When he no longer saw the Pontiac, his tears fell freely. Not only had he left his camera in the backseat, but he didn’t know his way home.
For five days Ian followed the road in the direction he thought was home. He kept to the edges of cornfields and dairy farms, drinking from the sprinklers and eating ripening corn when he risked being seen. With each approaching car, he ducked behind a tree or into stalks barely tall enough to hide him. He wanted to see his mom again so he followed Jackie’s order. He slept days and walked nights so he wouldn’t be seen. But after spending the third night wandering alone, he realized he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.
He was lost.
He wondered if he’d ever find home. He missed his mom. His dad would be worried. Were they looking for him?
On the fifth day, Ian drifted into a fitful sleep on the sloped edge of an irrigation ditch under the shade of a large tree only to wake up when he felt a butterfly touch his head. His eyes snapped open to the blurry image of a woman kneeling beside him.
He shot upright and scooted away, his back pressing into tree bark. His heart beat furiously. He wasn’t supposed to be seen. Jackie would find out and take his mom away from him. He tried to stand, to bolt away, but the woman grasped his shoulders and gently urged him down. Bone-weary and weak, he flopped back in the dirt.
“Hello, Ian.” The woman smiled.
He squinted against the sun’s glare, then blinked at her. Hair fine and fair haloed her head in the late-afternoon light. He stared, transfixed, at the strange blue shade of her eyes. Surely, he must be dreaming.
He heard a car door slam and stiffened. He tried to scoot away. The woman kept her hold on his shoulders.
“It’s OK,” her voice soothed. She smiled some more, then glanced over her shoulder. “He’s over here, Stu.”
Dad.
A sob burst from Ian. He croaked like a frog.
“Don’t be afraid,” the woman reassured. “Your dad’s going to take you home.”
His mouth quivered. “Who are you?” And how did she know his dad?
“I’m a friend. You can call me Laney.”
“How did you find me?” He didn’t want Jackie to find out he didn’t walk all the way home.
“Magic. And Jackie will never know.” She pressed a finger to her lips and stood, retreating.
“Ian. My God, son.” Stu sank to his knees and grabbed Ian, holding him firmly to his chest. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Mom?” he cried. He started shaking—he didn’t know whether from lack of food, relief he’d been found, or fear that Jackie hadn’t shifted back to his mom. “Where’s Mom?”
“It’s time to go.” His dad picked him up, cradling him like a baby to his truck.
CHAPTER 7
IAN
She told me her name was Laney. She introduced herself to Aimee at James’s fake funeral as Lacy. In Mexico, Imelda Rodriguez, owner of Casa del sol, the hotel where Aimee and I had stayed, knows her as Lucy.
An enigma, I think, recalling the way Imelda described Laney-Lacy-Lucy, or whoever she is, to Aimee.
I watch James drive away, then look at the card in my hand.
LACY SAUNDERS
PSYCHIC COUNSELOR, CONSULTANT & PROFILER
MURDERS, MISSING PERSONS & UNSOLVED MYSTERIES
HELPING YOU FIND THE ANSWERS YOU SEEK.
I had immediately made the connection between the Laney who found me and the Lacy who led Aimee to Mexico in search of James when I saw the photo Kristen Garner had taken at the soft opening of Aimee’s Café. You couldn’t mistake those lavender-blue eyes.
On a whim, I thought Lacy could help me find my mom. I cajoled Lacy’s information in Casa del sol’s reservation database from Imelda Rodriguez. But the number Imelda gave me had been disconnected. No shocker there. What did surprise me, though, was my relief. Because if I found my mom, what would I say to her?
What could I say?
Her fractured identity and the ensuing fallout of her life? I’m partially to blame. The words “I’m sorry” will never be enough.
Lacy’s card in my hand feels heavy as I wonder why she reached out to me in the oddest of ways: through my wife’s ex-fiancé.
Smooth one, Saunders. Please don’t tell me this is her way of saying she just wants us all to get along.
