Barefoot in the Sand

by Roxanne St Claire

  Zoe choked. “Yeah, there’s a lot of that on the Internet. Like he couldn’t get work as a male pros—model.”

  Lacey spread open one of the rolls on the hood of her car. “We’re going to get a lot of con men down here after the storm… so…” Good God in heaven. “We should be…”

  “We should be what, Mom?”

  A slow, prickly chill climbed up her arms, raising the hair on her neck.

  “We should be careful,” she whispered, staring at the simple ink sketch that took everything she couldn’t imagine but felt in her heart and brought it to black-and-white life.

  “Careful of what, Mom?”

  “Jumping to the wrong conclusion.” She stepped back, her hand to her mouth, her breath captured in her lungs, her legs a little wobbly. “Like I just did.”

  “Wow.” Jocelyn leaned over her shoulder. “What do you need to do to get him to build that? ’Cause I’m pretty sure Zoe will do it for you.”

  “I need…” An architect with vision. “A second chance.”

  Chapter 4

  Hey.” Lacey tapped and pushed open the door to her childhood bedroom to find Ashley curled on the bed over her brand-new laptop. The one that had been deemed a “necessity replacement” days after the storm.

  Ashley instantly lowered the screen, looking up with surprisingly bright eyes.

  “You okay?” Lacey had to fight the urge to launch forward, arms out, maternal instinct at the ready.

  “Fine.” With one finger she gingerly snapped the computer closed, shutting down whatever she’d been doing.

  Lacey ran through a list of possibilities. Nine times out of ten, it was teen-girl drama that brought color to Ashley’s cheeks and fire to her eyes.

  “You still want to go over to Meagan’s tonight?” Lacey asked, walking that fine line between privacy and parenting. Most of the time privacy won, because if anyone knew firsthand what a meddlesome mother could do to a teenage girl, it was Lacey.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “What’s going on, then?” And sometimes parenting won.

  “Nothing, Mom. I’m just Facebooking.” Evidently, that was a verb now.

  “Anyone special?”

  “No.” She scooted off the bed. “They’re waiting for me at Meagan’s. Can we go now?”

  “Absolutely.” Lacey jangled her keys. “Zoe and Tessa and I are going to drop you off and go out to dinner.”

  “Not Jocelyn?”

  “She wanted to stay at the hotel.”

  As Ashley scooped up a turquoise Hollister tote bag—another post-storm necessity—and grabbed a pillow from the bed, she threw a dubious look at Lacey. “Why does she come all the way across the country to see you and hole up at some hotel?”

  Good question. “You’ve seen the Ritz in Naples. Hardly ‘some’ hotel.”

  “But, Mom, I don’t get it.”

  Neither do we, Lacey thought. “You know she grew up here and her mom died a while ago, so she has sad memories of this island.” Before a more elaborate explanation was required, Ashley’s cell phone vibrated and took her attention.

  She read, and shrieked. “Oh my freaking Gawd!” Her fingers flew over the screen.

  “Ashley, don’t talk like that.”

  “Tiffany says Matt’s breaking up with Cami Stanford! It’s totally over!” She clicked more, the text winning over an explanation.

  “Tiffany? Tiffany Osborne?” The one who was caught with pot in her locker in eighth grade? “Is she going to be at Meagan’s tonight? I didn’t think they were friends.”

  “Maybe I have a chance with Matt now.”

  Lacey tensed. “Have I met Matt?

  Ashley put away her phone and gave Lacey a look that said it all. Back off, Mom. And because her own mother never had, Lacey let the conversation go as they piled into Lacey’s car and headed toward Meagan’s house.

  “Would you look at that?” Zoe mused as they cruised through town.

  “Look at what?” Lacey asked.

  “Interesting,” Zoe said, sliding a look to Tessa that Lacey didn’t quite get.

  “What’s interesting?” Lacey pressed.

  “Just that little place with the drunk-looking bird on the front. It’s cute. Let’s have dinner there.”

  “The Toasted Pelican?” Lacey shook her head. “No way we’re going there. They have sucky bar food. I think we should either go to South of the Border for Mexican or see—”

  “I want to go to the Toasted Pelican,” Zoe said. “It looks like fun.”

