Everything We Keep: A Novel (20 page)

He cupped my breasts, forcing a gasp from me, and pushed us toward the bed until I was sitting on the edge. He dropped to his knees and rested his hands on my thighs, spreading my legs. I was open to him, exposed, and his eyes caught mine. One last chance to stop. One last chance to tell him this wasn’t what I wanted. He wasn’t who I wanted.

But I wanted him. All of him.

I nodded. He groaned, the sound primal, and bent his head. I cried out at the touch of his tongue, the caress of his mouth. I clutched his head, holding him to me, and shattered. Then he was gone.

My eyes snapped open. Ian stood before me, shoving down his pants. There was no denying how much he wanted me.

He climbed on the mattress and dragged me up to the pillows, settling his weight over me. He reached to the side table, sliding open the drawer.

“Ian,” I cried.

“I’m here, baby,” he whispered in my ear.

I heard foil tear. He shifted, adjusting, and entered me fully. “I love you,” he said, then he started to move. I latched on to him, barely keeping up with the sensations sliding over me, in me.

“Fall for me, Aimee. I’ll catch you.” He thrust harder, and I felt him touch my soul. “Let go, baby.”

I did, falling hard over the edge, shuddering, and Ian was there to catch me.

I slowly opened my eyes and took in the room. Ian’s room. I lay prone in his bed, listening to him breathe. I found the steady intake and release comforting, and I imagined waking beside him every morning. A soft smile danced on my lips.

It was early, only a whisper of light seeped through the partially opened balcony, and I was wide awake. I’d slept hard through the night, the best sleep I’d had in months. Ian had loved me well into the night, doing things to my body I’d never imagined possible, and things to my heart I’d never dreamed. Remembering, my entire body flushed under the sheet.

Then reality let itself in the room, and the euphoria of last night’s lovemaking dissipated like water on a hot griddle. I’d betrayed my feelings for James. I’d betrayed myself.

Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes as I eased from the bed, careful not to shake the mattress. I didn’t dare look at Ian. I didn’t dare allow myself a peek at how gorgeous I imagined he was in the morning, sleep rumpled and sexy. Vulnerable.

I slipped into my clothes and picked up my sandals, and then left the room. But before the door closed, I stole a glance. He watched me with a bewildered expression and I felt my heart fragment in two. One part for James. The other, I left with Ian.

CHAPTER 23

I arrived at El estudio del pintor fifteen minutes before class because I was tired of wandering the beach. I’d left the hotel before Ian came looking for me. I’d hurt him, and I wasn’t ready to deal with last night.

But everything reminded me of what we’d done. My skirt brushed against the places he’d touched, still sensitive from the night before. The salty air tasted of his skin, and the breeze caressing my neck felt like his kisses.

Ian had pushed me to heights I hadn’t been bold enough to climb with anyone else. Then I’d let go like he asked and invited him inside my heart.

He didn’t belong there, even though I knew I’d let him in long before Mexico. My heart was supposed to be reserved for James. He was the reason I was here.

A young woman greeted me upon entering the gallery. She raised espresso eyes and put aside the paperback novel she was reading.
“¡Hola! ¿Cómo está?”

“Muy bien, gracias.”
I answered the question with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Spanish.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re the beautiful American woman Carlos told me about.”

My brows lifted and I pointed at my chest. “Me?”

She giggled. “
Sí!
I probably shouldn’t have said anything, but Carlos mentioned more than once you were coming this morning.” She walked around the desk and shook my hand. “I’m Pia. I work the Saturday shift because he is never here on Saturdays.” She emphasized “never” with the wave of her hands. “
Sí
, you must mean something to him.”

Interesting.

“Why do you think so?” I switched my bag to the other shoulder. My fingers trembled. I was anxious and nervous to see Carlos.

“Saturdays are for painting and”—she wrinkled her nose—“running. He runs. A lot.”

“Isn’t he training for a marathon?”

“He told you?” she asked, incredulous, then assessed me from head to sandal-clad feet. “Carlos can’t figure you out. You want art lessons and you don’t like to paint. I think he can’t figure you out because he can’t get you out of his head.” She tapped a finger against her temple. “How come?”

I gave her a blank look. “I don’t understand what you mean?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you want to paint? You like Carlos, don’t you?”

“He’s an excellent painter.” And I did like him. No, I loved him.

I should have left Ian’s camera at the bar, then I wouldn’t have gone to his room.
God!
I still wore James’s engagement ring.

