Meet Me in Barefoot Bay

by Roxanne St Claire

  Gloria and Slade separated and Will put his hand on the door handle. “You want to wait here?”

  “I want to…” Did she really want to do this? Yes. Last year when she’d been here Charity and Lacey had been so wrapped up in legal maneuverings that she’d stayed away from the Super Min. “I want to go in and see what’s up with Charity.”

  “Really? You want to tell the town crier that you’re here? That might be pushing it, Joss.”

  “You go talk to Slade.” She put her hand on his arm. “I’ll handle the other voice of authority on this island.”

  As she started to pull away, he took her hand, keeping her in the truck. “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Not freaked out about what just happened?”

  Did he mean making out on the boat or running from the cameras? Because both of them freaked her out more than she’d like to admit. “No,” she lied. “Not freaked out.”

  “Good.” He tightened his grip and leaned toward her. “Because I’m not done, Jocelyn. I want…” He closed his eyes and blew out a breath, giving her the impression he’d been thinking a lot about this while they’d driven over here. “I want a chance with you.”

  “A chance?”

  “A chance. For us. Again.”

  She just looked at him, then nodded. “I’ll be here a while,” she said. “We can talk while I figure things out with Guy.”

  He smiled. “I might not want to wait for everything, you know.”

  She wasn’t quite sure how to interpret that, but a slow burn low in her belly told her exactly how her body interpreted his words.

  And, honestly, could she spend that much time with Will and not think about sex? Not want it?

  She should put a stop to that right away, shouldn’t she? But instead she stroked his hand and slipped out of the truck without answering, trying to think about Charity but in her mind hearing Will’s words instead.

  I might not want to wait for everything, you know.

  But she had. And what would he think of that?

  She looked over her shoulder in time to catch him crossing the parking lot, moving economically and smoothly, like the strong athlete he’d always been. A whole new wave of longing swept over her, almost as powerful as it had been on that boat. All she could think about was how that body felt pressed against her, his mouth against her throat, his hands—almost everywhere.

  Talk about losing control. Just giving up everything she held on to with two tight fists—if she let herself feel or fall—it could hurt so much more to have to walk away from him this time.

  Pushing back the emotions, she pulled open the door of the Super Min and when the little bell dinged she smiled at the woman behind the counter. “Hello, Charity.”

  Sharp brown eyes squinted into the sunlight of the doorway, and then Charity’s normally sour expression softened, a network of wrinkles breaking into a tentative smile.

  “I hoped you might have the nerve to come and see me this time.”

  Jocelyn took a few steps closer, glancing around the store. Two men with work belts and hard hats were in the back, probably construction crew from Casa Blanca. The rest of the convenience store was empty.

  And so were, she noticed as she walked closer, the tabloid racks.

  “I wasn’t here very long last year,” Jocelyn said as she reached the counter and paused. “But I heard what you did with those reporters and I wanted to come in and thank you.”

  Charity lifted a bony shoulder as if an act of kindness on her part was an everyday occurrence instead of the rarity they both knew it was. “We don’t need that kind of crap on this island.”

  “They might come back.”

  “And my position hasn’t changed. They’re not welcome and I haven’t seen you.”

  Jocelyn put her hands on the counter. “Not the first time you’ve covered for me, is it?”

  Another shrug. “Heard he’s sick,” she said.

  She nodded. “He is.”

  “Good. I worked too damn hard to get him out of a sheriff’s uniform to ever let him get back in one.”

  Jocelyn shook her head. “He’s not capable of doing the job anymore.”

  “He wasn’t back then, neither.” Charity reached across the counter and patted Jocelyn’s hand. “You got nothing to worry about, honey. No stinkin’ reporters’ll get to you if they have to get through me.”

  “Thanks, Charity. For everything.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Honey, you thanked me enough with that loan when Patti got so sick and needed that heart valve replacement.”

  “It didn’t have to be a loan,” Jocelyn said quietly. “I wanted it to be a gift.”

  “Twenty thousand dollars? You gotta be kidding.”

  “I owe you that and more, Charity.”

  She waved. “Keep that to yourself or you’ll ruin my reputation as the Wicked Witch. You think I don’t know what people call me? I live for that shit.”

  The back door popped open and Gloria stepped out of the ladies’ room on the other side of the candy rack, her eyes so bright she might have been crying, except she looked absolutely radiantly happy. At the sight of Jocelyn, her jaw dropped.

  Charity held up her hand. “Don’t say her name, Glo. She’s our little secret.”

  Gloria smiled. “You’re back.” Then she inched back, giving Jocelyn the once-over. “Truth or lies?”

  Jocelyn sighed. She had a special bond with these two women. She trusted them. “It’s not true.”

  “Oh, too bad. My cousin Grace has the hots so bad for Miles Thayer. She’d want every detail.”

  “My daughter Grace has the hots for everyone, that’s her problem.”

