Everything We Give_A Novel

by Kerry Lonsdale

  Caty settles back in her chair, grinning. “That nice lady over there and I have the same color eyes. And she knows all about coloring with crayons.” She picks through her crayons. “If I put these three together—brown, orange, and yellow—I can make my eye color on paper.” She shows me the crayons. Mango Tango, Sienna, and Goldenrod.

  When did she color? In prison? Was it part of her therapy?

  “That’s great.” My voice cracks. I look at Aimee, expectant. Tell me everything! Her eyes glisten. She rests her hand over mine on the table.

  “I didn’t tell her who we are, but I asked about her job, and I asked what she likes about living here. She loves to sew. She showed me a quilt she’s working on. It’s beautiful. The stitching is intricate with a complex pattern. She’s an artist, Ian. She complained about the oppressive heat, but wouldn’t think of living elsewhere. People are kind to her here. She was kind to me and she adored Caty. She’s doing OK, Ian.” She squeezes my hand. “She’s doing more than OK.”

  My throat constricts. I close my eyes and nod. Then I feel Caty’s hand cover ours.

  “Are you happy now, Daddy?”

  A sob barges its way into my throat and I disguise it with a rough laugh. “Yes, Caty-cakes. I’m happy now.” I clasp Aimee behind her head, my fingers digging into her scalp, and press my lips firmly to her forehead. “Thank you,” I whisper harshly into her hair. I kiss her temple, her ear. “Thank you.”

  Overcome with emotion, I keep my face buried in her hair as I hold her, this woman I love who has given me so much: her hand in marriage, a family of my own, and in a way, through her, she’s brought my mother back to me. I kiss her lips. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Eww, no kissing in public.”

  Aimee and I laugh, and together we turn to the window. We stay that way, her hand over mine, my arm around her shoulders, Caty coloring, until my mom leaves. A few minutes before six, a blue Honda pulls up to the curb in front of the dry cleaners. A brunette with large-framed sunglasses sits behind the wheel. Within moments, my mom packs up her station and leaves the dry cleaners. She smiles at the Honda’s driver and settles into the passenger seat. The driver glances over her shoulder and eases into traffic. I watch them drive away until they disappear, turning a corner one block up. I’ve seen what I came here to see today.

  I scrub my face with both hands and rest my forearms on the table. “Whad’ya think? Time to go home?”

  Aimee taps her chin. “I don’t know. We are in Vegas.”

  “Think we can find a suite with two bedrooms?”

  She grins. “I like your line of thinking, Collins. I bet we can find a dessert buffet, too.”

  Caty’s face lights up like a Vegas hotel. She claps. “Oh, yes, please. Can we stay?”

  “As long as my two best gals are with me, I’ll stay anywhere.”

  CHAPTER 31

  IAN

  Three Months Later

  “Many outsiders do not understand the relationship these villagers have with the herds, and I admit, I had a hard time understanding myself. Why would a village expend such effort and expense to herd these wild horses into pens only to wrestle them, sometimes to the ground, to clip their manes and tails, administer medication, and then let them go? It’s about love. It’s about preserving history. And it’s about tradition. The Rapa das bestas is an ancient festival that showcases the symbiotic relationship this village has with the animals that run wild and free through their hills. And it was through the words of our photographer, Ian Collins, that I finally saw the beauty of the Rapa das bestas. ‘To love someone unconditionally is to let them thrive, even if that means letting them go so they can run wild and free.’ I’m not sure if Mr. Collins was referring to the Galician herds or someone else—who, I do wonder—but to me, his words eloquently sum up the relationship between the villagers and the horses they manage.”

  Erik finishes reading the excerpt from this month’s issue of National Geographic and grins at me. “Reese wrote an incredible piece. And these photos? Stunning.” He shows me the foldout in the middle of the article, the wide-angle shot I took on the last day of the galloping herd on the neighboring hillside. Then he closes the magazine and points at the cover, grinning and nodding at the two stallions rearing up in the packed curro. I remember the smell and the noise, the flies buzzing. I remember how the Galician horses moved like schools of fish, their coats drenched in sweat, a shimmering mosaic of chestnut, mocha, and sable. But I remember most the incredible feeling after Al Foster’s phone call three weeks ago. My photo had been selected for the cover.

