As he did, he happened to look at Charity’s four-legged stool, and the pile of newspapers and magazines behind it.
Not just any newspapers and magazines. Tabloids.
He leaned closer, getting a better look. On top of the stack, Jocelyn’s face was as clear as it had been in his fitful sleep last night.
A stack of tabloids nearly six inches high. They weren’t sold out; she’d taken them off the racks.
Why?
He’d known Charity Grambling since he was a kid, bought gas for his first car at the Super Min, and snacks on his way home from baseball practice. As long as he’d known her, she’d never veered off track from what she was: a know-it-all, greedy, meddling, opinionated troublemaker who considered herself the law and last word on Mimosa Key.
So something wasn’t right. And that couldn’t be good. Not if Charity Grambling was involved.
She came back in, a sour puss deepening the lines on her face.
“Not like you to hide from the spotlight,” he said, pocketing his change.
“That’s not the spotlight,” she said gruffly, heading back to her counter. “Those idiots are just… liars.” She slipped behind the counter and closed the top, securing herself—and her stash of tabloids—again. “What are you looking at?” she demanded.
“I’m just wondering about those magazines, Charity.”
He could have sworn she swallowed. “What magazines?”
He indicated the empty rack. “The ones that are, you know, sold out.”
“Why are you so doggone interested?”
“I’d like to buy one. When will you have some to sell?”
“ ’Bout the same time I get your precious original-flavored Gatorade,” she growled, waving to the door. “You better get to work, Will. The Eyesore on the Beach isn’t going to build itself.”
“Charity, I—”
“I’m not in a talking mood, Will, or didn’t you notice?”
“I noticed. I noticed plenty. Like what you said to those men.”
“Don’t you be talking to them,” she warned, pointing one of her crimson talons at him. “We don’t need those busybodies sniffin’ all over Mimosa Key.”
“No, we don’t,” he agreed. “We have our own busybodies, thank you very much.”
She had the good humor to laugh. “Hell, yeah. This town ain’t big enough for more than one busybody, don’t you forget it.”
“Not about to, ma’am. And, uh, thank you.”
She just nodded, her mouth uncharacteristically closed.
Outside, the men had driven away but Slade stood next to his sheriff’s car talking to a young woman Will recognized as Gloria Vail, Charity’s niece.
For a minute, Will considered enlisting the deputy’s help to protect Jocelyn, but after what he’d just witnessed, he wasn’t sure whom he should trust or why.
Either way, Jocelyn needed to know the enemy was on the island.
The mosquito netting around the bed wasn’t really necessary on a cool November morning, but Jocelyn drew it closed anyway, cloistering herself in the white gauze while she tapped her laptop and researched her options for assisted-living facilities.
She focused her search on the neighboring mainland towns of Naples and Fort Myers, resulting in a number of options. Just as she clicked through to the second Web site, she heard a man clear his throat.
“You decent in there?”
Will. Just the sound of his voice made a quick electrical current shoot through her.
“Define decent. I’m dressed.”
She could have sworn she heard him tsk in disappointment. “You taking visitors?”
Outside the netting, she could see him leaning on the jamb of one of the french doors, his familiar, masculine scent suddenly so out of place among the lingering aroma of herbal incense Tessa had sworn would make her sleep better.
Tessa had been wrong.
“You can come in,” she said, leaning across the bed to push the sheer curtain open. “I’m working.”
He smiled and, damn, if all the sunshine outside didn’t pour right into the room. His eyes looked as blue as the sky behind him, his sizeable body suddenly taking up all the space in the room. “Nice office.”
“Isn’t it?”
He drew the curtain back a little farther, that soapy, sunny Will scent crazy-close now. He wore a white T-shirt that wouldn’t be as clean by the end of the day and ancient khaki cargo shorts, and held a work belt in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.
“You better have two of those,” she said, eyeing the coffee. “I can’t get an answer at room service to save my life.”
He laughed at the joke and held the cup out to her. “Lacey’s in a roofing meeting, I’m afraid.”
She took the coffee and sipped, raising her eyebrows. “Whoa.” She swallowed and made a face. “Super Min?”
“Some things never change.”
“Come on.” She patted the bed in invitation. “You’re going to find out what I’m doing on this computer sooner or later.”
Setting his tool belt on the floor, he sat on the edge of the bed to check out the computer screen. “I hope to God you’re not at the TMZ Web site.”
She almost choked. “I’m not a masochist, Will. Why, have you been there today? Is there new dirt online?”
He took a slow breath as if he wanted to tell her something, then shook his head, indicating the computer. “What’s that?”
She turned the screen. “The Cottages at Naples Bay.” She clicked to the next site. “Summer’s Landing.” And the next. “Palm Court Manor.” And the last. “Esther’s Comfort.”
He held up his hand to stop the next click.
“I like the sound of that one,” she said. “But I can get into one called Autumn House later today.”
“Into one today? You’re moving him today?” He couldn’t keep the dismay out of his voice.
“No, I meant into one for an interview. Placement is much harder and most of these homes have a waiting list.” Which she’d bet some cash could shorten.
