Everything We Keep: A Novel (18 page)

“I’m fine.”

“Where are you now?”

“Sitting on a bench in front of El estudio del pintor.”

“And—?”

“And nothing. The gallery’s closed. We have to come back tomorrow morning. Ian’s buying dinner and I’m waiting. How’s the café?”

“Crowded! Busy, but that’s good, right?”

“It’s wonderful,” I said, longing for the routine.

“Will you call me tomorrow? No, wait, I’ll call you. Keep in touch, ’k? I’m worried about you.”

We said our good-byes and I tucked the phone away. I watched people saunter by, stopping at the gallery window to peer inside. Others hurried onward, faces lowered as they ignored the festive energy around them.

Slow down. Take a look around you. There’s so much to see, so much to soak in.

Ian was right. I’d been rushing to a finish line, and I’d failed to enjoy the run along the way. How much time had I wasted on James?

The postcard and painting didn’t prove he was alive, so I’d tried looking for answers in places they probably didn’t exist. Like the blue paint in the signature and the paintings that resembled James’s style. Everything was slightly off.

Like the man running toward me. He looked similar to James as he slowed to a jog, and eventually a fast walk. He checked his sports watch. Sweat drenched his sleeveless workout shirt, molding the fabric to his chest. An iPod was strapped to his upper arm, the headphone wire coiling up his back to the buds in his ears.

I stood on unsteady legs as he approached.

“Hola,”
he mouthed, smiling as he passed.

I stared, mouth agape.

He stopped and yanked the bud from his right ear.
“¿Está usted bien?”

I didn’t say anything. Only stared.

His eyes perused my length. “American?” he asked, his accent thick. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Chasing ghosts.

My heart pounded in my ears. The blood in my face pooled into my toes. I felt dizzy, swaying slightly.

He stepped closer, bending slightly to peer into my shaded eyes through his own wraparound sunglasses. “Can I help you with something?” His words were warm, exotic. They rolled off his tongue.

This was insane! He’d been right here. All this time. All along. For nineteen fucking months.

A storm of questions brewed inside me, but I could only speak his name. “James.”

He stretched upright to his full height, exactly six foot one. A large, all-too-familiar grin spread across his face. “I see. I’m the ghost.” He extended a palm glistening with perspiration. “I’m Carlos.”

CHAPTER 19

I collapsed on the bench. “Why did you leave?” I cried. “Fuck, James, I buried you!”

An overwhelming urge to smack him and hug him fiercely warred inside me.

He stood a good three feet from me, turning his head as though searching for someone. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and frowned at me.

“W—Why are you looking at me that way?” He stared as though he’d never seen me before.

Touch me.

I hiccupped.

Hold me.

I hiccupped again, my throat locking on to the oxygen. I inhaled, again and again. Short, jerky breaths that strained my lungs. I couldn’t exhale.

Oh my God, I can’t breathe!

I pounded my chest.

He lowered onto his calves. His lips moved but I couldn’t make out the words. I clawed his shoulders.
Touch me, James!

He did, grasping both wrists. His lips moved again.

What?

Calm down,
he mouthed.

I focused on his lips, those beautiful lips.

“Please, señorita, calm down.”

I felt a hand behind my head, forcing my face between my knees. Stars burst behind my eyelids. My lungs suddenly worked again. I sucked in the saltiness of the ocean air and his scent. God, his smell. My James.

His hand eased from my head. He lifted his shades and my breath hitched. James’s eyes locked on to me. “That’s it. Focus.” He smiled. James’s smile.

“James,” I whispered. Happiness burst inside me. “I found you.”

He shook his head, but kept the grin. “Focus on me. Listen to my voice. Breathe in.” He inhaled, nostrils flaring, and I mimicked. “Good. Now breathe out, slowly.” His thumb brushed the inside of my right wrist, directly over the ulnar vein. The butterfly touch turned my arm to jelly.

