Everything We Keep: A Novel (8 page)

CHAPTER 8

James and I had been thick as thieves, closer than conjoined twins, since that first Saturday morning. After we iced his lip and he helped clean the mess Robbie and Frankie made of my lemonade stand, James spent the rest of the day with me, and almost every Saturday afterward. We were best friends who shared their dreams one moment and pelted each other with Nerf darts the next.

“We’re getting married after college, and we’re going to have three kids,” he once announced while we played Nerf tag with Kristen and Nick in the open reserve behind James’s house. Then he told me he wanted to be a famous artist while I stayed home and baked. And baked and baked and baked until my hips grew too wide and I couldn’t fit through the doorway.

“Say what?” I had gasped and charged at him.

He dropped to the ground, hugged his belly, and laughed.

“You’re going to be just as fat as me,” I said. “If we’re married, I’m going to make you eat everything I cook.” I stood over him, aimed, and fired. Nailed him in the middle of the forehead. Then I ran, ducking behind a felled tree, and giggled. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture James fat.

My favorite afternoons were rainy Saturdays. James came over after his football games and crashed, exhausted, on the couch. He skimmed through the comics while I read books, our heads resting on opposite ends. We didn’t move until Mom’s baked goodies lured us into the kitchen, our stomachs rumbling.

By James’s twelfth birthday, I had known him for almost a year and had yet to be invited over to his house. No girls were allowed inside until he started high school. A stupid rule, James often complained with an eye roll, but one he obeyed. He’d seen the welt on his older brother’s backside. Thomas had invited a classmate home to study for an exam. Their father, Edgar Donato, had arrived home early and didn’t hesitate using his belt on Thomas after ordering the girl home. Girls and hobbies were distractions. Academics and athletics provided the foundation for the skills needed to carve their marks in the world. His parents had their sons’ lives all planned out.

I’d selected the perfect present for James, something I knew he wanted but wouldn’t think of asking for from his parents, and wrapped it carefully. The paper crinkled as I knocked on his front door. Today was his party. Only boys had been invited, but I wanted to give him my gift. I couldn’t wait for him to see it.

A boy I hadn’t met before opened the door. He was taller than James and older than Thomas, but his coloring was the same. Dark hair and eyes, an olive tint to his skin, hinting of the same Italian heritage. He must be Phil, their cousin. James had told me he visited frequently, usually when Phil’s dad, James’s uncle and Mrs. Donato’s brother, traveled for business. Uncle Grant was constantly flying out of the country.

James was never happy when Phil came to town. He spent those days at my house, often leaving long after the streetlights came on. But Phil smiled down at me, and he seemed friendly.

“You’re James’s friend. Aimee, right?” he asked.

I nodded. “Is he home?”

“James! Door!” He yelled into the house and turned back. “Sorry you can’t come to the party. James’s dad has this dumbass ‘no girls’ rule. He really wanted to invite you.”

My eyes rounded. “Mr. Donato?”

He laughed. “No, silly. James. I’m Phil, by the way.”

“Hi!” I rolled up on the balls of my feet and back to my heels, anxious to see James.

Loud footfalls resounded in the hallway; then James squeezed between Phil and the door.

“Hey, Aimee!” he said right before Phil wrapped him in a headlock. Phil gave him a noogie.

“Happy birthday, little retard,” Phil said in a Muppet voice. He sounded like Kermit the Frog and I giggled.

James squirmed from Phil’s hold and shoved him. “You’re the retard, retard.”

Hurt briefly sharpened Phil’s eyes. I wondered why the put-down bothered him when he’d just said the same thing to James, but then James spotted the present in my hands.

I grinned and showed him the wrapped package. “It’s for you.”

“Cool. Tell Mom I’ll be right back,” he said to Phil before leaping off the porch.

I started to follow, then turned around. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” Phil grunted and shut the door.

“Hurry up!” James shouted. “I have only thirty-five minutes before the party starts.”

He sprinted into the backyard and jumped over the waist-high gate separating his property from the open reserve.

“Your cousin seems nice,” I said when he helped me over.

“He’s not,” James remarked, bolting into the woods before I could ask if Phil had ever been mean to him. Did he bully James? Maybe that was why James punched so well.

“Wait up!” I huffed, chasing after him. The gift’s contents rattled, echoing off the oak tree canopy.

