Everything We Keep: A Novel (5 page)

CHAPTER 5

My stomach growled. I heard James chuckle in the rumble of a far-off car engine. In the gentle breeze rustling my clothes, his voice tickled my ear.
Let’s go to Joe’s.

Joe’s was where we’d spent our Sunday mornings. It seemed like forever since James had been gone. I missed his laugh and the dark, silky timbre of his voice. I would never again hear him say
I love you
, and I was disinclined to do anything that reinforced James was gone forever, such as boxing his belongings, cancelling his magazine subscriptions, or sitting at our table at Joe’s, alone. But for the first time in half a year, I felt the urge to go there, linger over a bowl of heirloom tomato soup and a citrus salad. The food was wonderful at the café, but Joe could never brew a decent pot of coffee. James often joked I should blend drinks to bring with us. We could pay Joe a mug fee like a wine corkage fee. Joe’s bitter coffee had nothing on the elixir I brewed.

Rather than returning to an empty house with spoiling food, I walked six blocks to Joe’s, hearing James beside me in the echo of my shoes on pavement. We had traversed this route many times and it was difficult to believe he wasn’t walking alongside me now, our hands clasped. I curled my fingers, my palm cold and empty.

I arrived at Joe’s and, pushing on the door handle, walked straight into the glass door. “Ow!” My hands flew to my face, eyes watering. My nose burned. I stomped in a circle, swearing as I rubbed the tender skin.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and jiggled the knob. It was locked. On a Friday?

Pressing my forehead to the glass, I peered inside. The café was dark and empty. The display cases bare. No muffins, meats, salads, or bottled drinks. In the corner of the far right window was a sign.

F
OR
L
EASE

I stared blankly for a long moment. Joe’s Coffee House was closed. Gone forever.

I thought of the mornings James and I had walked here for breakfast. The familiar scents of roasting coffee, freshly baked scones, and potato frittatas were what had brought me here this morning. It was our place. It was
my
place.

I jerked back from the window. “This
can
be my place,” I said to my reflection.

In that moment, I knew exactly what I wanted to do, what I had to do. Open my own restaurant, right here in Joe’s old spot. It was what James would have wanted. I would do this for James.

Excitement buzzed through me like a jolt of caffeine. Before I changed my mind, I punched the lease agent’s name and number into my phone and saved the contact file.

Anticipation bubbled inside me. I glanced around, my gaze settling on the storefronts two blocks up the road. Nadia might be on site at the art gallery. It was still under construction. I left Joe’s and called Nadia.

“You go. Tell me what you think,” Nadia encouraged.

“The gallery’s not open to the public yet. I can’t go inside.”

“Of course you can. Wendy’s hanging art for the grand opening.”

“I’m not sure.” I’d hoped Nadia would be there so I could share my idea about Joe’s. My stomach growled again.

She made an impatient noise. “Tell her I sent you. She won’t mind if you look around.”

“All right. I’ll peek inside.” I paused at the corner. A car sped by and I jumped away from the curb.

“I need to prep for a conference call. I’ll swing by your place this evening after work. I want to hear what you think of the color scheme and layout.”

“OK.”

“I’ll see you tonight.” She disconnected the call.

I almost walked past the gallery. Nadia had transformed the entire façade. Everything had been updated. Larger windows, tall side-by-side glass doors, overhead lights tucked under a wood-framed awning. Potted honeysuckle vines reached skyward on both sides of the storefront. An elegant font had been etched into the glass.

W
ENDY
V. Y
EE
G
ALLERY

W
HERE THE
L
OCAL
P
HOTOGRAPHER
G
OES
I
NTERNATIONAL

Photographs, not paintings.

Nadia had been working on a different type of gallery than I expected, and she’d created a beautiful space for Wendy to showcase her artists’ photographic talent.

