Page 26 of Everything We Left Behind

“What the—” James bites off the curse. He should be enjoying this moment with Marc. He should be happy Marc has an activity to keep him occupied as they get settled. Instead, anger and envy wrap their viselike grips around his chest.

He hates feeling this way. He’s read Carlos’s journals. He knows why his mother despised his painting.

It still hurts, though.

Claire ventures a glance up at James, but her eyes slide away when she registers his dark mood.

“This is for you, Julian.” Her generally steady voice wavers. She gives him a soccer ball.

“Cool.” He tucks the ball under his bent arm. His other soccer ball is packed up in a box somewhere in the garage.

“This, too.” Claire reaches inside the bag. “It’s a football.”

Julian snorts. “That’s not afútbol.”

“An American football,” she clarifies with a quick smile. “Your father used to play. He once had a good passing arm. You’ll have to ask him to show you.”

Julian shrugs one shoulder. “Sure. Whatever.”

“Julian, go kick the ball around with your brother out back.”

“Why?” he asks, startled. “I haven’t seen Señora Carla in almost a year.”

“She and I need to talk.”

“I want to talk with her.”

“Julian,” he snaps, loud and sharp. The name bounces around the kitchen.

Julian pales. He looks from his father to Claire and back again. He swallows, and James knows he senses something is off. How does his dad know this woman if he can’t remember her? He shuffles his feet and angrily slams the soccer ball into the floor. He catches it after one bounce and tucks it against his waist. “Come on, Marc, let’s get out of here.” He clamps a hand around Marc’s nape and pushes his brother out of the kitchen.

When the French door to the backyard slams loudly, James swings around to glare at his mother. Claire twists her lips. She picks up the knife and slices into the egg sandwiches. “You would have sent me away had I told you the truth,” she explains about her time in Puerto Escondido. “I wanted ...” The knife stills, hovering above the next sandwich.

James tightly folds his arms over his chest. “Do tell, Mother.” He sneers, any patience for his family long depleted. “What did you want?”

She raises her chin. “I wanted to meet my grandchildren.”

A troubling thought moves through him like a cold front. Gooseflesh bubbles the skin on his arms.Did she know from the outset Thomas faked his death?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Claire says, aligning sandwich halves on plates. “Thomas didn’t tell me about you or why he kept you hidden until after Aimee found you. He also told me what Phil did to Aimee, and that he thinks he tried to kill you in Mexico.” She pauses, wiping a mayonnaise drip from a plate edge with her fingertip. “Needless to say, your brothers and I aren’t on the best of terms.”

I had three sons. Once.

Carlos documented many conversations with Señora Carla. James remembers reading that one small confession. Carla’s loneliness had appealed to Carlos’s own desolation. He yearned for genuine companionship but had a difficult time trusting. He and Carla developed a sort of kinship. An openness evolved between them that wouldn’t have occurred had he known he was her son.

Claire wipes down the countertop and rinses the knife, sliding the blade back into its slot in the knife rack. She motions toward the sandwiches. Four of them. “I made lunch.”

A peace offering, James surmises. “Don’t expect to pick things up where you left them off. I’m not the man you knew in Mexico.”

Claire blinks hard. Her fingers flutter to the top button of her blouse.

“You’re also not the woman my sons believe you to be.” His voice is a whisper of warning.

Their gazes fuse across the marble kitchen island. After a moment, his mother’s determined expression slides away, crestfallen. Her chin dips in a slight nod. She empties the shopping bag, gummy bears for Marc and Oreos for Julian. Their favorites.

She nudges a flat rectangular box tied in a red ribbon toward James; then she collects her keys and purse. James watches her leave.

She stops at the kitchen doorway. “Welcome home, James.” She doesn’t wait for his reply, and a moment later he hears the front door click shut.

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