“Close your eyes and listen to my breathing,” he instructed, and my lids slid down. The world went dark and the street sounds faded away. There was only the two of us, the way we used to be. The strong, wide hand holding mine felt like James’s. His breathing sounded like James’s, the steady, relaxed rhythm, the way it had been when he woke beside me in the morning.

But he didn’t sound like James when he told me to open my eyes. His voice was smooth and rich, but the tone grated on my frazzled nerves. Underneath the thick accent, the sound was deeper, raspier. Aged. His dark brown hair was pulled back in a rubber band. A pinkish scar starting at his left brow slashed across his cheekbone. His frame was leaner, but his mannerisms seemed the same, such as the way he tilted his head to search my face.

I swallowed. “James?”

He smiled. “No, sorry.”

My lip quivered. “It’s me, James, Aimee. Don’t you recognize me?”

“I wish I did. You’re not someone who’s easily forgettable.” He chuckled.

I scowled and flipped up my sunglasses. “Dammit, James, look at me.”

He did. A split second of confusion skirted across his eyes before disappearing. There was no recognition, only concern.

“James?” I whimpered.

“My name’s Carlos. I believe you’ve confused me with someone else.”

I gaped at the man kneeling before me and he blankly stared back. He felt nothing for me. He didn’t know me.

A tear fell and Carlos gently pressed his thumb against the hollow of my cheek, wiping the moisture away. I found the touch repulsive. This man was a stranger.

He nodded toward the studio behind me. “This is my gallery. Do you need water or anything? A phone?”

I needed to get away. I had to regroup, think about what to do next.

Go home.

My heart sank.

“Is there someone you’re with?”

“No,” I automatically replied. Then I nodded, pointing toward the market. “My friend, Ian. He’s shopping.”

He stood and offered his hand. “Do you want me to walk with you to the market?”

“No, thank you.” I stood without his assistance.

“Will you be all right?” His eyes danced over me.

I didn’t give him an answer because I didn’t have one. Feeling defeated, lost, and confused, I walked away from James. Or Carlos. Or whoever the hell he was.

Ian found me in the produce section. He blinked as though surprised to see me and not quite sure why I was there. I held a strawberry in each hand, rolling the fruit between my fingers. Ian’s gaze jumped from my hands to my face. Worry clouded his gaze. “What’s wrong, Aimee?”

My mouth screwed downward.

He shifted the food basket to his other hand. “What happened?”

My lower lip quivered and I lowered my hands. The fruit plummeted to the floor and I fell apart.

Ian dropped the food basket and caught me in his arms. I sobbed against his chest. I didn’t want him to let go.

At Playa Marinero, lying atop a wool blanket Ian had purchased from a street vendor, we watched the sun set. The fiery orb tucked low on the horizon against a backdrop of orange and pink hues that painted the sky. Waves gently kissed the shore.

Ian devoured his fish tacos, mumbling how starved he was with every bite. In between tacos, he snatched up his camera and took pictures of the vivid scene playing before us. I picked at my salad, pushing around beans and avocados, my appetite long gone.

“These tacos are amazing. Aimee’s needs something like this on the menu. It’s the sauce, I think. The chipotle adds some kick,” Ian said, his words muffled around a mouthful of fish and tortilla. He frowned when I closed the lid on my to-go container. “Aren’t you eating?”

“Maybe later.” I propped my chin on bent knees and flexed my feet in the sand. The granules, sun-warmed on the surface, were cooler several inches below. They tickled as they sifted over my toes. I tried to feel James’s touch in the brush of sand, or hear his voice in the breeze. For the first time since I’d buried him, I sensed nothing. I’d never felt so completely alone.

Ian chin-nodded toward the ocean. “The waves aren’t too bad here. What do you think, one or two feet? Down the beach, over at Zicatela by our hotel where tomorrow’s competition will be, I read the swells can reach thirty or forty feet.” He shoved a third of his taco into his mouth and mumbled, “That’s intense, man.”

“Hmm.” I closed my eyes, soaking in the day’s final rays of heat because my heart felt cold.

