Page 80 of Everything We Left Behind

She nods. “I put away the groceries for you.” Natalya twirls the bread bag closed and puts the loaf in the pantry. “And your mom”?she lowers her voice, her gaze darting to the boys?“went back to her hotel.”

James isn’t surprised. She’s next on his list of family discussions and she knows it, too.

“She left with my dad.”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Really?”

“He’s a womanizer, remember? Don’t worry.” She waves a hand. “It’s platonic, I’m sure. She wanted to freshen up, and Dad offered to drive. By now, they’re probably having lunch, cocktails, and a dip in the pool.”

“That doesn’t sound platonic to me.” James doesn’t know what to think about this development. His father passed shortly before his own disappearance. Granted, his parents had never been close, even slept on opposite ends of the house in later years. But he never thought of his mother being with someone other than his father or uncle—Ugh! Don’t go there.He moves into the kitchen and peeks inside his sandwich. He hasn’t had Spam since college, and only because his dorm roommate dared him.

“I put your art supplies in Marc’s room. I’ll show you.” She drops dirty utensils in the sink.

James follows her down the hall. She’s showered recently. Damp hair is clumped into a messy bun. A smattering of freckles speckle her shoulders like paint drops. She wears a loose lavender tank top and white cutoff shorts. Sleek, toned, and tanned legs stretch to the floor. He can’t look away from those legs. His fingers twitch, the way they do when he needs to paint. He wants to paint her legs. He wants to ...

“James.”

He jerks his head up.

She frowns and he inwardly squirms. Heat warms his chest. “What?”

“You bought a lot of stuff.” She moves into Marc’s room and opens a cabinet. The supplies crowd two wide shelves, enough to keep Marc busy for weeks.

“Yeah, I did.” He gives her an embarrassed look.

“One would think that you’re planning to stay awhile.” She closes the cabinet and swivels around. She leans her shoulder blades against the cabinet and crosses her arms. “Or that you plan to start painting again.”

James hears the hope in her voice. He rubs his nape and sinks onto the edge of Marc’s twin bed. “I want to spend time with Marc doing what he enjoys doing. We’ll see where the painting takes me from there.”

She looks out the window, tugging a tendril behind her ear. Her gaze focuses beyond the glass and she slowly blinks once, twice. Then she pushes away from the cabinet, moving toward the window. “My room has the best natural light. You’re welcome to paint there,” she offers without looking at him.

James admires her profile. The high forehead and feminine slope of her nose. Freckles adorn the bridge, spilling down her cheeks like autumn leaves. His fingers twitch again. This time he wants to do more than paint her. He wants to touch her. In his mind, it’s been over a year—and in actuality, seven years, given James’s identity was buried that long—since he’s touched a woman. For a man who’s more physical than reserved, tends to feel more than think, and responds more empathically to the emotions of others, seven years is a very long and lonely time. It’s one hell of a dry spell.

“You wouldn’t want the smell in there while you slept.”

“That’s right. I forgot about that.”

“I was thinking we could paint on the lanai. It’s not serious artwork, just a way for Marc and me to hang out together.”

“Your mom, too? You bought three easels.”

He did, but only as an afterthought. James clasps his hands between his thighs. “That’s a good question. I’ve never painted with her.”

“But in Puerto Escondido—”

“Before that. Did you know she despised my painting?”

Natalya frowns. “How could she? She’s an incredible artist.”

“I didn’t know that until I read the journals.” He brings forth those entries about Señora Carla and the time she spent painting with Carlos. Anger and sadness mix like paint as he recalls several of the paintings he packed and shipped to California had been hers. As Carlos, he’d hung them on his walls in his house. His mother never displayed a single painting of his.

“She had her reasons, which I understand more so now since she told Carlos. But she did everything she could to keep me on track for a career at Donato Enterprises.”

“How did you paint, then? I’ve seen your work. It’s obvious you’ve been painting for years.”

“Aimee’s parents set up a studio for me in their house. I’m self-taught.”

At the mention of the Tierneys, Natalya shifts uneasily. “I met them.”

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