Chapter 15
15
J AMES
Lisbon, Portugal
A week later
“Happy Birthday, James,” Theresa says, setting the dessert plates and chocolate cake on the table.
“Isn’t it a bit early? There are a few more days,” I say, smiling. “I’m sure you know that.”
“Of course, I know that.”
A grin pulls at her lips while she pours a drink for me. She hands it to me before cutting the cake.
I glance around the room.
Tastefully decorated, her house has two floors, an elegant interior, a small oval-shaped pool, and a nice view.
Bright sunlight slides across the water before entering the house through the large windows and sweeping the cream walls and marble floors.
A wrought iron stairwell in rich black and dark amber hues connects the first floor to the upper level.
French textiles, modern art, elegant ceramic vases crammed with flowers, and silk curtains complement the stylish decor.
The house reflects her innate taste for beauty, which hasn’t diminished with time.
I dip my eyes to the chocolate cake, and a thought pops into my head, making me smile.
I rest my elbows on the table while she slides into a chair.
“Is that your apology?” I ask, pointing to the cake.
A skintight dress with a red roses pattern on a white background highlights her silhouette.
She wears little to no makeup except for mascara and red lipstick.
“It’s your favorite cake.”
I smile.
“It was when I was twelve.”
Her grin falters, although I had no intention of hurting her.
“I’m sure you still like it. Just give it a try.”
I taste it.
It’s good, just the way it used to be. Her eyes don’t leave my face.
“How is it?” she asks.
“It’s delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
She sounds relieved.
We eat in silence for a few moments.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“Not for me. Thank you.”
She pours a cup for herself while my gaze hovers over the room again.
“It’s a nice place.”
“Yes, it is,” she says, her cheeks flushed.
I set my dessert spoon down and tilt my drink against my lips to take a swig before placing it on the table.
“So why is he so obsessed with money? He wasn’t poor while he grew up.”
Delicately, she runs a napkin over her lips and brings her coffee to her mouth, still chewing on a bite of cake.
She swallows her food and drinks coffee before moving her gaze to me.
“He thinks money is freedom.”
“Money is freedom, but there must be more to the story. That’s what I’ve gotten from talking to him. He grew up here in this nice house. What’s its value now? A couple million, give or take?”
She nods.
“Yes. Two and a half.”
I wait for her to elaborate.
“Well, yes... There is more to the story. I own the house and the businesses, and I’ve managed to stay financially afloat, but Tiago and I have been cash poor since the divorce. I kept a strict eye on the expenses because I didn’t want to get into debt. I also invested part of the money to have some passive income in the future. I’m not planning to get married again or be financially dependent on someone else. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve provided everything he needs. In that regard, he has more than other people, but to him, all this,” she says, pointing around, “has come with strings attached, and we’ve clashed a lot because of that idea. He didn’t like that I didn’t want to sell the house and swap it out for something smaller. He also hated that his father bought the house. Ultimately, he thought having his own money would give him the control he wanted. But money couldn’t help him in that regard.”
I remain silent, and she takes it as a form of disapproval.
“I suggested counseling for him...” she murmurs. “Do you think it worked? No. He’s tough and stubborn––the way you used to be.”
I smile.
“What makes you think I no longer am?”
She searches my eyes.
“Are you?”
I tilt my chin down in response.
She tears her eyes away from me before staring at her glass.
“How is your life as a family man?”
Nostalgia colors her gaze.
“She’s a beautiful woman,” she says, looking at me. “I saw her pictures in a magazine.”
“She’s a good woman, too,” I say, fishing my phone out of my pocket and sliding my thumb over the screen.
I pull up a few pictures of Rain and hand my mother my cell phone to check them out.
“These are from our wedding, and some are more recent.”
She sifts through them.
Her gaze moves up after reviewing the last photograph.
“You make a great couple,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“Are there any plans for kids?”
“Yes,” I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket.
She makes herself busy with her coffee before looking at me with a preoccupied expression.
“I know I’ve asked you to talk some sense into your brother, and some of it seems to have worked.”
“Has it?”
She nods.
“Yes, it has. He’s talking about joining the French Foreign Legion.”
I give her a stern look.
She sighs, shooting her hands up in frustration.
“I know it’s not much better, but it’s still an improvement. As long as he’s not incarcerated or dead, it’s better. Trust me.”
“You’ve set the bar really low, haven’t you?”
“I haven’t had much of a choice,” she murmurs, saddened. “I know I’ve done him wrong, although it’s unclear to me what I could’ve done differently since so many things and circumstances were not in my control. That aside, he’s young and could easily go on a path of self-destruction. He’s probably one bad decision away from doing just that, and I don’t want to impose on your life more than I already have, but you’ve made quite an impression on him. It’s something he’s always missed in his life––a role model. He looks up to you even though he’s never admitted it. What I’m asking here is... If he reaches out to you, be there for him. I don’t know if it will ever happen, but it might. I’m sure he’s not interested in moving to the US. It’s not a good idea, anyway, so I won’t encourage him to do that.”
“Why?”
