Barefoot in the Rain (21 page)

Most mornings he found Guy in front of the TV or working on some craft. Sometimes the old boy was still
asleep and Will made sure he was up and knew more or less what day it was.

And some days, like today, Guy was busy in the kitchen, making his own breakfast, whistling a tune and acting like nothing—absolutely nothing—was wrong with him.

These days baffled Will, of course, but right now it just infuriated him because Jocelyn wasn’t here, seeing just how
normal
Guy was.

Sometimes.

“Good morning, William!” He looked up from the small center island, where he was measuring milk for his oatmeal. “Can I interest you in a heart-healthy breakfast? That Doctor Oz is always yapping about the power of the oat.”

“I’m good, buddy. Just stopping by to see how you’re doing.”

Guy beamed at him. “You are the best son in the world.”

Was he “normal” enough this morning to handle the truth? “I’m not your son,” Will said quietly. “And you know that.”

He braced for waterworks, but Guy’s smile never wavered. “Does the blood matter that much? You’re as much a son as I could dream of having.”

Oh, yeah, he was in good shape today. “Thanks.” Will jutted his chin toward the oatmeal. “And, you know what? I’ll have a bowl of that if you’re pouring.”

The days like this were so rare, and Will didn’t really feel like rushing out of here, leaving Guy alone.

“I was just wondering,” Guy said as he reached for another cereal bowl. “You think that
Clean House
gal’s comin’ back here today?”

“Jocelyn?” Will took a seat at the kitchen table, eyeing the other man. When he was this lucid, Will had to wonder. Didn’t he recognize his own daughter? Didn’t Guy remember Will and the night he’d threatened to end his career or his life?

Didn’t he remember anything?

“Yeah. Do you think, William? I really like her.”

“Me, too,” he admitted.

Guy turned from the microwave before he punched the numbers to warm his oatmeal. “I can tell.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“She’s a looker.”

Will blew out a breath and stabbed his fingers in his hair, the thoughts that kept him awake all night plaguing him. Of course he was still attracted to her. Still lost in pools of brown eyes tinged with vulnerability and a fight for control. Still wanted to take away that control with his mouth, open her up with his hands, get inside her with his—

“Well, would you?”

Will shook his head clear. “Sorry. Would I what?”

Guy chuckled. “Oh, she’s got you good. You don’t even know what day or time it is.”

Will skewered him with a look. “You should talk.”

That made Guy laugh more, smiling as he went about the business of serving them both oatmeal, smug with his ability to be the one to handle the chores today.

After he had his first taste, Will put his spoon down and looked at Guy. “C’mon. What did you just ask me before?”

Guy gave him a look of sheer incredulity. “You expect me to remember that?” His shoulders shook with more laughter. “I’m funny today.”

“Were you always funny?” Will asked, knowing the
answer but wondering what the hell this old man thought he used to be. He didn’t know his own daughter, he didn’t know his own neighbor; did he know himself?

“Can’t say.” Guy slurped his oatmeal. “But what the hell difference does it make? I’m funny now.”

Really, what the hell difference
did
it make? Why couldn’t he get Jocelyn to see that? Not just because she might change her mind about putting the old guy away but because she could forgive him.

And if she forgave him,if she could take that monumental, impossible, unbelievably hard step and forgive this old man who didn’t even remember who he’d been, then she could let go.

Because right now she couldn’t let go of a penny if her fingers were greased, let alone a lifelong hate match she was determined to win.

Until she let go, she couldn’t do anything that he had been thinking about doing all night.

“You look mighty serious, William.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“ ’Bout Missy?”

He smiled. “Yeah.”

“You got it bad, boy. Oh, I know what I was going to ask you!” His whole face brightened.

“What?”

“Why aren’t you married?”

He flinched a little at the question, thrown like an unexpected knuckleball that bounced off the plate and into the dirt. “I was,” he said. “I’m divorced.”

Guy nodded, scraping his spoon around a nearly empty bowl. “I was married.”

Will stayed very still. “I know.”

“Her name was Mary… Beth.”

“Jo,” he corrected, and Guy looked up with a shocked expression. “Mary Jo,” Will added. “Not Mary Beth.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Will stood slowly, picking up his bowl, watching for signs that Guy was about to lose it. Some conversations just sent him over the edge of frustration because he wanted to remember and couldn’t.

