Everything We Keep: A Novel (23 page)

CHAPTER 26

What is he doing here?

I took two steadying breaths, smoothed my skirt, and opened the door.

Carlos stood alone in the hallway. He lifted his head and the ceiling light caught the taut muscles along his jaw. He cleared his throat and stole a glance down the hallway. “I’m sorry. About earlier.”

I felt the sting of tears. His pain radiated off him. He’d been betrayed in the worst way possible. “Oh, um . . . don’t worry about it.”

He rubbed his neck. His arm shook.

“Tell me how I can help you.” I stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me. “Please, I want to help.”

He fisted his hands in his pockets, which forced his shoulders to his ears. He still wore the faded jeans, fitted linen shirt, and flip-flops I’d seen him in this morning. I hadn’t changed either from the blouse and skirt I’d put on after showering and leaving Ian.

I pushed that thought aside and schooled my face. “You can trust me.” I inched closer.

A muscle thrummed in his cheek. He looked ready to explode.

“Trust me,” I repeated. Ever so gently, I touched his wrist.

His eyes trailed my hand, lashes drifting lower. His jaw relaxed.

Maybe Imelda was right. Carlos understood we’d both been victimized. Thomas had played us like pawns on a chessboard and I feared the match was far from over. I had to win James back by convincing Carlos his life was with me.

He moved away, breaking contact. I dug my fingernails into my palm. He swallowed. “I was supposed to take you to lunch.”

“Oh!” I straightened. “That’s—”

“I want to take you to dinner.”

“Ah, OK. Um . . .” I shifted, nervous. “Let me get my purse.” I fumbled with the door handle. The room was locked.
Shit.

“I’ll get a keycard at the front desk,” he offered.

“No!” I gasped. “No, that’s all right. I’ll get it later.” I didn’t want him to leave. What if he changed his mind about dinner? “I’ll pay you back tonight.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but the smile lacked any warmth. “No bother. I’ll take care of it.”

He started to walk away, then turned and offered his hand. I wrapped my fingers within his larger ones and I wanted to cry. It seemed a lifetime since we’d walked like this, side by side.

Inside the elevator, Carlos pushed the button for the lobby. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and faced me. I scooted to the opposite corner and watched him. The air hummed between us, a charged mixture of words unspoken and questions unanswered. I clasped my hands, uncomfortable with his blatant inspection. Restrained fury oozed from him, rippling across my skin. Though his emotions weren’t directed at me, I fidgeted, twisting fingers in my shirt hem when I’d rather wring Thomas’s neck.

Keeping my voice light, I asked, “Where are we having dinner?”

“I’d planned for us to drive to the Riconada for lunch, but now”—he paused and rubbed his forearms—“someplace closer would be better.”

Deep lines formed between his brows and he opened his mouth. No words followed. He looked at his feet, crossed at the ankles. “Um, well . . . I suppose we can dine on the beach at Playa Principal. We can walk there.”

The bell chimed and the doors lumbered open. Carlos pushed away from the wall and I followed him through the lobby toward the beach. The late afternoon breeze had calmed and the sun sat low on the horizon, setting the sky ablaze in color. “It’s gorgeous.”

“My favorite time of the day,” he remarked beside me. He walked the same as James, long strides full of laid-back purpose. When he talked, though, he was all Carlos. Richly accented English mingled with sporadic Spanish. He explained how the fishermen worked. They moored their boats offshore overnight, setting baited hooks over the side for the next morning’s catch. Their wives would clean and prepare the fish for nearby restaurants and local markets right there on the beach, under the palms. He pointed at a line of palm trees, trunks bowed like arches over the sand.

He spoke animatedly about anything but us and what he’d learned this afternoon. He used his hands in fluid motions as he talked. Once again, I caught myself comparing him to James, which was difficult not to do. Everything about Carlos, the way he moved, or touched my arm to emphasize something he’d described, was all James. When he expressed how much he loved Puerto Escondido and couldn’t fathom living elsewhere, I wondered if it was possible to be happy and sad at the same time.

“Did I say something to offend you?” he asked.

I turned in to the fading light and swiped at an escaped tear. “No, nothing you said. I just”—I swore––“this is all so—”

“Overwhelming?”

