“Nat.” The nickname rolls unhindered off his tongue. He prods her shoulder.
She rolls to her side and he props up on his elbow to look down at her. He cups the back of her head and his thumb traces the hairline along her temple. “Seriously, though, is it peaceful like this in the morning? We’ve slept for less than three hours, but I feel more rested than I have in months. Years,” he adds with a smirk.
“Like I said, you didn’t sleep well, so, no, it wasn’t like this. But I do like this.” She motions between them. “Do you?”
“Yes, very much.” His thumb drops to her lips and so does his gaze. He thinks about kissing her when they both get a strong reminder they aren’t the only people in bed. Marc shifts under the sheet and his elbow connects with Natalya’s breast.
Her eyes grow saucer round. “Ow.” She rubs the tender spot.
“Roll this way, kiddo.” James drags Marc closer to him. “What time did he crawl in here?”
“Four thirty, I think.” She yawns. “I’m going to need a nap today.”
“I’ll take one with you,” James says, yawning. Then it occurs to him there’s more than one way to interpret what he said. He gives her an embarrassed smile. “I meant that I need a nap, too.”
She laughs softly. “I got that. You’re welcome to sleep here with me.”
They watch each other as the room lightens and the birds announce the day. Their hands meet over Marc’s sleeping form. “Thank you,” he says.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on me, and for convincing me not to give them up.”
“Your sons?”
He nods. “In Mexico.”
“I knew you’d love them.”
“Unconditionally.”
James leans down to kiss her. A shrill noise shatters the moment. He tenses. Marc groans under the sheets.
“Sorry,” Natalya says, rolling away. “I’m expecting a call from the mainland.”
She frowns at the screen and answers the call with a question. Her gaze cuts to James before she hands over the phone. “It’s for you. It’s Thomas.”
CHAPTER 28
CARLOS
Seven Months Ago
November 27
Puerto Escondido, Mexico
Se?ora Carla seemed unusually bothered by the dry heat. She was especially weary of the crowds. Last summer, Julian had convinced her to visit during Fiestas de Noviembre, so Carla moved up her usual holiday stay in Puerto Escondido by several weeks.
The torneo de surf was this weekend. Tourists packed the beaches, streets, and restaurants. Hoping to give her some reprieve from the tournament’s noise, traffic, and the day’s weather, I invited her to the gallery. Upstairs, after cleaning up from a workshop, we decided to spend the remainder of the afternoon painting. Unfortunately, my air conditioner was dying and the ceiling fans only moved stagnant, warm air.
Carla stared beyond the blank canvas, her eyes glazed and skin flushed. She fanned her blouse, a bright flamingo-colored linen, and patted her damp hairline and neck with a folded hand towel. She sighed, exasperated, and set aside her still-clean paintbrush before going to the bank of windows. For a few moments, she watched people mill below; then she opened a window. Air heady with the smell of sunbaked fish, rotting fruit, and sweat gusted into the studio, sucked in by the overworked air conditioner. Loud shouts, high-pitched laughter, acoustical music, and the rev of a motorcycle disrupted the studio’s solitude.
Carla’s face contorted into a look of disgust. She slammed closed the window. “Do you like living here, Carlos?”
“Sí.” I swirled a brush tip in the ultramarine blue and stroked the color across the canvas. The small fishing boat surfing on a sea of blue was slowly coming to life.
She studied me from across the room as though considering me to model for her next painting. I arched a brow. She fanned her face with the towel. “Why do you live here? This place is dreadful.”
“Dreadful?” I said on a laugh.
“Have you always lived here?”
I opened my mouth to tell her no and hesitated. The brush, heavy with paint, hovered a mere inch above the canvas. My hand started shaking so I set the brush down.
Carla waited for me to say something. Other than Natalya, Imelda, and Thomas, no one else in Puerto Escondido knew about my past and the condition I suffered. Not even my sons. Thomas had warned me to not reveal my identity to anyone. For reasons I couldn’t explain—maybe it was because Carla had once been open with me about her relationship with her art—I wanted to share my story with her.
“Can I trust you?”
“What kind of question is that? Yes, you can. I’m your—” She stopped and motioned at herself. “I’m your friend.”
I looked at her for a long moment, considering, then nodded. “You are my friend, and I’m grateful for your companionship,” I said, then admitted, “I have lived elsewhere before. California, to be exact.”
A small gasp reached me. Carla’s fingers fluttered to the neckline of her blouse, fussing with the pearl-size button.
“I had an accident and can’t remember anything about living there or the people I knew. I can’t recall anything about myself. My real name is James.” I gave her the highlights of my condition.
The flush discoloring her neck and chest faded into a chalky white. She weaved slightly on her feet. I grabbed a stool and reached her in three paces. She settled on the seat and clutched my forearms. “Why wouldn’t you return to California? You don’t belong here.”
“James doesn’t, but I do. So do my sons.” I gently removed her hands, feeling overheated myself. Sweat dripped down my spine, plastering my shirt to damp skin. I strode to the far wall and adjusted the thermostat. “This is our home,” I said, arms out to encompass the room and the greater town around us as I walked back over to her.
“What about your family in California? Don’t you miss them? Surely you must miss your mother.” She whispered the last word.
“It’s hard to miss someone I don’t remember.”
Her mouth slightly parted before she averted her face. She stared out the window.
“As for my brothers,” I continued, pulling up a stool beside her, “I don’t trust them. I’m not sure I trust James.”
She turned back to me. “How can you trust anyone at all if you can’t trust yourself?”
“Because I don’t know the man I’m supposed to be.”
“I’m sure your mother misses you desperately and would want you to come home.”
“I’m not sure she knows I’m still alive. If she does, where is she?”
“You don’t want to go find out?”
“No,” I said too sharply. Every new thing I learned about my past moved me one step closer to reverting to my original identity. That was something I would never be ready to do.
I returned to my canvas and dropped dirty brushes into turpentine and tightened caps on paint tubes. White-hot pain shot across my forehead. I groaned. Squeezing my eyes shut, I dug my thumb and forefinger into the corners of my eyes.
I heard the scrape of a chair and the rustle of clothing.