Barefoot in the Rain (18 page)

His jaw loosened as the waitress zoomed over and scooped up the check and money. “Keep the change,” he said without taking his eyes from Jocelyn. “You did?”

“Everything,” she assured him. Everything that mattered, given up one summer evening in a stairwell outside his bedroom.

“I gotta tell you, Joss, whoever he is—or was—I hate his fucking guts.”

He wouldn’t if he knew the truth. “Why?”

“Because I’m jealous of someone you loved,” he said simply. “It should have been me.”

The food thunked to the bottom of her stomach and she actually felt a little sick.

It was you.

“If you felt that way, why didn’t you call me when we went to college?” he asked.

He closed his eyes. “I was waiting for you.”

She tried to smile, but her mouth trembled a little. “I think I see a pattern here, Will Palmer.”

He laughed, tipping her chin with his knuckle. “Damn, life coach, you’re good.”

“Only if you break your pattern, Will.”

“Yeah. Well, I intend to.” The low, sweet promise in his voice reached right into her chest and squeezed her heart.

G
uy slapped the jack of spades on the table and gave Zoe the dearest look she’d seen in—well, since she’d left her great-aunt in Flagstaff, Arizona.

“You old coot,” she said, dropping her remaining card on the pile and shaking her head. “You beat the pants off me in Egyptian Rat Screws. That is not easy to do.”

“I’m really good at cards,” he said, fighting a smug smile.

She leaned on one elbow and pointed at him. “You like older women?”

“I might be dumb but I’m not blind, Blondie. You’re not older than me.”

“Not me.” She laughed, waving her hand. “My great-aunt. She’s pretty hot for eighty… ish. How old are you?”

He angled his head, thinking. “I don’t have a clue.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, he was so
damn sweet. “Well, you’re not her age, I can assure you of that. I’ll go with sixty-five. Still, you’d like Pasha.”

“Who’s Pasha?”

“My hot great-aunt who is, I might add, almost as good as you at the game I just taught you an hour ago.” She marveled at that; for a man suffering from Alzheimer’s, there were still a few sharp cells at work up there.

The doorbell rang and his eyes widened. “Who’s that?”

She pushed up. “No way to know until I answer it. But I hope to hell it’s a reporter.”

“Why?”

She grinned. “So I can channel my inner Meryl Streep.” She peeked through the window in the door and smiled. “They’re back,” she called out. “Stay in the kitchen, Pops. I’ll handle this. Oh!” She turned to him. “What’s your real name? Is Guy short for something?”

“Alexander.” Then he gasped. “Where the heck did that come from?”

She laughed. “Your memory, smarty-pants. Now stay there.” She shook her hair and arms, took a deep breath, and opened the door. “Yes?”

The little bald eagle stepped forward. “We’re looking for Mr. Bloom. For his daughter, actually.”

“Daughter-in-law,” she said. “You found her.”

He frowned. “His daughter, Jocelyn Bloom.”

She let out a full-body put-upon sigh, leaning on the doorjamb and shaking her head. “When are you nitwits going to get it through your head? This is not the man you want, no Jocelyn Bloom lives here, and anything you’re reading in the paper is not true.”

None of that was, technically, a lie.

Baldie wasn’t buying. “We have proof that this is the childhood home of Jocelyn Bloom who lived here with her parents, Guy and Mary Jo.” He lifted up an official-looking paper, and Zoe curled her lip.

“They did live here, like, eons ago. This is the home of Mr. Alexander.”

Again, not a lie. But beady eyes narrowed at her; he was no doubt familiar with the runaround. “Where’s Jocelyn?”

“Beats me, but you guys are barking up the wrong address.”

“She used to live here.”

Zoe leaned forward and flicked a finger at the paper he held. “Your info is wrong. Buzz off and don’t come back or you’ll be facing the sheriff himself. We’re sick of you all.”

“There’ve been other reporters?” A note of worry cracked his voice.

