Everything We Give_A Novel Page 15

  “I’m leaving. I’m leaving!” he yelled again, backing away, when I lifted the pot above my head. He pointed at it clutched in my hands. “My head’s not worth it. They’re too pretty.”

  His remark caught me off guard. I lowered my arms, holding the pot against my hip. I had to look away from the sadness he tried to hide and I didn’t want him to see my own tears. He’d been a good friend. How did we get to this point? I wanted to murder him.

  “Just leave,” I said, trying not to cry.

  He did, albeit reluctantly, his arm reaching out as he backed away, his expression pleading for an answer. My stance firm, my gaze hard, he didn’t get one from me. The following morning, I contacted an attorney and started the process of filing a restraining order against Thomas.

  James told me yesterday a little about why Thomas had kept him hidden, how he’d pulled some strings and put James in Mexico’s witness protection program. I could understand Thomas’s reasons, barely, but I don’t think he needed to go to those extremes. I’m sure there had been other options.

  But if Thomas had taken them, I never would have met Ian. I’m waiting here, in the lion’s den, because of Ian. And that lion is preying upon my best friend, Nadia.

  Anger spikes. My hands fist. I grab my purse and approach the reception desk on the brink of barging into Thomas’s office. Marion hangs up the phone from the call she’d been on and pleasantly smiles at me. “That was Thomas. He’ll see you now, Mrs. Collins. Follow me.” She rises and walks around the semicircle-shaped desk.

  Finally.

  I follow Marion down a wide hallway, past cubicles and offices. She stops at the end and opens a wide set of double doors stained a dark mahogany. “Mr. Donato, Mrs. Collins is here to see you.” She steps aside.

  Before I lose my nerve, I swiftly cross the gray carpeted floor. Thomas starts to rise from his chair behind his desk. I lay into him before he’s on his feet. “There are hundreds of architects in the Bay Area and you chose Nadia. Why?”

  Thomas’s mouth parts and his brows rise, crinkling his forehead. I inwardly cringe. That’s not how I planned to open our conversation.

  His gaze slides from me to behind me. He nods and I hear the doors shut. It’s just the two of us, alone. My heart pounds but I won’t let Thomas see me sweat. I straighten my posture, crossing my arms so he doesn’t see how badly my hands shake, and meet his eyes.

  He tosses his pen on the glass surface of his desk. “I admire her work.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  The corner of his mouth quirks. He shrugs his shoulders. “Of course you don’t.”

  I shake a finger at him. “You’ll screw her over like everyone else. Find another architect.”

  Thomas’s face darkens. He spreads his fingers on the desk and leans forward, his fingertips supporting his weight. “I can work with anyone I please. You have no authority to come in here and decide who I work with and how I run my affairs.”

  “This is Nadia we’re talking about. You know she’s my best friend.”

  “You think I’m working with her to get to you? News flash, Aimee. My devious plans don’t revolve around you.”

  His sarcasm rankles. “Don’t mock me.”

  He slides his hands into his side pant pockets. His expression softens. “I’m not a monster.”

  “Just a man with a plan who could care less about ruining lives. As long as you get what you want.”

  Thomas purses his lips and roughly exhales through his nose. “Can I offer you a drink?” He moves from behind his desk to a dry bar off to the side.

  “It’s ten in the morning.” I toss my purse on the leather chair beside me.

  “It’s turning out to be a rough morning.” He pours himself a finger of scotch and tosses it back.

  As he refills his drink, I take the opportunity to collect my thoughts since they veered off track the second I crossed his office threshold. Thomas works in a large space done in muted tones, glass, and steel. Darker and colder than the warm textures of the furniture he imports and exports. The office is a perfect reflection of the man he’s become.

  Thomas sits in the center of the couch and gestures for me to join him.

