’ll find him, do you?”

He looked up. “I didn’t say that.”

“You think this is all a big joke.”

He held up his hands in defense. “Hey, wait a second. Don’t jump to—”

“You don’t want me to find him.”

He sighed heavily, glancing down the street before turning back to me. “I don’t know what I want. I—” He clamped his lips tight.

“You, what?”

He dug his fingers through his hair. I continued to glare at him and he shrugged a shoulder. “I want to see you happy. I want you to live in the moment and smile spontaneously. Your entire face lights up. It’s beautiful.”

I blinked. His words left me breathless.

“You have that deer-in-the-headlights expression again,” he murmured and started walking in the studio’s direction.

I stared dazedly after him. Several paces ahead he stopped and turned. “You coming?”

“Um . . . yeah.”

Ian took pictures as we walked. I matched his steps, stopping when he did, and made a point to notice what was around me. He adjusted the camera settings and aimed the lens at an old building. I wondered what he found interesting about cracking adobe, so I asked him. In response, he snapped my picture.

“Stop!” I squealed and grabbed for the strap.

He twisted away, laughing. “I haven’t stopped since the day I started. What makes you think I’ll do so now?”

I fell into step beside him when he walked across the street, his gaze on some other object. “How did you start?” He’d told me once he had been interested in photography for as long as he could remember.

“My dad was a sports photographer. I borrowed his camera without asking. Took pictures of bugs in the backyard.” He gave me a sheepish look. “Make that a lot of pictures. This was before digital cameras were commonplace, so when he’d developed the film, half the roll was of bugs. I’d been expecting the worst sort of punishment when he found out. Instead he gave me his camera.”

“He gave you the camera?” I envisioned those expensive cameras I’d seen sports photographers use, the ones with the large lenses where a stand was required to hold the camera steady. “How old were you?”

“Eight. And yes, he gave me his camera. It gave him the excuse to buy a new one he’d had his eye on,” Ian explained. Then he stopped. “We’ve arrived.” He pointed at the sign painted on the building beside us.

I stared at my reflection in the El estudio del pintor front window. The studio was dark inside. As Ian had suspected, the gallery was closed. I blindly reached for his hand when my legs started shaking.

His gaze met mine in the window and he squeezed my hand. “All’s good, Aims. I’m with you every step.” He craned his neck to look around the gallery’s corner. “I think the entrance is off the courtyard.”

He tugged me along and flipped the latch on a wrought iron gate. Weathered hinges creaked from wear. Potted plants and tropical flowers filled the small courtyard. Bougainvillea scaled the walls, vines speckled with magenta papery flowers reached for the sun. Water trickled from a glazed, ceramic fountain, drowning the street noise.

Two other retailers shared the courtyard, an upscale pottery and ceramic atelier and a real estate agency, which had a door propped open. I tapped the studio’s glass entrance above the sign hanging on the other side. “What does it say?”

“‘Feeling inspired. Gone fishing, or painting, or running. Will be back soon, but probably later.’” Ian grunted. “I can relate to this guy.”

I pressed my nose to the glass the way a kid does at a candy shop, cupping my hands around my eyes to cut out the glare. The studio wasn’t half the size of Wendy’s back home, but the art on display was breathtaking. “The paintings are beautiful.” I sighed against the door, fogging the glass. Canvases of differing mediums—oils, acrylics, and watercolors—covered two walls. Oceanscapes, sunsets, and what I assumed to be local landmarks. There were a few portraits mingled among them. From my angle, I couldn’t see what was on the wall alongside me, and the window looking onto the main avenue took up the entire front wall. Sculptures on stained-wood pedestals lorded over the gallery floor.

A small wooden table was tucked into the far corner, littered with paint tubes, brushes, and paper. A petite easel propped on top. It reminded me of the craft table I had in my childhood bedroom. Behind a cluttered desk, stacks of newspapers and books crept up the back wall.

“I wonder if Carlos will be back today,” I said against the door, fogging the glass again. I wiped the surface with my forearm.

Ian glanced around the courtyard. “Hold on. Let me check.” He disappeared into the real estate agency.

I turned my attention back to the gallery and studied the paintings. Despite the different mediums, the style was similar. They’d been done by the same artist. From my vantage point, I couldn’t read the artist’s signature on the canvases.

