He utters a sigh of relief, forcing the panic to subside, and watches his son from the doorway. Marc shuffles from wall to wall, answering Claire’s questions. How many paintings? What will the paintings be of? Will he keep the same ceiling lights or install new ones? How many employees? Where will he paint? What will he name his gallery?
El estudio del pintor, Marc replies. Just like his papa.
Then he sees his papa standing there. Marc’s excitement disappears like the eraser bits he brushes off his drawings. James feels his heart drop to the floor with those tiny particles. He wants Marc’s smile back. He wants his son to look at him with the same excited expression he had when talking about Carlos. He wants his son to call him Papá.
He moves into the space and Claire turns around. “Good, you’re back.”
“What’re you doing?” he asks her.
Marc shuffles to the far corner of the room and picks up a bag. James notices the toy store’s logo.
“Marcus was telling me about the art gallery he wants to open when he grows up. Weren’t you, Marcus?”
“Sí, Señora Carla.” He nervously glances at James and clears his throat. “I mean, yes, Ms. Carla.”
Claire makes a sound in the back of her throat. “Well, gentlemen, it’s dreadfully hot in here. I’ll meet you at the car.” She glides to the door and slows as she moves past him. “This space would make a lovely gallery. The lighting is perfect.”
After listening to his mother for half a lifetime tell him painting was frivolous, James forces himself not to gape. Who is this woman? Why did she change her tune after all these years?
Perhaps they’re all changing.
“Mom.”
Claire swings around and arches a trimmed brow.
“Thanks for watching Marc.” And for encouraging him to paint, he wants to add. But the emotion in his throat is too thick. It’s too much of a reminder as to what she didn’t do for him.
She dips her chin and then she’s gone, walking around the building and toward the car.
A plastic bag crinkles behind him. James glances down at Marc’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression. “Ready for the beach?”
“Sí, I mean, yes.”
“Me, too. And Marc?” He holds out his hand. “As long as you understand and speak English, which I know you can, and do so very well, you can speak whatever language you want around me.”
Marc beams. “Gracias, papá.” His son clasps his hand and James looks away when they leave Marc’s imaginary art gallery. His eyes burn as though he’s been looking directly into the sun.
CHAPTER 22
CARLOS
Five Years Ago
August 16
Los Gatos, California
Lunch with the Tierneys was . . . awkward. Catherine kept up a steady chatter during the meal of grilled salmon and summer greens. She sat at the end on my left, opposite her husband, Hugh. Natalya, who picked at her fish like a bird, sat on my right, her hand clutching my thigh. I didn’t think anyone at the table was comfortable and I knew Natalya was having second thoughts about my spending time with Aimee. I was, and I sure hadn’t expected to have an audience when I met with her.
Aimee sat across from Natalya. She didn’t look at either of us, and she didn’t participate in the conversation. Ian was opposite me. He didn’t take his eyes from me as Catherine peppered me with questions. How many children do you have? What are their ages? What sports do they like? Do you enjoy Mexico? Are you still painting? What do you paint?
Safe questions, that is until Ian leaned forward on his elbows and clasped his hands. “Why are you here, Carlos?”
Aimee set down her fork with a loud clatter. “Ian, don’t.”
Hugh cleared his throat and dipped his head. His hands were loose fists alongside his plate.
Ian looked at his wife. “It’s a fair question, and one we all want to know.” He looked around the table.
Natalya flipped her hand over on my thigh and grasped mine. I gave hers a squeeze. This was it, the reason we came. It was time to lay it on the table, literally.
“I’m sure you’re aware of my condition.” I spoke to everyone, but kept my gaze level with Ian’s. “I can remain like this, as Carlos, for the rest of my life. Or, I can revert to my original identity as quick as a finger snap.”
Natalya made a low noise in the back of her throat when I snapped my fingers for effect. I stroked my thumb across her knuckles.
“Aimee told me a little about what happened to you.” Catherine’s gaze shifted briefly to Aimee. “What can trigger you to be . . . oh, I don’t want to use the word normal . . . ugh, which I just said. But what can make your identity revert to James?”
“It’s different for each person, and usually when that person is ready to deal with the trauma that caused the fugue. Really, though, anything can trigger me to surface. Familiar surroundings, visiting with family and friends.”
“You’re taking a risk coming here,” Hugh stated.
“Yes,” Natalya immediately said.
“Which makes me wonder why you are here.” Ian folded his arms on the table edge. “You were darn adamant last December. You didn’t want anything to do with your former self.”
“I don’t trust anyone in the Donato family. Including James,” I added, sneaking a glance at Aimee. She exhaled a choppy breath and stared at the barely touched food on her plate.
“You shouldn’t trust them,” Ian agreed.
“If I revert to James, I lose every memory of my sons. James won’t know them, he wouldn’t have asked for them, and he may not want them, yet he’ll still be their father. I can’t ask anyone in the Donato family about James and the type of man he is. Will he be a good father? Is he a decent human being? Or, is he like his brothers? Can I trust him to raise my sons?”
Ian leaned back in his chair. “Thinking about what you’re dealing with messes with my head. No offense.” He held up a palm.
“None taken.”
Catherine reached over and laid a hand on my forearm. “James was nothing like his brothers. We adored him.”
“I’m relieved to hear that. But I have questions.”
“I can’t do this.” Aimee rose quickly. She tossed her napkin on the table and shoved back her chair. Ian grabbed it before the chair back hit the buffet cabinet.
“Excuse me.” Aimee left the room.
Ian watched her go. When the front door opened, he stood and, excusing himself, quickly followed after her. The door slammed behind him, rattling the dining room window.
Through that window, we watched Aimee and Ian argue on the front lawn. Their arms flailed in exaggerated gestures, mouths moved, chests heaved, and faces turned red and stern.
“Do something, Hugh,” Catherine said.
“Like what?” He stuck a forkful of salmon in his mouth, manipulated a bone through his lips, which he set on the edge of his plate. “Ian’s got a handle on this.”
Outside Ian fisted his hair, elbows raised. He walked in a tight circle.
Catherine sighed, a mixture of concern for Aimee and exasperation with Hugh. Aimee started to cry. Ian tried to comfort her and she pushed him away.
“Hugh,” she snapped, “you’re her father.”
“And he’s her husband. There isn’t any way I’m getting in between that.” He jabbed a fork at the window.
I folded my napkin. “We shouldn’t have come.”
“Nonsense,” Catherine said. “You’re family. It’s that we never expected . . . your being here . . .” She sighed. “We’re just surprised, that’s all.”
Aimee thrust out her hand. Ian shoved his hand into his pocket and held a set of keys above her hand. They stared each other down until Ian dropped the keys in Aimee’s hand, where they disappeared in her fist.
Ian returned and stopped in the dining room doorway, arms crossed. He stared at his feet until Aimee came inside and stood beside him. Then he lifted his face, directing his attention at me. “I don’t agree with what she’s doing, and I’m not comfortable with her taking you anywhere. Seeing you has been quite the shock. For all of us.”