Everything We Keep: A Novel (11 page)

I looked over my shoulder to see Mrs. Donato pulling into the driveway. Phil sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes on me.

“Go home, Aimee,” James ordered.

I turned back around. Edgar Donato stood on the porch, mouth pressed in a flat line. He held the door open, waiting for James.

James glanced over his shoulder. “Go home,” he said again. There was an edge to his tone. “Please,” he added when I didn’t move.

My gaze jumped from him to Edgar and back.

His expression softened. He cupped my face, brushed his thumb along my cheekbone. “I’ll be fine. Go home. I’ll call you tonight.”

“OK.”

I watched him move into the house, pride keeping his shoulders back and spine straight. Edgar gave me a cursory glance and followed James into the house, yanking his leather belt from his pants.

I gasped, recalling James’s story about Thomas’s welts.
Oh, James!

“Hey, Aimee.”

I jolted, looking anxiously up at Phil, who stood one sidewalk line from me. He grinned. “Long time no see.”

My anxiety, which I attributed more to James’s predicament than Phil’s unexpected appearance by my side, eased with his smile. He’d changed since we’d met five years ago. I found it extraordinary we hadn’t seen each other since, considering how frequently he visited his aunt.

Phil’s stature was still leaner and taller than either James or Thomas, and the tailored pants and shirt he wore added years to his nineteen. He looked refined and turgid. He was so much older than me, and so out of my league. I didn’t understand the world the Donatos lived in, one with expensive clothes and cars, dinner parties and social functions. A lifestyle people like me saw only on TV. It was intimidating. Phil was intimidating.

I glanced at the house, twisting my fingers. “Will James be OK?”

Phil shrugged. “Edgar seemed angry. What did James do?”

“He bailed on football practice.” As soon as the words left me, my stomach pitched. This wasn’t any of Phil’s business.

He chuckled. “So, the Golden Boy isn’t so golden after all.” He lifted his arm toward my house. “Walk you home?”

“Um . . . OK,” I heard myself agree.

We walked at a slow pace, nothing near my leg-pumping sprint a few moments ago. My breathing was still erratic and sweat dripped from my hairline and down my neck. I tugged my shirt, fanning my chest. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Phil’s gaze track my movements. I stopped messing with my shirt, suddenly self-conscious of the small breasts that finally had made an appearance this past year.

“You’ve grown since I last saw you,” Phil remarked.

My cheeks, flushed and damp from running, scorched. I dipped my head and my eyes widened. I still wore the frilly apron from baking cookies. I yanked it off.

“You look cute. It suits you.”

I crumpled the apron into a ball and crossed my arms, hiding the offending article and my breasts. “How long are you visiting?” I asked, steering the conversation from Phil’s blatant inspection of me. I picked up my pace, wanting to get home.

“Not long. A few days.”

“So, your dad’s traveling again?”

His mouth quirked on one side. He was laughing at me. He didn’t need a caregiver while his dad was away, not like when I’d first met him. He was a college student. Sheesh, what a stupid question.

Phil’s expression turned serious, verging on worried. Was he thinking about James? I was worried, too. I couldn’t get rid of the image of Mr. Donato removing his leather belt, anger reddening the cheeks that spilled over a too-tight shirt collar. He’d put on a good deal of weight the past couple of years.

“James will be OK, right?” I asked again, needing the reassurance. “Mr. Donato looked really intense.”

“James will be fine. Edgar’s stressed, that’s all.”

And he wanted to take it out on James? I gave Phil a panicked look.

He scratched his chin. “Look, Aimee, my dad’s sick. Edgar’s had to take charge at Donato Enterprises until I’m old enough to take over. I still have two years of college.”

Two things struck me about his explanation. James hadn’t been the person on his mind and his dad was dying. Boy, how selfish could I be? James’s kiss and his impending punishment had me rattled.

“I’m sorry about your dad. That’s nice he’s giving you the company, though. You don’t have to find a job or anything once you graduate.”

“That’s the idea. Dad told me a long time ago when I was a little kid he’d want me to take over one day.” He stopped. We’d arrived at my house.

“Thanks for the walk,” I said.

“Anytime.”

I gave him a short wave, walking backward toward the porch.

“And thank you,” he added, “about my dad. That means a lot. Hey!” he called when I reached the door. “Does James still paint at your house?”

My hand froze on the doorknob. How did he know James painted? Phil had given me the idea to keep James’s supplies, but I’d never told him. James wouldn’t have either. Outside of my parents, Kristen and Nick were the only two who knew about James’s studio in our sunroom, and neither of them would have risked telling Thomas or Phil else James’s parents find out.