I stepped away from the door and rubbed the back of my neck, which was damp from a mixture of nerves and humidity. Through the real estate office window, I watched Ian converse with the agent on staff, but the courtyard fountain washed away their voices. I wanted to know when Carlos would return, and I wanted the name of the artist on those paintings. I especially wanted to check the hue of the blue signature pigment from the artwork featured in the gallery’s pamphlet.

I returned to the front and studied the pieces in the display window. There was a sculptured seagull diving into a wave, a framed watercolor where the artist had signed his name in the same gray hues as the rising sun painted on the textured paper, and an acrylic with a blue signature. I studied the painting’s brushstrokes. As much as I wanted to believe James had created the artwork, I wasn’t sure. There were similarities, but also vast differences. Unlike the paintings at home where the technique had been controlled and understated, the brushstrokes on this canvas were erratic and carefree.
Liberated
was the word that came to mind, but the end result was a creation just as magnificent as those on my wall at home. Then there was the signature, the writing as erratic as the style. Either the blue pigment had too much green or the window tint skewed the color. I needed to get inside for a better look.

Ian came around the building, talking as he walked through the wrought iron gate. “The real estate agent said Carlos has a habit of closing early. He’s training for a marathon. Celine, she’s the agent, saw him leave wearing those really small running shorts.” He held up his hands, fingers splayed, and squeezed the air as though squishing bread rolls. My eyes widened and he cleared his throat. “She did that, not me. Just demonstrating.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Celine doesn’t expect he’ll be back today so we’ll try again tomorrow. Early, OK? The sign on the door says he opens ‘around ten.’” He air quoted.

I pursed my lips and absently nodded. His face fell at my lack of enthusiasm. He tugged my right sleeve. “Come on, Aims, you should be happy. You’re one step closer to solving The Case of the Missing Fiancé.”

I gave him an exasperated look.

He thumbed toward the window. “I did find out, though, this is the gallery. Carlos’s studio is the apartment upstairs. He teaches art classes up there.”

I sensed Ian watching me, but I couldn’t pull my attention from the acrylic painting in the window. Maybe if I stared hard enough, the signature color would change. Was the lighting wrong or was I forcing myself to see something that wasn’t there?

Ian shuffled his feet. “What’s wrong?”

I tapped the lower corner of the window. “The blues don’t match. I had hoped . . .” My voice fell. Hoped what? I’d find James madly painting, thankful I’d found him, and whisk him home?

What an unrealistic pipe dream that was.

I sank onto the wood bench below the window.

Ian eased down beside me and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “You’ll get your answers tomorrow.”

He glanced at his watch and nodded toward the market half a block away. “Let’s get something to eat, and some beers. We’ll take them to the beach and watch the sunset.”

I found myself smiling. “More pictures?”

He grinned. “Absolutely.”

“You go ahead and get the food. I’ll wait here.” I wasn’t ready to leave. I sagged against the window and slid on my aviators.

Ian patted my leg. “Back in a few.” He stood and departed, but halfway across the street he jogged backward. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he yelled.

I waved him off and watched passersby behind the security of my sunglasses. My phone buzzed with a new message, one of many waiting in a queue of unanswered texts and voice mails I’d received in the last twenty-four hours. I retrieved the phone from my shoulder bag. Another text from Kristen.

Call me!

I scanned through the incoming log. Most of the voice mails were from Kristen. I should listen to them. I should have listened to
her
and never come. Had I set myself up for the ultimate disappointment?

Scrolling through her text messages, I scanned the most recent ones.

I can’t believe you’re flying to Mexico. Did you arrive OK?

Where are you staying?

What’s Puerto Escondido like?

Have you found anything out yet?

Have you found HIM?

There was a voice message from Mom.
Why Mexico, Aimee? James is dead. You’re chasing ghosts. We’re worried about you. Please come home.

I called Kristen. She picked up on the second ring. “Oh. My. God! I can’t
fucking
believe you took off. What the hell were you thinking? Crap, your customers are looking at me funny. Hold on, let me go into your office.”

I heard the rustle of her clothes as she entered the office and closed the door. “Hello to you, too,” I said when she was back on the phone.

She took a deep breath. “I’m pissed off you didn’t listen to Nadia. You put too much trust in Lacy. God, you don’t know that woman. What if she’s a murderess? You can be her next victim. Why did you go?”

“You know I had to. Besides, Nadia agreed.”

“She
what
?” Kristen swore. “She was supposed to talk you out of it.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

“No! She left out that
minor
detail when she told me we had to help at the café.” She paused and I imagined her pinching the bridge of her nose as she always did while thinking. “Jeez, are you all right?”