  “It is, if you want to get drunk and meet locals who live, breathe, and sleep fishing.”

  “Maybe you’ll meet a nice guy, so I want to go there.”

  “Mom doesn’t date, Aunt Zoe,” Ashley told her. “But if you go to South of the Border will you please get me a doggie bag of enchiladas? They rock.”

  “Why doesn’t Mom date?” Zoe asked pointedly, turning around in the passenger seat to look at Ashley.

  “Because she—”

  “Because she isn’t interested in any of the men on this island,” Lacey interjected, watching the yellow light at Center Street, ready to roll through it. “And my nonexistent dating life is not of any interest to my daughter.”

  “Mom doesn’t date because she’ll never find a man like my dad.”

  Lacey’s foot jammed on the brake in shock, jerking them all forward into their seat belts. “Sorry, the light was…” Her gaze shifted to Ashley in the rearview mirror. “Honey, where on earth did that come from?”

  “Truth hurts, Mom.”

  Lacey searched her daughter’s pale green eyes, exactly the color of David’s.

  “That’s not why I don’t date,” Lacey said after a long, awkward pause. “I just haven’t met anyone interesting.”

  “Which is why we’re going to the Toasted Pelican for dinner.”

  “Zoe!” Lacey switched her attention to the other wayward child in the car. “I’m telling you, the food, the atmosphere—it’s not our kind of place.”

  Zoe just lifted one eyebrow. “You might change your mind.”

  Lacey was still too shaken by Ashley’s comment about David—which had happened a few other times recently—to argue over where they were eating. Silent, she took the next left and made her way to Meagan’s house, where three teenage girls were hanging out in the front, waiting for Ashley.

  “Who are those other girls, Ashley?”

  “Meagan’s friends.”

  Lacey took a breath. “I mean, what are their names?”

  “Oh my God, Mom. You’ve known Meagan since I was, like, in preschool. Bye, you guys. Have fun!” She was out before another question could be asked.

  Lacey eyed the group but Tessa gave her shoulder a tap. “She’s fine, Mom. Anyway, they remind me of us at Tolbert Hall.”

  “That’s the problem,” Lacey said. “I know what we did in college.”

  “She’s in ninth grade. Don’t worry.” The girls were headed toward the house, heads close, giggling. “Nothing like a foursome,” Tessa added wistfully.

  Lacey glanced over her shoulder. “Hey, you want to drive to the mainland and surprise Jocelyn? I hate that she’s alone tonight.”

  “She doesn’t,” Tessa said. “You know solitude is like air to Jocelyn. She needs it to survive.”

  “Anyway, we’re going to the Toasted Pelican now,” Zoe said again, this time with little humor and plenty of determination.

  “What is with you?” Lacey demanded. “That place is a dive, the food is greasy, and the wine is watered down.”

  “And an extremely sexy architect who may or may not be officially licensed but definitely appears to have some kind of magic drafting tool just walked in the front door. So move your ass, Armstrong. You got work to do.”

  Lacey’s jaw dropped. She’d told her friends about meeting Clay on the beach and the story he’d given about his experience in the field, but clearly they weren’t dismayed by his lack of qualifications.

  Tessa gav
e Lacey’s shoulder a nudge from the backseat. “C’mon, Lace. You know you want to.”

  “That’s not how I want to talk to him, in some bar. I’ll… call him. After I hear back from his father. And check out his credentials. I don’t know anything about him and…”

  Her voice faded, met by dead silence and “get real” stares.

  “C’mon, you guys. Tonight’s for us. This is our reunion, a chance to catch up and talk, not worry about him and—”

  “Lacey.” The warning came in unison and hit a bull’s-eye. They were right, damn it.

  “You know, girls, sometimes nothing beats a watered-down wine.”

  Zoe held up her fist for celebratory knuckles. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  Clay looked from one woman to the other, still having a hard time remembering who was Gloria and who was Grace.

