Barefoot at Midnight (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 3)

by Roxanne St Claire

  “I’m trying to look at this situation from all sides and take my blinders off where you’re concerned. Is that what I’m not supposed to do?”

  “You took your blinders off last night,” he said gruffly, slowly easing her to him. “And maybe you didn’t like what you saw. Now you’re looking for any excuse to push me away. And I don’t want you to do that.”

  She let him press her against him, the solidness of him as warm and appealing as the words. Please don’t be an act. Please.

  “I liked what I saw, Law,” she whispered, holding his gaze. “I think that’s the problem. I liked it too much. I liked it so much I…freaked out.”

  He exhaled as if the words were a balm to him. “You sure did.”

  “Sorry about that, but I’m not sorry about asking you these questions. I have to know. I have to look in your eyes and get the absolute truth.”

  He stared at her, unblinking, as if he were inviting her in. “I did not, in any way, shape, or form, plant that bag that belonged to Jake. I totally overlooked it when I cleaned the place, and you saw it, not me. I also fully expect the DNA test to come back with a match to prove you are his daughter.”

  “Why do you believe that?”

  “Because you do.” He frowned at her. “Don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. I want to. I want her to be telling the truth, because…” She shook her head. “I don’t think I can take another heartbreak of finding out who isn’t my real father.”

  At the crack in her voice, he wrapped his arms around her, the pounding of his heart surprising her. He couldn’t fake that.

  “Nobody wants to break your heart,” he said softly. “Including me.”

  Her throat tightened, and her eyes filled. “I want to trust you.”

  “You can,” he said. “And I want to…” He hesitated as if digging for courage to say something. “I want…more.” He barely breathed the last word.

  “More?” she whispered back.

  He swallowed, nodding slowly, a mix of terror and hope in his eyes. “You make me want more.”

  “More what?” She knew, though. She knew, and the same ripples of terror and hope were making her whole body vibrate.

  “More time. More connection. More…more.”

  A smile pulled at her lips. “More more?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She did, and it scared her and thrilled her and made her feel totally off-balance. In a good way. “I was ready to believe the worst in you ten minutes ago,” she whispered.

  She reached up and touched his face, stroking the unshaved skin, counting the lines that life had given him, falling into those eyes that looked at her like she was…more.

  Not a trophy. Not a toy. Not a conquest.

  “But when I look at you, I don’t see a man who’d connive to win something or break rules to get ahead or lie or cheat or steal or do anything that would be a shortcut to getting what he wants.”

  His expression softened, telling her the words had hit some mark. “Thank you,” he whispered. “You couldn’t have said anything to me that would mean more.”

  They both closed their eyes at the same time, the kiss pulling them together in the most natural way. Law’s lips grazed hers, then pressed harder, as if sealing their quiet agreement of trust.

  Somewhere, in the distance, a high-pitched sound started to whine. No, that was a guitar. Opening notes to a…song. An old song from the middle of the eighties…a haunting chord that made her want to sway into the kiss.

  But he pulled away, frowning. “Now it works?” Law turned and looked at the jukebox, which stood gaping open like a big metal animal about to take a bite. “What the hell?”

  “Pretty song, though,” she said, easing him back for more kisses. “I loved U2.”

  He gave up on the jukebox and smiled at her. “I hated this song. Hated U2. Bunch of whiny boys.”

  She laughed. “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For? This is a great song.”

  “Yeah.” He lowered his face again. “This is a great kiss.”

  It was. Sweet and tender and—

  He jerked away so suddenly she almost cried out. “What’s the name of this song?”

  “He’s singing it now. I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”

  His jaw slackened. “By U2.”

  “Yeah. I had the album. The Joshua Tree. I had every album by U2.”

  “U2. Which is the same as…” He stepped away, his attention riveted on the machine. “That’s what he said, Libby. That’s what Jake said.”

  A slow roll of goose bumps rose on her arms, traveling up to send a shudder through her. “What?”