I laughed, a watery giggle. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”

He grinned, and I found myself amazed over his self-control. Here he was, taking a woman to dinner who was once his fiancée who he had no memory of proposing to. What a mind screw. Didn’t he have questions? Wasn’t he upset? He’d been lied to and manipulated by those he trusted most for almost two years.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” I said.

“I’m trying not to,” he admitted. “Not at this moment anyway.”

The restaurant was a wood platform on the sand. Rope lights spiraled nearby palms with clear bulbs strung overhead. Market umbrellas shaded tables circling a space reserved for dancing. A Latin jazz quartet played off to the side.

Carlos must have been a regular patron because the hostess seated us immediately, bypassing a line of customers. She offered him a bright smile and led us to a table along the edge where we had a view of the sunset. Carlos pulled out a chair for me, then sat in the one beside mine. We faced the ocean, the water much tamer here than the wild waves at Playa Zicatela.

The hostess handed us our menus and excused herself. I glanced around. The restaurant was vibrant. Exotic and colorful voices meshed with lively music. I inhaled the warm evening air, a tropical blend of grilled seafood, mangoes, and ocean spray. The band’s easy rhythm had me smiling. My shoulders swayed. “This place is wonderful. Beautiful, too.”

“I thought you’d enjoy it,” he replied, and then frowned.

I stopped moving. “What’s wrong?”

He stared at me and my fingers fluttered to my hair, crimping the curls. “What are you thinking?” I asked when he didn’t say anything.

He shifted, running hands over his thighs. “You’ve probably guessed I have many questions.”

“Of course. Ask me anything. I want to help,” I offered again. Anything to help us.

“Gracias.”
He turned his face to the ocean, where the sun resembled a neon orange slice melting on the horizon. “I’d planned to talk tonight, but now I don’t want to.
¡Dios!
” He groaned, hooking his hands behind his head the way James had done when he would work through his thoughts. My gaze shifted away. I had to stop comparing him to the man he used to be.

“This is fucking insane. Everything Imelda said—” He stopped, rubbing a finger against his brow. “Sorry.”

I didn’t know if he apologized for his language, or his assumption I wanted to spend the evening talking about us.

I did, but more so, I wanted just to be with him. Sitting beside him, watching the fading sunlight play along the sharp angles of his face. I could almost pretend life was simple. Normal. Just the two of us.

“What do you want then?” My fingers twitched with the urge to touch him, feel the warm tautness of his skin. But I couldn’t. We were strangers. Instead, I traced the line of his jaw, the hard curve of his cheekbone with my eyes. The lines were new, the angles not quite the same, but he was still beautiful to me.

He pursed his lips in thought. “I just want to have dinner with you. Do you mind if we talk about this tomorrow? I need . . . um, time . . . to think.”

“All right,” I agreed. His questions could wait. We had a lifetime ahead of us.

The waitress arrived and we ordered our drinks and meal. While we ate, Carlos talked about his life in Puerto Escondido, his passion for painting, and how he retaught himself after his accident. He loved teaching young students. I told him everything about my life that had nothing to do with him, from my café to my parents and my friends. How my passion was baking, and how I’d created a niche for myself with custom coffees. He didn’t ask what had brought me to his town and why I was there. I didn’t ask what had happened to him and how he planned to recover. For all intents and purposes, we were on our first date. We shared stories, we smiled, and we laughed.

The band launched into a new song. The saxophone player belted a long note and the drummer banged his hands swiftly over the hide coverings. His body rocked with a beat that moved faster as the tempo built. Couples migrated to the floor and danced. I tapped my hands and feet, giggling at Carlos.

He watched me, swirling his cocktail. “You love to dance.”

“Yes. How about you?”

He looked at the band and his lips pressed flat. “I don’t dance.”

Yes you do!

“Dance with me,” I blurted.

His head swung around. “What?”

“Come on, dance with me.” I stood and held out my hand in invitation.

He stared at my outstretched arm. My fingers started shaking when he didn’t take my hand. His gaze crawled up my arm until it met with mine. “I said, I don’t dance. Not anymore.”

I remained still for a very long moment. He looked away, back toward the ocean. A tic throbbed in his jaw and fingers clutched the chair arms. I lowered my arm and dropped into the chair. Something shifted inside me and, for the first time, I saw him for the man he really was. Carlos.

