Page 17 of Everything We Give

Priority number one today: shave.

I rinse my mouth, then go in search of Aimee. I find a sticky note instead.

Maggie called. Family emergency. Aimee xo

Maggie works the café’s kitchen, as does Darrell, who’s on vacation. Aimee didn’t plan to be the one to open the café this morning, but now she’s flying solo instead of spending the morning with me, poring over Rapa photos and discussing her meetup with James. That quick, clipped chat in the car wasn’t enough. I want to hear the fine print, not the CliffsNotes version.

I glance at the driveway through the window to confirm she took my Explorer. I’d go in and help her if I had a car. Aimee’s van is still at Nadia’s. I make a mental note to ask Catherine to drop Caty and me off at the café when she brings her home from preschool. By then, Aimee will be exhausted.

I skim a thumb over theXandOon her note, worrying about her. Between covering for Maggie, meeting with the banks about a loan, scouting property for the new locations, plus overseeing her existing location, Aimee has a lot on her plate today. She’s been taking on too much and I hope she’s not mixing a recipe for disaster. Something’s gotta give. But what?

Yep, it’s time for a vacation. I need to get her away from James, and her memories of Phil.

Since I don’t have a car and can’t go to the gym, I lace up my Adidas and hit the pavement for a fast run. I’ll get my circuit training in later today.

Forty minutes later, I return home sweaty and invigorated. I chug a mug of coffee and whip up an omelet that I quickly wolf down. After adding my dirty dishes to Aimee’s used cup in the sink, I shower, shave, trim, and ’scape. Content that Aimee will be content with the fine dusting I left on my jaw, I dress and head into my office, the spare room with the slider to the backyard. It’s a bluebird day, already warm despite the early hour, and I’m amped to get the trip to Spain booked and our bags packed.

I jiggle the mouse, waking my computer. It hums to life and two thirty-two-inch monitors brighten. The large screens give me enough space to work on multiple images. For now, though, I launch my e-mail app, and, as my editor assured, the contract fromNational Geographicis there.

I grin. This is happening. This is really happening.

I lace my fingers and, flipping my palms outward, stretch my arms until my knuckles crack. I rub my hands, wiggle my fingers, and am about to open the e-mail when my phone rings.

“Ian Collins,” I answer.

“Al Foster. Hope I’m not calling too early.”

I glance at the clock in the lower corner of the monitor: 7:48. “No, you’re good. I’m up and working. What can I do for you?”

“My assistant, Tess, should have sent your contract by now.”

“Got it.” I click open the DocuSign e-mail.

“Great. Just making sure. Get that signed and I’ll sign on my end. When are you flying out?”

I haven’t had the chance to check the weather reports. “Sometime next week,” I tell him, keeping it open. “I’m thinking Wednesday or Thursday.”

“Perfect. There’s an inn near Sabucedo—La casa de campo?one of our photographers stayed at for another assignment. I’ll have Tess send you the info so you can make the reservation. The contract outlines your expense budget. Keep track of those receipts and we’ll get you reimbursed.”

“Sounds good. Have you assigned a writer yet?” I want to research the guy before I leave, get a grasp on his style and approach.

“We’re working on it. I spoke with the features editor this morning. She’s narrowed her selection to two. I think it’ll come down to availability. You’ll get an e-mail from me as soon as I hear. Either way, he’ll meet you there.”

We chat for a few more minutes, and after I read through the contract—satisfied with the terms—I sign the document and send it off. Over the next thirty minutes, I check the weather and grimace. It’s questionable for the next few weeks. Lots of rain. I then book the inn Al recommended, a rental car, and flights for Aimee and me. Yes, I’m assuming she’ll join me because she needs a vacation. And James is in town.

I stab the Enter key, confirming the reservation.

I spend another hour catching up on e-mails before launching the Sonos app and firing up some tunes. Nathaniel Rateliff fills the house and I get to work, fine-tuning images from a short excursion I took to Moab to photograph the arches.

“Daddy!” Caty claps my shoulders and I jolt a foot off my chair.

“Fuhhh ... fudge.” I clamp a hand over my mouth, drowning out my voice. My gaze darts to the time. Where did it go? It’s after twelve.

Snatching Caty around the waist, I haul her into my lap. I plant raspberries on her cheek. She squirms, giggling.

“I scared you, didn’t I?” she says, out of breath.

“Yes, you did.” My rapidly beating heart collapses like an exhausted runner and slips back into my chest.

---