“You don’t want to help me shop?” he asks his son.
Marc vigorously shakes his head. He tugs Claire’s hand. “Let’s go, Se?ora Carla.”
His mother grimaces at the name and James can’t help humming a laugh at her expense. Then he leans his forearms on the cart handle, narrowing his eyes, watching her.
She gives him a perturbed look. “I won’t say anything. Both you and Natalya have been quite clear about that. But James,” she adds, letting Marc tug her away, “grocery shopping isn’t how Marc wants to spend time with his father.”
James ducks his head and sighs. He hates to admit it, but his mother is right. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll meet you over there.”
She finger-waves good-bye. “See you soon.”
James watches them leave, their clasped hands swinging between them, and wonders when his son will voluntarily do the same with him. Once they’re out of sight, James checks the time on his phone. Voice-mail notifications litter the screen, one from his buddy Nick and several from Thomas. He slides the phone back into his pocket, making a mental note to call Nick later. Thomas can wait. Though he is curious if Thomas knows their mother tagged along to Kauai. Probably not. Thomas might be keeping their mother updated about his whereabouts, but he doubted she returned the favor.
James shrugs. Not his problem, he thinks, pushing the cart toward the meat department. He’s dying for a steak.
Thirty minutes later, James stands in the doorway of the Spotted Frog Toy & Art Supply, a quaint nook of a store. Rows of display shelves overflow with an assortment of puzzles, games, books, and paints. His gaze darts around the shop and a brush of panic sweeps through him. There’s no sign of his mother and son. He’s ten minutes late and they’ve already come and gone. But where to?
James glances around the shopping plaza. Marc’s attention span is shorter than the colored pencils he loves to draw with. His mother promised to stick nearby so she must be wandering through the shops to keep his son occupied. His gaze strays toward the parking lot and his hand slides into his pocket to fist the keys. Could he trust her not to leave?
He wants to, but this is a woman who lied to him and his sons for five years. He reluctantly pulls himself away from the paints, brushes, and canvases and goes in search of them. After scoping out the women’s clothing boutiques, the stores where he expected to find his mother and an extremely bored son, he finds them in an empty retail space, and only because he heard Marc’s laughter.
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, Se?ora 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.”