The waitress brought our check and Carlos paid in cash, tossing bills onto the table. He stood, chair legs scraping hard on the floor boards. “I’ll walk you back.”

CHAPTER 27

We walked along Playa Marinero toward Casa del sol. Carlos tucked his thumbs into his front pockets and watched the water-hardened sand pass under his feet. His fingers absently scratched at his jeans, his brows furrowed.

I twisted a curl around my finger and slid him a sidelong glance. What had happened at the restaurant? We were having a good time. I thought we’d connected. Where James would have leaped from his chair and whirled us onto the dance floor, Carlos had balked. I debated asking him about it, but I’d promised to keep things light tonight.

Lost in his thoughts, Carlos hadn’t said a word since we’d left the restaurant. He stopped abruptly and looked behind us.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I left my Jeep at the studio.” He scratched his chin and glanced around. “I’ll take you to the hotel first.”

He started walking, pausing to quirk a brow when I didn’t follow. I thumbed over my shoulder. “I’ll go with you. You won’t have to double back.”

He hesitated. “You sure?”

“Of course. It’s a nice evening.” Besides, I didn’t want to go to my room and spend the night alone where sleep would elude me once again. I had no idea what tomorrow would bring after Carlos had the answers to his questions. Would I stay with him in Mexico or fly home? Would Ian still want to be my friend? I’d pushed him away despite my promise not to.

Carlos’s Jeep Wrangler was parked in an alley behind the gallery. He assisted me up, holding the door open as I settled in the passenger seat, and got in from his side. He drove back to Casa del sol, easing to a stop at the curb by the hotel’s main entrance. A valet approached and Carlos waved him away. He kept the engine idling, hands clasped tightly to the steering wheel.

I didn’t want to get out of the Jeep and Carlos hadn’t asked me to leave. I peeked at him from under my lashes. “I heard there’s a festival downtown.”

He nodded, jiggling his knee.

“The weather’s nice.” I peered at the sky. The resort’s glaring lights dulled the stars overhead. “I love warm nights like this.”

He nodded again. “
Sí
, me, too.”

Wondering where he’d go next if I didn’t invite him to the festival, I asked, “Do you live nearby?”

He pointed south. “Less than two kilometers down Zicatela.”

I studied his profile, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Suddenly, I didn’t want to spend the night alone, or at a crowded festival listening to loud music. “I’d love to see your home,” I said.

He looked at me, his gaze scrutinizing, and then shifted the Jeep into gear.

We drove along Calle del Morro, the avenue parallel to Playa Zicatela, past restaurants, surf shops, nightclubs, and hotels, to a neighborhood of beachfront properties. Carlos turned in to a driveway, stopping at a wrought iron fence. He pushed the remote hooked to his visor and the gate lumbered open. He eased through when enough space allowed passage, and stopped beside a narrow three-story house that was taller than wide. My mouth fell open. I ogled the top floor.

Carlos cut the engine. “The third level is a rooftop deck. The mountain and beach views are great from up there, especially on a clear day.”

The ocean thundered beyond the palms edging his property. “You live on the beach.” I groaned, envious.

His lips twitched into a wide, lazy grin. “Come, I’ll show you,” he said, hopping from the Jeep.

He led us past a small pool, across a low-clipped lawn sprinkled with sand, and through an opening in the adobe half wall separating his yard from the public beach. He turned and grabbed my hips. I sucked in a breath. He chuckled and lifted me onto the wall, sitting beside me. Our arms brushed.

I resisted the urge to lean into him and nodded toward the spectacular view. “OK, I’ll admit it. I’m jealous.”

“I can’t imagine living anywhere else.” He pushed out a lungful of air, cheeks puffing. “Well, that was before this afternoon. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

I gazed beyond the churning water to the starry sky, wishing the abyss between us wasn’t bigger than the Pacific Ocean. At least I could see the horizon in front of me. I had no idea if one existed for James. Would he recover from the fugue? “Don’t think,” I pleaded. “Not yet.”

“That’s the problem.” He sat upright. “I can’t stop. It’s damn confusing. I’m confused.” He lifted my left hand and studied the engagement ring. “Imelda told me you are . . . uh, were . . . my fiancée.”

“You gave me this ring when you proposed.”

He looked at me skeptically. “Shouldn’t I remember?”

