Everything We Keep: A Novel (2 page)

They should have been my bridesmaids.

“What’re you doing over here?” Kristen asked, her voice pitched high, strained from running.

“I was . . .” I stopped, not wanting to explain I was hiding, had been chased by a stranger through the parking lot, and then vomited on my shoes.

“You were what?” she prodded. Nadia nudged her with an elbow and motioned toward the ground by my feet. Kristen grimaced at the evidence splattered across the pavement like a toppled can of paint. “Oh, Aimee,” she moaned.

My cheeks burned and I ducked my head. I read the card in my hand.

L
ACY
S
AUNDERS

P
SYCHIC
C
OUNSELOR
, C
ONSULTANT
& P
ROFILER

M
URDERS
, M
ISSING
P
ERSONS
& U
NSOLVED
M
YSTERIES

H
ELPING YOU FIND THE ANSWERS YOU SEEK
.

A chill nipped at my core. I jerked my head in Lacy’s direction. She was gone.

“What’s that?” Nadia asked.

I gave her the card and she rolled her eyes. “Sheesh, the wackos are coming after you already.”

“Who?” Kristen peeked over Nadia’s shoulder.

Nadia quickly folded the card, tucked it away in her handbag. “Don’t be naive, Aimee. People will take advantage of you.”

“Who will?” Kristen asked again. “What was on the card?”

“Nothing worth Aimee’s time.”

Nadia was right, I reasoned. Lacy was wacked. The nerve of her, approaching me today. She probably stalked funeral announcements in the paper’s obituary section.

Kristen twined her arm with mine. “Come on, honey. We’ll take you to the cemetery. Let’s find your parents and tell them you’re coming with us. Nick’s waiting by the car.”

Nick. Kristen’s husband. James’s best friend. James.

I let Kristen tug me along. “I was going to walk home.”

She eyed my four-inch wedges and popped a trimmed brow. “Sure you were.”

After the burial, Nick dropped us off at my house. Kristen and Nadia followed me inside. I stopped in the doorway between the entry and the front room of our three-bedroom bungalow and looked around. There were the caramel leather side chairs and taupe chenille couch. A flat-screen TV propped inside the walnut armoire, doors ajar from the last time I’d watched, whenever that was. Three of James’s framed paintings adorned the wall above the sideboard by the front door.

Everything was in its place except the man who lived there.

I tossed my keys and clutch on the sideboard.

Nadia walked through the dining area into the kitchen, the click of heels on hardwood echoing through the house. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Tea, please.” I slipped off my shoes, spread and stretched my toes.

Nadia pulled out the blender. She scooped ice cubes from the freezer’s tray and dropped them into the pitcher. They crackled, adjusting to the pitcher’s warmer surface.

“How about something stronger?”

I shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”

Kristen looked up from where she’d removed her shoes by the coffee table and frowned. She sank into the leather chair nearest the fireplace, tucking her feet underneath her legs. As I retreated to the master bedroom, I felt her eyes on me.

I went straight to the closet James and I had shared and opened the beveled doors. My clothes hung next to his suits. All charcoal, black, and navy. Some with pinstripes, but most solid. Power suits—that was what he’d called them. So different from the casual plaid shirts and jeans he’d wear at home.

Looking through his wardrobe, one would think the clothes belonged to two different people. Sometimes I’d felt I was living with two different men. The man who worked for Donato Enterprises was formal and polite compared with the free-spirited artist with sleeves rolled and paint splattered on his forearms.

I loved them both.

I pressed my nose against the sleeve of his favorite blue shirt and inhaled. Sandalwood and rich amber, his cologne, mixed with a hint of turpentine from cleaning his paint supplies. He’d worn this shirt the last time he painted, and behind my closed eyelids, I saw him, shoulder muscles rippling under the faded blue cotton as he wielded the brush.

“Do you want to talk?” Kristen softly asked behind me.

I shook my head, untied the knot at my waist, and unwrapped my dress. It slid down and pooled at my feet. Reaching into the closet, I snagged James’s shirt and the sweatpants I’d had since high school and put them on. Warmth surrounded me as I tugged on the shirt. It felt like James giving me a hug in the pull of material across my back.

I’ll never forget you, Aimee.

My heart cracked a bit more. I choked on a sob.

Behind me, the hardwood floor creaked and the bed moaned. I shut the closet doors and faced Kristen. She’d propped herself against the paneled headboard and pulled a pillow across her lap. James’s pillow.

My shoulders dropped. “I miss him.”

“I know.” She patted the space next to her.