He slowed, jogging alongside me. “Let me carry it for you.” He reached for the box.

I twisted away. “No! It’s your present.”

“What did you get me?” He leaped over a small log. “A football?”

“You already have one.”

He jogged backward. “A Steve Young jersey?”

“Lame.” I pushed by him and marched ahead.

“Let me see!”

“Nope. You have to wait.” We had a spot, a circle of logs where we often met Kristen and Nick and plotted our next adventures.

James jumped in front of me and snagged the gift from my hands.

“Give it back!”

He raised the box high above his head.

“You can’t open it yet.”

“What if I want to? It’s my present.” His fingernail plucked at a piece of tape.

“Fine. Go ahead.” I crossed my arms and pretended I didn’t care.

“Really?” He gave me a skeptical look. He’d been teasing me.

But I couldn’t wait any longer either. I’d been dying to see his reaction since I spotted the item at the art store. I moved closer. Dry leaves crackled under my shoes. “Yes, really.”

He tore off the paper and stared at the wooden box in his hands. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

He kneeled and set the box on the ground, flipping the brass latches. The lid creaked open. His eyes widened and mouth fell open. He ran his fingertips through the brush bristles and rolled a paint tube, burnt sienna, in his palm. “You got me art supplies?”

I tugged my sweater sleeves. Maybe I should have bought the 49ers hat Dad suggested.

“You said your parents wouldn’t buy you paints, but that doesn’t mean I can’t give you any. Besides, how do you expect to be a famous painter if you don’t have any paints?”

He grinned. “This is cool. Thanks.”

My chest swelled and a smile bloomed on my face, the nerves gone. I hadn’t been wrong about the gift.

He gave the box a quick inspection before upending the supplies. Brushes, paint tubes, and palette knives dropped onto a bed of pine needles. He converted the box to an easel and propped the canvas board that came with the set onto the ledge.

“What’re you doing?” I asked when he squirted a glob of blue paint on the palette board.

“Painting a picture for you.”

“Now?”

He didn’t answer, his attention glued to a squawking blue jay protecting her nest from a squirrel clinging to the tree trunk. He painted the scene, his inexperienced brushstrokes already showing signs of promise. As I watched, I became as enraptured with his painting as him. In that moment, there wasn’t anything that mattered but James’s artwork until a voice off in the distance penetrated our world. My head snapped up in the direction it came.

“Your mom’s calling for you.”

James stilled. The brush tip hovered above the canvas. Color drained from his face. We’d forgotten the time.

He moved the wet canvas aside and we hurriedly collected supplies scattered about the ground, tossing them into the box. He closed the lid and flipped the latches.

“Hold out your arms.” I did and he carefully balanced the canvas on my forearms. “Watch out, the paint’s wet.”

I repositioned my palms underneath to create a flatter surface.

“It’s for you.” He kissed my cheek, lips lingering on my skin.

I inhaled a short breath, surprised at the contact that felt just as nice as it was unexpected. It left a fluttery feeling in my belly.

He grinned. “Let’s go.”

I followed him back to his house. We walked as fast as we could without risk of damaging his first painting. Mrs. Donato waited for us on the back deck. Her eyes narrowed on James, taking in what I only now noticed. Paint splatters on his forearms and shirt. Dirt stains on his knees. Her gaze dropped to the wood box.

“What is that in your hand?”

James quickly glanced at me. He tried to hide the box behind his legs. “Paints,” he admitted.

“Paints,” she repeated and her lips thinned. “Paints are messy and childish. They’re a distraction, a waste of time.” She tugged his shirt where a blue thumbprint stained the collar. “I see you’ve already been wasting time. Best you understand now, James, that there’s no room in your future for frivolous activities.” She looked at me. “I’m guessing you gave him the paints?”

I nodded, too intimidated not to.

“It’s a sweet gesture, dear, but he can’t accept your gift. James, please return it or I’ll be forced to make you toss it in the trash.”

“But—”

“Are you arguing with me?”

His gaze dropped to his feet. “No, ma’am.”

I grabbed the box from James. I didn’t want his mom throwing it away.

Mrs. Donato moved to the door. “Come inside and clean up. Change your clothes. They’re filthy. Hurry up!” she barked when James stalled, tossing me an apologetic look. “Your guests arrive in five minutes.”

James practically ran into the house. My heart clenched over his disappointment. He really wanted the art supplies.

