by Iris Morland
Jaime glanced at her painting. “That’s pretty.”
But she could hear in his voice that what he really meant was, That’s boring. She almost laughed. “It’s terrible, and you know it.” She finally gave up and sat back, wiping her hands of some of the dirt and eventually giving up.
He sat down beside her. “Well, I wouldn’t say it was terrible, but it’s not…”
“Interesting? It’s okay. It looks like a hotel painting.”
Jaime cocked his head, peering at the painting more closely. Then he laughed a little. “It does look like a hotel painting. What makes a painting look like a hotel painting, though? Like is there some secret hotel painting store all hotels buy them from?”
“There’s probably a shop on Etsy,” Grace said dryly.
Jaime laughed again.
Despite herself, she felt her mood lighten somewhat. She’d be a liar if she said she didn’t enjoy being in Jaime’s company. They hadn’t been alone—really alone—since the wedding. Her face burned at the memory. She stared at the ground, but then she caught sight of his hands, and she remembered how they’d felt pressed against her back.
She looked away and forced herself to stare at the river instead.
“Do you come here a lot?” Jaime asked. “I just found this spot recently, but if you’ve claimed it, I can find another one.”
She shrugged. “I’ve come here since I was little, but it’s not like I own this patch of the river.”
I also don’t want you to leave. I know you’ve been avoiding me, and I hate it, she thought.
“Well, if you’re sure.”
After that, silence fell. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but Grace wondered if Jaime wanted some time alone. She glanced at him, and she saw that his jaw was tense. He looked tired, and there were circles underneath his dark eyes. Had he not been sleeping? She knew River’s Bend needed a lot of work lately, but this seemed different.
She almost asked him what was wrong, but then she thought better of it. She didn’t have a right to pry: they weren’t even friends, per se, but more like people who ran into each other often and who had, you know, kissed once. She wrapped her arms around her knees, suddenly feeling the chill again. Maybe she should leave and go home.
“Are you cold? Here, take my jacket.”
Jaime shrugged off his jacket and placed it over her shoulders. The jacket was big enough that it was almost like a blanket on top of her, and she inhaled his scent emanating from the cloth. As he placed the jacket on her shoulders, his hands stayed on her upper arms—perhaps longer than necessary.
But then he moved away, and Grace wondered if she’d just been imagining things.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She saw that he only wore a t-shirt now, and she knew how much he hated the cold. “Aren’t you going to be cold?”
“I’ll be fine. I need to walk back home anyway.”
She pulled the jacket closer, her eyes closing. It smelled like spice and cedar and Jaime’s warmth seeped into her limbs until she wanted to cry from the exquisite sensation. She wanted to imagine that this was as close to him embracing her as she was going to get, and it broke her heart and made it pound at the same time.
“I guess you’re always keeping me safe from the weather,” Grace said. When he just looked at her, she blushed. “Never mind,” she muttered.
Jaime looked like he wanted to ask what she meant, but he didn’t.
She just smiled, her heart cracking a little. She wondered if he even remembered that moment—that moment when he’d smiled at her and held his umbrella over her head while he got soaked to the skin—and she’d fallen in love with him. She wanted to cry at the thought, but it was just too indicative of her life right now: a whole host of small misses that added up until they felt like they were suffocating her.
She heard a phone sound then, and she watched as Jaime took out his phone and then grimaced at what he read. He muttered something in Spanish that sounded like a very complicated and long-winded curse.
Grace couldn’t help it. “Is something wrong?” she asked. She probably couldn’t do anything to help, but at least it would get her mind off of her own problems.
Jaime looked up at her, as if he’d forgotten she were there. Then he shook his head. “No, just some stupid shit with the vineyard. Actually, it’s more complicated than that. Your brother wants to talk to me.”
She just stared at him, waiting for him to explain. When he refused to talk, she said quietly, “Anything you say won’t go beyond this spot. Not a word to my brother, or anyone else.” She held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
He smiled a little. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but then again, you’re going to find out anyway. There’s money missing from the vineyard.”
“What?” Her eyes widened. “Who would steal from River’s Bend? It barely has any money to steal right now!”
“Ironic, right? But you haven’t heard the best part.”
“Is there a best part when someone’s stealing money from my family’s business?”
“According to your brother, the prime suspect is none other than me.”
Grace stared at him. She thought at first he was joking—how could anyone think Jaime would steal from River’s Bend? When he’d poured so much of himself into the restaurant? She said nothing, waiting for the “just kidding!”, but it never came.
“You’re not serious? You? You? Has my brother lost his mind?” She got so agitated that Jaime’s jacket slipped off, and she was about to get up and find Adam when Jaime put a hand on her arm. That got her to sit back down.
“He doesn’t want to believe it, but there’s evidence that says otherwise. I guess.” He scowled, tossing some rocks into the river. “It’s bullshit, of course, but I have to go through the motions anyway, because if I refuse to talk, I’ll look guilty, won’t I?”
“But how does anyone know it was you? Or think that it could be you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Your brother just told me last night, or I guess, warned me. But there’s money definitely missing, so they’re starting an investigation.”