He pushed down the laptop screen and gave her a direct look. “Why are you in such a hurry?”
“Because I long ago found that if you do the most distasteful tasks the very first thing in the day, they’re done. I’ve extended that strategy to my everyday life. The longer I sit on this—”
“The more chance you might change your mind.”
She just shook her head. “I’m not going to argue with you, Will. I’m going to Autumn House today.”
“Then I’m going with you.”
Not a chance. “No, thank you.”
“You can’t go alone.”
She frowned at him. “I most certainly can, but if I need company, I’ll get one of my friends.”
“I am one of your friends,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”
“You have to work.”
“I’ll… call in sick.”
And he would, too, she just knew it. Then she’d be with him all day, too close for comfort as he launched his campaign against her plan. No, that would never work. “Will, you can’t go with me and that’s that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll distract me.”
He lifted his eyebrows as if that amused and didn’t surprise him.
“And you’ll try to talk me out of my plan.”
“You need me there and I’m not backing down.”
Damn the little thrill that went through her. Did he want to be with her that much? Did the idea of that have to feel so good? “I do not need you there.”
“Anyway, you need a bodyguard.” His serious, even ominous expression erased any little thrills.
“Oh, Lord. The media found me.”
He put a hand over hers. “Not yet, but they’re looking.”
“They’ve been to Guy’s house?” For some reason, that terrified her more than if they’d found her.
“No, I don’t think so, but we should get down there and warn him n
ot to open the door to anyone.”
“Then how do you know?”
“They came into the Super Min.”
She gasped softly. “Was Charity there?”
“Yeah, and she not only didn’t talk to them, she kicked them out on their asses and made sure Slade Garrison knew not to give them any information. So Charity’s either overdosed on her nice meds or something is up.”
Neither one. But she wasn’t about to tell Will the real reason behind Charity’s behavior. Some secrets would last forever.
“Not only that,” he continued, “she hid the tabloids.” He shook his head, baffled. “I’ve never known her to not exploit every possible opportunity to gossip, and this was on a national scale.”
Of course he’d think that. Most people would. But most people didn’t know Charity Grambling like she did. “Who was it, TMZ?”
He nodded.
“Bottom-feeders,” she said, lifting the computer screen. “Let me call these places and make appointments with every one of them.”
“Let’s just start with one, Joss,” he said. “Let’s go see one. Together. Let’s find out if it’s the right thing to do. And I can tell Lacey I won’t be gone all day, which will make her happy.”
“And I can work on Guy’s mess this afternoon,” she agreed.
“And we can have dinner together tonight.”
She drew back. “Why?”
“We still need to talk.”
“We’ll have all afternoon to talk.”
He put his hand over hers, so warm and big and familiar. She couldn’t help looking at it, at how his fingers eclipsed hers, at how strong and capable that hand was.
“We have fifteen years to catch up on,” he said. “That’s going to take longer than a trip to Naples and back.”
She opened her mouth to argue, to turn him down, to put up the wall she had first erected on that horrible night in his loft and promised herself she’d never, ever tear down.
But nothing came out.
And then she nodded.
“Is that a yes?” he asked, his eyes dark blue with hope.
Another nod, still not completely sure what she’d say if she opened her mouth.
“I just want you to forgive me,” he said.
For a second, she wasn’t sure she understood. “Forgive you?”
“For never calling, for never finding you, for never making sure fifteen years didn’t pass without… us…”
His voice trailed off but it didn’t matter; her pulse was thumping so loud she could hardly hear him.
“Will,” she whispered, “I’m the one who made sure all that time passed. I wouldn’t have returned your call and I figured… this was better.”
“Better?” He gripped her hand, picking it up, bringing it to his lips and holding her gaze. “Better for who?”
“For you.”
He closed his eyes and kissed her fingertips. “It wasn’t better for me.”
Her heart folded in half, smashed by regret and, damn, hope. Maybe an afternoon with him would squash that for good.
Or maybe it would make her hope for more. There was only one way to find out.
Chapter 10
Why did that dang thread always get stuck on the up-loop? Guy pushed his glasses up his nose and angled the hooped plastic mesh toward the window to get a good look. Not that the artwork could look good. No, this was one messy piece of needlepoint.
Maybe William would show him that little movie on the computer again with the lady who explained this needling to children. That had really helped.
With a sigh he studied the whole project again, letting his eyes unfocus so he could appreciate the shape and colors of the flowers and not the bumps and lumps of his mistakes. He’d gotten half a petal done since yesterday and then he’d lost interest. Why couldn’t he stay with one thing long enough to finish it?
Same thing with his memory. Stuff disappeared as quickly as it showed up, always with those flashing lights like on a Christmas tree, teasing him in color so bright and bold then fading to black and white, before they disappeared altogether into gray nothingness.
But ever since that girl landed on his front porch, a few lights were coming on. And staying on. Threads of memories wrapped around his broken brain like it was this plastic embroidery net, then the colors almost caught, and, boom, they were knotted in shadows again.