“Bet she was pretty,” he said softly. “That Mary Jo.”

“She was.” He rinsed the bowl and opened the dishwasher. “Do you want to know something about her?”

When he didn’t answer, Will turned to see Guy very slowly shredding his paper napkin into long strips, concentrating with everything he had, his thick fingers shaking a little.

“Do you, Guy?”

He looked over the napkin at Will. “I saw a show about
papier mâché
. Did you know that’s a French word?”

“I guess.” But how did Guy know that and not his own wife’s name?

“I think I’m going to try that.”

“Do you want to know about Mary Jo?” Will insisted, a burn of frustration stinging his gut.

“Don’t know any Mary Jo,” he said, then he balled up the napkin pieces and squeezed so hard his knuckles turned white. “And I don’t want to.”

And, just like that, Guy’s moment of clarity was over.

“I gotta go, buddy,” Will said, crossing the kitchen to take Guy’s bowl. “I’ve got to run a few errands in town before I head to work. You going to be okay?”

“Who, me? I’m fine, William. Just fine. I’ll see you at lunchtime.”

“There might be a sheriff’s cruiser in the neighborhood,” Will warned.

He pushed up. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a celebrity now because of that television show.” He chuckled. “Hope that Missy comes by later to see me.”

He shuffled away, his bedroom slippers tapping against the linoleum, a sound as heartbreaking as anything Will had ever heard.

Serenity hung over Barefoot Bay like the lone pelican that hovered over the still Gulf waters looking for breakfast. Morning on this beach was beyond divine, silent but for the soft breaking of the surf and the occasional cry of a gull, perfect for an hour of yoga before a day of—whatever the day would hold.

Jocelyn dug her toes into the morning-cool sand and tried to conjure up a mental to-do list. There was little she hated as much as an open day.

Okay, she could visit more homes. Or she could pack more of Guy’s boxes. She could always help Tessa garden or go find Zoe for some shopping or—an unwanted chill danced over her. She could find Will.

Which was all she really wanted to do.

A bolt of frustration pushed her across the beach, closer to the hard-packed sand where she could begin her stretching exercises. Find the source of frustration and eliminate it, the inner life coach demanded.

Will, of course. He made her frustrated and needy and out of control. A few stolen kisses and Jocelyn’s much-ignored libido had kicked into overdrive, torturing her with thoughts of his hands and his body and his—hands.

But it wasn’t just Will. She felt lost, somehow.
Disconnected from a business that had occupied her brain every waking minute, distant from a city she mostly loathed but had managed to call home.

It was no wonder she felt out of sorts and lost.

As she approached the water’s edge, two sets of footprints pulled her attention. Fresh, deep, one large, one much smaller.

The footprints of a couple walking side by side down the beach.

Jocelyn placed her bare foot in the smaller set and followed the steps, headed south, with the lapping waves on her right. The footprints continued for about a hundred feet, then turned toward the water.

This couple had gone for a morning swim together.

For a moment she stood and stared at the horizon, imagining what it would be like to be that free, that much in love. The smell of salt and sea hanging heavy in the morning air, in the arms of a trusted man, giving yourself so completely.

The ache that took hold of her engulfed her full body, and it was not just sexual.

Jocelyn ached for love.

She let the next wave wash that thought away, following the footsteps when they continued about forty feet away, knowing exactly whose footsteps she was walking in. Of course they took her right to the construction trailer.

She stepped up to the door of the trailer and tapped lightly. “Any owners in here?” She pushed the door just enough to get a peek of Lacey and Clay, kissing at the coffee machine in the front reception area. They turned, both sporting soaking wet hair and satisfied smiles.

And Jocelyn ached some more.

“Joss!” Lacey said, a flush on her cheeks. “You’re up early.”

“Not as early as some of our resident swimmers.”

They laughed and shared a look. “We take a dip every morning on the way to work,” Clay told her. “Probably won’t be able to do that soon, so we’re taking advantage of it.”

“You know, when the guests come it’ll be awkward,” Lacey said quickly.

“You don’t wear suits?” Jocelyn asked, fighting a smile.

“They’re optional.” Clay winked at her. “Want some coffee?”

