Everything We Keep: A Novel (15 page)

I turned my gaze to the engagement portrait, James and me locked in an embrace beneath a painted sky, the setting sun a blazing backdrop of orange and red, and I started shaking. My fingers and knees trembled. Not from anticipation, but out of fear. If James were alive, it meant something bigger had been going on around me and I’d been too naive to see it.

CHAPTER 16

NOVEMBER

Ray finally sent word on a Tuesday in the second week of November. His e-mail had arrived in the early morning hours, long after I’d gone to bed. I had read it before leaving for Aimee’s, and reread it seventeen more times since then.

It was because of that e-mail I wanted nothing to do with Alan Cassidy’s attention, let alone the fact I just wasn’t interested in dating him.

“Here you go, Alan, your usual: one low-fat, no-whip, triple-shot, vanilla latte with two pumps hazelnut. Anything else for you today?” I asked, sounding more irritated and impatient than I intended.

He still smiled. “You amaze me, Aimee.” He reached inside the pocket of his tailored suit and extracted two tickets, fanning them in his fingers. “Tonight’s Sharks game. Join me?”

I stole a glance at the tickets. This wasn’t the first time he’d asked, and knowing Alan, they were premium seats. I shook my head. “Sorry, Alan. Thanks for asking, though.”

His bright expression faded and the tickets disappeared as quickly, tucked inside his jacket. “One of these days I’ll find somewhere to take you, and you won’t be able to resist.” He saluted me with his to-go cup and sauntered out the exit.

Ian grunted behind me, and I thought I heard him mutter, “Oh brother.”

When I started another pot of house blend, I caught money changing hands between Ian and Emily. Ian folded a five and slid the cash into his back pocket. He grinned at me.

“What was that all about?” I snapped.

His eyes widened. Feeling guilty, I apologized.

“You cost me five bucks.” Emily playfully punched my upper arm and scooted past. She grabbed a plastic bin and started cleaning tables after the morning rush.

I looked warily at Ian. He gave me his back, pulling a damp towel from his belt loop, and cleaned the espresso machine. He started whistling. I pursed my lips. There was a victory smile in his whistle. “Ian?” I prodded.

He jerked his chin toward the entrance. “Alan asks you out at least once a week. Emily’s convinced you’ll cave one of these days.”

I crossed my arms. “How so?”

“You’ll go out with the poor schmuck.” He chuckled as though the idea seemed ludicrous.

“Alan’s not a schmuck. He’s a nice guy. He’s—”

“High-maintenance?” Ian supplied. I scowled and he stared me down, eyes warm with mischief.

“Shut up,” I grumbled. So what if Alan ordered girly coffee? That wasn’t my problem. I ripped open a foil bag of coffee grounds and the aroma buoyed my spirits. I breathed deeply, eyes shuttering. Tendons taut from standing for five hours loosened.

“Could you be cracking already?”

My eyes snapped open, narrowing on Ian’s smug face. The two-day growth peppering his jawline did nothing to hide how pleased he was with himself, or how appealing I found his smile. His shirtsleeves were rolled, leaving his forearms bare except for the dusting of golden hair matching the untamed waves on his head. He popped a shoulder. “Doesn’t matter anymore. I already won the bet.”

I scooped grounds into the filter. “You don’t think I’ll go out with him?”

“Not a chance.” His eyes fell to my engagement ring. “You won’t date. Me or anyone else.”

I spun the ring with my thumb, hiding the diamond in my palm. “I will too.”
Eventually.

Ian crossed his arms. “Prove it. Go out with me.”

My breath caught. In all the months I’d known him, this was the first time he asked me straight out.

“Ian, you know I can’t.” Not yet. Besides, I was still reeling from Ray’s e-mail.

“You mean, you
won’t
.” He turned back to the espresso machine.

“He’s right, you know,” Nadia said behind me. She leaned against the display case filled with pastries and salads and finger-waved “hello.” Kristen stood beside her. Both wore workout clothes, their cheeks windburned to a bright red from a morning run.

I brushed my hands together, dusting off loose grounds. “So you think I should date?”

Nadia angled her head toward Ian, who was assisting another customer. “He really cares about you.”

I already knew that. Ian had been very honest about his feelings on more than one occasion. I was the holdup. “He’s a friend
and
an employee.”

“If you say so.”

I grimaced. Even I knew the excuse was lame.

“Go away. You can’t have any coffee today.” I turned to the sink and flipped on the water. Dirty mugs needed to be washed.

“I’ll have your usual for you in a moment, Nadia.”

“Thanks, Ian.” She pushed away from the counter.

Traitor
, I mouthed to him and he chuckled.

Nadia snagged a newspaper from the community reading rack. She scanned the columns on the front page as she walked through the dining area.

Kristen scooted behind the counter and leaned against the sink ledge. “Nadia cares only about you. We all do.” She watched me rinse an excessively dirty cup stained with stale coffee. An unusually bright pink lipstick print kissed the rim. I scrubbed the discoloration a tad harder, using the coarse side of my sponge.

“What’s wrong? You seem agitated,” she asked when I didn’t say anything.

I blew an exasperated breath. “I received an e-mail from Ray this morning.”

“The PI? What did he say?”

I shook loose water from the cup and it slipped from my hand, shattering in the sink. I swore and Ian whipped around. “You OK?”

“I’m fine,” I barked.

He rubbed his forehead and watched me for a moment.

“I’m OK. Thanks,” I reassured in a softer tone.

He waited a beat before turning back to blend a coffee.

“Sorry,” I muttered to Kristen and cleaned the sink.

She helped me pick up ceramic fragments.