“The way he acts, he’ll get himself killed or arrested within a week. Besides, he needs to find his way in life––whatever that way is. For now, he wants to blow off some steam, so be it. I guess... I pray nothing bad happens to him while he’s doing that.”
Her gaze dips to the table.
“He’s not stupid, you know…” I say.
She brings her eyes to me.
“I know. But he’s angry. And he’s been like that for a long time. I don’t see much change in him.”
“Life will temper his rough edges.”
“You think?”
“I’m certain.”
“I hope you’re right.”
A pause ensues.
“What about you? Are you sure you don’t want to move back?”
A faint smile slides over her lips.
“I thought about it after our conversation in Monaco. Even if I try to go back, I don’t think it would work for me. I've made so many business contacts here these years that leaving would make no sense. Plus, I’ve got used to this lifestyle. It’s more laid back. Less hectic. I’ve also made new friends and haven’t kept in touch with anyone from back home.”
“No one?” I ask incredulously.
“I’ve talked to a couple of longtime friends, but not often. That’s how I found out more about you. Other than them, I have no one else, so there’s not much for me over there. Other than you, of course, but you have your own family.”
She pauses.
“Do you keep in touch with her family?” she asks.
I tilt my gaze down briefly.
“They left Colorado, so no. Not really.”
“Do I know her parents?”
“I don’t think so,” I say curtly.
She studies me before shifting the conversation to a different topic when a noise comes from the entrance.
“He’s here,” she says, pushing out of the chair. “I told him you’d planned to stop by this weekend.”
She sets another plate on the table as my brother walks in.
Tall, tanned, and green-eyed, he is wearing a white shirt that's stylishly untucked and does justice to his dark jeans and athletic frame. He looks much better than when I found him in St. Petersburg.
Rested, if nothing else.
His face glows with a smile when he spots me at the table.
“Hey, man,” he says, giving me a charming grin that I thought I had an exclusive license on.
He looks down briefly, taking in my attire––suit pants and a tailored shirt open at the neck with the cuffs rolled up.
I rise and lock his hand, patting him on his back.
“My mother told me you’re visiting us,” he says.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the contentment on my mother’s face.
She couldn’t be happier hearing him say that.
To top it off, he pivots to her and kisses her on her cheek.
She melts, her eyes flashing infinite gratitude to me.
The moment passes as he pivots to the table and slides into a chair. His phone goes on the table before our mother pushes the plate in front of him.
“Are you hungry?” she asks.
He moves his eyes to her. And then me.
“Did you two eat?” he asks.
“Yes,” Theresa says.
“Okay... I’ll have something.”
He’s eyeing the food, sunlight flooding his gaze, a smile curling his lips, giving away his age.
“Things good?” I ask as he pours himself a drink.
“Yes,” he says, a secret smile glinting in his eyes.
“James...?”
I shift my gaze to my mother.
“Do you need anything else?” she asks, heading to the kitchen.
“No. I’m good.”
She walks out of the room, leaving us alone.
Tiago gives me a furtive glance.
“Did you get your money?” I ask.
“Mm-hmm... I have it here with me.”
“What about a bank?”
“Don’t trust them.”
“Good thinking,” I joke.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. You can’t drag around that kind of cash unless you want a bullet in your head.”
“It hasn’t happened before.”
“It only needs to happen once,” I say, scooping out my phone from my pocket.
“I can’t put them in a bank. I’ve seen the kind of shit they pull on people when something goes wrong with the economy.”
“They won’t,” I say, my gaze tipped to my phone. “Here. I’m sending you the information on this contact of mine. He’s a banker in Zurich. Give him a call, and tell him you’re my brother, and I’ve sent you to him. He’ll show you what to do.”
His phone chimes with a notification.
“Try not to act like a thug,” I say, gauging his reaction.
“Thank you,” he says.
My words sink in a moment later.
“Don’t worry. I won’t. How soon can I call him?”
“Monday morning.”
“Good,” he says, relieved.
“So, what’s the plan?” I ask, tucking my phone back into my pocket.
He tips his gaze down.
“I’m not going back to London for a while.”
“What happens to your lady friend?”
He looks up, his cheeks flushed, his eyes sparkling with a swirl of thoughts.
“She knows. She’ll have to get used to it,” he says with the easiness of someone who’s never experienced that kind of heartache.
I refrain from commenting.
“What about you? Are you going to be okay?”
He tosses me a questioning look.
“Breaking up with her,” I clarify.
He gestures dismissively.
“Yes. My heart has never been on the line.”
“Has it ever? With anything else?”
He looks at me, his smile gone.
He shrugs.
“I don’t know. But for sure, it hasn’t been with girls or women. Never,” he says, shaking his head. “Things are better that way.”
Again, he speaks with the conviction of someone who doesn’t know the set–in–stone beliefs are the first to go out the window when life punches you in the face.
I look at him in silence.
“Isn’t it better?” he asks, somewhat surprised that I don’t appreciate his wisdom.
“I guess you’ll find out.”
He tilts his lips into a knowing smile.
“I’d probably change my mind if I met someone like Rain.”
