Page 23 of Everything We Left Behind

Five Years Ago

June 22

I found Imelda exactly where I expected at two forty-five in the afternoon: working on her laptop at La palma. Casa del sol’s open-air restaurant had the best view in the entire hotel. The Pacific Ocean stretched far to the horizon, and the breeze coming off the water, fanned by the surrounding palms, was always welcome. On days like today, where the air smelled of wood smoke and the heat could singe eyebrows, my shirt was often drenched by noon. The loose sky-blue, button-down linen I’d changed into only an hour ago already had a sweat spot where my back had been pushed against the leather car seat.

Imelda ate lunch at La palma every day. At the same time and at the same table. She’d linger over her meal for hours, meeting with staff and updating spreadsheets. I trusted Imelda as much as I trusted Thomas, which pretty much amounted to zilch.Nada.But there was one thing I could rely upon, and that was her schedule. If anything, Imelda was consistent.

I veered around tables until I stood opposite her, my back to the ocean. She typed rapidly on the laptop, a Bluetooth in her ear, her brows pinched. She wore a white silk blouse and one of those super-straight, fitted skirts in gray. Basically the same type of outfit she wore every day, including that day in the hospital she introduced herself as my sister.

God dammit.

Just like that, I was angry with her all over again.

From behind the polarized lenses of my Maui Jims, I silently counted to ten, watching a surfer disappear into the hollow of a tube, then rapped my knuckles on the table to get Imelda’s attention. Time to get this over with.

She looked up with surprised impatience. Then her eyes peeled wide. “Carlos. What are you doing here?” She stood, snatching a ballpoint from the table. She held the ends of the pen between her fingertips and thumb, rolling it back and forth, and smiled.

“You called me. What’s so important that you can’t tell me over the phone?”

“Sí, sí,of course.” She gestured at the chair beside me. “Please sit.”

I made a show of looking at my watch, then sat down, knees spread, back pressed into the chair, and elbows parked on the chair arms. My leg bounced.

Imelda returned to her seat. She clicked the ballpoint. “How are the boys?”

My eyes narrowed on that pen. She’d had one like it, annoyingly clicking away, while she confessed that she wasn’t my sister and told me I wasn’t Carlos. Between her sobbing and the compulsive clicking, it had taken an excruciatingly long time to get the entire story from her. Either it seemed that way or time slowed, I couldn’t recall. That whole week was a blur.

Looking back, I think I always suspected she’d been hiding something from me. Those infrequent dreams of Aimee and my obsession to paint her face. That alone should have been motivation enough to realize something wasn’t right. I could blame my reasons for not asking questions on any number of things—recovering from my injuries, falling for Raquel, caring for my sons, everyday life. But those were only excuses. When it came down to it, I had been afraid. Which only made me more disgusted with myself.

I smoothed a hand down the back of my damp head. “The boys are fine. They’re at the Silvas’ house.”

Imelda spun the pen like an airplane propeller. Her mouth parted. She wanted to ask more questions about them but a waiter approached. He presented the menu.

I held up a hand.

“Are you sure? Diego’s lemon sole seviche is light and delicious. Perfect for this god awfully hot day.” She fanned her neck with a file folder.

I shook my head. “I have to leave in twenty. Nat’s flight lands in an hour.” Imelda dismissed the waiter and I gave her a bemused look. “Whydoyou work out here?”

She shrugged. “Habit. How’s Natalya?”

“Good.” She was flying here on business but planned to stay several weeks, which was typical during the summer months. She spent her vacation time with us.

Imelda sighed, knowing she wouldn’t get any further details from me.

The waiter returned with a cappuccino she’d ordered before I arrived. He set the cup and saucer beside her laptop, bowed slightly, and left. Imelda ripped open a raw sugar packet and stirred until the crystals dissolved. She lifted the cup, blew across the surface, and sipped, testing the temperature.

I jiggled my knee and tapped the chair arm.

“Thomas signed over the deed.”

I stilled. “When?”

She took another sip and set down the cup. “Last winter. The hotel is doing better than it was two years ago.” As part of her deal with Thomas to portray my sister while I physically recovered, and to waylay any interests I might have had to learn who I really was, Thomas loaned her money, but on the condition his name be added to the deed.

She got to keep her hotel and I got a glorified babysitter.

“Is he still sending you checks?” Thomas had also compensated her.

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