Barefoot in the Rain

by Roxanne St Claire

  Gone.

  He shook his head, standing in the bedroom. What had he come in here for?

  Pressing his fingers to his temples with a low growl of frustration, he tried to push the thoughts from the outskirts into the middle of his brain, imagining those little lines and valleys opening to tell him what the hell he had come into this room to get.

  “God damn it!” He punched the doorjamb.

  He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember what he was doing, watching, thinking. Everything was shrouded in fog.

  Frustration popping in every vein, he opened the closet door, hoping to remember. A sweater? Shoes? Something to eat?

  No, no, not here.

  And then he remembered the box.

  In the closet, he pushed the clothes to the side, determined to find his secret box. William didn’t know about this box. The pretty TV girl didn’t know about the box. No one knew about the box he kept inside the safe at the back of his closet. The “safe” was really a door built into the wall, painted over, and almost impossible to see. Good thing, because if it were a real safe, he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to remember the combination. But in that hole in the wall was the big pink box.

  The top was curved and had an embroidered rose glued to it. On the front, a key with a ragged silver tassel rested in the lock, but the lock didn’t work anymore. He lifted the lid and peered inside.

  Two rings. One tarnished necklace. He lifted out the top section and found what he wanted underneath. The picture. Of a man and a girl, sitting in a rowboat.

  The girl was maybe six or seven? He didn’t know. But she was deep inside a shiny silver boat not much wider than a canoe, oars in her hands, long dark hair blowing in the wind as she looked at the camera and smiled, front teeth missing. A man sat behind her, grinning from ear to ear.

  There was a wisp of a memory. The girl’s laughter, her head turning around, a word on her lips.

  Daddy.

  For a long time he just stared at the girl, and something inside him broke off in little pieces.

  Daddy. Daddy.

  “Guy? Are you here?”

  William! He snapped the box closed, shoved it into its hiding place, and pushed himself up, shaking like a kid who’d been caught smoking in the boys’ room.

  “Guy? Where are you?”

  Missy was there, too! A smile shot through him as he pushed his way out of the closet. Wait till she saw how far he got on those flowers.

  “I’m back here in my room, you two.”

  You two. They made a heck of a nice couple, didn’t they?

  “Oh, I’m so glad.” She came in, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. Lord, the girl was a feast for the eyes, even ones as bad as his.

  “We just came to check on you,” she said.

  “I’m fine. Could use a little lunch, though.”

  “I’ll make him a sandwich, Will. You talk to him.”

  As she headed back down the hall, William came into the room, putting one of his big hands on Guy’s shoulder in that way that made Guy feel so safe. There was just no one like his William.

  “You okay, Guy?”

  “Fine, fine, yeah. Why?”

  Will looked at him funny. “You looked flushed.”

  “Me?” He touched his cheek. “I was just, you know, thinking about things.”

  Will guided him to sit on the bed, always so gentle for a big kid. Always so kind. “God, I love you, William.”

  He smiled. “I know, buddy. Listen, I want to talk to you about not letting—”

  “What is this?” Missy stood in the doorway, eyes wide, face pale, a little white card in her hand. “They were here?”

  She held out the card and William took it, looking just as stunned. “Did you talk to this man, Guy?” he asked.

  Did he?

  “What man?”

  “Oh, God.” Missy put both hands to her mouth, a look of panic making her big brown eyes look like giant saucers. “Please tell me you didn’t tell them I’m here.”

  A flash of light popped in his head and he grabbed that thought, standing up, determined to hold on before the clouds came back. “I told them I didn’t know who they were talking about.”

  “You did?” she asked. “You’re sure?”

  Was he? Son of a gun, he wasn’t sure about anything. “I didn’t let them in, I swear.”

  “It’s okay, Guy.” William eased him back to the bed. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  But the girl looked horror-stricken. “You better stay here, Will. I’m going to—”

  “Not alone, you’re not.”

