She plucked the button on her shirt’s collar and looked away.
“Carla,” I whispered, then took a gamble, “there’s no one here telling you not to paint.”
The studio door flew open and in walked Natalya. Carla scooted away, putting some distance between herself and the supplies I insisted she take home.
Natalya smiled at me, the room suddenly feeling warmer and more alive with her arrival. My pulse quickened and my mouth went dry. I’d left that morning before she woke, first for a long run before the day got too hot and unbearable, and then here to the gallery. She looked stunning. Tawny waves danced wildly around her face. Skin flushed from the heat outside. She wore a muted sundress that hugged all the curves I longed to paint. I longed to do other things, too.
She closed the door behind her and gripped the strap of her messenger bag that crossed her chest. “Pia said you were up here.”
“And you found us.” I held out my arm. “Come here and meet my neighbor for the summer.”
Natalya walked over to my side. I rested my hand on her lower back and looked down at her. A bit of black clung to her lashes and a touch of gloss glazed her lips. I cleared my throat and looked away. “Nat, this is Señora Carla.”
Natalya extended her hand. “Buenos días. Nice to meet you.”
Carla briefly clasped her fingertips. Her gaze shifted from Natalya to me and back.
“And this is Natalya Hayes,” I introduced. “She’s my—”
“Is she your girlfriend?” Her voice came out shrill.
Natalya and I exchanged a look. “No,” we said simultaneously. What made her think that?
Probably me. I grimaced. My expression when Natalya walked in told her everything. Grrreat.
I raked fingers through my hair. “She’s family. My sons’ aunt,” I clarified.
Carla’s gaze jumped between us again. “Oh . . . oh.” I could almost see her mind figuring the connection between the bunching of her brows then widening of eyes. She knew my wife had passed. She smiled, her expression apologetic as she reached for her purse. “I should go.” She glanced anxiously at the door.
Looping my fingers through the handles, I offered her the bag of art supplies. “Don’t forget this.”
She glared at me.
“Is this yours?” Natalya moved around us, closer to the easel with Carla’s canvas. “It’s very good.”
Carla kneaded her purse. “Thank you.” She eyed the bag. I shook the contents. “Very well.” She snatched the bag. “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Hayes. Thank you . . . Carlos.” She hesitated over my name, then turned to leave.
I picked up a paintbrush and rolled it between my hands. “I’ll pencil you in for the same day and time next week.” She stopped at the door and I pointed the brush at the bag. “There’s a store on Avenida Oaxaca that has premium art supplies. Just in case.” She scowled. I held up my hands and shrugged. She opened the door and left.
I turned back to Natalya and smiled, close-lipped, brows high.
“She’s interesting,” Natalya said.
“That she is,” I agreed. “She’s incredible, though.” I pointed at the painting with the brush. Natalya tugged it from my hand.
“You’re going to poke out someone’s eye.”
“She hasn’t painted for a long time and it took some coaxing to get her up here.” I started cleaning up the supplies Carla used. “How’d it go with Mari?”
She gathered her hair and twisted the mass into a makeshift ponytail, letting it fall over one shoulder. She fanned her face with her hand. It always took Natalya several days to get used to our dry heat.
“The meeting went well. How late can the Silvas watch the boys?”
All night. The thought skidded into my head like a mountain bike careening downhill. My face heated. “Let me check with them. They owe me.” I sent a message.
“And you owe me a beer.”
I looked up from the screen. “Gale agreed with Mari’s terms?”
“Nope.” She looked sheepish.
I tucked the phone into my back pocket. “You haven’t told him yet.”
She shook her head. “But I did bring Pia a stack of new books.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Thriller novels. As in no skin on the covers.”
“I owe you more than a beer.”
“Mari’s designs are radical,” Natalya was telling me as we walked to Alfonso’s, a bar up the street from the gallery. “She showed me five drawings. I texted them to Dad during the meeting and we picked three. Here, let me show you.”
We stopped at a corner. Tourists crowded the street closed off to cars, heading home from the beach or out for the evening. I moved behind Natalya, looking over her shoulder at the screen. A rowdy group passed, bumping into us. I wrapped an arm around her waist to keep us balanced. She didn’t tense or move away and I glanced at her curiously. Her attention focused on her phone.
“Here we go.” She showed me the first sketch, a mosaic of sunburst designs in yellow and orange.
I cupped her hand and tilted the screen so there wasn’t a glare. She leaned back against my chest, and without thinking twice, I ducked my head into the crook of her shoulder. She smelled like the beach and something exotic. I inhaled deeper. Tangerines. Damn, that’s sexy.
She jerked slightly away and twisted her neck to look up at me. “Did you just smell me?”
Heat flamed my face. Thank God I had the permanent-tan thing going so she couldn’t see how my cheeks burned.
“Omigod. Do I stink?” She sniffed her armpit and I laughed. She fanned her shirt. “I forget how hot and dry it is here.”
“You smell fine, Nat.” More than fine. I squeezed her hip. “Show me the others.”
She flipped to the next image, a floral-and-ocean-wave montage done in black and white, and the third, an undersea scene of fish and octopi. “This is my favorite.”
“Hmm, show me the first one again.”
She scrolled back a couple of photos.
“That’s mine.”
She twisted in my arm to look at me again. Her expression softened. “You love the sun.”
I nodded and a wisp of melancholy threaded through me, weaving around my heart. The world slowed around us, fading away until all that existed was me, Natalya, my conversation with Imelda, and the looming what if at the center of my life. When would the switch flip in my head? “Every sunset is one more day I had with my sons. Every sunrise is—”
“One more day where you remember the previous day,” Natalya finished for me.
I let my arm fall from her waist.
She turned fully and rested a palm on the side of my face, her fingers curving into my hair and around my neck. I felt a slight pressure as though she tried to pull my face to hers. Her lips parted and I’d never wanted to kiss her as badly as I did in that moment. But her thumb skimmed my cheek and her expression turned to one of concern. “You’ve been thinking about the fugue.”
“I’m never not thinking about it.” I’m reminded every day when I sit down to write. It’s the reason I write.
She frowned. “Then what is it? Did Thomas call you?”
“Not me. Imelda.” I grasped her fingers and tugged her arm. “I’ll tell you about it later. Let’s go. I’m thirsty.”
Packed and sweltering, I steered us to the bar. Music thundered from the speakers—a flamenco duo strumming their magic on guitars. Smoke from the grill outside clung to the ceiling, carrying the scent of Alfonso’s famous beer-battered fish tacos. My friends Rafael Galindo and Miguel Díaz were parked at the bar. I knew them from the gym. We mountain-biked every few weekends, and when I could get away from the kids, I met them for beers.
I clapped Miguel on the shoulder.
“Hey, Carlos, my friend.” He gave me a fist-bump then saw Natalya beside me. “Mí bella novia americana.” He hugged her.
“There are two things you got right. I’m American and I’m beautiful.”
“You break my heart.” Miguel bumped his fist on his chest. “Since you won’t be my girlfriend, how about showing me how you do the good stuff on the waves.”