  Very slowly, he walked to the jukebox, as if he was half afraid of what he’d find.

  “When he told me to find a will,” he said. “He said, ‘you, too.’ Like the words. But maybe he meant a…a letter and a number.” He pointed to the row of bright yellow buttons, the whole alphabet and ten numbers. “It was L5.”

  “But U2 is the name of the band.”

  “Holy shit.” Visibly shaken, he leaned against the frame and looked into the opening of the jukebox. “He said, ‘I still haven’t found…’” He looked over his shoulder. “Was he talking about this song?”

  “And that’s where he put his will?” She darted closer, her heart hammering as she peeked into the machine, seeing an old 45-style record on a turntable surrounded by tubes, wires, a few cloth-covered speakers.

  “This song or the slot where this song resides,” he said, his arm all the way inside the jukebox now.

  He bent over, determined and unable to see exactly where his hand was, his shoulder making the needle slide over the record and screech.

  “Got it!” He bounced back to a stand and produced a business-size envelope so thin she doubted it held more than one piece of paper. “Libby, that night in the hospital. He told me exactly where it was, but…” His eyes widened as he read the front of the envelope.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He looked up at her. “What did Charity say that guy’s name was? The one in the picture with Jake and your mom?”

  “Frank something?”

  “Frank Rice, right?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  He looked at the envelope again, then at her, his expression unreadable. “Libby,” he said softly. “I found a will.”

  She reached for the envelope, but he just turned it around for her to read.

  “A will,” he said. “Not the will.”

  She squinted at the tiny words typed across the envelope.

  The Last Will & Testament of Franklyn M. Rice, Sole Owner of The Toasted Pelican.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Hours later, the restaurant officially closed for business per Sam’s orders, Libby and Law sat side by side in a back booth, facing Law’s laptop. On the screen, Sam spewed yet another endless string of legal terminology at them on this, their fourth Skype session since they’d discovered the will.

  The wrong will.

  Well, possibly, the only will, Law thought.

  The two papers they’d found in the envelope lay in front of them. Sam had a copy they’d scanned and sent him, but theirs seemed sacred somehow, or at least historic. Neither one of them touched the documents very much, but Law made notes on a pad of paper, and Libby leaned very close to him so that Sam could see both of them through the computer’s camera.

  Or maybe she leaned close because she wanted to. Needed to. He certainly wanted and needed the closeness.

  Since they’d discovered the will, there’d definitely been a change, or maybe he’d call it an intensification, in where they’d already been going. Walls down, at least one complication removed, Libby was as close to him as she’d ever been, physically and emotionally.

  Their discovery had changed everything. Everything.

  If it was legitimate, it meant neither one of them could have this restaurant.

  Law’s gaze drifted over the two pieces o
f paper again, one typed on an old-school typewriter with one letter covered in white-out and fixed. The other, on thin creamy parchment, was labeled a Certificate and Deed of Ownership and clearly named Franklyn Rice as the sole owner of the Toasted Pelican.

  And the truth hit Law again. This wasn’t Jake’s business to give away. He never owned the place. According to this will and the deed attached to it, the business belonged to Franklyn Rice and, upon his death, his heirs.

  Well, where the hell were they?

  “This is actually an addendum to another will,” Sam said from the computer screen. “My research team says there was a will filed and administered fifteen years ago for Franklyn Moore Rice wherein his entire estate, except this property, was bequeathed to his wife, Rosalind Rice, who, at the time, resided in Atlanta. She has no known address now, but is not listed in any records as deceased. She’d be ninety-five years old.”

  “But what about his children and grandchildren?” Libby asked. “The will says the Toasted Pelican is never to change family ownership and must be transferred to his offspring or their heirs and…” She turned to read the words again, even though she had to have them memorized by now. “In the case of those heirs not taking ownership, the Toasted Pelican is to be closed and torn down. Until then, the business cannot change names, style, décor, menu, or ownership.”

