I smoothed a thumb across the glass, tracing the line of Raquel’s loosely coiled updo sprinkled with baby’s breath. Golden-brown tresses and honey eyes, she’d never looked more stunning. Dressed in white silk, the waistline loose over our child growing inside her, she radiated happiness. I’d been drawn to that joy. Raquel had been a bright light, the beacon in my dark world.
I missed my late wife, more so tonight than in past months. But I always longed for her whenever I tucked in the boys. Some nights I saw her there, seated on the edge of the bed, her long, graceful fingers tracing the lines of Julian’s face as she sang a lullaby. Tonight, the illusion seemed real enough that I swore I heard her voice. How often I’d wished Marcus had the chance to hear her say “I love you.”
She’d died on his birthing bed, of an aneurysm, while I watched as my newborn son, freshly cleaned and swaddled, wailed in my arms. We both cried.
I returned the photo to its spot on the bureau and thought of Carla. Her despair over losing her loved ones—how, I did not yet know—had been palpable. It got to me.
The air inside my room had become hot and stifling. I flipped on the ceiling fan, snatched my phone from the bedside table, and slid open the door to the deck off my room. Boards groaned as I strode across the rough wood. Leaning against the rail, I swiped aside a notification from Imelda—Please come see me after you close Monday—and called Natalya.
“Hey, you,” she murmured. The dusty softness of her tone washed over me, easing the emptiness. Her voice did that to me, calmed and soothed.
“Did I wake you?”
“That’s okay.” She yawned. “I fell asleep on the couch.” Fabric rustled, a lock clicked, and a door slid open. Wood creaked and she sighed. I pictured her easing into a patio chair, gazing at the same ocean before me, thousands of miles away.
I parked my elbows on the railing. “Long day?” It was midnight here, making it seven o’clock in Hawaii.
She hummed an acknowledgment. “I went paddleboarding with Katy and her students,” she said of her friend. Katy ran a surf-and-paddleboard summer camp in Hanalei. “We fought the wind the entire time. The sunset was unbelievable, though. It looked like an orange-cream Popsicle melting into the water.”
The corner of my mouth lifted. “Now I’m craving ice cream.”
She laughed softly. “Me, too. What flavor?”
“Chocolate chip.”
She groaned. “That’s so boring.”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“Poi.”
“Poi?”
She hummed again.
“As in the taro root?”
“Yes.” She laughed.
I made a face. “Sounds disgusting.”
“It’s to die for. You’ll have to try it.”
I made a noise of objection. When? I thought. You couldn’t get poi ice cream here and I wouldn’t travel. For the past six months, I’d refused to leave the state.
Under the moonlight, the tide lapped the shore like a dog’s tongue in a water bowl. Lazy and rhythmic.
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Nat, don’t.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Don’t apologize.” She hated reminding me about my condition. For a few moments, neither of us spoke. We listened to the rhythm of our breaths and I longed to have her here.
She sighed. “Since you didn’t call to chat about ice cream, what do you want to talk about?”
I had so much to say to her, and something bigger to ask, but the words dissolved in my mouth the way water does on hot pavement. “Nothing in particular,” I said. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”
A throaty laugh reached my ear. “I sound like a frog.”
“I should let you go. What time’s your flight?”
“Too early.” She groaned. “And I have meetings in LA all afternoon. See you in a few days?”
“Yes. We’re looking forward to it.” Because the way I saw it, Natalya was the only way I could keep my promise to Raquel, the one I’d made when I kissed her lifeless body for the last time.
I’ll keep them safe.
Five Years Ago
June 22
I found Imelda exactly where I expected at two forty-five in the afternoon: working on her laptop at La palma. Casa del sol’s open-air restaurant had the best view in the entire hotel. The Pacific Ocean stretched far to the horizon, and the breeze coming off the water, fanned by the surrounding palms, was always welcome. On days like today, where the air smelled of wood smoke and the heat could singe eyebrows, my shirt was often drenched by noon. The loose sky-blue, button-down linen I’d changed into only an hour ago already had a sweat spot where my back had been pushed against the leather car seat.
Imelda ate lunch at La palma every day. At the same time and at the same table. She’d linger over her meal for hours, meeting with staff and updating spreadsheets. I trusted Imelda as much as I trusted Thomas, which pretty much amounted to zilch. Nada. But there was one thing I could rely upon, and that was her schedule. If anything, Imelda was consistent.
I veered around tables until I stood opposite her, my back to the ocean. She typed rapidly on the laptop, a Bluetooth in her ear, her brows pinched. She wore a white silk blouse and one of those super-straight, fitted skirts in gray. Basically the same type of outfit she wore every day, including that day in the hospital she introduced herself as my sister.
God dammit.
Just like that, I was angry with her all over again.
From behind the polarized lenses of my Maui Jims, I silently counted to ten, watching a surfer disappear into the hollow of a tube, then rapped my knuckles on the table to get Imelda’s attention. Time to get this over with.
She looked up with surprised impatience. Then her eyes peeled wide. “Carlos. What are you doing here?” She stood, snatching a ballpoint from the table. She held the ends of the pen between her fingertips and thumb, rolling it back and forth, and smiled.
“You called me. What’s so important that you can’t tell me over the phone?”
“Sí, sí, of course.” She gestured at the chair beside me. “Please sit.”
I made a show of looking at my watch, then sat down, knees spread, back pressed into the chair, and elbows parked on the chair arms. My leg bounced.
Imelda returned to her seat. She clicked the ballpoint. “How are the boys?”
My eyes narrowed on that pen. She’d had one like it, annoyingly clicking away, while she confessed that she wasn’t my sister and told me I wasn’t Carlos. Between her sobbing and the compulsive clicking, it had taken an excruciatingly long time to get the entire story from her. Either it seemed that way or time slowed, I couldn’t recall. That whole week was a blur.
Looking back, I think I always suspected she’d been hiding something from me. Those infrequent dreams of Aimee and my obsession to paint her face. That alone should have been motivation enough to realize something wasn’t right. I could blame my reasons for not asking questions on any number of things—recovering from my injuries, falling for Raquel, caring for my sons, everyday life. But those were only excuses. When it came down to it, I had been afraid. Which only made me more disgusted with myself.
I smoothed a hand down the back of my damp head. “The boys are fine. They’re at the Silvas’ house.”
Imelda spun the pen like an airplane propeller. Her mouth parted. She wanted to ask more questions about them but a waiter approached. He presented the menu.