“Go home, Aimee. You can see James tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mrs. Donato,” I glumly replied. Tears burned and I swiped them away before they leaked.

Carefully walking to the side gate, I held the box and balanced what I thought could be James’s one and only painting. His passion snuffed before any chance to glow. I tried working the gate latch, bumping the box around in my struggle. The lid popped open and dumped the contents.

I sank to the ground and started picking up brushes and paints. A pair of loafers stopped by my hands. Phil lowered to his knees. He tossed a palette knife into the box.

“Sorry about my mom.”

I lifted my head. “Your mom?”

He dropped his chin to his chest. “I mean Claire. She’s pretty much my mom because she’s all I got.”

“Don’t you have a dad?”

He nodded. “I don’t see him much. He works a lot. Anyway, in case you haven’t noticed, Claire wants James and Thomas working at my dad’s company when they grow up. James painting pictures isn’t part of her plan.”

I looked at the scattered supplies, money I’d wasted. I should have bought the hat. “What am I supposed to do with all this?”

Phil studied James’s bird and squirrel chase. “He’s pretty good. Maybe you can keep the stuff at your house and he can paint there. Claire and Edgar don’t have to know.” He zipped his lips and tossed aside an imaginary key. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

I liked his idea.

We shook hands and finished cleaning up. Phil handed me the box. “Hold it flat like this.” He laid the painting on top of the box. “Now you won’t drop it.”

I slowly stood. “Thanks.”

“I see why James likes you. You’re sweet.”

I ducked my head, blushing.

He opened the gate for me. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I liked Phil. He didn’t come across as the bully James described. “Maybe,” I agreed.

But I didn’t see Phil the next day, or any other day for several years. James always came to my house, more frequently than before since I let him keep his art supplies in my room. As his skills improved and he acquired more supplies, my parents cleared a space for him in the sunroom next to the kitchen. Over the years, while I helped Mom craft new recipes for the restaurant, James painted, and his talent and our friendship flourished.

CHAPTER 9

The next day, I dressed in skinny jeans, a filmy blouse with thin straps, and heels for my birthday celebration. Kristen and Nadia were taking me to Chinese for dinner. Nadia hugged me hello when they arrived at my house. “I shouldn’t have bailed on you last night.”

“Mr. Commercial Property Broker didn’t pass inspection?”

“He was a dud.” She screwed up her face. “He made a pass at me.”

I laughed. “That’s not good?”

“Was he a lousy kisser?” Kristen asked. She’d moved into the main room and stood beside the dining table.

Nadia rolled her eyes. “No and no,” she said to each of us. “He was good. Too good. He’s married.”

Kristen looked up. “Ouch.”

“Wasn’t he wearing a wedding band?” I spun my engagement ring.

Nadia scowled. “No.”

Kristen studied the paper she held. “How did you find out?”

“I had breakfast this morning with Wendy. Gawd!” Nadia groaned. “I couldn’t shut my trap about him so Wendy told me.” She flopped into a leather chair and crossed her ankles on the ottoman. “He asked me to submit a proposal for a commercial site he owns in San Jose, near the arena.”

“Before or after he made a pass?” Kristen asked. She put down the paper she held and picked up another piece covered with penciled notes.

“Before. I think I’ll pass on him.” She waved a hand. “I mean the offer.”

“He’s probably not the most trustworthy person. What’s his name?” I asked out of curiosity.

“Mark Everson. Tall, blond, and gorgeous.” She smacked her palms on the chair arms. “That sounds so freaking cliché, but it’s true. He’s older, midthirties. Wendy was surprised when I told her. She thinks he might be having issues with his wife.”

I snorted. “You think?”

“I don’t mean to be rude and change the subject, but are you opening a restaurant?” Kristen waved the paper she held. Stacked on the dining table were my research paperwork, business forms, and quotes from vendors I’d worked with at The Goat.

I walked to her side. “I’m planning to.” At least I hoped so, assuming I found a cosigner for the lease. But I wanted to get my numbers in order before I approached Thomas. I’d get only one chance to pitch my idea.

“Omigosh!” Kristen squealed. “Are you serious? I love what I’ve read of your notes. Your ideas are fabulous.”