I crawled across the bed and lay my head on her shoulder. She rested her cheek on my crown. We’d sat this way since I was five, snuggled against each other as we whispered secrets. We’d also been sitting this way a lot during the past two months. Kristen was two years older, and she’d filled the sibling void of my only-child youth. She draped her arm across my shoulders. “It’ll get easier. I promise.”

Fresh tears spilled over. Kristen fumbled for the tissues on the nightstand. I snatched several and blew my nose. She brushed damp curls off my temple and grabbed her own tissue, dabbing the corners of her eyes. A watery chuckle escaped, and she smiled. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”

Soon we joined Nadia in the kitchen, and over margaritas we shared stories about growing up with James. Several hours and too many cocktails later, Nadia crashed on the couch and started snoring within seconds. Kristen was already asleep in my bed. I felt isolated in the darkened house, the only light coming from the candles Kristen had lit earlier. I lifted Nadia’s feet and sank into the couch, dropping her feet in my lap. It was ten o’clock, and I should have been in James’s arms as he guided us across the dance floor at our wedding, leading me in a gentle sway to our song, “Two of Us.”

Nadia grunted, shifting on the couch. She stood and shuffled to the guest bedroom, dragging the throw blanket behind her.

I took the spot she vacated and let my mind drift. I thought of James and why he’d gone to Mexico when he did. Why not wait, or let Thomas handle the client? He was Donato Enterprises’ president, and overseeing the company’s furniture import/export operations was his job. As the finance executive, James’s responsibility was handling the books, not contract negotiations. But he’d insisted he was the only one who could manage this particular client. He’d left the day after I mailed our wedding invitations.

My eyes grew heavy and I drifted to sleep, my thoughts twisting. I dreamed about the woman in the parking lot. She was dressed from head to toe in black, and her eyes radiated an iridescent glow. She raised her arms over a prone form, and her lips moved. The melodic chant of her incantation vibrated the air around her and the body resting at her feet. A body that was now moving. That was when I realized the body wasn’t just any man. It was James. And Lacy was bringing him back from the dead.

CHAPTER 2

“What are you doing here?”

Dad’s baritone boomed in my ears. I jerked and stared at him. He stared right back. His arms, peppered with freckles, hung at the sides of his barrel chest. The door separating The Old Irish Goat’s kitchen and dining room swung behind him, hinges creaking with each pass through.

It was Monday, two days after James’s funeral, and like every morning since I started working at my parents’ pub, I’d risen at five a.m. And like every morning since James disappeared, I rolled out of bed and dragged myself into the bathroom. I poured coffee from the brewer I didn’t remember filling the previous night, shuffled to my car, a burnt-orange New Beetle, and drove to The Old Irish Goat, an upscale pub house my parents had purchased before I was born. I grew up in the restaurant, mopping floors and stocking shelves. Eventually, I moved to the kitchen and worked alongside Mom, the executive chef, and Dale, her sous chef. Dale had trained me to be a pastry chef. Breads were my specialty. After I graduated from the culinary academy in San Francisco, I stepped in as Mom’s sous chef when Dale took an executive chef position at one of the oldest eateries in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The opportunity of a lifetime, he’d once told me.

As I gradually became aware of The Goat’s interior space around me, the stainless steel commercial ovens and ranges, walk-in fridge and adjoining freezer, pots and dishes within reach, I felt as though I were waking for a second time that day.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a bee swarm. A nearby radio, volume turned low, whispered a local station’s morning show. I could barely make out the host’s words, but the cadence of his tone was smooth and rich. Everything was familiar. Just a typical morning that wasn’t typical at all.

Dad looked askance at me, growing wary of my silence. I stood at the pastry station surrounded by loaves of rising dough, my fists jammed in a mound of the cool substance dusted in flour. White powder covered the entire counter surface.

“What time is it?” I croaked.

Dad moved farther into the kitchen. “Nine.”

Three hours since I had left the house.

Images flashed through my head. Parking the car, disarming the restaurant’s alarm, gathering supplies, assembling ingredients. Those memories could have been from any of a thousand mornings.

I extracted my hands from the dough. They made a loud sucking noise. Gooey chunks stuck to my fingers and filled the space underneath my nails. I roughly rolled my palms together, but the sticky mess refused to budge.

Usually I treasured these mornings of solitude—craved them, actually—kneading the day’s dough. It was a rhythmic distraction I’d had since childhood, when Mom taught me to bake in our kitchen at home. The repetitive task allowed my mind to drift, to plot the day’s events, plan for the future, think of the past. But not today. The dough clung to me like a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe. An irritant. It was as unwelcome as the reminder that all those hours I’d spent planning the future were a waste. That future no longer existed.

I wiped harder, using my nails to scrape off the dough.

