He slowed as they entered the room and nodded at the options around them. “What will it be? The lounge chair; we’ll both have to squeeze into that one, the moon chair, the sofa, or the jumbo-sized beanbag?”
She imagined sitting beside James in each one before settling on what she thought would be best. “Let’s do the beanbag,” she suggested.
“The beanbag it is.”
It took a moment to get comfortable as the suede covered bag shifted beneath their weight, but soon they were nudged up together while the bag puffed up around them like a cocoon.
She dropped her eyes to the journal as James unzipped it. One side, over the corner, another side, another corner, all the way across the top. He pried open the front, causing an array of loose papers to scatter about with a swoosh. Most stayed within the confines of the open case, a few fluttered just beyond.
One scrap landed right on Camila’s lap. A napkin with a sketch on it. “He was an artist,” she said, pinning it between her fingers and thumb.
“Yep,” James said, leaning in to inspect it with her. It resembled a character drawing. A man standing behind a bar holding a drink mixer over his shoulder with a double-sized grin on his face. Bulbous cheeks and a miniature forehead framed a set of kind eyes. He wore a nametag on his vest,Stew.
“This is from a bar he frequented,” James explained, pointing to the small logo in the lower corner.LA Brews.Her eyes drifted to the penned words just above, a note from Winston.
Stew, Stew, he’s our man. If he can’t do it, no one can.
Camila grinned. “He liked him. He must’ve been kind to him.”
“Most people liked Winston,” James said, snatching another sketch from the heap. This was a thin tear-off notepad from an LA hotel. James lifted the top page to reveal blank pages beneath, and shook his head. “Let’s see what this one’s about,” he said, flattening the page once more.
A woman with a sleek bob in a tiny dress. This one was also like a character sketch, but with a bit more accuracy than Stew’s drawing. In one hand, she fanned an impressive display of dollar bills. An array of shopping bags hung in her grasp on the other side, taking up most of the small page. One bag boasted the wordsshe loves me.While another bag, this one harder to make out due to the small print, readshe loves me not.
An ache seeped into her chest. He had the same problem James did. It made sense, of course. But what a lonely feeling that would be. Not knowing if someone really loved you or if they just wanted your money.
Camila tipped her head to read what he’d written sideways along the length of the notepad:Oh, Melanie. Why you gotta be like that?
James blew out atskand set the small notepad to the side. “He knew how to pick them.”
“Here,” Camila offered. “I’ll put the ones we looked at in a pile.” It wasn’t a generous offer or anything, but the look James gave her said otherwise. Or maybe it was just the acknowledgement that he wasn’t alone in this. That he had someone to be there with him.
His lip turned up at one side. “Thank you.” He gave her a quick kiss before moving on to the next one.
It was simple, really, but something about the action warmed Camila’s heart. This was real. What she and James had was very real. She’d once read an article that talked of extreme circumstances or events and how they—good or bad—emotionally connect people.
She and James had shared several highs, with a log list of activities to show for it. But they’d opened up about their lows too, and were all the more connected because of it. That thought remained someplace in the back of her mind as they continued to sift through Winston’s unique journal entries. She hadn’t spotted it until James pointed it out, but each of those entries were dated someplace, usually in the shadows.
They weren’t in any sort of order, which made the search for his final words more challenging. But the journey was an interesting one to say the least. He was witty, snarky, and keenly observant, evident in the details of his work.
As sad as it was, getting to know someone after they’d already passed, she felt a great amount of gratitude as well. She was getting to know someone very important to James, and that made them important to her as well.
Yet as their two piles shifted, the once-large stack of unseen pictures dwindling in size, a spark of concern grew in her mind. What if James was left without any answers at all? Or worse yet, what if his greatest fear came true? What if he discovered that his own brother—this sad but beautiful person who’d left this life behind—blamed James for all of his troubles?
Chapter 19
James watched a drape of dark, deep clouds creep across the horizon. Gone were the harmless white puffs he’d noticed earlier that day. In came a looming body of purple and ashy gray. The storm was heading straight for the beach, bringing with it sounds of distant thunder.
“It’s going to be a big one,” Camila said, seeming to follow his gaze.
James knew their lunch break was over, that he should get back to the journal and finish the job, but he wasn’t ready just yet. Instead, he pushed his plate, empty save the sandwich crumbs and pickle wedge, to one side and reached an arm across the table. With his palm up, he wiggled his fingers expectantly.
Camila glanced down and smiled. She took hold of his hand, but shifted to a chair closer to him. The restless ocean and oncoming storm were at her back now.
To James, it was a picture of himself the day before that dreaded call came. Unaware of the approaching darkness that would change his life forever.
Camila rubbed a thumb over his hand. “You holding up alright?”
He managed a nod, though he wasn’t so sure. “It’s weird, but as we get to the bottom of that stack, there’s an odd mix of emotions…” He shook his head. “In one sense, I’m relieved. Glad I’m not finding anything really ugly or pointed. But then there’s another part of me that so badly wantssomething. Validation. Appreciation. I don’t know, some sort of acknowledgement that I was really trying to help him out.”