  It’s early evening and we’re at Aimee’s Café, the after-party from this afternoon’s opening at the Wendy V. Yee Gallery. Wendy covered her walls with not only my recent work in Spain, but a history of photographs since I first picked up a camera. A study of my life’s work. She’d included photos of my parents, from the viewpoint of a child. They were the good ones, like the picture I took of my mom standing in the middle of the pond, her skirt skimming the surface, the sun bathing her face. I titled it Beautiful Sadness. Wendy intentionally left a blank wall symbolizing my future work. I have more stories to document. The show is in celebration of my first National Geographic assignment, the first of many, God willing, and will last for three weeks. Wendy managed to get a two-column feature in last week’s Arts & Entertainment section of the San Francisco Chronicle. Today’s opening was packed.

  Erik raises his champagne glass. “Congrats, my friend. Here’s to more epic shots.”

  “And glossy covers,” I add.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  And drink we do. Erik finishes his glass and glances around the crowded café. “Any chance of finding a beer in this place?”

  “I happen to know where the owner keeps a secret stash.” I lead him into the kitchen and grab two Anchors from the fridge, popping the tops. I give one to Erik.

  “Thanks,” he says, and takes a long draw from the bottle. “Have you heard from Reese?”

  “She texted her congrats when she heard about the cover. You?” Tonight’s the first chance Erik and I have had to catch up since his assignment with Reese in Yosemite. He’s been traveling and I’ve been making frequent smaller trips of my own.

  “Not recently, but we’re going on assignment together in January.”

  “That’s great. Where to?”

  “Morocco. She’s writing a piece about camping in the Sahara and requested me as the photographer.” He sets aside his half-empty beer and scratches his lower lip. “She tells me you have history.”

  I nod slowly. “It was a long time ago.” When he doesn’t immediately acknowledge what I said, I raise an eyebrow.

  “She’s talented.”

  I slowly grin. “She feels the same. She wouldn’t have requested you if she felt otherwise.”

  We share a smile and I clap his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s join the others before my wife finds me hiding out in the kitchen, drinking beer. She spent a pretty penny on the champagne.”

  When we return to the dining area, I look around. Aimee has my photos everywhere, including on the wall once dominated by James’s paintings. She cleared it off last October and shipped his work to him in Hawaii. She did keep one, a miniature of her parents’ house James had painted when he was seventeen. It hangs in her back office, a reminder of where she came from and how much she’s grown since then.

  Everyone is here. Erik and a few of the guys from the gym. Lance and Troy, two buddies from ASU I’ve kept in touch with over the years. Even Marshall Killion and his wife, Jenny, managed to get out here from Boston. Nadia’s off to the side chatting with friends and some new guy she brought with her. He dotes on her like a young pup. His eyes track her everywhere. She keeps sending him off to fetch her cocktails. Yeah, that relationship won’t last long, I think, laughing to myself.

  Caty’s at a table with Kristen’s two oldest, eating cake and drinking sparkling cider. Kristen stands watch o
ver them, rocking Theo. My gaze swings left until finally, across the room, I find the woman I’d been searching for. Beautiful in a black shift dress with a cascade of ruffles along the neckline, Aimee talks with Catherine and Hugh. Nick joins them, offering Aimee a glass of champagne, which she declines.

  My gaze narrows. Excusing myself from Erik, I cross the room.

  Nick eyes the champagne glass I take off his hands. I sip the bubbly. “Tee time’s seven thirty. Gonna make it?”

  I set aside the glass. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll wager a hundred dollars you don’t shoot a single eagle this time.” Nick is by far the better player between us. There’s no way I’m betting I can beat him. When we play, I wager he will outperform his previous game.

  Nick clutches his chest. “You wound me.” Then he grins and grabs my hand. “You’re on.”

  “See you on the course.”

  “Great show,” Hugh says.

  “Congratulations, Ian.” Catherine kisses my cheek.