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

  I do, walking a circle around the office, restless, unsure how to begin. I feel Thomas watching me. His gaze tracks my progress. I catch a photo on the shelf behind Thomas’s desk. A picture of him and James. They’re younger than when I first met them. I’d been eight, James eleven, and Thomas thirteen. Long before life for James became difficult at home. Rather, it had already been difficult. It just got worse.

  I don’t know the full story of what happened between Thomas and James, or entirely what life was like for them living with their parents since he apparently kept much of their dynamic hidden from me. It’s James’s story to tell should he be inclined to share.

  I return to the center of the room and stand behind a leather chair, across from Thomas. “What’s Nadia working on for you?”

  “She didn’t tell you? Good.”

  “She knew it would upset me, the two of you working together.”

  “And here you are,” Thomas murmurs in his glass before taking a drink. “She didn’t tell you because she signed an NDA. It’s also not your concern.”

  “It’s not, but you’ll tell me, anyway.” I sense Thomas wants to talk. He cleared an hour for me. I’m not wasting this opportunity.

  “I bought a house in Carmel.”

  “You’re moving?” I come around and sink into the chair. I’ll never have to see Thomas walk by my café again, wondering if this time, this morning, he’ll come inside. The restraining order expired a few years ago and I didn’t have a cause to renew it. True to his word, Thomas left me alone, except the one instance he’d asked through Nadia for James’s photos and contacts to download to a new iPhone. He planned to ship it to Carlos, the man James had been while in his fugue state.

  “In a year or two,” Thomas answers, glancing at the door. He leans forward, elbows on knees, glass balanced between his hands. “I’m tired of this city. I’m tired of running this company. I’m just”—he rubs the inner corners of his eyes with his thumb and index finger—“tired.”

  He’s more than tired. He seems defeated.

  Interesting.

  “Are you selling Donato?”

  “Getting ready to, yes.” He arches a brow. “Do I need you to sign an NDA before you leave or can I trust you not to speak a word of this outside those doors?” He tilts his head in that direction. “My employees don’t know.”

  “Nadia does, though.”

  “She signed an NDA. I trust her.” His tone implies it’s more than trust.

  “You have feelings for her.”

  Thomas’s gaze narrows. He pushes against his knees to stand, I assume to buzz his assistant to print an NDA. I roll my eyes. “Fine, you have my word. Your secret’s safe with me.” No way will I sign any of Thomas’s contracts.

  Thomas settles back onto the couch and downs the remainder of his scotch. “The house I bought was recently remodeled. I’m only expanding the master bed and bath, and redoing the kitchen. Nadia’s drawing up the plans for my contractor. She’s not managing the project. That’s it. I’m not interested in anything from her beyond that.”

  His last statement is spoken in a low tone, his gaze fixed inside his empty glass.

  “Your text messages to her say otherwise,” I quietly point out.

  Thomas sets down the glass with a hard plunk and looks at his watch.

  “Why are you here?”

  I get my purse where I left it on the chair by Thomas’s desk and take out a folded sheet of paper. I’d made a copy of Lacy’s business card. I give it to Thomas, watching as his brow arches, holding my gaze while he unfolds the paper. He glances down and reads it, his eyes slightly widening. He looks up at me.

  “What is this about?”

 
“Lacy met up with James on a beach in Kauai and gave him her card.”

  His face and neck lighten a shade. “Have you ever met this woman? She looks through you rather than at you. It’s the weirdest feeling.” He shivers, giving me pause. Thomas truly looks uncomfortable.

  “You’ve met her?”

  “Once, briefly. She was an acquaintance of Imelda Rodriguez. They were having lunch during one of my trips to Puerto Escondido.”

  A memory tickles the recesses of my mind like a cat’s whiskers poking at my face. “You recognized her at my café on opening day.” Thomas came to congratulate me, considering he funded me the money, and as I later learned, convinced Joe Russo, the building’s owner, to lease the space rent-free during build-out. Thomas had noticed someone that day and left in a hurry. It wasn’t until afterward when Kristen forwarded pictures from the opening that I saw Lacy had been there, too. Most likely looking for a chance to reach out to me.