Dad appeared at my side with a wet dish towel. He started cleaning my hands. The gesture was gentle and loaded with fatherly concern. He was cautious not to further irritate my skin, dabbing softly along the angry marks I’d left on my flesh. His tenderness incensed me further. I didn’t want to be treated as if I were about to break. I tugged my hands from his and yanked the towel from him. I rubbed hard at my skin.

“Go home, Aimee.”

“And do what?” I threw the towel on the countertop.

Dad didn’t say anything further. He watched as I rolled the dough and added several loaves to a large metal tray. I slid the tray onto a rack and wheeled the loaves and rolls aside to bake later.

Mom strolled into the kitchen carrying two brown paper shopping bags. Her trimmed salt-and-pepper hair was chicly spiked, showing off the sterling silver earrings that corkscrewed below her lobes. Her eyes darted sideways to Dad before she smiled at me. “I saw your car outside. Why are you here?”

“Baking bread. Same thing I do every morning, five days a week.” I cringed at the bite in my tone.

“I’ve already suggested she go home,” Dad said.

“He’s right. You need to rest.”

“I need to work,” I said, grabbing a wooden spoon. “You need my assistance, and we need bread for today’s lunch and dinner.”

They exchanged glances.

“What?” I asked.

“I called Margie.” She gave me a square smile that exposed both top and bottom teeth. She used Margie only in dire situations, like when I called in sick, or when we had a large private party to host. Margie owned the bakery around the corner and supplied many restaurants in the area.

I inhaled and drew in the warm, moist scent of freshly baked bread. Bread I hadn’t made. My eyes narrowed on the paper bags Mom had brought. M
ARGIE
’
S
B
AKERY
& A
RTISAN
B
READS
.

“Our customers love my breads,” I whined. “You can’t replace them.
Or
me!”

“We’re not replacing . . . 
you
,” Dad stammered.

I huffed, slapping the wooden spoon against my thigh. I hadn’t meant to say that last thought aloud.

Mom rushed to my side. “It’s nothing like that. We made arrangements with Margie because we thought you needed time off.”

“But I don’t need time off.” Mom pursed her lips and I groaned. “How long?”

They exchanged another one of their looks and Mom rubbed my arm. “As long as you need.”

“There’s going to be some changes—”

“Not now, Hugh,” Mom interrupted.

“What changes?” I looked at Dad. He scratched his cheek and glanced at the floor. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing, dear,” Mom said.

“Tell her, Cathy. She’s going to find out sooner or later.”

Mom locked eyes with Dad. “Your father and I are retiring.”

I clutched the spoon. “You’re retiring? Already?” I gave them a wild look. “Jeez, I just buried James. I’m not ready to buy you out. I can’t operate The Goat on my own.”

“You don’t have to. We’ve sold the restaurant,” Dad said.

The spoon clattered on the counter. “You
what
?”

Mom groaned and tossed me an apologetic look.

“The deal should close in ninety days,” Dad added.

Mom smacked her forehead. “Hugh!”

“What did I say?”

“What
didn’t
you say? We agreed to break the news to her gently.”

My gaze ping-ponged between them as I waited for one of them to tell me this was a joke. They both looked back at me, faces riddled with a mixture of apology and concern.

“Why didn’t you discuss this with me?” I asked.

Mom sighed. “You’ve known for some time we’ve struggled to stay open. A buyer came along and offered to take the restaurant off our hands. He has big plans for this place.”

“I had big plans for this place. Why didn’t—
Fuck
.” I rubbed my temples. “Why didn’t you let me buy you out?”

“And saddle you with our debt?” Mom shook her head. “We couldn’t do that to you.”

“How bad can it be? I could have handled it.” A traffic jam of ideas bumped around my head. I didn’t have much in my savings, and the only joint account James and I had was the one we used to pay the mortgage and utilities. His contributions to that account ended when he’d been pronounced dead. The cash in his personal bank accounts went to Thomas, who gave it all to me in a check at James’s funeral. A check I couldn’t stomach cashing. I didn’t feel it was my money to spend.

Maybe I could refinance the house. Or sell it, move back in with my parents temporarily.

“The Goat’s too far gone to salvage.” My thoughts skidded to a stop with Dad’s confession. He dipped his head, took a deep breath. I thought he was disappointed until he raised his face and I realized he was ashamed. “You’d be scraping pennies to pay for flour to bake bread. The last thing your mother and I want is to watch you file for bankruptcy.”

“Bankruptcy?” I exclaimed.

Mom nodded. Her eyes sheened. “We mortgaged this building and took a second on the house, and we still couldn’t make ends meet. We also owe some of our suppliers. They’ve been generous enough to waive interest fees, but we still have to pay them. The new owner has agreed to assume our debts, except the house mortgage.”

