“What are you going to paint, papá?”
“We”—James corrects his son, handing him a set of brushes—“are going to paint that palm tree, the tall one in the middle.” He points across the yard.
Marc’s mouth forms a small circle as he takes in a cluster of palms of varying sizes. “I’ve never painted a palm tree before.”
The corner of James’s mouth twitches. Marc painted animals, boats, and trucks. “There’s no better time to start than the present. What do you think?”
“Can I put birds in my trees?”
“Sure, why not. Now, look at the greens in the tree. Which colors should we use?” He gestures at the array of paint tubes.
Marc scratches the tip of his nose. The skin bunches between his brows and for an instant, James sees Raquel in his son. It’s the first physical connection he’s been able to make between his son and the woman he married six years ago. She was beautiful like her sister and James regrets his son will never have the chance to know his mother.
Marc selects the cadmium and sap green tubes and shows them to James.
“Excellent choices.” He claps his son on the shoulder and pulls out a chair.
Marc sits and swings his legs. “Are you going to teach me what you taught the other kids at your studio?”
He glances up from where he’s adding dabs of paint on the palette boards. “I taught kids?”
“Lots of them.”
He doesn’t recall reading anything about kids in Carlos’s workshops, but the news makes him happy. While in the fugue state, James had been a man he could admire: a devoted father, a loyal spouse, and respected individual within the community. Perhaps he can be that way again.
“Yes. I’m going to teach you what I taught them.”
Marc grins broadly and the bond James has started to sense between them strengthens.
A few hours later, palm-tree paintings complete and tropical-bird paintings started, Claire and Gale return. His mother’s laugh floats from inside the house, making his skin tighten. Then he realizes his mother is giggling and he twists around, looking for her. Never in his life has he heard his mother giggle. The laugh rises in volume as she opens the glass slider and joins them on the lanai.
Behind her, he sees Julian follow Gale. He asks his grandfather if they can go surfing. Claire approaches him, blocking his son from view. Her cheeks are rosy and the smile she wears softens her usually harassed face. She stands behind Marc and admires his painting. “Very nice,” she remarks before turning to James.
He holds his breath as though waiting for a compliment, and he fumes, especially when her gaze narrows and lips twist.
He looks away, silently tolerating her scrutiny, which further irritates him. He drums the brush handle on his thigh and stares at the horizon. Glassy blue and bleached yellow tint the sky. Water glitters like decorative white quartz. The sun has sunk lower and soon the cool colors will warm to purple and orange. He thinks of Natalya. She’s wanted him to paint her sunset.
Claire clicks her tongue and his back stiffens. “You’ve done better.”
James tosses the brush on the easel ledge. “I’m a bit rusty.” He stands and straightens his shorts. Moving aside the chair, he dunks the tips of the used brushes in a jar of turpentine.
“I’m not done yet,” Marc says, painting faster.
“You have time to finish. I have to start dinner.”
James removes his painting and replaces it with a clean canvas. Below them, Julian and Gale cross the yard, surfboards tucked under their arms. James calls out and they turn. “Back in an hour,” Gale hollers up to him.
James waves, then repositions his chair in front of the easel. He invites his mother to sit.
Her eyes cast down to the chair, then slowly lift to meet his. “You want me to paint?”
He turns back to the table for the unopened art box and holds it out for his mother. Her face pales and he can guess exactly what she’s thinking. The box is almost an exact replica of the one Aimee had gifted him on his twelfth birthday. The one Claire demanded that he return.
Her fingers flutter to the top button of her shirt and her lips slightly part. He can sense she wants to paint but is unsure of her next move, especially since it’s him encouraging her to do so. They’d probably never talk about their issues and they’d probably never be as open with each other as she’d been with Carlos. He also doubts he can forgive her. They don’t have that kind of relationship. But he can live with a truce between them. The art box is his white flag, as the premium art brushes she’d gifted him last week was hers.
“Marc wants to paint with you,” James says.
“Sí, Se?ora—” Marc stalls, paintbrush poised before the canvas, a glob of paint clinging to the tip. Marc looks from Claire to James and back.
Sensing his distress, James asks his mother, “What should the boys call you? Grammie?”
Her eyes widen in horror. “Goodness, no. No!” She waves a hand in dismissal and forces a smile. “Nonna is fine. Call me Nonna,” she says to Marc, snatching the art box from James.
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.