So not happening. As for Laney-Lacy . . .
The last time I saw her was on a desolate roadside in BFE, Idaho. She waved good-bye, her ankle-length skirt rippling in the afternoon breeze, as my dad settled me into the front seat of his truck. He drove me to the hospital where I spent the next few days with an IV stuck in my arm, replenishing my fluids.
On my second day there, I woke to my mom whispering my name. She sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over me. She gently brushed aside my bangs and I started to cry. I couldn’t help myself. During those hours I drifted through the night, lost and alone, I honestly wondered if I would ever see her again.
“Shush,” my mom soothed through cracked lips, the corner of her mouth swollen and bruised. A tear sluiced down her cheek, and when she wiped it away, I noticed the scabs on her knuckles. Rage burned like embers inside me, turning off the tear faucet. That woman living inside my mother had done that to her. Jackie had hurt Sarah. Again.
“I’m sorry, Ian. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Can you forgive me?”
“It’s not your fault.” Like my mom’s fractured mind, my adolescent one disassociated Jackie from Sarah. Through my eyes, Jackie was not my mother but an entirely separate person. They didn’t dress alike and they wore their hair differently. Their mannerisms weren’t the same.
My mom sobbed. She apologized repeatedly, making me uneasy. I didn’t know how to act around this downtrodden and defeated version of her.
“I’m all right,” I said, wanting her to feel better, more like herself. I roughly wiped my face and tried smiling.
“No, you’re not. Your dad tells me you were missing for days. I . . .” She looked down at the bed. She ran her hand over my chest, flattening the wrinkles in the sheet. Moisture pooled along the bottom rims of her eyes. I watched it collect until tears spilled over and dropped on the sheet. “He told me what happened. I can’t believe I did that to you. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to get back to you.”
“When did you get home?”
“This morning.”
“You’ve been gone this whole time?” That surprised me. Where had she gone?
My mom danced her fingernails across my forehead. She couldn’t stop touching me, as though reassuring herself I was safe and alive. She combed my bangs again. “I need your word you won’t follow Jackie anymore.”
I hadn’t followed her. She’d shifted while driving. “But the pictures . . .”
My mom gripped my shoulders. “No more pictures.”
My gaze dipped to the tubes stuck in my arm. I would never be a photojournalist if I couldn’t get past my fears, no matter how threatening Jackie could be. “I only want to help.”
“My goodness, Ian.” My mom pulled me in for a hug. “If Laney hadn’t helped your dad find you . . .” She sobbed, holding my head to her chest.
But she had found me. I never learned how she’d done so other than the explanation she’d given me: magic. My dad wouldn’t talk about it.
I flip over the card. The back side is blank, but the front is the same as the card she’d given Aimee more than seven years ago. Same layout, same font, but different phone number.
James has had this card on him for several weeks. That’s a long time in Lacy’s world.
I tap the card against my hand. She’s most likely moved on by now, her phone number ineffective. No point getting my hopes up.
I toss the card into the bowl on the console where I keep my change and tell myself it’s not another excuse. I’m not putting off again what I should have done fifteen years ago.
I can’t help it. I walk into Aimee’s Café with a swagger be
cause I feel like a rock star. I handled myself well around James. So what if I wanted to increase the angle of his bent and obviously once-broken nose? It didn’t happen and I won’t have to explain to Aimee the bruises on my knuckles because there aren’t any. And there never will be, since James is going back to Hawaii.
Good-bye and good riddance.
Aimee and I can finally climb out from under the what if of James’s return that has been looming over our marriage since . . . oh . . . forever.
“I want a brownie,” Caty says, still adorned in princess attire as she prances behind me.
I turn around and give her a look.
“I want a brownie, please.” She grins big, showing all her teeth. “And chocolate milk.”
“Sure thing, Caty-cakes.” I lean close to her ear. “But don’t tell your mom about the chocolate milk.” One afternoon treat is bad enough, but two?
I’m such a sucker.