  The two had flanked him fairly quickly at the bar. They were not-unattractive MILF-y types, late thirties or early forties. Both looked vaguely familiar, but Mimosa Key was small enough that even in his few days here he’d gotten to know some local faces.

  Gloria was the dark-haired one, with thick bangs and big brown eyes, a little younger and more reserved than the other. Grace had frosted hair, a spray-on tan—which struck him as odd in Florida—and, despite the thick gold band on her left ring finger, seemed far more physically aggressive.

  Grace’s first question was where was he staying.

  “Hibiscus Court near the harbor,” he replied, sipping a lukewarm draft and fighting the urge to check out the bar for anyone else he might recognize. Not that he expected Lacey Armstrong to show up in a place like this. He’d come to grill the locals and find out what he could about her, so he forced himself to focus on the women who’d zeroed in on him as soon as he’d arrived.

  “You planning to stay awhile?” Grace asked. “That’s a furnished rental, but I know Chuck Mueller wouldn’t let you sign less than a three-month lease.”

  “I’m still deciding, but I wanted to keep my options open.” He’d signed that three-month lease, but he was optimistic like that. “And there aren’t a lot of other places to stay around here unless I go to the mainland.”

  Grace’s smile widened as she exchanged a look with Gloria. “You just aren’t talking to the right people, hon. I’m the owner of the Fourway Motel.”

  “There was no vacancy.”

  She lifted an eyebrow and gave him a deliberate once-over. “Then my husband must have been working the front desk, and he’s easily intimidated by big, handsome men.”

  He laughed off the compliment. “The Fourway, huh? Interesting name.”

  “If you’re in Mimosa Key long enough, you’ll know what a Fourway is.” She gave him a teasing wink. “My cousin, Gloria, and I will teach you.”

  “You’re going to scare the life out of him, Grace,” the other woman said, giving a dismissive wave. “The Fourway is the intersection of Center Street and Harbor Drive, the historic site of the first traffic light on the island.” She added a shy smile. “There’s a long history on Mimosa Key, you know. Our mothers are the daughters of the first pastor when the island was founded back in the 1940s.”

  “Which explains your names.”

  “And theirs,” Gloria said. “My mother is Charity and Grace’s mom is Patience, and they own the Shell Gas Station and Super Mini Mart Convenience Store, also known as the Super Min, located at—”

  “The Fourway,” he finished for her.

  “You’re catching on,” Grace said as she leaned in close. “There might be a town council, a mayor, and few influential big mouths on this island, but the fact is, we practically run the place.” She trailed a long, white-tipped nail over his knuckles and held his gaze. “So you’d be smart to keep us on your good side if you’re looking for business.” Her finger continued to his bicep. “I assume you’re in construction.”

  “Are you?” Gloria asked. “Because Beachside Beauty, where I work, lost a few windows and the guy who was supposed to install them never showed.”

  “I don’t do windows. I do full buildings.” At their questioning look he added, “I’m an architect.”

  “Whoa.” Grace backed up an inch. “Who’s hiring an architect?”

  No one yet. “Some of the places in Barefoot Bay were demolished and need a full rebuild.”

  “Like what places?” Grace asked. “It’s mostly wilderness, scrub, and mangroves up there and only a couple of old houses.”

  Here was the perfect opening to get some information on Lacey Armstrong. “Maybe not for long,” he told her. “Could be a bed-and-breakfast going up.”

  Grace’s jaw dropped and all the friendliness went out of her eyes “I don’t fucking think so.”

  Clay blinked at the unexpected profanity. “Why’s that?”

  “Zoning ordinances,” she said, shifting her gaze to her cousin to share silent communication. “Nobody can build a hotel, motel, inn, resort, B and B, nothing. Won’t happen. Better look for work elsewhere, Frank Lloyd Wright.”

  Everything in her body language changed; her back stiffened, her nostrils flared, and she downed half a glass of wine in a single gulp. Then she stared at him, all the friendliness gone.

  “Who’s building it?” she asked.

  As much as he wanted to know more about Lacey, instinct told him to keep her name out of it. “One of the residents up there.”

  “Everham? Tomlinson? Who?” Grace asked, her brows knitting as she thought about it. “Surely Lacey Armstrong isn’t going to try to put me—try and build some kind of motel.”