“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” Grace pulled the jacket closer, clenching her fists until she realized she was probably wrinkling the material. “That doesn’t seem fair at all.”
“Things aren’t fair in this world.” He tossed another rock into the river, then sighed. “Sorry, I shouldn’t dump my problems onto you, especially when you’re connected to it in a way.”
“Don’t apologize. You should be able to talk about this with someone.” In a quiet voice, she added, “I’m glad you feel like you can talk to me.”
She ventured to look at him again, and his expression was such a mixture of surprise, resignation, and searching that she didn’t know to react. Did he really not have any idea how she felt about him? She felt as if he were seeing her for the first time, or just realizing that she was more than Adam’s younger sister trying to get a kiss just to pass the time.
His voice low, he said, “I try not to dwell on things I can’t do anything about, you know? But I’ve worked my ass of for this vineyard, and what do I get? Accused of theft. I’d laugh if I weren’t so angry about it.”
Jaime’s voice was so bitter that Grace’s heart hurt. She was glad that Adam didn’t want to believe his friend was guilty and had seemed to warn him more than accuse him, but at the same time, she couldn’t imagine the betrayal Jaime was feeling. To work so hard, only to be investigated for a crime you didn’t commit?
She knew he hadn’t done it. She didn’t need evidence because she knew Jaime Martínez was a good, hard-working, honest man who’d fought tooth and nail to get where he was today. He’d never toss that away—never.
She didn’t know what to say, though. She could feel his anger coming off in waves, and she wanted to touch him, to hug him, to tell him it would be all right. They’d figure out who’d done this, or maybe it was just a miscalculation. But those all seemed li
ke hollow platitudes, and none of them were things she could guarantee.
So instead, she said, “I believe you’re innocent. For what it’s worth.”
Jaime looked at her, his gaze dark but seeming to lighten around the edges. She took him in: the stubble on his jaw, his full lips, how he had a slight bump on his nose, how she could make out a few strands of silver on his temples. He wore a necklace with a small, silver cross on it, and she wondered who had given it to him. His mom, or maybe a girlfriend? As long as she’d known him, he’d worn that necklace every day, although she hadn’t known him to be particularly religious. There were a lot of things about Jaime that she’d yet to discover, she realized.
She may be in love with him, but she didn’t really know him.
He swallowed, looking at her. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
She couldn’t hold his gaze. She looked away again, blushing a little, but her heart swelling all the same.
She was in so deep. So deep, and the waters were only closing in over her head now, drowning her. She’d sink to the bottom without making a sound, and Jaime not being the wiser.
She pulled the jacket closer.
“I should probably get back,” Grace said. “It’s almost time for dinner anyway.”
She was about to get up, but Jaime got up first and then held out a hand. She looked up at him, and she let him envelop her hand with his larger one. Their fingers made a stark contrast—hers pale, his brown—and she had to pull away lest she do something really stupid.
Like kiss him again.
“You have dinner with your parents every night?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah, I guess. I mean, I do live with them.”
“That’s nice. I miss my mom’s cooking. She’d make pupusas de chicharrón every Friday.” Jaime made a sound that was a mixture of longing and satisfaction.
“I’ve never had those,” Grace admitted as she began to gather her supplies. Jaime helped her, carrying her easel and ugly painting while she picked up her bag with paints and brush. “What are they? I’ve heard of them.”
“Basically a tortilla stuffed with cheese and pork,” he replied. “There’s a great place about an hour from here in Belltown that has amazing Salvadorian food. You should take a trip there.”
She smiled, but didn’t reply. She’d much rather take a trip there with Jaime, or better yet, have him cook for her, but she couldn’t really tell him as much.
When they got to the main path, Jaime asked, “I’m in the opposite direction, but do you want me to walk you home? It’s getting dark.”
“I think the deer and rabbits will leave me be,” she said with a smile, taking her easel and canvas from him. “Thank you, though.”
He seemed to be about to say something else, but then just shook his head. He said goodbye, walking off into the distance.
She watched him until he disappeared, a vague figure amongst the shadowy trees. It was only until he was gone that she realized she hadn’t returned his jacket. She fingered the cloth, inhaled its scent, and wondered if Jaime would notice if she kept it.
4
J aime had never preferred one kind of woman over the other: green eyes, blue eyes, brown hair, blonde hair. If it was on a woman, he liked it. Tall, short, curvy, thin, brown, white, and everything in between? He’d enjoyed women at his leisure without discrimination.
But now what haunted him was long, blonde hair, like mermaid’s hair, falling in soft waves down a pale back. He knew, instantly, who the hair belonged to. Who else could it be? Who else had hair the color of dark wheat that looked amber in the sunlight?
“Graciela.” Jaime wrapped an arm around her from behind, smelling her soft hair. It smelled like cherries. He sifted his hands through it, wrapping some of its length around his wrist. He wondered if Grace had ever played Rapunzel as a little girl. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your beautiful, glorious hair.
Grace sighed as he kissed the side of her neck.
“Why don’t you leave your hair down more often?” It fell almost to the top of her ass, and he marveled at how long it was and how many colors ran through its strands.