I sensed his arm extend in front of me, shadowing my face. “Down the beach there, over at Playa Principal, see all those fishing boats? A woman at the market told me we can pick our fish right off the boats, watch the men clean them, and follow them to the restaurant where they’ll cook our dinner. Talk about fresh. We should check it out before we go home.”

Home. Without James.

Ian ate his last taco in silence while I replayed the evening’s events in my head. When he was done, I heard him wipe his hands and put the food container aside. I then sensed him studying me. “Are you sure it was James?” he asked for the umpteenth time.

“Yes.”
No.
I shrugged and murmured against my knees, “I don’t know. Carlos looked like him. Well . . . sort of. His face is scarred.” I drew a finger along my temple and across my cheekbone.

Ian aimed the camera lens at the radiant sliver visible where the black ocean met the darkening sky. He pressed the button. “If he is James, he would have recognized you. There should have been a reaction from him.”

“You would think so,” I said in a flat tone. “Maybe he has amnesia.”

“Then he would have been more curious about you. He’d wonder if you were someone from his past.”

“He acted like he had no memory loss at all. It was like he was a completely different person.”

Ian stilled. His gaze sliced into me.

I leaned away. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

He turned back to the horizon and held the camera against his face, but he didn’t take any pictures. He seemed lost in his thoughts, miles from the sandy shores of Puerto Escondido.

CHAPTER 20

El estudio del pintor didn’t open for another two hours, but I had spent the past twenty minutes studying Carlos as I would his paintings. I stood across the street, watching him through the gallery’s large front window. He rearranged frames on the wall. Every so often, he stopped to inspect the changes, clasping his hands behind his neck or absently rubbing his forearms. Just like James.

At one point, Carlos retreated to the back room so I leaned against a lamppost and waited for the gallery to open. Tourists milled toward the beach, carrying towels and smelling of sunscreen. I pretended to read a paperback novel.

Another twenty minutes went by with no further sign of Carlos. I’d reached the end of the 285 pages I’d scanned at lightning speed. My patience was also at an end. I tucked the book away and crossed over to the gallery.

The
C
LOSED
sign Ian had translated yesterday still hung in the entrance window, but I went inside anyway. The bell above the door jingled and I held my breath, waiting for Carlos. He didn’t show, so I walked around. Would I find James’s stolen artwork?

I stopped before an acrylic on the opposite wall and studied the artist’s initials,
JCD
. The painting’s sunset reminded me of James’s
Half Moon Bay
piece, but the signature wasn’t exactly like James’s. The angle of the initials too steep.

I finished circling the room, ending at the desk in back. Books stacked against the wall spanned many genres and years, from Stephen King to Shakespeare, Spanish-titled novels and art instruction manuals in English.
Runner’s World
,
Outside
, and
Sport Fishing
magazines had been piled into three separate towers.

Scattered on the desk were order forms, several issues of the local newspaper, and a collection of dirty coffee mugs. A brochure listed Carlos’s art workshops, ranging from beginning techniques to advanced brush work.

“Ya cerramos,”
came a voice behind me.
We’re closed.

I whirled and faced Carlos.

He froze in the doorway to the other room. A smile slowly appeared.
“Hola, señorita.”
He came into the main room. “I was wondering if I’d see you again. Aimee, right?” he asked, switching to English.

I nodded and slipped the brochure into my back pocket.

Turpentine and wood oil permeated the air between us, drifting from the soiled cloth Carlos held as he worked dried paint from his fingers. He wore low-slung jeans and a screen-printed shirt from last year’s surf
torneo
, and he was barefoot.

Barefoot, sun-kissed, and sexy.

Heat flared across my chest and neck, spreading faster than a wildfire.

I’d spent the past forty-five minutes spying, but hadn’t prepared for the sight of him standing before me, from the waves on his head to the curve of his brows and the ridge of his nose. The bone had been broken once. The alignment wasn’t quite right.

“Still thinking I’m your James?” he asked in a light tone.

I blinked. “I’m sorry. You look so much like him.”

Carlos’s eyes sparked. “He must be very good looking.”