Still, when he looked at her something deep in his gut stirred.
He knew her. And not just from the TV.
That was the thought that kept getting tangled just like this silky orange yarn.
He knew her. Was that possible? He had carefully lined up the needle and was ready to push it through the hole when the doorbell startled him and the needle jumped out of the spot.
“Son of a gun!” No Girl Scouts sold cookies at this time of day, so he hoped it wasn’t some salesperson, ’cause he wasn’t buying. He had enough junk in this place.
He pushed up, setting down the whole frame and embroidery panel on his chair, then rounded the decorative brick divider to get to the front door. Standing on his tiptoes, he squinted at two men, not recognizing either of them.
“Yeah, what is it?” he called.
“Mr. Bloom? Mr. Guy Bloom? Former deputy sheriff of Mimosa Key?” He was the former sheriff, he knew that for a fact. Didn’t remember a blasted thing about it, but William had told him, so it must be true.
“What can I do for you?” he asked. Wait a second! Could these be people from the show? Where was Missy? Shouldn’t she be here? Dang, she might get in trouble for showing up so late, and he didn’t want that to happen. “You with the TV show?” he asked.
He saw them look at each other, one with kind of thinning hair holding something black in his hand, the other with those horn-rimmed glasses and hair that women used to call “frosted.” Which looked kind of ridiculous on a man, if you asked him.
“Yes, and the Web site.”
Did Clean House have a Web site? Of course, you old coot. Everybody and his cousin was on the stinkin’ computer.
“Can we talk to you a minute, Mr. Bloom?”
“About the show?”
After a beat, the man said. “About Jocelyn.”
That was her name, even though Guy could never remember it. He’d heard William call her “Joss.” But he didn’t know where she was, and what if they came in here and didn’t like him as much as she did? What if they looked around and didn’t see the potential or had someone with a messier house and kids? They loved kids on that show.
The only thing he could do was play dumb. A little smile lifted his lips. Like playing dumb would be any challenge.
“I don’t know anyone named Jocelyn,” he said, his hand on the dead bolt, holding it firmly in the lock position. “Sorry.”
“Your daughter, Jocelyn,” he said.
Something stabbed his heart, not too hard, not as sharp as that embroidery needle he’d just been holding, but he felt the jab just the same.
“I don’t have a daughter. I have a son.”
He lifted up on his toes to catch the two men giving each other confused looks.
“You aren’t Guy Bloom, father of Jocelyn Bloom? The sheriff said you lived here.”
Wait a second, he was the sheriff. Well, not anymore.
A thin trickle of sweat, surprisingly cold, meandered under his collar, finding its way down his back.
“You got the wrong man. My son is named William and he’s not here. I don’t have a daughter.”
“Are you sure?” Frosty asked.
“What kind of a question is that?” he fired back even though, heck, it was a darn good question. He wasn’t sure what day it was, what street he lived on, or who was the president of the United States. But he kept that mostly to himself, so he didn’t wind up in some nuthouse somewhere.
“Are you positive you don’t have a daughter?” the man demanded, his tone making it clear he didn’t believe Guy.
“I do not have a daug
hter,” Guy confirmed. Suddenly the mail slot opened and a little white card tumbled in.
“That’s my number, Mr. Bloom. If you change your mind, I can make it worth your while to talk. Extremely worth your while.” He waited a moment, then added, “Like fifty thousand dollars worth your while.”
Fifty thousand dollars! Is that how the show worked? “For remodeling?” he asked, imagining just how much money they spent on all that paint and furniture and the pretty blonde girl who reorganized all the shelves and closets.
“You can use it for whatever you want if you give us access to or information about Jocelyn.”
“Why do you want it?”
“No one can find her, sir. And a lot of people want to talk to your daughter.”
“I don’t have…” He picked up the card. Robert Picalo, TMZ. Shaking his head, he slipped the card into one of the open spaces between the bricks, where he used to keep his keys when he could drive.
What a funny thing to remember. For a moment he put his hand on the cool bricks, remembering his keys so distinctly it shocked him. And… a woman. The color in his head was soft and peachy, light and—
“Call me if you change your mind, Mr. Bloom.”
Who was he talking to?
He turned and looked out the little window again at two men. Who were they? Before he could ask, the men headed down the walk, talking and looking around.
Oh, that’s right, he remembered with relief. They’re with Clean House. He grabbed the memory and squeezed so it wouldn’t go away, just as the bald guy picked up the black thing he was holding—was that a camera?
Oh, now they’re taking pictures of the place! Video pictures.
“It’s gonna be fine,” he said to himself, turning around when they got in a van parked on the street. “Missy’ll know what to do.
Are you positive you don’t have a daughter?
The words echoed in his head, making him unsure whether he’d just heard them or made them up.
Maybe he did have a daughter.
On an instinct that he didn’t understand, he ambled down the hall to his bedroom and, in just that space and time, those dang Christmas lights flashed again, burst of yellow. Orange. Red. Green.
Barefoot in the Rain Page 10