  “But you have to stay with him.”

  A little anger boiled through Guy, firing some synapses that were mostly dead. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” he boomed, pretty loud, because Missy gasped again and took a quick step backwards.

  Then her face kind of froze. “I’m going, Will.” She turned like a soldier and marched down the hall.

  Oh, no! He’d made her mad! “Missy!” he called, jumping up to follow her, a wave of remorse strangling him. “No, don’t get mad! I’m so sorry. I’m sorry!” He choked on the last words, hating that he was about to cry, turning to William for help.

  “Just stay here, Guy. Let me handle this, please.” Will gave him a quick squeeze on the shoulders. “Just wait here and let me talk to her. Please.”

  “She’s upset, William. I hurt her feelings. I yelled at her.” A light flashed in his head again, a pale baby blue this time. A familiar color that reminded him of sadness. “Talk to her, William. Don’t let her leave. I like her. I like her so much.”

  William gave him a tight smile, nodding. “So do I, buddy. Just trust me on this.”

  Alone, Guy counted to ten. Again. And again, and so many times he had to have made a hundred. Then he stood and slowly walked down the hall, where he could hear them whispering in the kitchen.

  Oh, he didn’t want to hear what she was saying. He could just imagine her words: I hate him. I have to leave. I can’t stay with him.

  Where had he heard that before? He squeezed his temples, hard enough to make his head ache.

  But when he walked into the kitchen William was standing next to her, his hand on her shoulder, and she held a phone to her ear.

  “Is she calling someone from her show?” Guy asked.

  William held up one finger, signaling for him to be quiet and wait.

  “Zoe?” she said. “I need you to do me a huge favor, hon. I mean, major huge. Can you come over to my father’s house and, um, hang out with him for a while?” Babysit, was what she meant, but Guy knew better than to argue.

  After a pause, she nodded. “I knew I could count on you.”

  William breathed a sigh of relief and, back in the recesses of Guy’s brain, the blue light faded, replaced by a familiar fog.

  Chapter 11

  Déjà vu teased Jocelyn as Will’s truck rumbled up to the causeway. She closed her eyes, giving in to the peculiar sensation of knowing this wasn’t the first time all these same internal chemicals and external forces synergized into this distinct moment.

  “You okay?” Will asked, reaching over the console to put his hand over hers, his fingertips brushing her thigh.

  She didn’t yank her hand out from under his, but she didn’t turn her palm to hold his hand, either. Even though she wanted to, just for the sheer pleasure and comfort of holding Will’s hand, his blunt, clean fingertips still one of her favorite things to grasp.

  That was part of her déjà vu, too. A big part. After the fear and anger, there was always Will. She looked down at his fingers, the massive width and length of them, the dusting of dark hair, the power of his wrist. Will had gorgeous, masculine hands. And huge. He used to say he didn’t need a catcher’s mitt.

  “Joss?”

  “I was just thinking I’ve done this before.”

  “Ridden over the causeway?”

  Yes, with a desperate determination to escape the thunderous voi
ce and threat of violence ringing in her ears. “Run away from him, wishing I could do something to change… him.”

  “Nature did that for you.”

  She shot him a look. “The old Guy is there, Will, right under the surface. You saw how he yelled at me.”

  “For one little second, Joss.”

  She snapped her hand away. “Don’t defend him. I can take anything but that.”

  He left his hand on her leg. “This really could have waited a day or two,” he said. “I feel like we should have stayed with him instead of calling Zoe.”

  “You could have.”

  “As if I’d let you come over here alone. I just don’t know why we couldn’t wait a few days.”

  “First of all, procrastination is for losers.” She could have sworn she saw him cringe ever so slightly, but she was too focused on making her many points. “Second, the media is going to find me. It’s only a matter of time un—”

  “No, no. That’s not true. We’ll talk to Slade Garrison—he’s got a good crew of deputies—and set him straight. He needs to know you’re in town so he can divert any reporters that try to find you. And he can put an unmarked car or two at Guy’s house and you’ll be completely safe at Casa Blanca.”