“The fugue prevents you . . .”

“I should feel
something
for you.” He was quiet for a moment, then rolled his lips inward. “Nope. I’ve got nothing.”

My heart wilted. “I can help. Let me help you remember,” I offered in a tone iced with panic. Didn’t he want to remember me?

“It’s not just the memory loss, Aimee. That guy you loved isn’t me. He’s gone.”

“Shut up,” I softly cried. “Don’t say that. Please don’t . . .” I clasped his hand. “What about the dreams? You’ve dreamed about me.”

“I found an old painting of you in my studio. It could have triggered the dreams.”

“I don’t believe you.” Anger spiked inside me. “After all you’ve learned today, how can you be so cold? Don’t you feel anything?”

He laughed bitterly. “I feel, all right. I feel a shitload of anger for my brother . . . Thomas, right? And Imelda.” He shook his head. “She told me she was my sister and I believed her. I fucking believed her. But with you”—he gave me an assessing glance—“I feel nothing but curiosity. I’m sorry.”

I yanked my fist from his hands and staggered to my feet. I kept my back to him.

“My memories go back nineteen months. That’s it. I save everything. Magazines, books. I frame every picture. If I lose my memories again, I’ll have something from my past.”

I thought of the gallery, remembering the magazine stacks and book piles. Unfinished paintings waiting for a signature or final touch-up. Signed paintings he never displayed. He had kept everything. Everything from Carlos. But I had everything belonging to James. “You do have a past, and I have pictures to show you. I have your clothes and more paintings. Your studio is still there in our home. We have a home.”

“My home is here.”

I wrapped my arms tightly around my midriff and stumbled away, stopping when he said my name. “I don’t know if I want to remember the past.”

I felt myself die a bit inside. “Can you at least try?”

“Why? I’d risk losing everything familiar to me. Everyone I love.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. He understood the twisted logic behind his condition. “You’re comparing nineteen months to twenty-nine years. What right do you have keeping James from me? You don’t belong inside his body. You aren’t him.”

He flinched. “
Sí
, you are correct. I’m not him. Not anymore. Whatever you say won’t convince me to leave everything behind. I won’t go away with you. I don’t know you.”

I whirled on him. “You don’t remember me. There’s a difference.”

He fisted his hands on his thighs. “I can’t leave. I’m needed here.”

“You can paint anywhere.” I swept my arms in an all-encompassing gesture. “What’s keeping you here? Surely not Imelda. She’s not your sister. Your family’s in California. I’m in California. What the hell is there for you here?”

He clenched his jaw and looked beyond my shoulders.

I looked behind me. “The ocean?” I asked in disbelief. When he didn’t say anything, I blocked his view. “You might not feel anything for me, but I feel
everything
for you. You aren’t the only one going through hell,” I cried, hoarse. “The worst feeling in the world is never to be remembered by the one person I can’t forget. The one man I haven’t been able to let go.” My voice cracked against a dry throat and I coughed—deep, racking barks. The fit ensued and I doubled over.

I felt an arm wrap around my back. “You need water. Let’s go inside,” he suggested and urged me forward.

I followed him through the kitchen slider and blinked against the glaring fluorescent lights he’d turned on. My breath hitched as I reined the coughs. Feeling disheveled with tear-stained cheeks, I asked, “Where’s your bathroom?”

“Down the hall, on the left,” he said over his shoulder. He retrieved glasses from the cabinet.

I went through the darkened hallway where Carlos directed and locked myself in the bathroom. I flipped on the light, turned on the faucet, and splashed handfuls of water on my face, taking extra care to wash the mascara spiderweb etched over my cheekbones. I blindly reached for a towel, dried my face, and then stared at my reflection. Bloodshot eyes embedded in a pallid complexion glared back at me.

How could Carlos believe nineteen months of his life were more important than the twenty-nine years James had? He was stealing James’s life, robbing him of the years he could spend with me, and the one man affected the most had no say. James couldn’t speak for himself. It was up to me to convince Carlos to give James’s memories a chance.

I folded the towel, smoothing the creases, and placed it on the bathroom counter beside an illustrated children’s book. I stilled and something twisted inside my chest. I spun around and saw a rack of picture books by the toilet and toys in the tub.

