Barefoot in the Rain (6 page)

More specifically, he had to hit Mary Jo Bloom, who took those beatings like she’d deserved them. Of course, with maturity, perspective, and the benefit of a psychology degree, Jocelyn now knew that
no one
deserved that. No one.

Your father has Alzheimer’s.

Not for the first time that morning, she had to ask the obvious: Were his episodes some kind of early sign of the disease? When she’d been home for Mom’s funeral he seemed fine. But maybe the signs were there all along and she’d missed them.

Guilt mixed with hate and anger, the whole cocktail knotting her stomach even more than it had been since she’d seen Will Palmer.

Will
.

She closed her eyes, not wanting to think about him. About how good he looked. How hours on the baseball field had honed him into a tanned, muscular specimen who still had see-straight-through-you Wedgwood blue eyes, a shock of unexpected color against his suntanned skin and shaggy black hair.

God, she’d missed him all these years. All these years that she gave him up so he didn’t have to be saddled with a girl who had a monster for a father and now—

She banged the heel of her hand on the steering wheel.

He
took care
of the bastard? It didn’t seem possible or right or reasonable in any way she could imagine.

Like it or not, Guy was her parent. If he had to be put in a home, she’d do it. But before she could tackle this problem with a list of possible solutions, she had to figure out exactly how bad the situation was and how far gone he was with dementia.

The word settled hard on her heart. She knew a little about Alzheimer’s—knew the disease could make a person cranky and mean. Wow, Guy must be a joy to take care of, considering he’d already been a ten on the cranky-and-mean scale. Why would Will volunteer for the job?

Because Will had one weakness: the softest, sweetest, most tender of hearts. And wasn’t that what she’d once loved about him?

That and those shoulders.

She pressed her foot against the accelerator, glancing at the ranch houses and palm trees, the bicycles in driveways, the flowers around the mailboxes. This was a lovely residential neighborhood where normal families lived normal lives.

Right. Where dysfunctional families made a mockery of normal. Where—

Oh, Lord. Guy was on the porch.

He was sitting on the front porch swing, hunched over a newspaper, his mighty shoulders looking narrow, his giant chest hollowed as if had been emptied of all that hot air.

Looking at him was like looking at something you remember as a child, only as an adult, that something doesn’t seem nearly as big or daunting or dangerous.

Mom had bought that swing, Jocelyn recalled, with high hopes that the family would sit out there on warm evenings, counting the stars and watching the moon.

Fat chance, Mary Jo.

There were no such things as family nights in the Bloom household. And right there, in a faded plaid shirt and dusty gray trousers and a pair of bedroom slippers, was the reason why.

As Jocelyn slowed the car alongside the curb, Guy looked up, a sheet of newspaper fluttering to the ground. He looked right at her, icy fingers of awareness prickling her whole body.

She waited for his reaction, some emotional jolt of recognition by him, but there was none.

Okay, then. He wasn’t going to acknowledge her. Fine. That would make the whole thing easier. It was entirely possible he didn’t recognize her, if what Will said was true.

But her knowledge of Alzheimer’s said he’d be able to remember things that happened long ago but not what he had for breakfast. If so, he must be wallowing in some unhappy memories.

Good. That’s what he deserved.

He stood slowly, frowning now, angling his head, and even from this far she could see his gray eyes looked more like rain clouds than sharp steel, and his hands shook with age, not rage.

“Can I help you?” The question came out hoarse, as though he hadn’t spoken to anyone all day.

She turned off the ignition and opened the door. “You don’t recognize me?”

He shook his head. What was he? Sixty-five? Sixty-six? He looked ninety.

“What do you want?” He sounded
scared
. Was that even possible? Nothing scared the former deputy sheriff.

“It’s me, Jocelyn.” She stepped onto the lawn, her heels digging into the grass like little spikes into her heart.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

“Guy, it’s me.” She wasn’t about to call him Dad; he’d relinquished that title on a hot summer night in 1997
when he threatened to ruin the life of a young man. The same young man who now
took care
of him.

Injustice rocked her, but she kept a steady path toward him.

“Do I know you?”

