“Nat? What’s wrong, hon?”
James pictures Gale calling down the hallway for her. He rubs his forearms; then, realizing what he’s doing because he always rubs his arms when he must make a tough decision, he rubs his face instead. Stubble scratches his palms and he groans into his hands. He was tired of feeling unsettled, and now they have to leave once again.
He should pack tonight so they can go first thing in the morning. The longer they stay, the harder it will be for Julian and Marc to leave their aunt and grandfather. Leaving Kauai is the best option, and it makes him angry. His sons will hate him all over again.
Gale saunters into the kitchen, spinning a set of keys around his index finger. He takes a long look at James. “Want a drink?”
James sighs. “Yeah.”
Gale tosses the keys on the counter, where they slide into the backsplash. He opens a cabinet. “Scotch?” he asks, showing James a bottle of Macallan.
“Sure.”
“When it comes to women, I’m not the most committed guy,” Gale says. James arches a single brow and Gale chuckles. “Ah, so Nat’s told you some stories.”
“A few,” he says, although he knew more about her father from what he read in the journals.
Gale selects two lowballs from another cabinet. “Ice?” James nods and Gale goes to the fridge. “I’m also, by no means, an expert on women.”
“What guy is?” James scoffs. He dated Aimee for a decade and there were plenty of occasions when he had no clue why she was upset with him.
Gale pushes a glass against the ice lever. The ice maker rumbles to life and cubes tumble into the glass. “Kylie, though, that’s Nat’s mom,” he clarifies. “She was my first and only. Only real love and only wife.”
He peeks over at James as he unscrews the liquor cap. “I know what you’re thinking,” he guesses. “I did love Raquel’s mom, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same with the mothers of my other kids.”
James hadn’t been thinking of Raquel, but as he watches the amber liquid splash into their glasses, he does find himself wondering. “Do you think a man can love more than one woman in his lifetime?”
“Sure he can.”
“I’m talking about that deep, all-consuming love, like what you felt for Kylie.” And what he feels for Aimee.
Gale spins the cap back on the bottle. “Depends on the man and the woman he wants. I wasn’t so fortunate; then again, I didn’t want to find that love again. You’ve got to want it. In here.” He thumps his chest then gives James a glass. They toast and James tosses back half of it. The liquor sears, warming his gut.
Gale swirls the ice in his glass. “What I’m trying to say, and doing a piss-poor job at, is—”
“Natalya’s like her mom,” he murmurs to himself.
“What did you say?”
“Your daughter is like her mother. She wants commitment.” She doesn’t want to be left behind, not like her father had done with the mothers of her siblings. It’s why Natalya always did the leaving, and why she never moved to Mexico and married Carlos. She knew when he came out of the fugue he would return to the States. He would leave her. Exactly as his father had done with the women in his life.
Gale watches him for a long moment. He sips from the glass without taking his eyes from James. “Nat may be unfamiliar to you, and it may seem strange being with her. But your not being with her, not talking to each other, not touching or kissing, and all that other stuff couples in love do, well, that’s weird for the rest of us, especially for Nat.
“You and I might not have seen each other since Raquel’s wedding, but Nat talked about you over the years. A lot. And she’s hurting.”
James watches the ice bob in his glass. “I know.” He could punch himself that he hadn’t figured that out earlier.
“She knew this day would come, you not remembering her. Thinking about it, though, and experiencing it? Well, like the waves outside those doors, they may look and sound the same, but when you’re up there on your board, each one is a different ride indeed.”
James recalls the passage when Carlos first met Aimee and learned of the fugue. He’d been outraged and conflicted. He didn’t have any interest in learning more about his original identity or his relationship with Aimee, which, from what he’s read about his condition, is typical of people with dissociative fugue. The fear of losing one’s current self is palpable and Carlos had been terrified. He couldn’t remember Aimee and he didn’t want to remember Aimee. It had driven her away.
The same would happen with Natalya.
His sons will be devastated if she doesn’t want to see them because having him around is too difficult for her to bear. His situation with Natalya is different from Carlos and Aimee. Carlos prepared him for this. He left behind passages filled with his wants and desires. He drew such a detailed picture, inside and out, of the woman he loved, and gifted it to James in hopes he could find it again. But can a man love a woman when he still loved someone else?
“Do you care for Natalya?” Gale asks.
“Yes,” James answers.
“I don’t get much about what’s going on with you up here”—Gale waggles a finger by his temple—“but I think you still love her here.” He puts a hand over his heart. “That brain of yours just needs to heal and catch up.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do, sir.” It’s why he is here.
“Well, then.” Gale sets his empty glass in the sink. “I’m done with the mush talk. I’ve said my piece. Time to hit the sack. That son of yours is one crazy beast on the waves. Wore me out today.”
“Good night, Gale.” James follows him to the front door so he can lock it behind him.
“One more thing.” Gale stops in the doorway. “If you feel anything for Natalya, go to her.” His gaze slides toward the hallway. “You can figure the rest out later.”
After Gale leaves for his cottage at the front end of the property, James finds himself outside Natalya’s bedroom. Head bent, ear to the door, he lightly knocks with the knuckle of his pointer finger. He hasn’t figured out what he’ll say. He figures they’ll talk, discuss how to make their relationship work—whatever relationship that is—so he doesn’t have to uproot the kids again.
He knocks again, a little louder this time. She doesn’t respond, so he cracks open the door, wondering if she’s even in the room. The last time she seemed agitated, she’d taken a walk.
“Natalya?” he calls quietly.
He steps into the room, his vision slowly adjusting. It’s dark except for the yellow glow of light that outlines the bathroom door. Great, she’s getting ready for bed and he’s invading her privacy. Talk about overstaying his welcome. He feels like a cad and goes to leave when his gaze lands on her. She’s tucked in a chair in the far corner of the room, legs curled underneath. Moisture glistens on her high cheekbones like a coat of fresh paint.
Now he really feels like an ass. He made her cry. “Natalya?” He moves farther into the room.
She glowers at him and he stops. Wiping away the moisture with the heel of her palm, she unfolds from the chair and goes into the bathroom. Light briefly drenches the bedroom as the door swings open then slams shut. James sighs, defeated. He’s not welcome. He starts to leave but a noise has him turning back around. Natalya stands outside the bathroom door, watching him. She dabs the corners of her eyes with a tissue.
“I apologize,” he says. “My being here bothers you.”
“Here at my house or here in my room?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Both?”
She sighs, long and wistful, and her arms fall to her sides. “I can’t tell you the number of times I imagined you standing right there. And here you are”—she lifts an arm slightly—“looking at me as if you just met me.”
James’s heart cracks a little. The urge to soothe her powers him forward. “Natalya.”
She holds up a hand, stopping him. “There were so many nights while you were in Mexico and I was here that I fantasized about our making love in my bed for once.” She closes her eyes. “I desperately want to be with you and you won’t even hold my hand.”