“Ray confirmed James did fly to Cancún.” I kept my voice low and out of Ian’s range of hearing. “James did check into his hotel in Playa del Carmen. The local news articles about a missing American man who’d fallen overboard, his reservations for the boat trip, his death certificate—they’re all legit. Ray spoke to the owner of the tour company and everything coincided with what Thomas had told me.”

A curl escaped my hairclip. I pushed the offending piece off my face. My lips quivered.

Kristen rubbed my back. “You’ve questioned James’s death for almost two years. I’m glad Ray was able to help. Give you some closure.”

“He couldn’t find anything about Lacy either. No records. She’s gone, too. Moved out. The house is owned by a Douglas Chin. It’s a rental. Aside from the business card, postcard, and Lacy’s picture, I had nothing else to give him.

“I’m such an idiot. I’m so upset . . . No, I’m—” I shook my head. “I’m disappointed . . . in myself. I got all worked up
hoping
his disappearance and funeral was a sham.”

“What about the painting on the postcard?” Kristen asked.

“The gallery owner at El estudio del pintor is the artist. He says the painting is his and any resemblance to another painter’s style is entirely coincidental. Unless I go to the gallery myself, I have to believe what Ray tells me because there’s no way I can afford to send him down there.”

“Now what are you going to do?”

What I should have done months ago. “Move on.”

“Well, I think you’re doing a fabulous job. You opened a restaurant and it’s a success,” she cheered and angled her head toward Ian. “And when you’re ready to date, I know a great guy who’s very interested.”

I smirked. “Ha, ha.”

Ian finished topping Kristen’s mocha with whipped cream and handed her the cup.

I threw out an arm toward the dining area. “You can tell Nadia I’ll bring her coffee in a moment. The pot’s almost ready.”

Kristen laughed. “She’ll get it after all?”

I grabbed a mug from the overhead rack. “She’d come back here and pour her own cup if I didn’t. Ignoring her is pointless.”

It was late when I arrived home that night. I’d spent hours washing the café’s floor, counter surfaces, and cabinets, hoping to scrub away my despondency. It didn’t work. I was still depressed.

A box had been delivered at some point during the day. It rested on my doormat. I tucked it under my arm and went inside, dumping my purse and keys in their usual spot. Then I made my way into the kitchen and examined the package. There wasn’t a return address, only my street information and postage of international origin.
Mexico.
The postage seal inked over the stamps read “Oaxaca, MX.”

My heart leaped into my throat. I ripped opened the box. Bubble-wrapped inside was a painting.
Meadow Glade
, a smaller version of the acrylic on my wall behind the dining table. The canvas in my hands was the original. I’d convinced James to paint our meadow on a larger scale because I loved the colors, the way the tall blades of grass reflected the early morning light. In the lower right corner, painted in the custom Caribbean blue hue James had mixed to match my eyes, the color he always used for his signature, were his initials.
JCD
.

My hands started shaking. I flipped the canvas. A note was taped to the back, handwritten on a small piece of paper imprinted with a hotel logo. C
ASA DEL SOL
.

Dear Aimee,

Here’s your proof. The danger has finally passed and James is safe. I’ve been asked to seek you out. It's time he learned the truth. Come to Oaxaca.

Lacy

James was alive? Oh my God! James was alive.

I started shaking uncontrollably, almost losing my grip on the painting. Beads of sweat dotted my upper lip and brow. Bile twisted low in my belly.

What the fuck was going on?

There isn’t any solid evidence James is still alive,

Ray’s e-mail had stated.

Don’t waste your time and money. There isn’t any reason for me to investigate further. I recommend calling off the search.

The facts Ray uncovered matched James’s documentation and records. James’s death occurred exactly as Thomas had reported.

Then why the hell was James’s painting in Mexico?

I swiped at the tears I realized were raining down my face and picked up the phone. I dialed the one person who would understand.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded heavy from sleep.

“Kristen. James
is
alive.”

After I booked a hotel room in Puerto Escondido, I’d spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling or pacing my room. I couldn’t sleep. James was out there.

Nadia woke me at 4:06 the following morning, pounding on the front door. I stumbled bleary-eyed through the house on two hours’ sleep.

“About time,” Nadia huffed after I opened the door. She pushed past me. “Bet you didn’t expect to see me at this godforsaken hour.” She stopped in the middle of the room between the leather chairs. Dressed in bedazzled Juicy sweats and a wool scarf wrapped around her neck, she glared at me.

I shut the door. “Kristen told you.”

“She called a couple hours ago. She’s been up all night worried sick you’d do something stupid”—her eyes darted toward the packed roller bag I’d stashed by the front door—“such as fly off to Mexico by yourself.”

I raised my chin. “You can’t stop me.”

“Oaxaca, Mexico? Not the safest place to travel.”

“That’s the same as saying the entire state of California is unsafe.” I shook my head and walked into the kitchen. I might as well brew some coffee. There was no way I would fall back to sleep before my flight.

Nadia followed me. “Kristen’s very concerned. She doesn’t want you to go.”

“So she sent you to change my mind.”

“She knows you won’t listen to her.”

“I’m not listening to you either.” I scooped grounds and set the pot to brew. “My flight leaves this afternoon. I don’t care what either of you have to say. I’m going.” I headed toward the bedroom.

“Good.”

I stopped. “What?”

She advanced on me, her makeup-free eyes narrowing on mine. “I said ‘good.’ I want you to go.”

“Why?”

She squared her shoulders. “You’ve been stuck in the mud since James died.”

“I’ve not been stuck—”

“Look around you!” she exploded. I flinched like she’d struck me. It took a lot to get Nadia fired up and she was obviously upset with me. “James is everywhere. His clothes are still in your closet. His paintings decorate every fucking wall. You have got to move on.”