James took a quick glance at me. “Yes, sir.”
“Aimee, take James into the kitchen. I’ll tell your mother to get the Band-Aids.”
By the time Mom retrieved the bandages and ointment, James’s lip had stopped bleeding. His mouth was swollen, so he sat on the kitchen stool beside me holding a bag of frozen peas to his face.
I rattled off questions. I wanted to know everything about him. Yes, he would attend the same school as me. Yes, he loved to play football. No, he had never punched another kid before. Yes, his hand was sore.
He held up five fingers twice and then one more for eleven years when I asked his age.
“Do you have any sisters?”
He shook his head.
“Brothers?”
He held up two fingers before shaking his head harder and changing two fingers to one.
I laughed. “Robbie must have hit you hard if you can’t remember how many brothers you have.”
He frowned. “I have one brother. And Robbie punches like a baby.”
I laughed harder and slammed both hands over my mouth to quell the giggles, afraid he would think I was laughing at him and his miscount rather than Robbie’s expression after James pummeled him. I’d never seen Robbie run home so fast.
James glanced around the kitchen. Mom’s apple pie for her bunco party baked in the oven. Classical music floated into the room from the radio my dad had taken outside. James shifted in his seat. “I like it here.”
“I’d like to see your house.” I hoped he wanted to be my friend because I really liked him. He had a nice smile and was very brave. He’d punched Robbie, something I’d wanted to do for a long time but had been too afraid. Robbie was much bigger than I was.
“Yours is better.” His eyes skirted back to me. “What’s Magic Memory Dust? It sounds cool.”
My cheeks flamed as I recalled James’s face when I’d whined about the dust earlier. As we leaned on the countertop, I told him about it, keeping my face ducked. I admired how dark the skin on his forearm looked next to mine. I shrugged over the dust. “Doesn’t matter now. My lemonade stand is ruined and I’ll never raise the money I need.”
James reached across the countertop and dragged the sugar bowl toward him. He pinched raw crystals and raised his hand above my head.
I looked up. “What’re you doing?”
“Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Trust me. Close your eyes.”
I did and heard scratching overhead. My hair rustled and scalp tickled. My nose itched and it felt like raindrops were landing on my cheeks, but they weren’t getting wet. I blinked and looked up. Sugar crystals rained on my face.
“What was that?” I asked when he finished and wiped his hands.
“James’s Magic Memory Dust.” The unbruised corner of his mouth lifted. “Now you’ll never forget we met.”
My eyes rounded and his face heated. He slapped the peas against his mouth and winced.
“I’ll never forget you,” I had promised, crossing my heart.
Over the years, James had made promises, too. It would always be just the two of us. There would never be anyone else; we loved each other that much. We’d grown up together and made a promise to grow old together.
I couldn’t imagine wanting anything else than the life we’d planned together.
CHAPTER 3
Nadia and Kristen were inside my house when I arrived home after leaving the restaurant. Kristen rushed over. “We used your spare key. Your mom called, said you could use some company.” She paused and took a breath. “She told us about The Goat. I’m so sorry.”
I nodded, tight-lipped, and tossed my keys and purse on the sideboard.
She eyed me cautiously. “Are you going to be OK?”
I shrugged. After leaving The Goat, I’d driven aimlessly around town, thinking about the restaurant, and then I thought about James. Instead of driving home, I went to the cemetery and visited his gravesite. He’d been buried at the Donato family monument next to his father, Edgar Donato, who’d passed from lung cancer earlier in the year. A flat granite slab marked James’s plot: JAMES CHARLES DONATO. Underneath his name were his birth and death dates. Thomas and Claire weren’t sure of the exact date of death, but the coroner placed it two to five days after James had left. So they’d settled on May 20. A nice round number.
I’d spent an hour lying in the wet grass, my cheek pressed to the grave marker, thinking about the days leading up to the day he left. He had been adamant about going to Mexico. It had to be him and not Thomas. I didn’t want him to go. It was too close to the wedding. We had too much to plan and prepare. But with words and kisses he convinced me he wouldn’t be gone long. When he returned he would quit Donato Enterprises and pursue art. Painting was his passion, so I relented. Looking back, I should have been just as adamant as he was, insisting he stay home. Then he wouldn’t be dead. We’d be married and on our honeymoon in Saint Bart’s.