“I’m sure you would, but you need someone to school you before you hook up with someone like her.”
His stare lingers on me.
“Don’t look at me, kid. A woman will teach you by ripping your heart apart and making you scream in pain before you know what you can and can’t do with a woman.”
His smile fades.
Seemingly, I got his attention.
“Really?” he murmurs, puzzled.
“Really. You need that kind of woman in your life, and then everything will make sense in your universe.”
He laughs cockily.
“I don’t believe it,” he says, amused.
“Believe it. It’s the truth.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Nope. But at one point in my life, I had the same beliefs as yours. I was bad––just a different kind of bad––and when my turn came, I’d already had plenty of bad women like me. They taught me stuff, but it wasn’t what I needed to learn. You, on the other hand... You only had good women.”
“How do you know?”
“Abby Newtown.”
He ponders.
“Okay. That’s one.”
“The stalker living across the street.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Isabel something. My snitch.”
His eyes widen.
“No. The one from my high school?” he asks, surprised.
“Precisely. How else do you think I knew about you and Abby Newtown? Isabel had the teacher’s home under surveillance. Night after night, she had her eyes glued to her window, waiting for you to show up and pay a visit to the woman living across the street. I imagine the rest of them were not much different. Girls or women... Whatever. They were all smitten with you and never dared to say a word to you, question you, or hold you accountable. They listened to you, each hoping to be the chosen one. They helped you as much as they could. Abby, for instance, was a home run. She’s older than you and by default, so much more understanding.”
I pause.
“What’s your point?”
“My point is, you’ve always picked the easy ones. The ones who submitted to you, no questions asked. It’s a valid strategy, and I applaud you for that, but the problem is you don’t learn much that way, and that’s why you wouldn’t be able to handle someone like Rain.”
“How old was she when you met her?”
“What does age have to do with anything?”
“How old was she?” he insists, like a dog who found a bone.
“Eighteen.”
“Wasn’t she a good girl?”
“Yes, she was, but that’s not how she got me. Later, when she turned into something bad and pulled all the stops, she made me pay attention to her.”
A smile creases his lips.
“No way,” he says, sagging back into his seat.
I tip my chin down in response.
His gaze shifts to his drink, turning blank.
“I haven’t picked them that way,” he says, in the mood for a confession. “That’s how they came to me. I’ve always attracted good girls. It’s not my fault.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, not convinced.
“You don’t believe me.”
“Nah-uh.”
He’s about to say something else when my mother enters the room with a platter of food and sets it on the table.
His demeanor instantly changes.
He becomes more reserved, no longer eager to talk about his private life.
Soon, he starts to eat while Theresa sits across from me and snacks on fruit.
We talk about Portugal, no longer mentioning the past.
By the time Tiago enjoys his dessert, the sun slides toward the horizon, casting a red-orange glow over the table and making my mother’s dress even brighter and Tiago’s eyes vibrant with life.
Lifting my glass to my lips, I try to wrap my mind around it.
It’s impossible not to notice how surreal this feels.
Here I am in a foreign country with the two people who, aside from Rain, are the only family I have left.
Weeks ago, I couldn’t imagine my mother these days, how she looked or what she was doing with her life, let alone that I’d have a brother who resembled me so much.
As I observe them, they also study me––a smile tugging at my mother’s lips and admiration gleaming in my brother’s eyes.
Looking at him, I try to remember what I thought about life when I was twenty or twenty-one, perhaps even younger.
I’m sure my father was a role model for me.
Whether he wanted it or not that’s another story.
He put me in charge of Red’s affairs early on, and that did it for me.
I had to become a real man fast, earn people’s respect, and make them fear me, if nothing else.
I learned to read them and make them do what I wanted from them.
I don’t remember being as angry as Tiago is, but you can’t rely on memory entirely when it comes to these things.
Sometimes, the brain blocks out certain memories, so it’s possible I can’t remember.
I’m sure I was angry and had the same obsessive love for money as he has, if not more.
In that regard, he and I aren’t that different. It just happens that I’ve had a better setup from the get-go.
Perhaps that was my father’s wisdom.
He had planted the seeds of hunger in me and set me free, letting me accomplish real things.
That’s how I learned to rein in my emotions, harness that energy, and turn it into something useful.
At that time, that something was money, of course.
Once I got a taste of the perks that came with it and felt the power it was giving me, my anger was gone.
I had no use for it.
That’s how I managed not to think about my mother, either, and to forget that, in a sense, I was alone.
That’s how a lot of things have fallen into place for me.
Furtively, I study him.
Behind the wall of coldness he’s built around his heart, I get a glimpse of me.
He’s hungry for life, as only a twenty-something-year-old would be.
In his smile and laughter, I see a man with a strong heart who can absorb wisdom while living intensely.
He runs deep the way I do, but unlike me, he doesn’t know how to harness that depth and make it useful.
How not to feel the pain of it.
He does the only thing he knows by keeping his heart locked away and crushing other people’s souls.
The way I used to do it.
That thought makes me smile.
Bitterly, though.