  “Thanks.” I clasp Aimee’s hand. “Would you excuse us for a moment?” I say to them.

  “Everything all right?” Aimee asks, her expression one of concern as I lead her to the back office.

  “Everything’s great.” I close and lock the door, pull her into my arms.

  “Ian, we have guests.”

  “I know, baby, but this can’t wait.” I cup her face and kiss her. I kiss her and kiss her, look at her, and kiss her again. Then I smile, my forehead pressed to hers.

  Winded, she asks, “What was that about?”

  “I just wanted to show you how much I love you. And to say thank you.”

  “For what?”

  I rest my hands on her hips and back us up to the desk. Sitting on the edge, I pull her between my legs, our eyes level. I trace her hairline along her cheek and over her ear. “The past couple of months haven’t been easy on us.” I’ve been taking frequent, short visits to Idaho to make sure my dad’s receiving the treatment he needs. He’s deteriorating fast and the inevitability of losing him has affected me harder than I expected. “But I have some good news.”

  Aimee’s eyes sparkle like cider. “You do?”

  I bite my lower lip and nod. “My wife’s pregnant.”

  She frowns, the ivory skin between her trimmed brows folding. Then those brows lift and her eyes go big. “How did you know?”

  “You turned down a glass of Dom Pérignon. Who does that?”

  She laughs. “This gal,” she says, pointing at herself.

  I rest a hand on her flat stomach and Aimee covers mine with both of hers. There’s a life growing inside there. Caty will be thrilled when we tell her. And I want to tell my dad, before he goes. “How long have you known?” I whisper the question, my voice intimate.

  She skims her fingers up my chest, under the lapel of my blazer, and hooks her hands behind my neck. “A few hours. I was planning to tell you tonight, after the party.”

  I lean in to kiss her, my lips within a whisper of hers, when there’s a knock on the door. I groan.

  “Aimee?” It’s Trish.

  “Tell her to go away.” I run my tongue along her lower lip.

  She twists her head toward the door. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  “There’s someone here asking for Ian. Is he in there?”

  I run my hands up the sides of her rib cage. “Shh. I’m not here,” I tease and kiss her jaw, lingering on the soft indentation below her ear. I just want these few minutes alone with her. I’ve been shaking hands, meeting new people, and fielding questions all day.

  “She’s from out of town. Says her name is Sarah Collins.”

  My hands squeeze Aimee’s waist and I freeze. A tightness forms in my chest, spreading outward. I slowly lift my head. Aimee looks at me and our gazes hold. She smiles, and it’s full of love.

  “Did you know?” I ask.

  She slowly shakes her head. “But I was hoping. I didn’t want to say anything in case she didn’t show.”

  I frown. “I don’t understand.”

  “I left my first name and the number to the café on the ticket at the cleaners. I figure if your dad and mom do talk about you, she’d know about me, and Caty, and the café. I wanted to give her the choice to call. I hope that wasn’t too presumptuous of me, but I wanted to know if she still felt the same way she did about her condition when she left you. If there’s one thing I’ve learned these last seven or so years, it’s to not assume things are the way they appear.”

  “When did she call?”

  “It took her a while. She called last week. I mentioned your show and invited her and her companion to visit. She doesn’t go anywhere without Vickie. Your mom explained to me that Vickie keeps her grounded. She helps her when she shifts midconversation or is out and about so she doesn’t run off or get lost.”

  Trish knocks again. Aimee quirks a brow. “Should I tell her to give us a second?”

  I’m stunned and elated and nervous and in awe. I clasp Aimee’s face and, without taking my eyes from hers, call out to Trish. “Bring my mother back here.”

  “Your mother?” Trish exclaims. “Will do.” I hear her walk away.

  “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

  “Yes, but feel free to say it again,” Aimee says with a smile.

  “I love you.” I kiss her. “You’re amazing.”

  “I know.”

  I laugh and hug her tightly. When I let go, her face sobers. She fiddles with a button on my pressed white shirt. “A National Geographic cover and your mom. Two dreams come true in one day.”

  “Make that three.” My hand slides to her stomach; then I grab hers. “Come with me.”

  “Anywhere. Always.”