“I was going to do a little yoga on the beach, but I could stand a cup. Black, please.”

Clay grabbed a mug from the makeshift shelves by the coffee station. “Lacey was just saying the other day that we should have morning yoga on the beach,” he said. “Our guests would love that.”

“Or suit-optional swimming,” Jocelyn teased, taking her coffee and giving a mock toast to Clay. “They’d love that, too.”

“Here’s what they’re going to love,” Lacey said, waving Jocelyn to the wobbly card table where she unfurled a set of blueprints. “Wait until you see these, Joss.”

A few minutes later, Jocelyn was still studying the plans and still speechless with admiration.

“Isn’t my husband talented?” Lacey asked, the question directed to Jocelyn but her smile beaming to Clay.

“It’s a team effort,” he said humbly.

But it was a fact. He may be attentive and sweet and
attractive, but the man was a stunningly gifted architect, and the plans Jocelyn had just perused proved that.

“This spa and treatment center is unbelievable,” Jocelyn agreed. “Mimosa Key has never even dreamed of anything this glorious. I love how high-end it is but how natural and even simple it feels.”

“That’s the whole goal of Casa Blanca,” Lacey said. “Simple luxury in the arms of mother nature.”

“Hey.” Jocelyn snapped her fingers. “Nice tagline.”

Clay ambled over to glance at the plans, still sipping coffee. “We have buildings to finish, roads to lay, and a whole hell of a lot of details before we can get to the fun stuff like taglines and holistic spa centers.”

“You’ll get it done,” Lacey said, pride and certainty in her voice.

Jocelyn looked up from the blueprints. “Oh, the confidence of true love.”

“I know, right?” Clay laughed, rounding the desk where he worked. “It worries me, though. The higher they go, the harder they fall.”

“You’re not going to fall,” Lacey said before turning to Jocelyn. “He’s got the financing figured out and he’s found these amazing deals on everything we need. The subs love him.”

Clay lifted his booted feet and dropped them on his desk, grinning at Jocelyn. “My wife forgot the walking-on-water part,” he said with a self-deprecating eye roll. “And speaking of the subs, I missed my villa carpenter yesterday. Is he going to be back or are you two off gallivanting around Naples again today?”

“They weren’t
gallivanting
,” Lacey corrected. “Were you?”

“We looked at an assisted-living facility for my father.” And then there was a wee bit of gallivanting. “I can go on my own if you need him. I really don’t want to be the one to slow down progress on this.” She gestured toward the plans, but Lacey moved the blueprints away.

“If you need him, take him,” she said. “We’ll be fine.”

Clay made a face that said they wouldn’t be fine at all. “You’re really getting soft, Lace,” he said with a smile.

Lacey smiled back. Jocelyn had the distinct feeling that there was a serious silent conversation going on and she definitely did not speak the secret language.

“I’ll do some more work down at my father’s house today,” Jocelyn said. “I can go visit some of the other places tomorrow. It’s just that Will wants to go. He’s so…” She shook her head and smiled. “Invested.”

“He cares about your dad,” Clay said. “I’ve picked that up in things he’s said.”

Jocelyn cast her eyes toward the plans, not wanting to respond to that statement. She didn’t have to look up to know Lacey and Clay were silently communicating again.

Let them. They didn’t understand; they didn’t know the whole story. Nobody did.

Well, a few people did. Unlikely people. Charity Grambling. Coco Kirkman.

“The thing I like about Will,” Clay said slowly, taking his feet off the desk so he could lean forward to make his point, or maybe just to get Jocelyn to meet his piercing blue gaze. “Besides the fact that he is one of the most meticulous and talented carpenters I’ve ever met, is that he’s, you know, full of heart.”

The words, for some reason, stabbed at Jocelyn’s own heart. That was just so true—and so scary. Jocelyn wasn’t
full of heart. Her heart was closed, firm and tight, and Will’s was wide open and giving.

He deserved someone who could love him the way he loved, and that would never, ever be her.

“Was he always that way?” Lacey asked Jocelyn. “I mean, when I knew him as a teenager, he was just that superstar baseball player who was going to be the next Derek Jeter.”

Jocelyn smiled. “ I guess he’s always been an emotional guy. Played baseball with heart and now he builds villas with heart.” And kisses with heart.