“Carlos is an excellent painter,” Pia was saying. “But never on Saturdays.
Sí,
he likes you. I’m so happy for him. He’s been so sad after he lost—” She smacked her forehead and giggled. “
Ei, ei, ei . . .
 I’ve said too much, as usual, but I like you so I’ll keep quiet. Carlos is upstairs.” She pointed out the door. “Go back to the courtyard and take the stairs through the door on the left.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Have fun,” she called as the door swung closed behind me.

I went through the doorway Pia directed and up the narrow stairwell. The stairs opened to a room ablaze in natural light. Skylights dotted the ceiling. Large windows overlooked the street below, the blue ocean a thin line above the rooftops. Artwork in differing mediums—pastels, oils, acrylics, ink, and charcoal—decorated the walls. Rows of easels filled the room, aligned classroom style with one easel in front. Carlos’s spot.

I called his name. He didn’t answer. Where was he?

I had no idea what to expect. I didn’t enjoy painting, but I wanted time with him. I would study him and the way he painted. Was he left-handed, too? Did he organize his brushes by bristle width and texture? James had done that.

Along the southern wall were three doors, the first wide open, revealing a storage closet packed with pigment tubes, brushes, turpentine cans, and blank canvases. I tried the middle door and found it locked. Feeling like Goldilocks, looking for the “just right” room that held Carlos, I tested the third door. It swung open. The room was brighter than the main room and I squinted, my eyes adjusting.

An easel stood in the center of the room beside a table laden with paint tubes and soiled rags. Tin cans, mason jars, and mugs held brushes and palette knives. Stacks of canvases, some finished, others with scenes abandoned halfway through completion, leaned against the adjacent wall. The style was so reminiscent of James. I instantly knew they’d been painted by Carlos. This was his private studio.

I moved farther into the room and stopped short. A sudden coldness hit my core, burning the way your esophagus does when you swallow too many ice chips. Propped against the back wall, behind the table and out of view from the doorway, were James’s missing paintings.

Holy shit!

How did they get here? When did they get here?

I jerked my head around the room. Aside from Carlos’s more recent paintings beside me, all the others belonged to James. Everything except the woman painted on the canvas in the far corner of the room. She lured me with her Caribbean-blue eyes.

My eyes.

There had to be a dozen paintings of this woman, hidden from view unless you came fully into the room. I doubted Carlos invited any visitors into his studio. He didn’t want people to see these paintings.

I studied the woman closely on the first canvas. The almond-shaped eyes and contoured brows resembled me, but the blue hue of the irises was slightly off. I flipped to the next canvas. She had been painted from a different angle as though Carlos gazed down at her. The hair and eye shades still resembled me.

I picked through the canvases like folders in a filing cabinet. The model’s coloring moved further from my shades deeper into the stack, the dates on the paintings getting older. Each painting was different from the next in the way Carlos might have visualized the woman but couldn’t achieve the perfect match of color on canvas. They were flawed replicas of me. Like the signature paint he used wasn’t a perfect match of James’s blue.

Why had Carlos been painting me if he didn’t remember me? Why did he deny he was James?

Sweat broke across my body. Wispy tendrils of hair clung to the back of my neck. My thoughts chaotic, my gaze jumped around the room, landing on the canvas clamped to the easel. It was another version of me. This one had eyes identical to the color and shape of mine.

Because Carlos had seen my eyes!

I thought I’d imagined his confusion the other day when I lifted my sunglasses, pleading he remember me.

On the table was a plastic container of custom-mixed paint. I unscrewed the lid and a sob escaped me. Carlos had finally done it. James’s Caribbean blue.

Oh, James! I found you.

I noticed random things around the room. Paint tubes squeezed in the middle like tubes of toothpaste. Clean brushes ordered by bristle width and texture. Tools and supplies positioned on the left side of the easel because he was left-handed. Just like James.

Water ran in the next room, the one with the locked door. A handle unlatched, the floor creaked, and Carlos appeared in the doorway. He hesitated and blinked.

I pointed at the canvas on the easel. “Do you mind explaining this?”

He clenched his jaw and his eyes narrowed on the paint jug I held. His studio was probably off-limits to students and my presence had taken him off guard. But the unlocked door had invited me inside, giving me a peek at the image haunting him from a life he didn’t remember, or had chosen to forget.

My arms stiffened around the paint jug. What if James hadn’t wanted to marry me? What if he’d chosen art over me? What if his family’s demands with the business had forced him to give everything up, including me? He’d stolen his own paintings, faked his death, and moved away. Started over.

On some level, I understood my thoughts didn’t add up. They didn’t make sense, except for one. James hadn’t wanted me.