Nadia stood and crossed the room. She pushed the papers around and picked up a list of menu selections. I’d been toying with recipe combinations, fusing diverse tastes to create exotic flavors. My coffee selection looked like a wine list at a restaurant. I’d have to trim the options, perhaps make several seasonal menus. Nadia flagged the paper. “You’re really going through with this? From scratch?”

“Yes, I am.”

She studied me. “Well, it’s definitely better than lamb stew and red potatoes.”

I took the lists from her and evened the stack, tapping the edges against the table. “If my parents had sold The Goat to me, I wouldn’t have much leeway with new dishes. New World fusion wouldn’t go over well at an Irish pub.”

“Now you’re talking.” Kristen patted my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re taking this step. You’re moving on.”

Nadia glanced around the room, her gaze landing on the framed pictures of James and me crowding the mantel. “Tell us how we can help. We can pack James’s belongings if it’s too difficult for you to do alone. There are some good charities where you can donate his clothes. We can help find one that has a good cause. I can also assist with the restaurant design, and I can recommend a good contractor.”

I clasped the paper, wrinkling the edges. “Thanks for the offer, but I need to find a site first.”

Her face lit up. “I can help with that, too, and I won’t charge for my work.”

I’d planned to ask for her assistance to design the space, possibly to cosign the lease if Thomas wouldn’t, but I hadn’t expected her work pro bono. Her offer was huge. “I’d love your help, but don’t worry about James’s things. I’ll take care of them.” Like later, such as when Lacy and that business card she’d slipped into my wallet no longer niggled the back of my mind.

“All righty!” Kristen piped up. “Looks like there’s more to celebrate tonight than your birthday. Who’s ready to get this party started?”

After dinner, we went to Blue Sky Lounge in downtown San Jose. Electronica music pulsed, vibrating the air. People swayed on the dance floor, limbs entwined with their partners. Nadia led us to a group of chairs circling a low table she’d reserved and ordered a carafe of sangria with a round of passion fruit champagne shots. While nursing her sangria, she made sure the shots kept coming for Kristen and me.

When we finished the first carafe, Kristen grabbed my wrists. “Come on, birthday girl. Dance with me.” She dragged me onto the dance floor. Heated bodies plastered against us. Kristen hip-bumped me and I laughed.

She yelled in my ear. “You look happy.”

“I
am
happy,” I shouted back. I was reconstructing my life and myself, and I felt good.

Several song sets later, I waved my hand in front of my face. Sweat dripped between my breasts. “Water,” I shouted over the music. We returned to our booth as the waitress arrived with a fresh sangria carafe and another round of shots, which Kristen and I quickly consumed. My head lulled. I rubbed my face, trying to wipe off the fuzziness.

“What did you think of Ian’s show last night?”

I squinted at Nadia. “His photos are incredible.”

“Ian’s incredible.”

A silly grin pillowed my cheeks.

“I knew it.” Nadia snapped fingers in my direction.

My smile turned pensive. “He’s leaving for a photo expedition.”

“Will you see him when he gets back?” Kristen asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe.” My brows bunched, my mouth forming a tight circle. Ian remarked he’d miss me, but he hadn’t asked for my number. I hunched back in my chair. “I don’t know how to contact him.”

Nadia replenished my drink. “Wendy has his number. I’ll get it for you.”

A sudden lightness had me straightening in my seat. “Ian’s fun. I had fun with him.” I grinned stupidly from a combination of excitement and alcohol, and Nadia laughed.

“I can tell.” She winked.

My gaze dropped to my drink and I watched the ice bob in the glass. They floated like tiny islands and it made me think of James’s body floating in the water. The body Thomas had brought home and wouldn’t let me see. The big, fat check Thomas had conveniently given me at the funeral. There were also the missing paintings. I narrowed my gaze on the melting ice. Something wasn’t right.

I jerked up my head. Kristen and Nadia were discussing one of Nick’s cases. He was a business litigation attorney and Kristen was relieved the case had been resolved. Nick could finally rest. They could plan the vacation they’d put off for eight months. I yawned and watched people on the dance floor. Or tried to. My eyes blurred and the floor listed to the left, or maybe I was the one leaning.

Couples undulated to a frenzied rhythm. Through the turbulent wave of swaying hips and limbs, one blonde woman stood in the center, her lavender-blue eyes locked on me. Lacy.