Then I recalled my notes in James’s desk. More than once I’d written to James, asking if he planned to come over after school and paint, slipping my questions to him as we passed in the hallway at middle school. Phil must have read the notes.

My heart sank into my stomach, and my expression must have given away the answer because Phil’s face spilt into a large I-know-your-secret grin. I felt the blood rush to my toes.

Phil shook his head. “Don’t worry. James’s secret is safe with me. But I would love to see his work.” He started walking toward me.

I swallowed. My hand twisted the knob and the front door cracked open. “I can’t invite strangers into the house when my parents aren’t home.”

“But I’m not a stranger. In fact,” he stopped at the porch step, “if things don’t work out with James, I’d love to take you out.”

I balked. Was he serious? Phil was so much older.

“I’m sorry, I can’t have anyone inside. ’Bye, Phil.” I slipped into the house. I wanted to put the door between us as quickly as possible.

“Think about it, Aimee. I’ve thought about you a lot over the years. It would be fun.” He saluted, touching the tips of two fingers to his lips and waving them in my direction before he disappeared from my line of sight. The front door had closed.

I flipped the lock and turned around, sinking to the floor, my back against the door. I covered my face with my hands.
Eww!
Phil had asked me out. He knew about James’s paintings and it was my fault. I never should have mentioned anything in the notes. Then again, James shouldn’t have kept them. But that was James, and I couldn’t blame him. He was sentimental. A gifted artist with a caring soul.

It would be another two years before I saw Phil again, and only sparingly thereafter, such as during the Sunday dinners Claire and Edgar hosted. Phil joined us every so often. Thankfully, he never asked about James’s artwork again.

As for James, our kiss that day was only the beginning. With it, we’d crossed the bridge from friendship to a deeper relationship that grew more intimate with the passage of time. James never confessed his father punished him with the belt, though he did hiss and shift out of reach when my hand accidentally brushed over his lower back. He blamed it on a pulled muscle from football practice, so I didn’t ask if that was really the cause of his pain. I didn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already felt. I could tell he was ashamed he’d disobeyed his father. He made a point to never miss another football practice for the rest of high school.

CHAPTER 13

JULY

One year after James’s funeral, Aimee’s was ready to open for business. Looking back, I never imagined coming this far or accomplishing so much. I never fathomed the life of a single, independent business owner would be my life. Then again, I’d never imagined a life without James.

But I had done it, and was surprisingly happy and pleased, despite the chaos of construction and doubts. Doubts about my abilities, and my doubts surrounding James’s death. I kept those thoughts to myself. Bottled up and sealed tight. Other than a Mexican resort’s business card, I still didn’t have proof to fully convince myself James was alive. I just needed to figure out a way to start looking without my parents, Thomas, and friends thinking I was losing my mind, that I believed what a psychic told me despite witnessing James’s burial. There were times I thought I was going crazy, like having hallucinations in a public bathroom.

The last nine months had gone by in a whirl of activity. My parents often visited to check on the progress at Aimee’s. Ian frequently stopped by, too, taking breaks from editing photos. He would double-check the construction, claiming he wanted to make sure the subs weren’t taking advantage of me. Cutting corners and skimping on quality work. I told him that was what I had Nadia for. No one messed with her. But I knew Ian used it as an excuse to spend time with me so I let him inspect the work. I liked having him around.

When July arrived, employees had been hired and trained, and supplies stocked on shelves. The pungent odors of paint and plaster dissipated, replaced with the robust, nutty scents of coffees and pastries. Everything was in place.

It was a late Saturday afternoon, the day before Aimee’s soft launch where family and friends would test the menu and my staff could practice their training. So far, there hadn’t been any major glitches to push out next week’s grand opening. Well, until now. Gina, my shift manager and lead barista, quit. A friend had invited her to share a flat in London. She was leaving tomorrow morning.

Less than twenty-four hours before the soft launch and I had no experienced baristas. Ryan and Jilly had been trained by Gina.

I paced the length of the counter. Aimee’s was a custom-order coffeehouse. I might be able to swing tomorrow without a lead barista, but before the official opening I needed someone who understood how to mix beans, syrups, and spices. I needed someone who understood the equipment and its quirks. What if something went wrong?

The bell over the door jingled and Ian walked inside.
Ian!

Saved by the bell. Literally.

I rushed over. “I need your help.”

He gripped my shoulders. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” His eyes drifted over my length.

“Gina just quit,” I explained, adding, “Tomorrow’s the soft launch.” As if he didn’t already know.

A cocky grin stretched across his jaw. “You do need my help. Blending coffee, I presume?”