  “I did notice her,” Thomas admits. “What does she want with James?”

  “Not James. Ian, my husband.” I point at the paper I gave him. “The number on that card is out of service. James told me how and why you kept him hidden in Mexico. I believe you have the resources to find her.”

  “You spoke with James. He’s in town?”

  “Yes. About Lacy—” I stop. Thomas isn’t listening to me. He stands, going to the window, and gazes out at the city below. He slides one hand into his pocket, the other waves the paper he holds against his leg. After a moment, he turns back to me. “What do you want with Lacy?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I told you about Nadia and my house. You know about my plans for Donato. I’m also letting you walk out of here without signing an NDA. Although”—he digs his fingers into his collar and scratches his neck—“I’m reconsidering that. You owe me an explanation if I’m taking up my time to search for a woman who gives the appearance she can’t keep her feet planted in one place for more than a couple of months at a time.”

  He knows about Lacy.

  “Tell me and we’ll call it even.”

  “I’ve got three answers for you.” I stand up. “I don’t owe you a thing. You and I will never be even.” I count down on my fingers.

  Thomas quirks a brow. “And the third?”

  “Lacy went through my ex-fiancé to get that card to my husband. I want to know why.”

  “The plot thickens.” Thomas casually walks over to me, folding the paper. He slips it into his breast pocket. “That is curious.” He crosses his arms and breathes deeply. “All right. I’ll find her.”

  “Really?” I can’t hide my surprise. I expected a fight. My mouth parts and I immediately close it. I don’t want to thank him.

  His mouth twitches. “You’re welcome,” he says with the sincerity I refused to show him and returns to his desk. “Give me a few days.” His tone is dismissive.

  I tuck my purse under my arm. “Make that one day. I’m on a plane headed for Spain this afternoon. I’d like to have her info by the time I land.”

  CHAPTER 17

  IAN

  “Sorry I’m late.” Reese drops a small backpack in the chair across from me and yawns, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m on deadline for another project and was up late writing.”

  I glance at my watch. Ten minutes after eight. I’ve been up since four—thank you, jet lag—and chugging coffee in the dining room since six.

  “Do you need to be back at a specific time? We can take separate cars.” Who knows how long it’ll take to find the herds. I’m limited on time and can’t extend my stay. I don’t want to cut off the search earlier than necessary.

  She shakes her head. “I sent the draft to my editor this morning.”

  That’s a relief. Standing, I polish off my coffee. There’s no guarantee we’ll see the herds today. We have to find them first and I’m anxious to get on the road. We could be traversing the hills past sunset.

  I snap my fingers. Flashlights, we may need them.

  Opening my bag, I double-check I packed them, which I did, along with extra batteries. Satisfied, I zip closed the pocket.

  Reese points to the breakfast buffet. “Let me get some food to take with us.”

  I shoulder my pack and check my messages. Still no word from Aimee. She hasn’t returned my calls either.

  “Ian?”

  I look up from my phone at Reese, a frown plastered on my forehead. “What?”

  She quirks a brow. “What’s up with you? You look worried.”

  “Nah, I’m good.” I put away my phone. “Ready?”

  She shows me her magdalena, a Spanish breakfast pastry, and apple. “Yep. Let’s go.”

  “I’ll drive,” I say when we reach the parking lot. She turns a full circle, looking at the cars. “That one.” I aim the key fob at my rental, a compact sedan, and disarm the alarm. We settle into the car and I reverse out of the parking lot.

  “About last night,” Reese begins after she clips on her seatbelt. “My comment about your wife looking like your mom, it was uncalled for.”

  “Forget it.” I brush it off, wanting to focus on the assignment, not Sarah. Or my wife, who’s not answering my calls. There will be plenty of time to think about them later.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t want things to be weird between us, so again, I’m sorry.”