I whimpered, the towel and book dropping on the floor, and rushed from the bathroom. I stumbled into the brightly lit hallway. Framed pictures covered the wall like a checkerboard. Dozens filled the shelves in the front room. Photos of Carlos, Imelda, and people I didn’t recognize, including a woman with brunette hair and russet skin. She looked happy, perfectly tucked into Carlos’s side, his arm curved around her shoulders.

Most of the pictures were of two boys, one a small child and the other an infant. In one photo, Carlos cradled the newborn. In another, the older boy painted at a kid’s art table. It was the table I’d seen at the gallery. There were dozens of photos of the boys together, and others with the older boy wrapped in the arms of his parents. Carlos, his facial scars red and angry, and the mystery woman, heavy with child.

I spun around, furling all ten fingers in my hair and tugged hard. My scalp burned, but the pain wasn’t close to the ache piercing my gut. I snagged a frame, a school portrait. The boy didn’t look anything like James had in his kindergarten picture. Who was this child, and why were there pictures of him everywhere?

“He’s five, and he loves to fish,” Carlos said from behind me. “He’s my son.”

“How? You’ve been gone less than two years.”

I heard him shift. “He’s adopted.”

My hands shook. “The infant?” I croaked, barely above a whisper.

“He’s mine.”

The meaning of these children, everything, sank lower and deeper, settling in my soul.

I’m needed here.

“Where’s their mother?”

“My wife. Her name’s Raquel. She—” He broke off and cursed.

A tear slid down my nose. I impatiently brushed it away.

“She died birthing Marcus,” he said after a moment. “It was . . . ah . . . sudden. An aneurysm. There was nothing the doctors could do.”

I slowly turned to him. He stood in the middle of the room holding two water glasses, his face ravaged. I was sure I’d worn the same expression in the days following James’s funeral. “You loved her,” I said dully.

“Very much so.”

I licked my parched lips. “Where are your sons now?”

“Staying with friends. They are good kids.”

“I’m sure they are.” I returned the frame to the shelf and paced the small room, twisting the engagement ring on my finger. My hands shook uncontrollably and the tremors spread, coursing through my limbs.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos said in a rough, dry tone. He swallowed and blinked rapidly. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I didn’t think . . . I didn’t know how . . .” He cleared his throat and set the glasses on the coffee table. “Seeing my children must be very strange for you.”

“Who is she? How did you meet? When did you . . .” I pressed my lips together, hating the desperation in my voice.

“She was my physical therapist. I adopted Julian when we married. Marcus arrived shortly—” He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. “Raquel and I weren’t married for very long, but I—” He glanced away. When he turned back, he looked at me in earnest. “I can’t dance with anyone else. It was her passion. It’s too hard for me . . . 
¡Dios!
” He groaned, distressed. “If I had once felt for you the way I feel for Raquel, then I do understand your hell. The loss is . . . unbearable.”

Another whimper escaped my lips. I frantically twisted the ring, rubbing the skin underneath raw. Carlos’s eyes dropped to my hands, narrowing on the band. “I took mine off months ago,” he murmured.

“I can’t.” I wept, defeated.

He cautiously stepped closer. “Or won’t?”

I rapidly shook my head. The room was getting smaller, the walls caving. Carlos moved closer. He gently rested his hand over mine, stilling my erratic motion. “I loved Raquel very much. It’s been . . . difficult . . . with her gone, but I had to move on. I had no choice. Two rambunctious, beautiful
niños
needed me.”

My lower lip quivered. “But you’re here, James. You didn’t die. You’re still alive. I need you.”

Carlos sadly shook his head. “He’s gone. You have to let him go, Aimee.”

Let go, baby. Just let go.
Ian’s words whispered through my mind.

Carlos led me to the couch, tugging my hands until I was perched on the seat edge. He pulled up a chair across from me and clasped my hands with his. “James was a lucky man to have a woman who loved him so passionately. Tell me about him. Tell me why you need him so much.”

“What if you start to remember?”

His eyes filled with remorse. “There will be no start. You and I both know the change will be sudden.
If
it happens. I don’t think it will.”

I didn’t believe Carlos. James was still with us, somewhere inside him. I studied our clasped hands, fingers entwined and warm skin touching. Was I strong enough to go home without him? Could I move on while he still lived far away and without me?