“A few. They’re gone, and so are you.”

She closed the door and instantly another white card slipped through the mailbox hole. Zoe ripped it into tiny pieces and shoved it right back out.

“That ought to keep the creeps at bay for a while,” she said, brushing her hands like she was good and finished and heading back to the living room, where Guy was shuffling the deck for the next game.

“What’s she look like?” he asked.

“Oh, it was a he. Bald and ugly.”

He grinned. “I meant your aunt.”

“Great-aunt. And, trust me, she is—great, I mean.” Zoe dropped onto the sofa across from Guy, giving him raised eyebrows. “So you do like older women?”

“I figure if she’s anything like you, yeah.”

“Aw, you sweet thing.” She started collecting her cards as he dealt slowly and with great precision. “She’s funkalicious for an octogenarian.”

He laughed. “I don’t know what that means, but I think I like it.”

“It means she spikes her gray hair, has too many earrings, and has a weakness for beer.”

“At eighty?”

She shrugged. “Youth is wasted on the young, you know.”

“I’d like to meet her.” He scooped up his cards and tapped the half-deck carefully. “What happens when you put down an ace, again?”

“The other person has three tries to beat it.”

His shoulders sagged a little, a gesture she recognized as one Pasha made when she was just a little overwhelmed at the moment. “Let’s take a break,” she suggested, setting down her cards. “I think I’d rather just talk for a little while. You want more of that delicious tea?”

“Nope, makes me have to pee.”

She laughed again. “I love that you say what you’re thinking. It’s always been a problem for me.”

“It bothers my son.”

His son. “Will?”

He nodded.

“Did it always bother him? You know, like when he was little?”

He considered that, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’d like to work on my needlepoint now.”

Either he couldn’t remember or didn’t want to say. Or didn’t want to lie. Because a thought kept niggling at her: Was it possible Guy really
did
remember the past?

“Sure,” she said, getting up to gather the cross-stitching he’d shown her earlier.

Maybe he did remember who Jocelyn was and maybe he did know Will wasn’t his son. Because what better way to wipe your personal slate clean—especially if it was messy—than to conveniently forget everything you ever did? It was that or just run away when people got suspicious; God knows she knew that trick well enough.

He didn’t strike her as that cunning, but who knew?

She handed him the frame with the thick “training mesh” that a kid would use to learn needlepoint, along with some pearl cotton thread and a needle. “How’d you learn this?” she asked, wondering just how hard it would be to trap him.

“Will taught me.”

“Really? How’d he learn?”

“Computer videos. That tube thing.”

“YouTube.” She watched his hand shake ever so slightly as he pulled the thread through to execute the most basic half cross-stitch. “Will’s good to you,” she said, carefully watching his reaction.

He looked up, his gray eyes suddenly clear. “I love that boy more’n life itself.”

More than his own daughter? “What was he like as a kid? A baseball player, I understand.”

Guy’s eyes clouded up again and he cast his gaze downward. “I don’t recall.”

“You don’t recall or you didn’t really know him that well?”

He refused to look up. “You know, my mind.”

“No, actually, I don’t know your mind. Surely you have a picture of him? His trophies? Where are they?”

“In his house, next door.” He stabbed the needle. “I don’t go over there.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I just don’t.”

“Why not?”

The needle stuck in a hole and he tried to force it, pulling some of the thread and making an unsightly lump. “Let’s go back to talking about your beer-drinking old aunt.”

She leaned forward. “Why don’t you ever go to your son’s house?”

He looked up. “I did once.”

“And?”

“It made me cry.” His voice cracked and his eyes filled and Zoe felt like a heel.

“I’m sorry,” she said, taking the frame from his hands so she could try to undo the tangled stitch. “I shouldn’t have made you talk about it.”

He just shook his head, swallowing hard. “I can’t remember,” he said, wiping at his eyes under his glasses. “But…”

She got the thread through, saving him from that one little mistake on the needlepoint anyway. “But what?” she prompted, handing it back to him.