My eyes widened at the realization, then nineteen months of baggage cascaded down my cheeks in the shape of big, fat tears.

Carlos rubbed his face with both hands. His gaze skirted the room, finally resting on me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I swore profusely. “Everything! I’m confused.” I roughly wiped my cheeks against my shoulders. “I’m happy I found you and sad you left.
Fuck!
” I scowled at him. “What the hell are you doing here, James?”

He stiffened. “I’m not James.”

“Then explain this.” I jabbed a finger at my image on the easel. “And these.” I pointed to James’s canvases propped against the wall. “Can you tell me why none of those scenes are places in Mexico? Did you know they’re in California? Don’t you find that odd?”

His eyes flared. “First of all, this is my studio. It’s private. Second, these paintings are none of your damn business.”

“They are when you’re painting me!” I blasted.

“That’s not you!” He fired back. “I didn’t know you until two days ago. She’s—” He swore, rounding the easel, and jerked a finger at the canvas. “I dream about that woman almost every night. It’s the same damn dream, over and over, and . . .” His voice tapered and he looked away.

He was embarrassed, maybe ashamed. Perhaps he was infuriated with himself, remembering none of this was my business.

“I’ve never told anyone about her. Not even—” He stopped and shook his head.

“Have you wondered why you dream about her?” I asked.

“Constantly.”

“Have you tried to find her?”

His nostrils flared. “She doesn’t exist.”

“She does exist!” I smacked my chest. “She’s right here.”

His eyes hardened. I sensed turbulence roiling under his hard exterior, anger at my entering his private domain, threaded with uncertainty. I latched on to that emotion and followed his gaze to where he stared fixedly at the painting on the easel. The woman bewildered him.

I held up the blue paint tube. “You first mixed this color at Stanford, an exact match to my eyes. You wanted something on each painting reminding you of me. I know, it’s sappy, but we’d never been apart longer than a few days. It was hard for us being separated while you were at school. You used this color as your signature paint, as you’ve been doing on your paintings downstairs. This is the color you’ve been trying to mix.” I jiggled the container, the thick goo sloshing inside. “The only reason you got this hue is because you, as Carlos, finally saw my eyes.”

He looked at me as though seeing me for the first time. His gaze drifted over every inch of my body, rising to my face. He didn’t say anything. I dropped the paint tube on the table.

Carlos swallowed. “What happened to him?”

I scratched my nail on the wood table and took a deep breath. “James went to Cancún on a business trip to take a client fishing. There was an accident on the boat and he went missing. His brother brought James’s remains home after his body had been located. The memorial service was on our wedding day, seventeen months ago.” I turned toward the window and stared at the ocean beyond the low rooftops.

“Why are you still looking if he’s dead?” Carlos asked behind me. “Why here when he died on the other side of the country?”

“I had reason to believe you hadn’t died, and I received . . . information . . . you’d be here.”

I turned back to him. “I don’t know exactly what happened to your face so you look different, and I don’t know what happened to your memories so you forgot me, but I’ve found you. I’ve located the missing paintings and I’ve seen your paintings of me. You
are
James. I just don’t know how to help you find yourself again. Don’t you have any memories of us? Anything at all?”

He shook his head.

“Then will you come home with me? Maybe familiar surroundings will trigger your memories, help you get them back?”

He remained quiet, lips pressed tight. But I knew his mind was working overtime. Was he trying to remember? Searching for something familiar about me?

“Please say something,” I begged.

He closed his eyes momentarily, erasing the uncertainty and questions I saw reflected in them. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m not James. I can’t be. I have a life here, friends. Family. My sister Imelda—”

I gasped. “Imelda Rodriguez?”

“You know her?”

“I know who she is,” I growled, stunned how the dots were connecting. What was going on?

Think, think, think.
I rubbed my temples.

Carlos folded his arms across his chest and inhaled sharply. “I think you should leave.”

“What? Why?”

“You need to leave. Now,” he ordered.

I held my ground for the space of two heartbeats. He didn’t budge, or change his mind, stubborn as he’d always been. When he didn’t say anything further, I crossed the room and stopped in the doorway. “I don’t know what Imelda has told you, but she’s not your sister. You have a brother, and his name is Thomas. You also have a fiancée.”

“You’re wrong.”

“In this case, I am absolutely right.”

I ran from Carlos and to the beach. I had to clear my head. Sinking onto the sand, I turned my face into the wind, hoping the breeze would blow away the pain. The pain of rejection, the pain of betrayal, and the pain of everything that had been lost to us.