I blinked and she disappeared. I scooted to the edge of my seat and caught a glimpse of blonde hair and a green shirt. She was moving away. I scrambled from my chair and tipped Kristen’s glass. Red liquid and ice spilled to the floor. She gasped and jumped out of the way. I murmured an apology and weaved around the chairs.

“Where are you going?” Nadia called out.

“Restroom,” I shouted the excuse. I had to catch up with Lacy before I lost her.

I pushed through the dance floor, stepping on toes and shoving among humid bodies. Curses trailed me. Lacy remained elusive until I saw the ladies’ room door open. She’d gone inside.

The door slammed behind me. Remixed music piped through the speakers. Two women, their faces heavily made up, hair tousled, and skin tattooed, primped before mirrors in the restroom’s lounge. Another woman washed her hands. She gave me a cursory glance through the mirror and left.

I stood in the space between the sink counter and stalls. The restroom was practically empty, which was odd considering the line usually spilled out the door. Lacy wasn’t here. I’d lost her. Spying the toilets, I scooted into a stall. When I finished, I washed my hands and glimpsed Lacy’s reflection in the mirror. My skin pricked.

She kept her gaze plugged into mine. I couldn’t look away or turn around. Her lips moved and words whispered in my head.
James is alive.

I vigorously shook my head.

He still lives.

“Prove it.”

He isn’t dead. If he was, you’d know it. You’d feel it. Don’t you still feel him?

I did. His voice in my head. His touch in the breeze. His laugh in the scattering of leaves on the ground. But that didn’t prove anything.

In the mirror, Lacy remained motionless, unblinking. I weaved and grasped the counter to steady my balance. My palms were damp and moisture beaded on my upper lip. I shot a glance at the door, willing someone to walk inside. To tell me I wasn’t having a crazy moment; that Lacy wasn’t really here, locking me in a psychic trance. My feet wouldn’t budge.

The primping women on the other side of the restroom put away their makeup and left without looking my way. The door closed behind them and a hush fell across the room as though all noise had been sucked out with them. For an instant, Lacy and I seemed separated from the rest of the world, hovering within the vacuum of space. No sound existed. Then suddenly, the noise returned, powering back into the restroom. Air vents hummed, music played, water flowed from the faucet in front of me. It also felt like something else had come inside when the women left, forcing its way into me as one thought.

James isn’t the missing person. You are.

“I was sent to find you,” Lacy said.

My head pitched back. The overhead spotlights pierced my pupils and I blinked repeatedly. Images flashed in my mind like slides clicking on their reel. James underwater, bullets zipping past. James struggling to stay afloat in the churning seawater. James collapsed on a beach, his face battered and bruised, and a woman hovering over him. Her raven hair draped his face. Espresso eyes burned with concern. Lips moved, asking his name. He didn’t know.

James,
I wanted to shout.
Your name is James.

I felt lightheaded and dropped to the floor, my head connecting hard with the tile. Stars flashed overhead until they faded.

The last thought to cross my mind before I lost consciousness was that I drank way too much sangria.

“Wake up, Aimee.”

My cheek stung and my head was on fire.

“Hello! Wakey, wakey.”
Smack.

Pinpricks sparked across my cheekbone.

“What happened to her?” came a voice I didn’t recognize.

“Is she OK?” came another.

“Someone had one too many.”

That was Nadia. I smiled.

“I think she’s coming around,” she said.

“It’s her birthday,” piped in Kristen.

Murmurs of understanding echoed around us. Feet shuffled away, the click of heels on tile. I heard doors slam and toilets flush. Reality returned.

Aw, crap. I was in the women’s restroom. Passed out on the floor.
Eww.

I blinked and squinted at the lights overhead and four sets of eyes staring back at me. I groaned. “What happened?”

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Nadia said.

I shook my head, memories fuzzy.

“I wonder if there was MSG in our food,” Kristen pondered.

We’d eaten Chinese. I was allergic to MSG. It made me lightheaded, but I’d never fainted.

“The menu said ‘no MSG added,’” Nadia informed.

“Too much to drink.” My head screamed. Whether from alcohol or when my skull tackled the tile, I didn’t know. I raised my arms. “Help me up.”

They pulled me upright, murmuring for me to move slowly and easily. The two strangers hovering backed away. I leaned against the counter and glanced around. The restroom was packed with a line crawling out the door. Like it should have been earlier. Lacy was gone. Had she ever been here?

My head throbbed. I pressed at the knot on the back and whined.