“But you wouldn’t be the first person to try to prove I’m lying.”

“I’m…” Her voice trailed off as he lifted his eyebrow. Then she just started to laugh. “Shit.”

He grinned. “Shit what?”

“Shit, you and my aunt would really hit it off.”

Smiling, he leaned back and worked on his flowers in silence.

“There’s a marina around the corner, remember?” Will asked as they stepped outside the deli. “Want to go down there? It’s too pretty to—”
Go look at more old-age homes.
“Do anything indoors.”

“Sure.” She slipped the sunglasses on again and tugged at the brim of her red cap. “And we can finish your life-coaching session. You want to?”

“I want…” He reached under the cap and pulled the shades down her nose. “You to take off these stupid things. I can’t see your eyes, Jossie.”

A smile threatened but she shook it off. “I have to.”

“No.” He slid them off and slipped them into his pocket, reaching to put his arm over her shoulders. “I’ll protect you from the roving paparazzi.”

She laughed. “You like playing bodyguard.”

“Who’s playing?” He squinted into the parking lot, then pressed an imaginary earpiece. “The coast is clear. Let’s get Bloomerang to her yacht.”

She smiled up at him, the prettiest, widest, sweetest smile he’d seen from her yet. “You used to call me that.”

“Because you always came back to me,” he reminded her with a squeeze.

She held his gaze for the longest time, the magic that used to connect them so real at that moment he could feel the physical presence of it. “I liked it,” she admitted. “I liked being your Bloomerang.”

“I liked it, too.” His voice was gruff, even to his ears, and he covered the emotion by pulling her into him. She slid her arm around his waist, the most natural, and wonderful, move in the world. She felt small and compact next to him, and he could have sworn she actually relaxed a little.

He led her along the walkway of the strip mall, past a consignment store and a frame shop, his eye on the entrance to the marina at the other end.

“You always were good at protecting me,” she said softly.

The words slowed his step—imperceptibly, he hoped. “Not good enough,” he murmured.

She looked up at him. “Maybe ‘protect’ is the wrong word. You always gave me… security. Safety. Sanctuary.”

He tucked her tighter against his torso. God, he’d tried.

“Safety and sanctuary,” she said, “were what I said I’d be prepared to die for when I was first asked that question in my therapy.”

He wanted to respond to that, to mull it over, but another question popped out instead. “You were in therapy?”

“It’s part of getting a psych degree. Oh, Will, look.” At the marina’s grand arched entrance, she stopped. “It’s like a different place.”

The quaint little neighborhood dock, with its handpainted sign, weathered bait-and-tackle stand, and rotten boathouse, was completely gone. In its place was an expanse of four individual mooring peninsulas, each chock full of million-dollar yachts, cabin cruisers, and high-tech fishing boats. Along one side, a bustling yacht club blocked the view with giant columns and bright orange Spanish tile. A sleek marble marker announced they’d reached
Marco Harbor
.

“Kind of sad to see the little neighborhood marina turned into this,” Jocelyn said as she slipped out of Will’s arm and walked along an asphalt drive that led to the boats.

They headed down the first maze of docks between
boats so big they cast a shadow over them. As Will took Jocelyn’s hand, the squawk of a heron and the rhythmic splash of water against hulls were the only sounds. Some rigging hit a mast, the clang like a musical bell over the quiet harbor, and, in the distance, the steady thump of—

They both looked at each other as the sound of running feet registered at the same instant.

“There she is! Right there!”

They whipped around at the woman’s voice, seeing their waitress jogging toward them holding up a cell phone, a man next to her with a more professional camera.

“That’s Miles Thayer’s lover!”

Jocelyn froze in shock, but Will instantly nudged her forward. “Run.”

They did, taking off down the next hundred-yard mooring, ducking behind a massive trawler, then scooting around a corner to hide.

“Damn it,” she whispered, her breath already tight.

“They went this way!” The woman yelled.