“Do you want me to? Leave my hair down?”
Her voice, a throaty murmur, went straight to his groin. He wanted to wrap his hands in her hair as she rode him, the length covering her breasts, her nipples barely visible. He wanted it splayed across a pillow as he moved insider her from above, her eyes heavy and her mouth parted.
He trailed his index finger up under her cotton shirt. He traced the length of her torso, brushing at the small indentation of her waist. Silk, skin, heat, a small trail of moles, like constellations, across her stomach. Soft hairs dotting the spot above her belly button.
He kissed her neck again, licking, sucking. She breathed harder. He wondered if he could get her to moan—to scream. Or would she be quiet, all in her head?
“Graciela, Graciela,” he murmured, saying words in Spanish that he knew she wouldn’t understand but that didn’t have the right translation in English. They flowed from him like a current, pouring over them, and he could feel her pulse speed up under his tongue. His hand moved upward under her shirt. He cupped her breast—small, warm, the nipple tightened already.
“Do you want me?” he asked.
She pressed her ass against his hardened cock, and it was him who moaned.
“I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember.” She took his hand, still massaging her breast, and covered it with hers. Squeezed. “Will you take me, Jaime? I want you—I need you.”
He didn’t need to be asked twice.
As he kissed her, open-mouthed and desperate, the sound of a phone going off rang through the room.
And then Jaime opened his eyes, realized he’d been dreaming of Grace Danvers, and that he had a massive hard-on from said dream.
He slapped at his phone, still singing on his nightstand. He glanced down at his crotch, and then he swore.
I’m a fucking creep. The biggest creep. Having sex dreams about my friend’s younger sister.
He threw an arm over his eyes, breathing and trying to stop the flow of blood from his head to his cock. But all he could see behind his eyelids was the length of Grace’s hair falling down her back, how warm she’d felt, how she’d pressed against him.
Will you take me, Jaime?
“Jesus motherfucking Christ on a cracker!” He tore out of bed, stomping to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face. Gazing into the mirror, he muttered, “You need to fucking stop.” Then he pointed at his crotch, adding, “And you really need to fucking stop! I don’t have time for this. This cannot happen.”
Dressed just in his boxers despite the cooler weather, he went to the kitchen and began making an omelet. It was early yet, and maybe cooking something would get his mind off of…things. But his mind inevitably returned to that dream, and he burnt one side of the omelet while the other side was still runny. He tossed it all into the trash and decided today was a protein bar and coffee kind of day.
Lots and lots of coffee.
After taking a cold shower, he got dressed and was about to go into work early when his phone rang.
“Hey Dad,” he said in Spanish.
“Jaimito, how are you? Your mother and I just wanted to call and tell you we’re finishing up our application for citizenship and we had a few questions.”
Jaime didn’t know if he had the juice for this this morning, but he’d help his parents anyway he could. Both of them spoke English fairly well, but the application for citizenship had enough legalese that they preferred to confirm any questions they had with Jaime first; they had a lawyer, but asking Jaime was just easier in their minds. He couldn’t blame them: any kind of mess-up could result in the application being denied, and it was too much time and money not to cross your t’s and dot your i’s as much as possible.
Fernando rattled off various questions, which Jaime was mostly able to answer, while a few stumped him as well. The US government lo
ved convoluted instructions, and sometimes even Jaime needed Fernando to repeat things to understand what the actual question was.
As they segued into less governmental topics, Fernando turned his phone on speakerphone so Jaime’s mother Ana could talk to their son as well. They asked about River’s Bend, his job, Heron’s Landing, all the usual things. Jaime winced at their questions, remembering the upcoming investigation—of which he was apparently the center. He couldn’t tell his parents about the investigation, especially when he hadn’t been charged with anything. It would only worry them. Plus, if Immigration caught wind of it? It could hurt their application.
Jaime knew it was naïve, but he sincerely hoped everything could be pushed under the rug once they figured out that it was either an accounting error or find who had actually stolen the money in the first place.
“Do you still like it there?” Ana asked. She’d been concerned when Jaime had left the big city of St. Louis to go to a tiny Midwestern town like Heron’s Landing, population 250. No one else spoke Spanish—except for some of the workers that came for the harvest—and she’d been afraid Jaime would be lonely, an outsider.
He glanced at the time. He needed to get to work. “Yeah, it’s great. Look, I have to get to work, but email or text me if you have anymore questions about your application, okay?” He grabbed his keys and walked out to his truck.
“Have a good day at work,” his parents said in unison. “Love you, Jaimito.”
“Love you, too. Talk to you later.” He hung up and stuffed his phone in his pocket.
He wondered if his mom had been right in being concerned. He’d also had the attitude that he’d push through any kind of racist bullshit and not stop living his life because of it. But now he was potentially on the hook for a crime he didn’t commit.
He gripped the steering wheel, gritting his teeth, anger flowing freely through him.
If there was anything he hated, it was not being in control of a situation. He could say he was innocent until he was blue in the face, but if no one believed him? It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what he said or did. It didn't matter how hard he worked, or how talented he was. It didn’t matter that he’d transformed River’s Bend into the restaurant it was now.