“He was. I mean, is.”

His expression turned wary. “How are you feeling today?”

“Better, thank you.” I regarded the gallery. “You’re quite talented. Where did you study?”

“Mostly self-taught. Some time ago I took courses at an institute north of here.”

“How long has your gallery been open?”

“A couple years.” He rubbed hard at a stubborn spot of paint on his right palm.

Look at me! Remember me!

“How long are you in Puerto Escondido?” he asked.

“Several days.”

“What brings you here?”

“Searching for a friend. We’ve lost touch.”

He hooked the cloth in his belt loop. “Have you found this friend?”

That same question had churned in my head all night. I’d hardly slept. “No, I haven’t. Not yet.”

He offered a smile. “I hope you find him.”

I hope he remembers me.

“Me, too.”

Over Carlos’s shoulder I glimpsed a painting that looked like one James hadn’t finished. A woman blissfully poised at the ocean’s edge. Carlos’s scene was bright and colorful compared with the one at home. James’s acrylic had been done in grays and browns, the woman awash in despair.

“Can I show you something?” I dug through my shoulder bag for my phone. I wanted to find a picture of James’s painting and compare his artistic style to Carlos’s. I flicked through the camera roll and landed on my engagement photo. My hand faltered, leaving the photo to stare back at me.

“What’ve you got?” Carlos peered over my shoulder.

What the hell.
I showed him the screen. “This is James. Do you see how much you resemble him?”

Carlos frowned and cupped my hand to bring the phone closer to his face. He studied the screen and I studied him, waiting for a reaction. A frown, a raised brow, a slight dilation of his pupils. Anything to tell me he’d been caught hiding something.

He didn’t reveal a thing.

Oh, James. What happened to you?

He looked up from the phone and gave me a sad smile. “James was important to you.”

I nodded, my throat tight.

“There’s a resemblance, isn’t there? Our noses are different, though. I have a higher forehead, too.” His eyes crinkled. “Or maybe that’s my receding hairline.”

I glanced from the photo to Carlos and back. He was right. His nose was thinner, despite the possible break. Looking past the nose, hairline, and scars, Carlos was his own man.

He jerked his head toward the other room. “I have to finish framing. I’ve got orders to fill. So, unless you want to look at some of my other work . . .” He trailed off and frowned. “Will I see you again?”

He’d better. I wanted to watch him work, the way I used to watch James, so I needed a reason to hang around.

His workshops!
The idea popped into my head and I slid the brochure from my pocket. “I’d love to do one of your art classes.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Really?”

“They sound exciting.”

“Have you painted before?”

I bit my lower lip. “Does finger painting count?”

He laughed. “No, it doesn’t. Besides, my workshops are weekdays. Tomorrow’s Saturday, and you said yourself you’re here only for a few days.”

My shoulders slumped and my mind cranked. I wanted a reason to see him again, something believable and not lame. Something that didn’t make me a crazy woman stalking her deceased fiancé’s look-alike.

Carlos yanked the cloth from his back pocket and rolled the edges between his fingers. “Tell you what. Meet me here tomorrow at ten. We’ll do the Basics Workshop if you promise to grab some lunch with me afterward. Sound good?”

I smiled. “Sounds wonderful.” A warm glow expanded through me. By lunch tomorrow, I’d know if Carlos was James.

I scanned the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in the hotel’s beach café. Ian had said he would meet me, but I didn’t see him. My phone vibrated with a new text message.

Look behind you.

I spun around. Ian waved from a table for two by the deck’s edge.

“You walked right by me,” he said when I sat in the seat across from him.

I scooted in my chair and glanced around. The beach below was packed, especially farther down the strip where sun worshippers watched brave souls on boards master the Mexican Pipeline. “I had no idea we’d arrive in the middle of this chaos.”

“Me neither. Isn’t this great?”

I nodded at the laptop on the table. “How the heck are you getting anything done?”