“You did,” she said.

“You do look familiar.” He rubbed a face that hadn’t seen a razor in quite some time, frowning. “Pretty, too. What’s your name, young lady?”

Had he ever called her pretty? She couldn’t remember. Maybe when she was little, before his violent streaks became the norm rather than the occasional nightmare.

She ran her tongue under her front teeth, a tiny chip on the right front tooth her sacred reminder of just what this man could do.

“I’m Jocelyn. I’m your daughter.”

He laughed, a hearty sound, and another thing she had no memory of him doing. “I don’t have a daughter. I have a son.” He reached out his hand, the gesture almost costing him his balance. “I bet you’re looking for him. He’s out now, but never stays gone too long.”

“You don’t have a son.”

“Don’t I?” He shrugged and gave her playful smile. “I have a sister, though.”

No, he didn’t. He didn’t have a son or a sister—or a
memory
. But suddenly his jaw dropped and his silvery eyes lit with recognition. “Oh my word, I know who you are.”

“Yep, figured you would.” She reached the cement walk and crossed her arms, just in case he had some notion of hugging her or shaking her hand.

“You’re the lady from TV! I saw you on TV!”

His voice rose with crazy excitement, but her heart
dropped. So the Hollywood gossip machine had been making noise on Mimosa Key.

“Didn’t I see you on TV?” He screwed up his face into a tapestry of wrinkles, pointing at her, digging deep for whatever thread of a memory his broken synapse was offering. “Yes, I’m certain of it! I saw you on TV.”

“You probably did,” she said with resignation.

“You work for Nicey!”

Nicey? She slowly shook her head. “No, I’m Jocelyn.”

“Oh, you can’t fool me.” He slapped his thigh like a rodeo rider. “That William. He is the most remarkable young man, isn’t he? How’d he get you here? Did he call? Send pictures? What’d he say that finally convinced you to come and help me?”

“He… told me about your situation.”

“So he did write a letter.” He chuckled again, shaking his head. “That boy is something else.” He reached for her arm, but she jerked away before he could touch her. “All right, all right,” he said. “Let’s just start with a little chat before we go in. Because, I hate to tell you, young lady, you have got a lot of work to do.”

“Work?” She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

“Well, you’d like to talk first before you, uh, get to gettin’?” He bared his teeth in a stained but self-satisfied smile. “See? I’m a fan.”

A fan?

“Sit down here,” he said, indicating the porch swing. “We’ll have a nice talk.” He inched from side to side, trying to look over her shoulder. “No hidden cameras?”

“I hope not.”

He laughed again. Had he ever laughed that much
before? Could Alzheimer’s make a person happier? “You never know, those camera folks can be foxy.”

“Yes, I do know that,” she agreed, following him to perch on the edge of the swing.

Okay, fine. They could play this little game while she assessed just how bad he was and then she’d do what she surely had to do. Put him away somewhere. He probably wouldn’t like hearing that.

Face your issues and solve your problems, life coach. You have an old man who needs to go into a home. You owe him nothing but…

Nothing, actually. Still, she wasn’t entirely heartless.

“Would you like some lemonade?” Guy asked.

“No.” She tugged her crossed arms deeper into her chest.

“Will there be a yard sale?” he asked.

She blinked at him. “A yard sale?”

“To get rid of all my junk.”

Maybe he
wanted
to go into assisted living and just didn’t know how to ask, or how to pay for it. In that case, he wouldn’t give her a hard time. Everything would be nice and easy.

“Well, I guess that’s a reasonable question,” she said, mentally ticking off what needed to be done while she was here. “I suppose we could have a yard sale, although it would be easier just to throw everything away.”

“Everything? Aren’t they sometimes allowed to keep the things they treasure most?”

They? Patients in homes? “I suppose, yes.” She bit back a dry laugh at the very thought that he’d ever treasured anything. He certainly hadn’t treasure his wife and daughter. “What would you like to keep, Guy?”

“Well…” He rubbed his hands over his worn pants, thinking. “I guess my needlepoint and knitting.”

The deputy sheriff of Mimosa Key did needlepoint and knitting? When did that happen? After his early retirement or his wife’s death? “Sure, you can hang on to that stuff.”