  We cross the room and I unlock and open the door. To an even brighter future. The future we’ve hoped for.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book is dedicated to my readers who’ve journeyed with Aimee, James, and Ian through the entire Everything series. Thank you for reading, thank you for reviewing, and thank you for loving my characters as much as I do. I have many more stories to share and hope you stick around.

  As with my previous books, Everything We Give involved a bit of research. I wanted to send Ian on a unique adventure and knew that I found it when I stumbled across an article about the Rapa das bestas. Since I have never attended the festival, I contacted the only person I know who lives in Spain. As luck would have it, she’s been to the Rapa not once, but three years in a row! Thank you, Barbara Bos, for sharing the sights, sounds, smells, and tastes of the Rapa. Thank you for walking me through your experiences and sharing your emotions as you watched the event unfold, from herding the horses downhill with the villagers to the “shearing of the beasts” in the curro. Thank you for sending me photos of your adventures in real time! Barbara is the managing editor of Women Writers, Women’s Books. If you’re a writer, I encourage you to explore her website at www.booksbywomen.org. It’s a wealth of information.

  I also must thank Barbara for introducing me to Claire O’Hara, documentary and adventure photographer. I have to credit Claire for sharing with me the extraordinary connection the village of Sabucedo has with the Galician herds that roam their hills. She eloquently explained their symbiotic relationship, how without one, the other wouldn’t survive. It is through Claire’s eyes, experiences, and photographs that I managed to craft Ian’s adventures in Sabucedo. Her photos from the Rapa das bestas are breathtaking, and I invite you to view them at her website, www.claireoharaphotography.com. Thank you, Claire, for breathing life into Ian’s travels.

  I delved deeper into the emotional and psychological aspects of mental illness with this book than I did with the previous two Everything books. While there is plenty of information available about the causes, symptoms, and treatments of dissociative identity disorder (DID), I wanted to capture what it’s like to grow up with a parent who suffers from this condition. I needed a child’s perspective. I owe a debt of gratitude to bestsellin
g author Annette Lyon for directing me to Tiffany Fletcher’s memoir Mother Had a Secret, a true account of growing up with a mother who had multiple identities. Thank you, Tiffany, for inviting me into your world so that I could make Ian’s more real. I’d also like to thank Rachel Dacus for sharing with me her own experiences of growing up with a parent with mental illness. I’m in awe of your bravery and candor. Thank you, Dr. Nancy Burkey, for your insight on treatment, therapy, and the types of medication that can be prescribed. With regard to the condition itself, any inaccuracies in the portrayal of dissociative identity disorder are mine and for the purpose of making the information work within the story.

  Thank you, Kelly Hartog, for your tips on court transcriptions, and to Matt Knight for, once again, answering my legal questions.

  To my top reader group, the Tikis. Thanks for your advance reads and honest reviews, your ongoing support and enthusiasm. Your love for my stories keeps me writing, and your comments and posts in the Tiki Lounge keep me entertained. A special shout-out goes to Letty Blanchard, who gave Ian’s childhood friend his name: Marshall Killion. I have heaps of gratitude and respect for Andrea Katz, whom I’ve come to think of as a dear friend, for her enthusiastic support of me and the publishing community through her Ninjas and Facebook group, Great Thoughts’ Great Readers. Thanks to the book bloggers, reviewers, and Instagrammers who read advance copies and shared your thoughts and photos across social media.

  Usually, a manuscript’s fast first draft comes easy to me. I can crank out a book’s skeleton within eight weeks. But after a year of writing, revising, and editing not one but three manuscripts, I started writing Everything We Give, my fourth book, only to hit a wall three chapters into the story. Writer’s block is a real thing, and it’s scary, especially when you’re mentally exhausted and there’s a looming deadline. I stared at my monitor’s blank screen and empty Word document for six weeks until I finally got my act together and made a phone call. I owe a huge thank-you to bestselling author Barbara Claypole White, who, after a forty-five-minute pep talk, cleared the fog in my head. After that call, I powered out Ian’s story in seven weeks, typing THE END the night before I left for Paris. Lesson learned: call Barbara sooner.