“Stop looking so smug.” He crossed his arms and I huffed. “Yes, Ian. I need your help. Now is the time you can demonstrate your brilliance behind the coffee bar.”

“Ye of little faith.” He moved to the espresso machine as if he owned the place and I rolled my eyes. His gaze roamed over the rows of bean canisters, syrups, and coffee mugs.

Ian had spent a lot of time at my house since we met. We watched movies or just talked. I experimented with new recipes—stews, tarts, breads—and he taste tested. On one occasion, I found him flipping through my binder of blended drink recipes. I’d teased he didn’t have to feign interest. The next day, he showed up with several coffee recipes of his own and I added them to my selection after I’d mocked his amateur palate. When I’d mixed them, they were damn good.

He gave me a challenging look over the machine. “Did you forget our deal?”

I grimaced, recalling our discussion on the first day we met. Judging by the recipes he added to my binder, there was an excellent chance Ian could brew better coffee.

Time for me to eat crow.

“No, I haven’t forgotten.” My eyes narrowed. He was so going to lose. “All right, you’re on, but I want you to make this specialty blend.” Leaning over the counter, I retrieved my binder and flipped to the Pangi Hazelnut Latte, named after a region in India where the hazelnut was produced. It was the most difficult recipe and called for a unique blend of imported beans and spices. Gina had a tough time replicating the drink. If the spices were slightly off, it wouldn’t produce the same exquisite flavor.

Ian read the directions. He rubbed his hands together. “Watch and learn, sweetheart.”

I snorted and propped a hip against the counter ledge. He moved about the station, selecting and grinding beans, then extracting the espresso. A dark, rich liquid dripped into the mug he had preheated. I breathed in the heady aroma and my anxiety eased.

Ian steamed milk and poured it into the espresso with a wiggle motion. He grinned and handed me the mug. On the surface was a heart shaped in cream. An exact replica of the heart-shaped steam above the coffee mug in Aimee’s logo.

“You can do coffee art,” I murmured. “I think I’m in love.”

His eyes flashed. “Taste it.”

I lifted the cup to my nose. Hazelnut, cinnamon, and something else. “You changed the recipe.”

“Drink before you judge.”

I did, and my insides turned to warm jelly. “Ginger . . . and?”

He looked at me expectantly.

“Cardamom.”

He nodded.

“This is good.” I took another sip. “Really, really good . . . oh my. This is sinful.” I drank some more. “You’re hired.”

“Excellent. When do I start?”

I looked at him, trying to figure out if he was serious.

He folded the towel and moved around the counter. “You need a shift manager who knows what the hell he’s doing and I need a job.”

“What about your photography?”

“I still plan to travel and show my work. It’s not about the money. I like to keep busy between trips. Why do you think I putz around here all day?”

“You’re bored?” I asked, deflated. “I thought it was because you liked hanging out with me.”

He ran a finger down my cheek. “Don’t look so dejected. I do like hanging out with you. A lot.”

My skin heated from my forehead to chest. He smiled. “I don’t plan to take any extended trips for a while. For now, just short excursions, a few days here or there. I’ll train the staff to step in when I’m gone. What do you say?” He held out his hand.

What do I say? His offer was lifesaving, and I’d get to see him every day. Not that I hadn’t already seen him almost every day since we met. I clasped his hand. “We have a deal. Let me grab the employment paperwork. I’ll be right back.”

While Ian completed the forms, I finished hanging James’s paintings, what I’d been doing before Gina’s call. Where there had once been eight large boxes of canvases in my garage, I had only twelve paintings left to display, not counting the ones hanging on my walls at home. Thomas’s warehouse manager had never located James’s artwork. The police couldn’t do much either. I’d filed a report months after I realized they were missing, and I wasn’t entirely convinced they’d been stolen. No evidence of forced entry, no fingerprints when the police had dusted, and nothing else in the garage was gone.

Ian crossed the room and held the ladder. “I haven’t seen these. They’re amazing.”

I climbed down after I’d hung the painting. “They were in the garage. I had more, but I can’t find them.”

“Did they disappear into thin air?” He spread his fingers wide and mouthed
poof
.

“Pretty much. I’ve looked for them. Filed a police report, too.”

Ian studied me. “Sorry about that. He was very talented.”

“Yes, he was.” I motioned toward the adjoining wall. “It waits patiently for your masterpieces.”

“Are you home tonight?” he asked, adding when I nodded, “I’ll bring some over. You can pick the ones you want and I’ll hang them first thing in the morning.”

“Only if you promise not to speak French when you do.”