  With every word, Law understood more and more.

  This was the secret Jake alluded to before he fell into a coma. Not kids, but the fact that he didn’t own the Pelican. This was the reason for his lifelong hatred of lawyers—he was probably terrified of one walking through the door and taking everything away from him. And this was the reason he never changed anything and wouldn’t let Law take over—he wasn’t allowed to by virtue of this document.

  Law dumped his head in his hands and swiped back his hair as snippets of things Jake had said over the years came back. Finally, it all made sense.

  He’d been adamant—to the point of ridiculous—about never changing anything, not a decoration on the wall, not an item on the menu, which was why he kept Law out of the kitchen. He’d run everything with pen and paper and cash. No accounts, no investments, nothing official, nothing that could open up this can of worms and reveal the truth. He ran the business as if it were underground, because, in essence, it was.

  Everything made sense, except…why would he keep that secret? Why not tell Law all those years later and the two of them do something about it? Why hide the proof in the jukebox and not reveal it until he was on his deathbed?

  “What did he think I was going to do?” Law mumbled out loud, quieting the stream of legalese pouring out of Sam’s mouth.

  Libby put a hand on his thigh, giving another comforting squeeze, out of sight of the camera. He put his hand over hers and slid her a quick look.

  He had to stop thinking about himself. Libby was screwed by this discovery. Even if she could prove Jake was her father, he hadn’t owned the business in the first place.

  They were no longer adversaries, but allies, and he didn’t hate that. He kind of hated Jake for being such a stubborn old secret-keeping mule, but he didn’t hate that the giant brick wall between him and Libby had tumbled with one randomly selected song on a jukebox.

  L-5. Maybe Jake was watching down on him after all.

  “I imagine Jake thought you’d continue on as he had,” Sam said, yanking Law from his musings.

  “No, he didn’t,” Law corrected. “He knew exactly what I wanted to do with the Pelican. We’d discussed it at length, but he refused to let me change a thing.”

  “Well, he built a viable business and made a considerable amount of money,” Sam said before leaning forward and adding, “None of which, we assume, was shared with the owner.”

  “So now he’s a criminal?” Law shot back. “For running the guy’s business for, what, forty years? Fifty? When did all this happen, anyway?” The will was dated September 1972, and according to Sam’s researchers—who were damn good—Frank’s last known address on Mimosa Key was sold that same year.

  “Assuming Jake took over or already worked there in 1972, he’s run the business for well over forty years,” Sam said. “Which could be hugely in our favor, unless he ran it illegally.”

  Law squinted at the screen. “Illegally?”

  “We don’t know what kind of arrangement they had,” Libby piped in. “Maybe Jake sent him cash. Maybe Frank told him to just keep what he made. Maybe Frank, who Charity Grambling told us died after years of dementia, forgot he owned the business.”

  Sam moved out of camera range, his voice distant as he talked to one of the legions of associates, interns, and junior lawyers who seemed to do his bidding.

  While he did, Libby and Law shared a look, giving him a chance to see she looked pale, tired, and a little vulnerable.

  “You okay?” he whispered.

  “Spinning.”

  “I know how much you like that.”

  She smiled and nodded. “Everything changed so fast.”

  “That’s not a bad thing, Lib.”

  She angled her head. “Neither one of us gets the Pelican,” she said. “And, hell, another fifteen minutes of kissing and I was ready to go for the Twisted Pelican and put my studio upstairs.” She winked at him, but something inside Law slipped and fell and…hit smack into his gut.

  A seismic shift, that’s what happened.

  The Twisted Pelican. That silly, crazy, off-the-wall idea would be…fun. It would keep them together. It would be the “fair and square” they both wanted.

  A slow, low burn started in Law’s belly as the idea started to take shape. An impossible, irresistible, insane shape, like when he’d put two totally unrelated ingredients in the same pan and magic happened.

