I pinched off the sweat from the bridge of my nose and pushed the Maui Jims back into place. “The Donatos are wealthy. I’m sure he has.”
“Quite the opposite. Donato Enterprises hasn’t fared well since Phil’s arrest. Your portfolio is still intact. Thomas has it all in a trust and has been managing it. He never collected insurance upon your death.”
“How kind of him.”
Imelda lifted her eyes toward the ceiling with an air of big-sister impatience. “Your investments, your accounts, everything. It’s all there when you want it.”
Which I didn’t. She clicked the pen. I wanted to snatch it from her hand and fling it over the balcony. “Thanks, but no thanks. When you get word of Thomas’s arrest, feel free to text the good news.” I pushed up from the chair, wood legs scraping on the tile floor.
“Sit down, Carlos.” There was the big-sister tone. I bristled, stopping midrise. She pointed her pen at my chair. “Por favor. This affects you. Hate me and Thomas all you want, but believe it or not, we both care about you. And I love your sons.”
I eased back into the chair, my head cocked as a chill swept over me. “What does this have to do with them?”
Imelda looked left, then right. She set down the pen and leaned forward. “The authorities are asking Thomas questions about your death. I’m concerned they might come looking for you to verify everything Thomas has told them. You and I are the only ones here”—she gave the tabletop two distinct taps—“who know about you. Thomas gave me your identification papers. I have no idea where or how he got them. They can be legitimate, for all I know, but if they’re not . . .”
I didn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe. My back slammed into the chair. “I can be imprisoned or deported.” Because I might be here illegally. Fake ID and no visa.
“No one can find out I helped you. I’ll lose my hotel. And you, Carlos,” she said, panicked, “you could lose Julian.”
CHAPTER 7
JAMES
Present Day
June 22
Los Gatos, California
“You’re Señora Carla?”
“Well . . . yes,” she says as though this revelation shouldn’t be a surprise to him.
James swears. He can’t believe it. Claire vacationed in Puerto Escondido every summer and Christmas holiday for the past five years. She’d become close enough to Carlos and his sons that she was practically family. She hadn’t once told them she was family.
James clamps his hands behind his neck and glances wildly around the kitchen. When would the lying and deceit end?
Marc shoves past him and hugs Claire around her waist. He presses the side of his face against her belly. Claire gasps; then the biggest smile James recalls seeing on her appears. She rests her hands on Marc’s back, holding him against her.
“You love him.” The words sound like an accusation. A pulling sensation ripples through him. He jerks his gaze away, envious of the affection his mother doles out for his son. Her grandson.
James shoves down the sour knot in his throat. As much as he wants to keep the truth from Julian and Marcus, he’ll eventually have to tell them who Señora Carla really is. How will this news affect his sons on top of the other changes?
They won’t trust anyone, he thinks somberly. Imelda wasn’t their aunt. Carla wasn’t a random neighbor. And Carlos wasn’t their father’s true identity. The only genuine person in this mix is their aunt, Natalya Hayes. Thank God they at least have her.
Claire folds her legs until she’s eye level with Marc. She clasps his shoulders. James sharply inhales through his teeth. Will she tell him?
She better not breathe a word.
He’s outraged. These are his kids. There’s no way he’ll let his family screw with their heads. Between the death of their mother, and their father forgetting everything about them up until six months ago, they’ve dealt with more heartache and upheaval than any children should be expected to handle.
“I’ve missed you,” Claire tells Marc, and James relaxes slightly, even if only momentarily. She rains kisses on Marc’s forehead. “I have something for you. Julian, too.” She smiles at his older son.
Julian has managed to maneuver around James to hug Claire. Then his sons wait, anticipation making them fidget, as Claire dips her hand into a reusable shopping bag. She presents Marc with a watercolor paint set.
James almost falls back a step. A paint set, from the woman who made him return the very first set he’d received. It’d been a birthday gift from Aimee. She made it very clear during his adolescence that he needed to remain focused on studies and sports, not frivolous hobbies.
A memory lurches across the field of his mind. His thirteen-year-old self, sweaty T-shirt plastered to his chest, grass-stained football pants hugging his hips, scuffed helmet dangling from his fingertips, arriving at his bedroom after football practice to find Claire riffling through his drawers.
He had stopped in the doorway, heart pounding in his rib cage. “What’re you doing?”
“Miranda found paint on your shirt.” Claire slammed a bureau drawer, moved on to the next one.
The housekeeper. She must have seen the shirt in the laundry. Oil pigment stained, so he made sure that when he painted at the Tierneys’, he only wore ratty shirts—ones his mother wouldn’t miss should he have to throw them away.
Her hand disappeared into another drawer, pushing aside sock balls. One dropped to the floor. She wouldn’t find any more stained clothes, or paintbrushes, or pigment tubes, if that’s what she was looking for. He’d become quite the expert at keeping his frequent visits to the Tierneys’ a secret. His reason for spending so much time there was twofold. He really liked Aimee. She was cool and fun to hang out with. But he really loved to paint, and Mr. and Mrs. Tierney had given him a space in their home so he could do so. They even replenished his art supplies.
Why couldn’t his parents do the same? Why couldn’t his mother encourage him to pursue his passion like the Tierneys? His skill had flourished through their support.
Claire paused and leveled her gaze at him. “Are you painting?”
Why did she despise that he was?
He forced down that thick feeling in his throat and looked her in the eye. “No.” He’d also become skilled at lying.
“Then explain the paint on the shirt Miranda found.”
“It happened at school during a class project.” He wanted to retract the words as soon as they left his mouth. Like a fumbled handoff, he’d dropped the ball. He wore a uniform to school. “Sister Katherine gave us permission to take off our shirts if we had on an undershirt,” he embellished. “She didn’t have enough smocks for the whole class.”
She closed the drawer and approached him, unintentionally kicking aside the sock ball with the pointed toe of her designer heel. She cupped his dirt-crusted cheek. Her gaze pinged from his stringy hair to his chapped lips and back up to his eyes. Her lips parted on a resigned sigh.
“James, the shirt Miranda showed me is old and stretched out. Don’t wear clothes like that to school. You have a drawerful of clean, white undershirts.” Her nostrils flared slightly. “Go shower.” She patted his cheek and left.
James looked at his grass-stained, sweat-drenched socks, wishing she had as much interest in his art as she did in his attire and hygiene. At least the Tierneys framed his artwork. The most recent one he painted of a quarterback in the throwing stance right before the ball is released made him think he was better at wielding a paintbrush than passing a football.
James watches his son inspect the paint set. Marc doesn’t have any idea how monumental a gift this is.
“You’ll want this, too.” Claire shows him a pad of watercolor paper.
Marc makes grabby hands and takes the paper. “Gracias, Señora Carla.”
“You’re an excellent artist, just like your father.”
“What the—” James bites off the curse. He should be enjoying this moment with Marc. He should be happy Marc has an activity to keep him occupied as they get settled. Instead, anger and envy wrap their viselike grips around his chest.
He hates feeling this way. He’s read Carlos’s journals. He knows why his mother despised his painting.