“And my recliner?”

Oh, he had loved that throne. Although by now he probably had a new one. “I guess it depends on space.”

“You’ll handle everything or what? You bring in a team?”

“I’m pretty efficient,” she said. “I’ll need a few weeks, I imagine, to get all the paperwork together, but I’ll start the preliminary work tomorrow.” God, this was going to be simple. He wanted to leave. No fight.

And with Guy, that was saying a lot.

“It won’t be hard because I’m all alone,” he said, sounding unbelievably pathetic.

Yeah, and whose fault was that? “That’s… good,” she said.

“Don’t have a wife,” he said sadly, adding a slightly wobbly smile. “I mean, I did, but I can’t remember her.”

Words eluded her. He
forgot
? What he’d done? How much misery he’d inflicted? Did he forget the time he threw an encyclopedia at his wife’s head or poured her favorite cologne in the toilet or—

“If you’re ready to go in, I can make tea,” he said, clearly on a whole different wavelength than she was.

Tea? Since when did he make tea? Oh, he could certainly fling a pot of it at someone who pissed him off.

She would
not
forget, even if he had.

He pushed up. “Come on, then, um… what’d you say your name was again?”

“Jocelyn.” Did she really have to go in? No, she didn’t have to put herself through that. Not yet. She’d go back to the villa, make some action lists and phone calls. That would be so much better than touring her childhood home with the man who ran her out of it.

“Actually, Guy, my work here is done.”

“Done?” He laughed heartily, the strangest sound Jocelyn could ever remember hearing. A real laugh, from the gut. “I don’t think so, Missy. I kind of knew you were coming, so I started cleaning everything out for you.”

He knew she was coming? “Did Will call and tell you?”

“Nah, William would never ruin the surprise.” He pulled open the screen door, then pushed the wooden front door, which was no longer the chipped dark green stained wood she remembered from the last time she was here. This door had been refinished and painted a glossy white.

Will?

Another ribbon of guilt twisted through her, followed instantly by a squeeze of fury. How could Will be so nice to him? After what had happened?

“Come on, come on.” Guy urged, waving an age-spotted hand.

She’d have to go in sometime.

She followed him into the front entry, instantly accosted by the dark punch of miserable memories. The linoleum was the same, yellow and white blocks that covered the entry and led into the kitchen that was oddly placed in the front of the house. That weird exposed brick wall, painted white now, still stood, separating the entrance from the kitchen and living room around the corner.

Without thinking, she touched the shiny paint of the bricks, her hand slipping through one of the decorative openings. He’d thrown her mother against this wall once. She jerked her hand back and took a good look around, into the kitchen, past the dining room, down the hall to the bedrooms.

Holy,
holy
crap.

The entire house was one giant hot mess. Kitchen cabinets were open, vomiting dishes, glasses, cookware, and utensils. In the dining room, the buffet doors gaped wide to reveal empty shelves, but stacks of china and vases and a few tea sets covered the dining room table.

This was what Will called “taking care of him”?

“I know, I know,” Guy said, shaking his head. “I got a little ahead of myself, but it was that marathon they ran this morning.”

Jocelyn finally looked at him, trying to make sense of his words. But nothing made sense.

“Who ran a marathon?”

“On TV! I don’t remember seeing you, though.” He put a hand to his forehead, pressing hard as if he could somehow force his brain to cooperate. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now and… and…” His features softened into a smile, raw appreciation and affection filling his expression. “Oh, Missy. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re going to help me.”

“You are?” She still couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to give her an argument about moving, even if he didn’t have a clue who she was.

“Of course I am.” He reached for her again, this time snagging her hand. He squeezed it between his two fists, all the strength of those thick hands gone now, just weak,
gnarled fingers that didn’t seem capable of the fury they’d unleashed so many times. “I’ve been waiting for you ever since I saw you on TV.”

She blinked, shocked. “You have?”

“Well, I think it was you.” He squirreled up his face again.

“The pictures were blurry, but it was me,” she admitted. “There’s more to it than you see on TV, believe me.”