  She didn’t say anything, turning to look out at the water instead. Sun danced off the waves and a giant cabin cruiser cut under the bridge, leaving a bright-white wake. Bet it was nice on that boat, lost in the air and salt water. Away from it all. Alone.

  Or maybe with Will.

  “Can I ask you a question, Joss?”

  “Mmmm.” The answer was noncommittal, but she knew him well enough to know he’d ask anyway.

  “You didn’t have an affair with that guy, did you?”

  Oh. She hadn’t been expecting that question—although it was natural and normal and should had been expected. Deep inside, she wanted Will to know she hadn’t. She didn’t answer.

  “I wish you’d say no,” he said softly. “Real fast and vehement, too.”

  “I did not have any kind of relationship with Miles Thayer. But any aspect of my client relationship with Coco is confidential, and I won’t talk about it.”

  He choked softly. “She doesn’t give a shit about protecting your reputation. Why should you care about hers?”

  She turned to him, a question of her own burning. “Did you think it was true?”

  He hesitated long enough for her to know the answer. Damn it. Maybe she hadn’t thought this through enough. She’d sacrificed so much for Coco.

  “I hadn’t seen you for more than fifteen seconds in fifteen years,” he finally said. “I didn’t know what to believe.”

  That was fair, she guessed. “Do you believe it now?”

  “Not if you tell me it’s a lie. I believe you. And honestly…” He captured her hand again, this time holding so tight she couldn’t let go. “You don’t like overrated skinny blond guys who can’t act their way out of a paper bag.”

  She laughed softly. “True.”

  “And nobody can change that much. You wouldn’t sleep with a married guy.”

  “No, I would not, so thanks for that vote of confidence. I wish my clients felt the same way.” Since she’d lost two more that morning.

  “They probably do, but Coco is the one they have to side with because she’s more powerful in the industry.”

  She sighed. Of course Will got it; he always got it. “Yep.”

  He turned his hand and threaded their fingers. “I still don’t see what it would hurt to at least make a statement.”

  “It would hurt her,” she said simply.

  “That’s what’s stopping you? Did you sign some kind of confidentiality agreement?” He turned as he reached a light on the mainland, his eyes flashing blue. “Because a good lawyer could—”

  “No, Will, stop. Respect and professional ethics are stopping me. You need to go right at the next light, I think.”

  “I know how to get there.”

  “You’ve been to Autumn House?”

  “I looked into a couple of places when I first got here.”

  For some reason, that shocked her. Why hadn’t he told her that? “And?”

  “Besides being crazy-ass expensive, they didn’t seem that great to me.”

  “You’ve visited this place already?”

  He shook his head. “Not this one, but others. I did call here, but reconsidered.”

  “I can afford it,” she said quietly.

  “Even if your business is in trouble?”

  There was that. “I’ve saved a lot of money.”

  “What about new business?”

  She shrugged. “I’ll get it.”

  “Could be challenging in L.A. after all this.”

  “I’ve faced bigger challenges.”

  He smiled, shaking his head a little.

  “What? I have.”

  “I know you have. But do you have to be so damn tough about everything? It’s like you have a hard shell around you.”

  She did. “I’ve had that for so long I can’t imagine what it’s like not to have that kind of protection. I’ve had it for… since… a long time.”

  He closed his eyes as if she’d punched him. She leaned forward to grab her bag so she didn’t have to look at him or feel his referred pain. Pulling out the address, she tried to read, but the words danced in front of her eyes.

  “It’s not too far,” she said, forcing herself to read and think about where they were and where they were going. Literally, on this street—not emotionally, in her head.

  “Jocelyn.”

  She ignored the tenderness in his voice, the warmth of that big hand, the comfort it always gave her. “Two more lights,” she said, her voice tight.

