James tucks his hands into his pockets and ducks his head to hide the smile that creeps onto his face.
“Nonna,” Marc says, tasting the word on his heavily accented tongue.
“It’s Italian,” Claire explains, flipping open the art box.
Marc smears this brush across his canvas, leaving a trail of blue. “Am I Italian?”
“Yes. You’re also Mexican.”
Marc sits straighter. “I am? Radical, dude,” he says in a voice that mimics his grandfather.
Claire grimaces and James chuckles, leaving the two to paint.
In the kitchen, James removes the steaks from the fridge and selects spices from the pantry. He arranges the steaks on the counter so they’ll warm to room temperature; then he goes looking for the potatoes. He finds them in a basket on the pantry floor. He’s scrubbing them in the sink when Natalya joins him in the kitchen.
“How about some salad and veggies to go with those meat and potatoes?”
“Sounds great.” James grins at her over his shoulder.
They work in tandem, forearms brushing as Natalya rinses tomatoes beside him, and he’s hyperaware of every move she makes. The way she pauses while slicing when he reaches across her for his own knife, and the way her breath hitches when he rests a hand on her lower back, coaxing her to move aside so he can hunt for a bowl. He catches her scent, the faint essence of tangerine that’s unique to her and makes him ache with a familiarity he doesn’t quite understand. His mind doesn’t remember her, but perhaps his body does, which might explain why he feels so at ease around her in such a short time.
She makes a sudden turn into him, knocking his elbow. The cap to the grilling spices he was attempting to screw on fumbles from his fingers.
“Sorry,” she murmurs as they both lower to the floor. Natalya captures the cap where it’s rolled behind her feet. She drops it into James’s hand with shaking fingers. Their eyes meet and hers dart away.
The fading sunlight casts a warm glow to her freckled cheek. Her hair is a palette of reds and golds, which together make the copper he’s determined to paint. He can’t resist any longer. He touches her hair.
She sucks in a breath and jerks away.
He drops his hand.
Pushing against her thighs, she stands. James rises more slowly, sensing a new tension inside her. “You all right?”
She grips the knife and slices through another tomato. The blade connects hard with the board. She slices again. “We lost a contract today,” she says after a moment. “Usually I can predict when that’ll happen.” Finished slicing, she drops the knife in the sink. She rinses her hands, then roughly dries them with the dish towel.
James sets down his knife and swivels around to face her. He shifts his weight against the counter edge, leaning back on his hands. “Anything I can do to help?” He wants to know more about what she does during the day, more than what he’s read about in a journal.
“No, it’s a done deal.” She folds the towel and glances at the oven clock. “How much longer until dinner?”
James glances at the marinating steaks. “About forty-five minutes.”
She lifts a shaking hand and scratches her scalp. “I’m going to take a shower.” She leaves the kitchen, brushing past him so fast he feels a breeze.
His gaze falls on the sliced tomatoes, their juice bleeding onto the cutting board, the lettuce head, still whole, and the zucchini wrapped in the produce bag. Salad and vegetables forgotten, something had chased Natalya from the kitchen, and he’s positive her swift mood change has nothing to do with the lost contract.
CHAPTER 26
CARLOS
Three Years Ago
July 21
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
I swirled a brush through the cadmium yellow and tried to focus on the final touches of a painting a local restaurant had commissioned. Another sunset to match the other three in a private dining room: El otoño, El invierno, and La primavera. Autumn, winter, and spring. I’d deliver El verano in a few weeks, once the canvas dried.
Sweat dotted my brow and pooled in my lower back, just above the waist of my jeans. The air conditioner was working overtime but it was still hot as a mother inside the studio. I fanned my shirt. The headache didn’t help either, although it no longer felt like the sledgehammer it had been. I finally went to the clinic for a prescription after last week’s blackout. The doctor reasoned dizziness and dehydration caused the blackout and my headaches were from stress. But I hadn’t told him my full story, and, ten days later, I was still shaken by the ordeal.
So was Julian. Every day since, he’d asked if I knew that he was my son, which only reinforced what I’d always feared. James wouldn’t want Julian and Marcus because he wouldn’t think of them as his.
Because I was a stubborn ass—Natalya’s words, not mine—and refused to do the research, she got in touch with Dr. Edith Feinstein, a neuropsychologist in the States. Natalya described to the doctor what she knew of my condition and mentioned the blackout as well as my nightmares, which had been on my mind throughout the entire ride with Julian. Without examining me, Dr. Feinstein could only postulate that my nightmares were dissociative memories and I’d experienced a flashback. The traumatic emotions the nightmare evoked may have triggered the flashback, and for those terrifying ten minutes I’d experienced a different identity state. I might have been James or someone else entirely. I just wasn’t me.
Their conversation went on for more than an hour. Dr. Feinstein explained some things we already knew. My condition was the result of a psychological trauma, not a physical injury. That was why I could speak, write, and read in Spanish. I could run marathons without remembering how I trained. It was also why I could paint like a professional artist. Because James could do those things. The only thing missing was my past, which was locked up tight in my head. It was why people with my condition could easily pick up and start new lives. Or in my case, step into a life that had been fabricated for me.
Dr. Feinstein asked Natalya if I was interested in treatment. Hypnotherapy might unlock the memories and I could go back to my life as James. When Natalya declined on my behalf, the doctor noted that whether or not I elected to proceed, I might not have a choice. My mind would decide when it was ready to heal. It would know when I was ready to confront the stresses and trauma that had pushed me into this state. The switch could be today, tomorrow, or years from now. And the transition to my previous identity would be quick.
Before they ended the call, Dr. Feinstein had one last word of advice. I’d taken it as a warning, one that had driven me in the early hours of the morning to document every single detail about my life. On some level, I would sense when I’d be ready to confront my demons. The increased frequency and improved clarity of the nightmares, and now the blackout, were possible indications my mind was preparing. She advised Natalya, being my significant other, as Natalya had introduced herself, that she needed to mentally and emotionally prepare herself. When my transition happened, our lives would be seriously disrupted. I’d likely experience severe depression, grief, and shame. There might be mood disorders, suicidal tendencies, and an inclination toward aggression.
Great. I’m going to be an asshole. Just one more thing for me to worry about, I thought, tossing aside the paintbrush.
Behind me, sandals scuffed across the hardwood floor. The essence of coconut sunscreen reached me before Nat’s arms folded around me. She rested her chin on my shoulder. I lifted her forearm to my lips, tasting salt and the bitterness of lotion.
“I don’t want to leave you.” There was a concerned edge in her whisper.
“Then stay.” I unfolded her arms and tugged her around in front of me, settling her between my legs. The stool I was sitting on put me at eye level with her.
She clasped her hands behind my neck. Her thumbs stroked my scalp. “You know I can’t.”
Meetings, travel, big deals to negotiate. A tournament in South Africa. A visit with her younger brother. She’d be back in Puerto Escondido for a brief visit in September, and again in November for the torneo de surf. Between those visits, we’d text and FaceTime, talk on the phone. Despite that, September seemed a long time away, especially when all I wanted to do was hold and kiss her. Move deeply inside her warmth. Marry her, and convince her to adopt my sons.