“I hadn’t realized it was that bad,” I said.

Dad put his arm around Mom. “After the shopping center across the street was remodeled and those two franchise restaurants opened, we all watched them take away our customers.”

“I had ideas to bring them back. I was going to expand our dinner menu, brighten the dining area, add live music on Thursday and Saturday nights—”

“All ideas we’ve considered, which aren’t enough to repay the loans and make a profit.”

I twisted my apron. It was a pretty good guess the buyer was a developer who would level the building. There had to be a way to keep The Goat. I’d already lost James. I couldn’t lose this, too. So many memories existed within these walls, tangled inside with scents of rosemary roasted potatoes, and whiskey-glazed corned beef. “I wish I would have known sooner. I could have helped.”

“We’d planned to say something, but . . .” Dad scratched his head. “Well, James died and there never seemed to be a good time to explain. No parent wants to be a burden to their children. You were already . . . um, well . . .”

An emotional mess.

I let go of the apron I’d been worrying and smoothed the wrinkled material in long, tempered strokes. I felt edgy, without direction and purpose. I felt lost. “What am I supposed to do now? The Goat is all I know.” Fear of the unknown weighed heavily in my voice.

Mom latched on to my hands. “Think of this as an exciting new opportunity. You can try something different.”

“Like what?” I pulled my hands from hers and tore off the apron. Their news was starting to sink in.

Mom stole a glance at Dad. “Well, your father and I feel that now more than ever is a good time for you to figure out who you are and what you want to do.”

My eyes widened. “What do you mean ‘now more than ever’? Because The Goat’s been sold, or because James is gone?”

Dad cleared his throat. “A little bit of both.”

I gawked.

“You and James had been together since you were what, eight? You’d been inseparable.”

“Are you accusing me of being too dependent on James?”

“No, not exactly,” Dad hedged.

“Yes,” Mom said simply.

I stared at my parents.

“Look, Aimee, we all miss James very much. Your father and I feel as if we’ve lost a son. But for the first time in your adult life it’s just you. You have the education and experience to do what you want. Start your own restaurant if you really want to run one.”

How could I even think about starting a restaurant from scratch when I could barely process the news about The Goat? I wadded the apron and tossed it onto the counter. A flour cloud rose and expanded. White flakes dusted the floor. I grabbed my purse and keys.

Dad’s brows pushed up in the middle. “Where are you going?”

“Out. Home.” I shook my head. “Somewhere.” Confusion twisted inside me. I couldn’t think straight. A huge weight pressed hard on my chest and it hurt to breathe. Walls were closing in. I left the kitchen.

Mom followed me to the parking lot. I fumbled with my keys. They dropped on the ground and my chin dropped to my chest. I sucked in a ragged breath and exhaled. My shoulders trembled, my chest tight with sobs straining to be released.

Mom’s arm curved around my back. She pulled me into her chest. I tucked my face into the curve of her neck and cried. My fingers clawed at her back until I finally held on. She gently rocked us and stroked my head, urging in a soothing tone to let it out. To just let go.

“I don’t know how.”

“You’ll find a way,” she said.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ll figure something out.”

“I’m all alone.”

She leaned away and clasped my face, wiped my tears aside with her thumbs. “You’re not alone. We’re here for you, honey. Call us. We’ll help, whether it’s references for a new job or a shoulder to cry on.”

I appreciated her offer, but it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Not yet.

I was eight when I met James. He’d moved to Los Gatos from New York and was Nick’s new neighbor, two blocks from the ranch home where I grew up with my parents, Catherine and Hugh Tierney. On a midsummer Saturday morning, Nick and Kristen brought James over to introduce us. I remember details about that day more clearly than any others at that age, from the way James topped off his wave with a smile, revealing he was as nervous meeting me as he was eager to make new friends. He wore his hair longer than the boys at school, and I couldn’t stop looking at the thick, brown waves curving around his ear lobes under the rim of his New York Jets cap. He combed his fingers through his hair as though trying to flatten the unruly strands.

Like most Saturdays in our neighborhood, the air was heavy with the scent of fresh-cut grass. The neighbors’ sprinklers droned on, white noise in the background. I heard the gentle hum each time Dad cut the engine to his mower. And like many summer Saturdays, I’d set up a lemonade stand to raise money. I was saving to purchase a pouch of Magic Memory Dust from the toy store downtown. The sales clerk had told me if I sprinkled a pinch over my head each night before bed, I wouldn’t forget where I’d put my shoes or when to do my chores. After hearing that, I had to have a pouch.