  I tightly nod and shift the car into gear. She bites into her apple. The interior cab quickly smells like juice and pie. It reminds me of fall and Halloween and Caty. I miss her giggles and want to FaceTime with her this evening, assuming Aimee answers her phone. Briefly, I think about calling Catherine, but decide not to. I don’t want to worry her, or give her reason to think there’s friction between Aimee and me. Because there won’t be, not anymore. Turning onto the road, we head for Sabucedo, a fifteen-minute drive from where we’re staying.

  “Have you thought about your angle for the feature?” I ask when Reese finishes her apple.

  She wraps the core in a napkin and puts it in the cup holder. “I have some ideas.”

  “Care to elaborate?” I ask when she doesn’t, glancing her way. She watches the passing roadside scenery, hillsides of dry grass and rock, groupings of pine trees.

  She adjusts the backpack on her lap. “Are you going to talk me out of it?”

  I shake my head, cracking a smile. Good ole Reese, always quick on the defense. Following the road signs to Sabucedo, I downshift, taking a right. “I found the men managing the herds almost as interesting as the horses.”

  “How so?” Reese asks. She rips off a piece of the pastry that looks like pound cake.

  “Before the event, the aloitadores vibrated with anticipation. You could feel the energy. They’d been waiting all year for this event. They’re tense and focused, almost as if they’re preparing for battle. But afterward, they’re exhausted and dirty and sweaty. Some of them have contusions and broken bones. You can see the pain etched in their expressions. But they’re smiling because they’re relieved. They survived. And they can’t wait to do it all over again next year.”

  Reese slowly nods, chewing. “Makes you wonder why they would after the way you described it.”

  “It’s a rite of passage. I took a lot of pictures of them. I just thought you could touch upon that emotion in the article. That way Al can use the photos.”

  “Maybe,” she says, popping another bite of spongy cake into her mouth.

  “You don’t seem that interested.”

  “Oh no, I am. It’s a good idea,” she agrees. “I just didn’t get the same impression as you. I left before the first session finished. It was hard for me to watch.”

  Her grief-stricken face and tear-drenched cheeks come to mind. So does her quick exit. She was gone before my ten-minute access to the floor was up. That’s when I make the connection. She doesn’t like animals leashed, tied up, or penned. The neighbor two doors down from the house where she grew up kept his rottweiler penned in hi
s chain-link-fenced front yard with nothing to keep him company but a plastic doghouse and the twenty-five-foot rope that kept him leashed to the yard’s solitary myrtle tree. Other than feeding his dog once a day, the owner neglected the animal. The only stimulation the dog received was watching kids bike past and neighbors walking by with their own dogs.

  Reese walked by the dog every day on her way home from school, until the one afternoon he wasn’t there. She had no idea if the dog died or the owner gave him up. Animal services might have taken him away. But two weeks later, a shepherd-mix puppy appeared in the yard, and over the next couple of months, he lived the same neglected, solitary life until animal services picked him up. It didn’t matter how much love she had to give. Reese resolved to never own a pet.

  Of course, she tells me this after I’d adopted the cat for her.

  This makes me wonder why she was at the Rapa in the first place, so I ask her.

  “Michael wanted to go. He loves horses. He grew up around them.”

  “Who’s Michael? Your boyfriend?”

  “Ex-husband, as of three weeks ago.” Reese pinches a crumb from her magdalena, looks at it, then absently wipes her hand on her pack.

  “I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “Don’t be. It was an amicable separation. We went to the Rapa in July as friends. It’s been on his bucket list for years. He asked me to go with him, and I did.”

  I ease to a stop at an intersection and wait for several cars to pass. “If you didn’t like watching it, why’d you submit a proposal to write the article?” It doesn’t make sense to me.

  “I didn’t submit anything. Jane Moreland, she’s the features editor, she called me. Do you remember Simon Dougherty?”

  “The guy we worked with at ASU’s paper?” An image of a man of medium build with dark hair and black-rimmed glasses downloads. “Didn’t he grease his hair and wear a plastic pocket protector?” I grin at Reese and she shares a smile.