Ian arrived a little before eight, right after I’d finished icing a lemon blueberry cake. He stood on the porch dressed in jeans and a black shirt. He gave me a lopsided grin. I opened the door wider and he lugged inside a large, flat canvas carrier. “I have more in the car. Where can I put this one?” I pointed at the dining table and he gently laid the bag on the surface, unzipping the carrier. “I have three here. Two you can display. I’ll give you a percentage if they sell. The other photo is yours.”

“Mine?” I moved to stand behind him.

He removed the largest frame from the carrier and faced me.
Belize Sunrise.
I gaped, my eyes flying to his. “For you,” he offered.

“Ian . . . ?” My mouth worked. “I thought you sold it.”

He shook his head. “I took it off the market for you. It’s a gift.” He’d been holding on to it for almost a year, waiting for the right moment to give it to me.

My stomach churned. I twisted James’s ring before touching the wood frame finished to look like weathered boards from a pier. I thought of the price tag. “I can’t take this.”

He glanced at the walls covered with James’s paintings. “If there’s no room here, display it at the café.”

“Oh, no, that’s not why. It’s too expensive.” But my fingers itched to take the print from his hand.

He wiggled the frame. “You know you want it.”

“Yeah, I do.” And it meant a lot to Ian for me to have it. I couldn’t deny him the satisfaction. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome.” He leaned the photo against a chair.

“I was thinking about this picture when I selected the café’s color palette,” I admitted. He seemed surprised and I touched his arm. “I love your work.”

A dark intensity filled his eyes. His jaw tightened. “Thank you.”

A strange desire rose in me and I yanked my gaze away. “Do you want a beer?” My voice sounded strained, high-pitched.

Ian took a breath, propped his hands on his hips. “Yeah.”

I grabbed two bottles from the fridge and popped the tops, handing one to Ian. I watched his throat ripple with each gulp and I involuntarily swallowed. His nostrils flared. “What do I smell?” His eyes narrowed on the countertop. “Is that cake?”

“Lemon blueberry cake.”

He gave me a devilish grin. “Need a taste tester?”

I scrunched my face. “Beer and cake?”

“Sure. Why not?” he said, searching the kitchen drawers. “Jackpot.” He found the cake cutter. I retrieved two plates from the cabinet as he sliced into the cake. Fruit filling oozed from the center. “What’s in here?”

“Blueberries. I made it with fresh berries, not the canned stuff.”

He groaned, adding a slice to the plate nearest him.

“The cream cheese frosting is made with lemon curd, juice, and zest. Try some.” Without thinking, I drew a finger through the frosting and held it to his mouth. Ian’s eyes flared a split second before his lips closed around the tip. I felt his tongue lick away the frosting and electricity zinged to my core. My eyes widened.
Oh God.
That felt entirely too good.

I pulled my finger from his lip seal. A low pop resounded through the kitchen and Ian chuckled, a deep, sexy rumble. My cheeks flamed, but not nearly as hot as the current blazing deep inside me.

He watched me, assessing my reaction. Slowly, he took a bite of blueberry-soaked cake. Again, the ripple of his throat caught my attention and my own throat went dry. “You have a winner,” he murmured, licking frosting from his lip.

Ian was standing entirely too close. I locked my knees to keep from falling against him. I often wondered what it would feel like wrapped in his embrace, his tongue flicking mine the way it had the frosting on my fingertip. I knew it would feel different from anything I’d felt with anyone before. He’d feel different from James. Maybe even better.

But Ian was a friend, and I’d made it clear from the beginning that was all he was to me despite my attraction toward him.

I blinked and turned away. “So, what else did you bring?”

He set down his plate and extracted two more framed photos from the case, leaning them against the back of the couch.
Misty Morning
, a photo of an aspen grove he told me he’d taken in the Sierra Nevada, and
Twilight Sands.
“The Dubai picture.” I smiled deviously.

Ian looked at me warily. “What?”

“You promised me a story. What
is
it about this picture?”

He grimaced. “I hate camels.”

“That’s all?”

He crossed his arms. “They hate me, too. Well, that one did.” He pointed at the last camel in line. Ian retrieved his beer and sank onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. I sat down, tucking my legs underneath. He stretched his arm along the couch back. “Riding animals isn’t my favorite.”

“Ah, yes. The mules in Peru.”

“That’s right.” He drank his beer. “It was a long ride trying to find the perfect dune for the shot. Every dune we passed before the one in the photo, that beast tossed me. The steeper the incline, the better for him because I would roll down, then have to climb back up. I was a walking sandbag by the end of the day. The stuff was in my hair, clothes, and”—he grinned around the mouth of his bottle—“you get the idea. My camera equipment didn’t fare so well either.”