  “But why wouldn’t she?”

  “I just told you.” Grace moved in to make her point, a whiff of bitter Chardonnay on her breath. “Ordinances. Changing them would require approval from the town council, which is controlled by the mayor.” She angled her head and gave him a smug smile. “Who is controlled by my mother.”

  “Really?” Ah, the intricacies of small-town politics.

  “Really.” Grace signaled the bartender. “Need my bill, Ronny.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Clay said.

  But the woman’s look was cold. “Trying to bribe me?”

  “Trying to buy a lady a drink.”

  “We’re done here, Glo,” she said, standing up. “Let’s book.”

  “I’m not ready to leave, Grace.” Gloria gave her some not-so-subtle wide eyes.

  “Yes, you are.”

  Gloria smiled apologetically at Clay. “Listen, if you do stick around and you ever need a haircut, stop by Beachside Beauty. We do men.” She laughed self-consciously at the double entendre. “You know what I mean. Anyway, I’ll cut your hair, but”—she reached up to flutter a lock on his neck—“it’d be kind of a shame to cut this off.”

  Just as she tugged some of the hair he hadn’t cut since the day he’d quit working for his dad, the front door opened.

  Gloria leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Don’t get on Grace’s bad side.”

  At the door, three women walked in, one with copper curls cascading to bare shoulders and a yellow dress cut low enough to steal a man’s breath.

  Well, holy hell. Look what the wind blew in.

  Then all the sounds and smells and sights of the neighborhood bar faded into gray silence as Lacey and Clay’s eyes connected for the space of four, five, six rapid heartbeats.

  It took a nudge from the blonde he recognized as the Jeep driver, but Lacey slowly made her way toward him. Goddamn, she looked good. Shiny, curvy, bright, and beautiful.

  When she reached him she bit her lower lip hard enough to wear away the gloss and leave a little white spot and took a breath deep enough to strain some soft flesh against the scooped neck of her sundress.

  He let his gaze drop there for just a moment before standing and reaching out a hand. “Of all the gin joints in all Mimosa Key…”

  Her glossy lips lifted in a smile that rivaled the blistering sun he’d spent the day under. “You walk into mine,” she finis
hed.

  Oh, man. He’d just met his match.

  Chapter 5

  Lacey couldn’t let go of his hand. Not just because his fingers were strong and calloused, or because just the sight of him made her knees a little wobbly, but because…

  Of all the gin joints.

  He’d quoted her number-one all-time favorite movie. Her movie. “You’ve seen Casablanca?”

  “A dozen times.” He guided her to the stool next to him, empty now that Gloria Vail had scooted away.

  “Really?” She glanced over her shoulder, but Zoe and Tessa had found a table on the other side of the bar, as planned. Lacey was only supposed to get the drinks and casually “bump into” Clay Walker.

  Not sit on a bar stool next to him exchanging movie quotes.

  “Why are you surprised? It’s a great movie.” His leg brushed hers as he sat down and settled too close, sending an electric jolt through her. “At least it would be if they’d changed the ending.”

  “Change the ending? Of Casablanca? Why ruin perfection?”

  “Perfection?” Bone-meltingly blue eyes lingered one more time on the sweetheart neckline of her dress, which seemed summery and safe for a night out with the girls but suddenly felt really sexy.

  “The wrong guy gets the girl,” he said softly. “So that’s not perfection.”

  “The wrong guy?”

  “Rick gave up too easily, if you ask me.” Almost imperceptibly, he moved closer. “I would never give up that easily.”

  For a world-tilting second she forgot what they were talking about. Forgot why she’d come to the bar or what she wanted to say to him. Might have forgotten her own name.

  “So, this is a really nice surprise,” he said. “You a regular here?”

  “I just popped in with some friends.” To tell you I love your sketches.

  “Can you forgive me?” he asked.

  Forgive him? She was the one who’d kicked him off the beach. “For what?”

  “For not liking the ending of Casablanca.” He gave her a slow, easy smile, all deadly and dreamy at the same time. “And for not being my father.”