Page 51 of Everything We Left Behind

“No,” James and Natalya answer in unison. They glance at each other. He skims his eyes over her face and she frowns. He sighs, running a hand through his wild, wind-blown hair as he settles back in his seat, and wonders what about Carlos had appealed to her because she certainly wasn’t liking him.

They eat from a food truck parked on the main road that runs through Hanalei town. He watches how his sons interact with Natalya as she guides them through the menu of kalua pig, poi, and taro smoothies. She handles their disgruntled faces and objections over the unfamiliar food choices as he assumed she would navigate a rogue wave, with skill and finesse. Despite their complaints, Natalya insists they be adventurous. “Trust me,” she says, and they do.

Carlos trusted her implicitly, and watching her with his sons is like the pages from his journal coming to life. For a brief moment, he looks away, the pang in his chest burns hot and deep. He wants his sons to trust him, to love him like they’d loved him when he was Carlos.

He pinches away the moisture from the corners of his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath. Then he places his own order, leaning over Natalya’s shoulder. The cashier totals their bill and he hands her a few bills at the same time Natalya pulls out her credit card.

“I’ve got it,” he tells her.

“I’m quite capable of paying.”

“I’m sure you are. Money’s not the issue. This is—” He stops. Natalya’s face has gone blank. “What is it?”

“You’d mentioned that once, as Carlos. Apparently, money isn’t an issue withyou.” She slaps the card on the counter ledge.

James frowns and tucks his money away. He bites back the urge to correct her. He’s not swimming in an ocean of cash. More like a rain puddle. He joins his sons at a metal table and sits on a plastic patio chair. They eat quickly. The boys are anxious to see Tía Natalya’s home and go to the beach. He follows them to Natalya’s car and grabs her door as she goes to close it. He positions himself in the triangular space between her and the door. “Hey, back there, I wasn’t trying to flash my cash.”

She grips the steering wheel with both hands and sighs. “I know. It’s just ...”

“I wanted to take care of lunch. You’re my host.”

“And you’re my guests.”

James smooths a hand over his head and grips the roll bar. “Look, I know I’m not Carlos—”

“No, you’re not.”

“—but I think it’s in the kids’ best interest we at least try to get along.”

She flattens her lips and nods. “You’re right. It’s just ... this is hard. And honestly,” she says, rolling her hands on the wheel, exposing her open palms, “I don’t agree with what you’re doing.”

His chest goes cold. “Which is what?”

“I don’t want to talk about this now. Get in the car. The kids want to swim.”

Natalya’s house could have been a short walk from where they ate lunch. After a couple of quick turns, they’re on Weke, a road that parallels Hanalei Bay. Many of the homes are modest, villas reminiscent of vintage postcards, but the properties are large and the location premium. Natalya turns onto a long driveway. They pass a small bungalow and stop in front of a larger island-style home painted the color of the lush, tropical foliage surrounding the property, which is narrow and deep. Beyond the yard is the greenery of Waioli Beach Park and the Pine Trees surf break.

And she has issues with his wealth?

She explains the house has been in her family for several generations. Her grandfather purchased the property decades ago. Her father now owned the house, but he lived in the bungalow situated in the front corner of the property with mountain views.

So what if they both lived in the homes they grew up in? At least they have one thing in common. Not that he’s looking for any, and living in his parents’ old house isn’t something he plans to continue doing.

The main living quarters are on the second level. Downstairs is the garage, a workshop for her boards, and Natalya’s home office, where James would be sleeping on a sofa bed.

“Come on, kids. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

“Then the beach, right?” Julian takes the suitcase James hands him.

“You bet.” Natalya playfully punches Julian’s shoulder. He tries to punch her back and she dodges him. When he goes after her again, she wraps him in a headlock and smothers his face in kisses. He squirms and whines like a baby and once again, that green little snake of envy slithers through James. He slams shut his door.

Upstairs, an open-air lanai stretches the rear length of the house. Both the master suite and living area open to the lanai and face the bay. The kitchen and boys’ rooms, decorated as though they live there permanently, which gives James pause, face the mountains. The furniture is Spartan with a Bohemian flair, but the stainless-steel appliances and media center are top-notch. A staircase leads down to the office and a full bath for his use. Another staircase off the deck drops to a patio with a barbecue and smoker. From his perspective, James thinks as he takes his suitcase downstairs, Natalya’s house is equipped with the right essentials.

Forty minutes later, rooms assigned and inspected, bags unpacked and bathing suits on, they traverse the yard and park to the fine, tan sand of Hanalei Beach. The water’s rough, so they walk toward the pier until Natalya finds a spot where she’s comfortable for them to swim. The boys drop their towels and crash into the surf, thrilled to be back in the water.

“The ocean calls to them,” Natalya says beside him.

He glances down at her capped head. She wears the same dirty baseball cap that looks as if it belongs on a trucker. The hem of her multicolored cover-up floats in the breeze, dancing around her thighs. Long, muscular, tanned thighs. He swallows and looks back toward his sons as they splash each other. He relishes the heat of the sun and warmth of the sand under his feet. Considering how desperately he wanted to get as far away from Zicatela Beach as he could, he wants to dive into these waters and forget what little he could recall of the last seven years and justbe.

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