  “I know.”

  She cleared her throat as if that could just wipe clean the conversation about protection and hurt and shells she stayed inside of. “So why didn’t you look at this place again?” she asked, grasping at small-talk straws.

  “I decided he needed to be home.”

  The words jolted her. The caring. The concern for a person who had threatened to ruin his life or end it.

  “I can see you don’t like that.”

  “Am I supposed to, Will?”

  He blew out a breath, letting go of her hand to turn the wheel. “I know he’s your dad, not mine, and you resent that I take care of him.”

  Was that what he thought bothered her? That he took care of her father? He didn’t even remember what took them apart. What had left a hard shell around her?

  She had to remember that he didn’t know everything.

  “I just couldn’t sit at my house and ignore the fact that he needed help,” he said.

  Well, they had that in common. Wasn’t that the reason she was in this situation in the first place, with Coco? “You should have just picked up the phone and called me. I’d have taken care of the situation.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  He threw her a look. “Maybe because I felt like I owed you something.”

  Her? What could he owe her? “Me? Why?”

  “Because if it weren’t for me, that… night would have never happened. You wouldn’t have left or you would have come home.” He swallowed, his voice thick with regret and remorse. “I blame myself for what happened that night.”

  “You shouldn’t,” she said simply. “You should put the blame where it belongs.”

  “On you?” He sounded incredulous.

  “No, Will. On Guy Bloom.” She pointed to a large white stucco building set back on a lawn, a simple sign at the parking lot’s edge. “We’re here.”

  When he pulled into the lot and parked, she started to open the door, but he took her hand and pulled her closer.

  “What’s it going to take?” he asked.

  The question and the intense look in his eyes stunned her. “To decide he shouldn’t go into a home?”

  “No.” He reached over and grazed her jaw with
his knuckles, his touch fiery and unexpected and chill inducing. “To break that shell?”

  “I’m sorry, Will. It’s unbreakable.”

  But he just leaned in and breathed his last few words, the closest thing to a kiss without actually touching. “There’s no such thing.”

  “Doesn’t your husband want to come in, too?”

  Outside the director’s office door, Will turned to catch Jocelyn’s slightly surprised look and the color that rose to her cheeks. It was a natural assumption on the woman’s part. They’d never said they weren’t married during the tour, just that they were there for Jocelyn’s father.

  “I’ll wait out here while you talk,” he said, gesturing toward the lobby.

  Jocelyn’s dark eyes searched his, but then she nodded and stepped into the office of the admissions director. Admissions. Like it was a freaking college instead of an old folks’ home with the patently ridiculous name of Autumn House.

  Should be Dead of Winter End of Days House.

  Will had seen enough of their rainbows and happy-face bullshit in the past twenty minutes of walking through the special areas where visitors could go. Nothing he wanted to know would be visible during that surface skim. And the truth wasn’t going to come out behind that director’s door when Jocelyn asked ask more hollow questions like “How often are they fed?”

  For Christ’s sake. This wasn’t a kennel.

  Or was it?

  But he had swallowed all those comments while Bernadette Bowers, director of admissions and patient relations, spewed the party line.

  A year ago he’d visited two similar facilities. Neither one had been as upscale as this place, he had to admit as he cruised through the softly lit lobby of the main house and nodded to the receptionist hidden behind a plastic palm tree. But they were the same beasts: God’s waiting room. With fake plants.

  Maybe this wasn’t the kind of place where they let someone hang in a wheelchair for eight hours, forgotten. Maybe this wasn’t where an old man could rot in bed, forgotten. Maybe this wasn’t a place where someone with virtually no training but a good heart forgot some meds and the results were dire. He got the feeling that Autumn House was better than most of these homes.

  But it wasn’t Guy’s home.

  He pushed open the front door and stepped out to the patio, scanning the manicured grounds, the perfectly placed hibiscus trees, the carefully situated tables and chairs.