Propped on the wide window ledge was a breathtaking photo of a lavender-orange sky kissing aquamarine waters. The image was magical, simply titled
Belize Sunrise.
I felt myself falling into the picture, sitting on the sand and watching the morning light play on the tide. A salty, humid breeze teasing my skin. I wanted to go there.

According to the name under the title the photographer was Ian Collins. Considering how captivating the lighting was in
Belize Sunrise
, Ian was an extraordinary artist as far as I was concerned.

The gallery’s double glass doors were propped open. Inside, the old floor had been replaced with wide-plank, blond-stained wood. The lighter color kept eyes off the floor and on the art. Whitewashed walls, still barren of artwork, were divided into three display areas separated by brick partitions. I could see the back wall, but the partitions divided the open space, lending the gallery a more intimate ambiance despite the open floor plan. James would have loved what Nadia had done.

My shoes echoed as I walked around. Voices carried from behind a partition. I heard hammering, followed by a thud and a grunt, and then a thick rope of cursing.

“Enough already, Ian. Let me call the contractor. He can do this for me.”

“Get off the phone. He charges. I’m free.”

“At the rate you’re going, you’ll spend more money on first aid. Save your thumbs. Bruce can handle this.”

“This is the last hook.” More hammering.
“Voilà, fini!”
the man with the hammer announced in a horrible French accent. A giggle bubbled from me and I clamped a hand over my mouth.

“Thanks, Ian, but don’t quit your day job.”

“I don’t have a day job.” Ian appeared from around the partition. He stopped abruptly when he saw me, his eyes meeting mine. I felt myself drawn to their amber depths. Light hair fell over his forehead, and I had an unexpected urge to run my fingers through the wave.

My face heated. Where had that thought come from?

The hard line of his jaw twitched and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Hey there.”

I stared stupidly at him. His facial twitch lifted to a full-fledged grin. Oh wow.

“Ian?” called the woman. Light footfalls brought a woman into view. “Oh! I didn’t know we had a visitor. Can I help you?”

I jerked in her direction. She was slender and petite, dressed entirely in black. Sleek ebony hair draped her shoulders. A hint of a smile touched her lips.

I shoved out my arm. “I’m Aimee Tierney. Nadia’s friend.”

She shook my hand. “Wendy Yee. This is Ian Collins,” she tipped her head in his direction, “one of the photographers I work with.”

“I saw the photo in the window. It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks,” he said and grasped my hand. “Nice to meet you, Aimee.”

“Sorry to have bothered you,” I said to Wendy. “I only wanted to look at Nadia’s design work.”

“No bother. You’re welcome anytime. Our opening celebration is next week if you’re interested.”

“You should come,” Ian prompted.

My gaze bounced between them. “I don’t know anything about photography.”

“You only need to know how to enjoy yourself.” He grinned. “Nadia will be here.”

“I’ll get you an invitation.” Wendy went to the desk in the rear corner of the gallery.

I refused to look at Ian, but I felt his gaze on me.

Wendy returned and gave me a crisp, open-flapped envelope with a white cardstock tucked inside. “Next Thursday, eight o’clock.”

“Thank you.” I slipped the invitation into my shoulder bag.

Ian rubbed his stomach. “I’m starved. Let’s go eat, Wendy.”

“You go ahead. I have to finish up here.” She waved him off.

“I’ll bring something back for you.”

“Thanks.” She took the hammer from him and disappeared behind the partition.

Ian looked at me. “Lunch?”

I took an involuntary step back. He smirked. “If two women shoot me down in less than sixty seconds, I’ll wonder if I’ve lost my touch.” He crossed his arms and sniffed an armpit. “Or if I forgot to wear deodorant.”

I snorted a laugh. “Thanks for the offer, but no.”

“I’m not that bad of company. Let’s grab a bite.”

My stomach decided to exert its independence and remind me why I’d walked downtown. It growled loud and long.

Ian cocked a brow and motioned toward the door. “There’s a firewood pizza spot on the corner. We can eat outside.”

Rumble. “Pizza it is, then.” I followed him through the doorway and thumbed at the photo in the window. “Do you travel often?”