And Caty knows it. She works me.
We press fingers to our lips, then hook them in our secret shake.
The café is relatively empty, the lunchtime crowd come and gone. A few stragglers linger over coffee and baked goods, their noses in their laptops and phones. I set Caty up at a small table where I can see her from behind the counter, then help myself to the baked goods, plating a brownie. The biggest one left, of course. I mix a cup of chocolate milk using Aimee’s custom blend of cocoa, powdered sugar, and vanilla.
Trish wipes down the countertop. “Hi, Ian.”
I smile over at her. “Hey, Trish. How was it today?”
“Busy. We were slammed this morning. It always happens when we’re short staffed.”
“Murphy’s Law.”
“Never fails. Aimee kept her cool, though.” Trish folds the dish towel. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her work the kitchen. She seemed to love it. I think she misses being back there.”
“I bet you’re right. Is she here?” I glance toward the kitchen.
“She just got back from running errands. She’s in her office.” Trish moves to the sink to rinse mugs.
“Thanks.”
I bring Caty her brownie and chocolate milk. She’s spread her crayons across the table and has her notebook open to a blank page. “Stay here where Trish can see you. I’m going to go talk with your mom.”
“OK, Daddy.”
I kiss the top of her crowned head and make my way down the back hall to Aimee’s office. She sits behind her desk, head in her hand, flipping through a stack of paperwork. They look like lease agreements or loan documents, lots of black print from what I can see.
I lean against the door frame, not wanting to interrupt. My fingers tingle, the desire to go to her almost pushing me into the tiny office space. But I don’t move, I just watch. I could watch her all day.
Five years married and I still get a rush when I set eyes on her. That rubber band of emotion connecting us hasn’t snapped. It grows taut in her absence and draws me back when I’m in her presence. I felt it the day we met at Wendy’s gallery, and for the first time since I’d moved back to the States from France, I didn’t feel the need to keep on moving. Because of Aimee, I wanted to stay.
Aimee yawns, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Her face looks drawn, her hair twisted up in a bun stabbed with two pencils.
She must have sensed me, for she looks up and smiles, a weary curve of her lips. Circles darken the pits under her eyes like night shades. “Hi.” Her voice is soft, tired.
“Hey,” I murmur, pushing away from the doorway. I go around her desk and settle on the edge. Wisps of hair have escaped the latticework of pencils, lending her face a soft, endearing appearance despite the exhaustion weighing down her expression. I trace a thumb along her cheekbone. “Long day?”
Her eyes drift closed. She leans into my hand. “I’m tired.” She laughs lightly at stating the obvious and lifts her chin. I take her invitation and kiss her, lingering on her lips. I taste coffee and cocoa, a hint of mint. And I taste Aimee, luscious and divine.
“I missed you this morning. I was hoping for a repeat of last night.” I trail the back of my fingers down the column of her throat.
She hums. “Last night was good. I would have loved spending the morning in bed with you, but duty called.” She wiggles a pen in the direction of the kitchen, then taps the stack of documents on her desk. “And these are due. I’ve read the same paragraph five times in this lease agreement. My eyes keep crossing.” She pushes away from the desk and stands. She stretches, arms high and hands linked as she leans left then right.
I glance at her paperwork. “Which retail space did you decide on?”
“I haven’t. I’m feeling overwhelmed.”
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
Aimee looks at me. “Open another location? Of course. We’ve discussed this. Why would you ask?”
I shrug. “You don’t bake anymore.” And I’m not saying that because I’m addicted to her snickerdoodle cookies. She used to be passionate about baking. A genuine artisan.
A slight smile touches her lips like a brief kiss. “I did like working the kitchen this morning.”
“Then, why aren’t you? You don’t need another location, let alone two. We don’t need the extra money.” But I do need my wife. She’s been distracted all summer, barely taking the time to tuck Caty into bed, let alone sparing me a few moments before she dives into her plans. Until La Fondue last night, we hadn’t had a date in weeks. Make that months.