  “What were you saying, Libby?” Sam’s question pulled them apart, forcing them to look at the screen where Sam was studying some legal-sized paperwork.

  “I said that Charity Grambling told us Frank Rice had severe dementia.” She glanced at Law. “Remember? It’s possible he flat out forgot he owned the place.”

  “Or hid it,” Sam said, turning a document toward the screen for them to read.

  “What’s that?” Libby asked.

  “Decree of divorce, dissolving the marriage of Franklyn Rice and Rosalind Rice in January of 1973. And I have to say…” Sam gave a smug smile. “I couldn’t have done better for Rosalind if I’d been her lawyer.” He flipped a page. “She cleaned his clock. But she didn’t get any restaurant on Mimosa Key.”

  “So she didn’t know he owned the Pelican?” Libby suggested. “Or she thought he sold it to Jake?”

  “Who would know that?” Sam mused.

  “Charity Grambling,” Law suggested. “She had a lot to say about this guy when she saw the picture, but we weren’t interested. Her memory is pretty infallible.”

  Even with a screen between them, he could feel Libby and Sam somehow silently communicate, like twin language.

  “Yeah, the picture,” Sam said after a moment. “Mom doesn’t think that’s Jake.”

  Law closed his eyes and stayed quiet. It was Jake, but they had enough to discuss right then.

  “Charity might know if there were heirs,” he said as if Sam hadn’t even mentioned the picture.

  “So we can give them the business?” Libby asked.

  “So we can make them an offer.”

  “You want to buy it?” Sam barked.

  Law didn’t reply, watching Libby carefully, gauging her reaction. Did she hear the we or just make them an offer?

  Her eyes widened ever so slightly, a flicker of acknowledgment, followed by the tiniest flush of color. Maybe she heard the we.

  Sam cleared his throat. “Look, let’s not jump the gun here. For now, we still want to be handed ownership. Libby and I do,” he added, slathering a lot of emphasis on that, proving that he caught the we as well. “I have five business days before that hearing. I’ll put my firm investigators on the job to find this woman or
the heirs, if there are any. If I do, then, and only then, will we discuss other legal avenues. I’m filing a motion to recognize concurrency estate management.”

  Libby moaned. “Sam, for crying out loud, English for the blonde, please.”

  “Jake ran the place long enough to make the legal argument that he owned it,” Sam explained. “Think of it like a common-law marriage. Now, I need to research Florida case law, but if no one comes forward to argue this, and we file all the proper notifications and can prove due course of attempts to find the legitimate owners…Jake can get ownership and we’re back to where we were.”

  “So we can still get the Pelican?” she asked, the first note of real excitement in her voice in hours.

  “Assuming Law doesn’t have any more surprises up his jukebox.”

  Law bristled at the implication, but managed to tamp down a response. Under the table, Libby’s fingers curled through his in a silent show of support.

  “Sam, you work on Frank Rice, and I’ll handle this end of the issue,” she said.

  This end being Law. He didn’t say a word, though.

  “I talked to Mom this morning,” Sam said, as if he understood exactly what this end of the issue was—a man they didn’t trust like family.

  Law would have to prove her wrong. And he knew he could do it. Knew he could give her what she wanted and what he wanted. It would take time and closeness and honesty.

  “My mother has some interesting theories,” Libby said, looking hard at Law. “Interesting and, I believe, wrong.”

  “She’s on her way back to Miami.” Sam leaned closer to the screen, directing his gaze dead center at both of them. “I hope for both your sakes that she’s wrong. Because it sure seems like someone pulled a Hail Mary pass right out of the blue—again—and it changed the course of events. Again. What’s next, Law? Proof that this Franklyn Rice is your father?”

  Law winced at the dig. “This will and deed does not exactly play in my favor.”

  “But they did change our legal strategy and could slow things down. As of right now, we can’t walk into that hearing and get ownership of the Toasted Pelican, regardless of what DNA shows or what so-called will you produce or not.”