“Every four to six months I’ll take short excursions. Every few years, a longer trip. I have a photo expedition coming up,” he said as we walked.

“It must be nice going to exotic places.”

“It has its perks.” He glanced at me. “Have you done much traveling?”

I shook my head. “Road trips. Nothing out of the country.”

“If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?”

I blurted the first thing in my head. “The beach in your photo.”

“It’s a beautiful spot. You should go.”

“I wish. Too expensive.”

His eyes crinkled. “Yeah, money always seems to be the issue.”

We stopped at a corner and waited for the light to change. “I haven’t seen your work before. Do you show elsewhere?” I asked when we crossed the street.

“Aside from online? Only at Wendy’s Laguna Beach gallery. She likes to promote local artists.”

“You live in Southern California?”

“I used to. I grew up in Idaho before moving to SoCal. I’ve been in Los Gatos for only a few years. Took me that long to convince Wendy to open a gallery here. Lately, I’ve been on the road a lot.”

“Always on the hunt for the next great shot?” When he nodded, I asked, “Do you shoot people?”

Ian held up two fingers pressed together. “I’ve never killed anyone. Scout’s honor.”

Color rose up my neck. “Oh, no, no, I . . . I meant pictures. Do you take pictures of people, like portraits?”

His expression darkened. “Landscapes are my niche.”

We stepped aside to let a woman by pushing a stroller. “So, what do you do?” Ian asked.

“I’m a sous chef or restaurant manager, depending on the day.” For the last couple of weeks, I hadn’t been much of either. “Have you been to The Old Irish Goat?”

He shook his head. “I’ve heard of it.”

“My parents owned the restaurant.”

“Owned?”

My shoulders dropped a fraction. “Yeah, they sold it. As of next week, The Goat’s under new ownership.”

“I’m guessing you need a new job,” he ventured.

“Looks that way.”

Ian held open the door when we arrived at the restaurant. The hostess seated us on the side deck facing the street. She handed over menus and took our drink orders, water for Ian and iced tea for me.

When she left, Ian propped his elbows on the table, chin resting on clasped hands. “So, what’s the story?”

I frowned.

He nodded at my face. “Your nose. What happened?”

My hand flew to cover my nose while I wrestled one-handed with my purse, searching for a mirror.

Ian chuckled. He touched my wrist. “It’s not too bad. Just a bit red and swollen.”

“Thanks a lot.”

He laughed before his face softened. “Does it hurt?”

“A little. I’m trying to ignore it.” But Ian staring at me wasn’t helping. I wanted to crawl under the table and hide.

“Here, let me see.” He eased my hand aside and gently prodded the tissue and cartilage. I hissed. “Tender?”

I nodded.

“Did your nose bleed?”

“No.” I rapidly blinked my eyes. His touch was soothing. Unsettling, but in a good way.

“You might have some skin discoloration and soreness for a few days.”

“A photographer and a doctor. You’re a man of many talents.”

“I wish, but no such luck. Just a photographer who’s had his share of bumps and bruises.”

“Whatever it takes to get the best shot?”

“Something like that.” He leaned away. “You’ll be back to your gorgeous self by the gallery’s opening.”

“I’m not beautiful now?” I couldn’t help goading him. He smiled and a shiver of excitement coursed through me.

Our drinks arrived and we placed our orders, a personalized pizza for each of us.

“Do you know Joe’s Coffee House?” I asked.

“The café on the corner? It’s closed, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t know. I ran into the locked door.”

Ian paused, his water glass halfway to his mouth. His lips twitched as though he was trying not to laugh. “If you were so desperate for a cup of coffee, I could have made you one.”

I flashed a smile. “No one brews better coffee than me.”

“Not even Joe?”

“Especially not Joe,” I said, recalling his bitter java with the burned aftertaste.

“Sounds like a challenge. One of these days—you and me,” he said pointing between us, “we’ll see who brews the best pot.”