Phil had been told at a young age his mother abandoned him, leaving his father to raise him as a single parent. But after the shed incident, Phil went looking for his birth certificate. He’d always thought his mother and aunt had the same name, but after seeing his father and aunt together, the truth of his parentage was there in his aunt’s crisp penmanship, handwriting he recognized now that he was older. Claire Anne Marie Donato. Unfortunately for Phil and the rest of James’s family, Tyler was with Phil when he found the birth certificate. Shortly after Phil learned the truth, so did their friends at school, and eventually their small community, and their church. Soon the corridors and cubicles of Donato Enterprises, which had been headquartered in New York at the time, were buzzing about the Thanksgiving debacle. Because news about Grant Donato and his sister was gossip too shocking not to spread.
Disgraced, his father, Edgar, packed up the family and moved them across country, but not before he negotiated a windfall of a deal that landed him as the second largest shareholder next to Grant. He opened Donato’s western division, which eventually became the company’s headquarters upon Uncle Grant’s death. Strangely enough, Edgar still loved his wife, but he loved the company more.
Although Phil hadn’t been aware of it at the time, it was because of that deal and what he’d witnessed in the woodshed that had lost him any chance of inheriting Donato Enterprises.
Gasping as much from the memories as from pushing his body, James reaches Haena Beach Park quicker than he initially calculated. He ran the six miles from Natalya’s house at race pace. He bends over, hands on knees, lungs heaving. Sweat drips off the ends of his hair, his nose and chin, and lands in the grass. Phil changed with the knowledge of his parentage. Hell, they all did. In the end, though, Phil accomplished what he set out to do. The Feds seized a majority of Donato Enterprises’ assets and James lost Aimee. It would be easy to blame everything on Phil, but all three of them—Phil, Thomas, and James—lit the fuse that blew their family apart.
With James hidden in Mexico, Phil locked up in prison, and Thomas rebuilding Donato, he wonders if the past few years have only been the eye of the storm. What does Phil want with him? Has he burned off his need for revenge or is he still out for blood? Or could it be something else entirely? Damn, he wishes he could remember what happened inside that dive bar and on the boat.
As much as he would love to stay in Kauai, he knows he must return to California and meet with Phil. Find out the truth about what happened the day his mind crashed. If Phil indeed tried to kill him, James is in full agreement with Thomas. They have to do everything possible to lock Phil back up again.
On the run back into Hanalei, the sun’s morning rays peek through low-lying clouds and shimmers through the tree canopy, casting golden hues. His fingers twitch as though holding a phantom brush. For a moment, maybe two, he considers Googling where art supplies are sold on the island until he remembers Carlos’s acrylics, paintings as vibrant as the floral color palette in Natalya’s backyard. Canvases painted with a skill he can never hope to replicate.
Natalya loved Carlos’s work. Three of his pieces hung in her house. Scenes from Puerto Escondido, and none of them had a sunset.
In Hanalei, he stops for coffee, ordering one for himself and Natalya, then returns to the house. He leaves his shoes on the lanai and opens the glass slider. Raucous laughter and banging pots fill the rooms. He follows the noise and the sweet, syrupy scent of pancakes to the kitchen. He finds Natalya at the stove spooning batter into an iron skillet. Julian pours bright-pink juice into plastic cups and Marc waves a butter knife in an imaginary sword fight as he sets the table. His mother slices fruit with the skill of an executive chef.
He blinks, and if he weren’t holding steaming cups of coffee, he’d rub his eyes because he clearly questions his vision. First the egg sandwiches in Los Gatos and now this. Since when has his mother enjoyed working in the kitchen? He doesn’t recall ever seeing her cook anything. Their housekeeper left their after-school snacks waiting for him and Thomas on the kitchen counter. She was the one who cooked their meals. And, dear God, what is that floral tent his mother is wearing? It’s so bright that it shimmers.
Claire slides the blade through a ripe papaya and catches his gaze. She gives him a smile as dazzling as her attire. “Good morning, James.”
His mouth parts. “Uh . . .” He can’t take his eyes off her. The outfit, which he figures is a swimsuit cover-up, makes her look young, and artsy, and fun. She wants to be the fun grandma.
She puckers her lips, the fine lines deepening.
Ah, there’s his mother.
“Really, James. Close your mouth. The geckos I’ve seen running around here may think it’s a new home.”
Yes, it’s definitely her.
Marc giggles. He snorts in merriment.
“You think that’s funny?” James asks wryly.
Marc nods. “Uh-huh.”
“Hilarious,” Julian drawls in a flat tone.
“Julian,” Natalya warns.
James looks at her from across the kitchen. His hands sweat from the coffee’s heat. Natalya smiles. Good morning. Her lips shape the words. A rubber band loosely holds her hair in a messy bun at her nape and purple semicircles prop her green eyes. She’s the only one among the lively bunch who looks tired. It can’t be any later than eight, but everyone aside from her is functioning on Pacific time.
She flips a few pancakes onto a pile of others and turns off the stove. Then she beckons him to follow her into the main room.
“You don’t have to cook for us,” he says when she starts straightening magazines on the coffee table.
“I don’t mind.” She relocates them to the shelf under the TV console. “The boys love to help in the kitchen.”
That’s news to him. Though he doesn’t necessarily cook any meals. They mostly eat out. He sets down the coffee cups and makes a mental note to go to the grocery store today. He misses barbecuing and enjoyed helping with dinner last night.
“Your mom got here about an hour ago. She knew the boys would be up early.” She sorts the drawings Marc left scattered on the couch. He joins her there and picks up his son’s colored pencils. “And no,” Natalya says, giving him a crooked smile, “they don’t know who she really is. I’ll leave the big reveal up to you.”
“Thanks.” James grimaces, aligning pencils on the coffee table. One drops to the floor and rolls toward Natalya’s bare feet. She hands it to him, which he adds to the pencil queue, then sits down on the couch. “I didn’t think you’d tell them.”
“Claire’s not keen about that. Gosh, it’s weird calling her that.” She kneels on the floor and looks under the couch for wayward pencils, finding two. “Did Marc bring any paints?”
James shakes his head. “I didn’t want him to make a mess.”
“I have a vinyl tablecloth. He can use the kitchen table or the patio table on the lanai. The toy store in Princeville sells art supplies.” She scratches the base of her scalp with a pencil. “My dad called this morning.” Her crooked smile appears again. He likes the way it looks on her. “He woke me up, not your kids, in case you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t, but is everything all right?”
“Yes, he’s fine. He’s flying in earlier than I expected. Like this afternoon.”
“Ah. Are you telling me or warning me?”
She chuckles nervously and sits beside him. Her attention falls to the pencils, which she nudges back and forth. “I was kind of hoping he wouldn’t arrive for another few days so it could be just us for a while. By the way, how long do you plan to stay?”