Aimee motions at the agreements. “It’s a little late to change my mind.”
I fan through the paper stack. “I don’t see any signatures. Look, I’m not trying to change your mind. Just think about it.”
I stand and plant my hands on her shoulders. “You’re pushing toward a deadline you created, Aims. You steer the ship. Slow it down. There’s no rush to get this done.” I knead the knots and she moans, letting her head fall forward.
“That feels amazing.”
“It’s supposed to.” I breathe in her scent. A flurry of images shuffles behind my eyes, each of them involving Aimee and me. Naked. In the office. Door shut and locked, obviously.
And with that thought . . .
I completely lose track of what I want to say. Something about us, but without the stress and that constant feeling there’s something unsaid between us. I miss her. I miss us.
I skim my mouth along the line of her exposed neck and kiss the base. My hands slip down the side of her ribs and skirt around to her abs. “What were we talking about?”
“Ah . . . um . . .” Aimee tilts her head to the side, giving me access to the curve of her shoulder. “Something about reconsidering leases and loans.”
“That’s right.” I smile against her skin. “You’ve been wound up since June and—”
Aimee moves out from under my hands so fast I feel a breeze. My balance wobbles. She crosses her office and whirls around, the desk between us. “There you go again, bringing up James.”
“Hey now.” I wave both hands in front of me. “I didn’t say anything about him.”
“You didn’t have to.” She tosses up her hands. “I give up.”
Everything inside me tightens, and not in a good way. “What do you mean you give up?”
“I told you what happened with him, every single detail. You know how I needed to say good-bye to him as the man he is now, not the guy he was in Mexico. Yes, we kissed, and yes, he groped me. He was desperate and lost and had been through hell. How many times do I have to tell you that you’re the one I’ve chosen to spend my life with? What do I need to do to prove to you that it’s you I love? Apologize? I think I’ve apologized enough. But if you need to hear it again, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry I hurt you.”
“I’m not looking for an apology.”
“Then, what do you want from me?”
I grind my teeth and glance away.
“What do you want?” she repeats, sounding desperate herself.
I want James to never contact her again, and I want his paintings off the walls. I want her to drop the pile of agreements on her desk and focus on what she loves—baking—not what she thinks she needs to accomplish: conquer the coffee-serving world. I want to be the best damn husband possible and a dad who sticks around. I want to kick ass on the National Geographic assignment so that subscribers remember my work for years to come. For my images to be burned in their memories like those on photograph paper.
There’s so much I want, but when my eyes hold hers, I can’t vocalize any of it except . . .
“I want to find my mom.”
CHAPTER 8
IAN
“Your mom?” Aimee’s stiff demeanor deflates like a sail that’s lost its wind as the fight in her leaves. “Really?”
“Yep.” Now that I said it out loud, I realize this is something I need to do that I can no longer put off.
“What brought this on?”
I shrug, rolling my lips over my teeth and biting down. I’m not going to mention Lacy’s card, because if I do, I’ll have to mention James. I’ll prove to Aimee I don’t always bring him up.
“You haven’t talked about looking for her since Mexico. Why now?”
“I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately. I see a lot of her in Caty.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“So was my mom.”
Aimee rolls her eyes. “I know. I was talking about your mom. You’ve shown me pictures. There is a lot of her in Caty,” she says as she wanders around the desk. She reaches for my hand. “There’s a lot of her in you, too. So, will you hire a PI? A legitimate one?” she quips.
The corner of my mouth pulls up. We can laugh about it now, but it wasn’t funny six years ago when Aimee hired an investigator to search for James. The PI fed her lies and absconded with her money.
“I haven’t thought this through yet.”
“When are you going to start looking?” she asks. I don’t immediately reply, finding fascination in the tiny scars on her fingers. Battle wounds from years of working in a commercial kitchen. I turn her hand over and trace her life line with my thumb. She groans my name, tugging her hand from mine. “You’re still going to Spain, right?”
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