“I have an incredible ability to shut out noise. Check this out.” He tapped a few keys and swung his laptop around so the monitor faced me. Displayed on the screen was an image of an enormous wave curling over a surfer narrowly escaping the diminishing water tube. Ian had edited the photo to pop with color. Sunlight sparkled in the water’s vivid turquoise hues. “I’ve titled the picture
The Mexican Pipeline
, for obvious reasons.”

“It’s incredible. When did you take it?”

“This morning before the sun was too intense. You should have seen the water, Aims. Those waves are insane. I’m guessing fifteen or twenty feet. And the tubes are deep, making for some tough rides.” Eyes wide with excitement, Ian talked with his hands. He demonstrated the motion of the waves and how they broke off the shore. He turned the laptop around and his fingers flew over the keyboard. “I’ve been tweaking photos, seeing which ones I’ll use at my next showing.”

I snagged a cold fry from his plate. He looked at me from over his screen. “What’ve you been up to? Don’t tell me.” He raised a hand, palm flat. “You found Carlos and got him to confess he’s James.”

“Ha. Ha. Not funny, but yes, I met with him.” I popped another fry.

Ian pushed his plate toward me. “You should have told me. I wanted to go with you.”

He had already left for the beach when I woke this morning. When he hadn’t returned after I finished breakfast, I’d grown impatient and walked to the studio on my own.

“I was perfectly safe.”

He scowled. “How can you be certain? You admitted last night you weren’t sure Carlos was James. He could be a mass murderer for all you know.”

I rolled my eyes. “Between you and Kristen I’ll be dead by tomorrow morning.”

“If you keep running off to meet with strangers . . .”

“Ian—”

He tossed up his hands. “I won’t apologize for being cautious. Promise you’ll be careful. At the very least, let me know when you leave . . . just in case.”

I chewed a soggy fry. “Fine.”

“Thank you.” Ian sighed, relieved. “So, tell me what happened.”

“I spent forty-five minutes playing Peeping Tom from across the street until I went inside and spoke with Carlos.”

“And . . . ?”

“And nothing. I can’t figure him out. Carlos is leaner and tanner. Even his hair is lighter than James’s.”

“Simple explanation. Sun and aging.”

“True. His scent is familiar, and some of his hand gestures are the same. His face is different, thinner nose, narrower cheekbones.” Almost as if he wore a mask. “Anyhow,” I shrugged, “I have a few more days so I’m going to spend time getting to know him. I registered for an art workshop.”

Ian snorted.

“What?”

“You. Painting.” He chuckled, playing with his keyboard.

“Shut up,” I grumbled and ate another fry. “If he is James, there has to be a reason why he doesn’t recognize me, don’t you think? He must have amnesia. What else can it be? My gut tells me—”

“You’re hungry?” He flagged a waitress who stopped midstride beside our table and pointed in my direction.

“A hamburger, please. With lots of fries.” I grinned at Ian.

“And to drink?” she asked, sounding harried as her pencil scratched over her memo pad.

“She’ll have a beer,” Ian suggested.

“I’ll have a mai tai.”

Ian hooted, smacking his hand on the table. “Make that two.”

“Anything else for you?” the waitress asked him. Her eyes peeked at his laptop. She pointed her pencil tip at the screen. “Is that Lucy?”

Ian paused, his gaze snapping from me to our waitress, A
NGELINA
, according to her name tag. “Do you know her?” he asked, sitting straighter in his seat.

“She reminds me of Imelda Rodriguez’s friend. Mrs. Rodriguez is the hotel manager,” she clarified when Ian frowned.

“Lucy stayed here several weeks ago, and the woman in the picture looks like her. She visits a lot.” There was a shout from the bar. Angelina glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

“What was that all about?” I asked after she left.

Ian showed me the laptop screen. Displayed was the picture I’d texted him of Lacy. He’d edited the image, enhancing Lacy—Laney, Lucy, or whatever her given name was. Surfing photos weren’t the only images Ian had been tweaking. He looked poignantly at me. “Don’t stop listening to your gut.”

My stomach growled, echoing Ian’s sentiment.