  “No,” Gloria shot back. “That’s her husband, Ron’s, problem.” She winked at Jocelyn. “See? Some things never change on this island. I’d love to talk, Jocelyn, but Slade’s off work and we’re going out.”

  “Did you tell your mother you’re going to be out tonight?” Charity asked, referring, of course, to her sister, Patience Vail, Gloria’s mother and the recipient of Jocelyn’s secret loan a few years ago.

  Gloria bit her lip. “Aunt Charity, I’m in my thirties.”

  “Not too old to tell my poor sister when you’ll be home.”

  “Later,” she said, slipping past Jocelyn, giving her a smile. “Nice to see you again, Jocelyn.”

  As the bell rang with Gloria’s exit, the two construction workers came up with armloads of soda and chips.

  “I better go,” Jocelyn said.

  “Just you wait,” Charity ordered, ringing up the men first. “I have to tell you something.”

  Jocelyn turned, not wanting to make eye contact with the strangers, picking up a copy of the Mimosa Gazette, her gaze on the headline. New Roads to Be Approved for Barefoot Bay.

  So Lacey was making headlines in the Mimosa Gazette, she thought with a smile. Good for her. When the men left, Charity pointed at the paper.

  “I was going to fight that resort, you know.”

  “Of course you were.”

  “But that damn Clay Walker came up with a way for that road to have another Shell station that we can get the franchise rights to. We’d have two gas stations in north Mimosa Key and I’d own them both.” She grinned. “How could I fight that?”

  “You’re going to be very glad when Casa Blanca is finished,” Jocelyn told her.

  Charity looked skyward, like she hated to admit it. Then she crooked a finger to get Jocelyn closer, lowering her voice even though the convenience store was empty.

  “How sick is he?” she asked.

  “Pretty bad. I’m going to put him… somewhere. Not sure where, though.”

  “Check hell. I heard there’s plenty of vacancies.”

  Jocelyn smiled.

  “He meets the criteria,” Charity insisted. “And if the devil needs a referral”—she leaned even closer to whisper—“I still got them pictures.”

  “You do?”

&nbs
p; “’Course. They’re in a safe-deposit box down at the credit union. They’re yours if you want them. I’m keeping them just in case, you know.”

  “Just in case of what?” The thought of those pictures still being around made Jocelyn a little nauseous.

  “You know, if he ever tries anything again.”

  She shook her head. “He won’t. He’s freakishly changed. Nice, even.”

  “I heard a rumor to that effect. And you can bet those pretty diamond earrings you’re wearing that I didn’t repeat that rumor, ’cause I spread the truth.”

  “It’s true he’s sick and—nice.”

  She snorted noisily. “You know what they say about a rat-bastard wifebeater and his spots.”

  “Shhh.” Jocelyn closed her eyes.

  “Well, it’s a fact. And I don’t regret for one minute what I did, young lady. Call it blackmail if you want, but that man was a disgrace to the uniform and a terror to his family.”

  There was no way to argue that.

  “But the pictures are yours if you want ’em.”

  Did she? She could destroy them. Or use them to remind her of why she couldn’t get all soft inside where Guy was concerned. “Yes, I do,” she said. “I want them.”

  Charity nodded. “Fine. I’ll get them for you. And in the meantime, I haven’t seen you, and I doubt you’d ever come back here. Oh, and I stopped carrying the tabloids.”

  “Bet that’s hitting your bottom line.”

  Charity huffed out a breath and waved her bright-red nails like a flea was in front of her. “I don’t give a hoot what’s hitting my bottom line, long as no man is hitting me.” She reached her hand out for a formal shake, the gesture striking Jocelyn as odd, but she took the older woman’s weathered hand. “We stick togeth—”

  The bell rang and Will caught them shaking hands. Jocelyn knew from his expression there’d be some explaining to do. Just as she knew that she’d never give him the full explanation.

  “Bye, Charity.” Jocelyn let go of the other woman’s hand and stepped away.

  “You ready?” Will asked, holding the door open.

  With a nod to Charity, she followed Will back into the warm sunshine.

  “What the hell was that all about, Joss? I had no idea you were such good buddies with her.”

  She just shrugged. “Not everybody hates Charity Grambling.”

  “Well, she might be acting really nice to you now, but, believe me, she lives and breathes on gossip, so I’d be careful how much you tell her.”

  The irony of that statement made Jocelyn smile. If it weren’t for Charity Grambling, she’d never have been able to escape Mimosa Key. If she’d stayed, Will would have seen the evidence of Guy’s fury that night.

  His career would have been spent in jail because he wouldn’t have let Guy Bloom live.

  Yeah, plenty of irony there. Irony she didn’t want to share.

  “I briefed Slade,” he said. “He’ll keep an eye out for more reporters and send a cruiser around my neighborhood.”

  She nodded, grateful for the assist but tired from the whole ordeal. “You know, Will, I’m going to pass on dinner tonight. I’m wiped out. I think I should just go up to Barefoot Bay.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the Super Min, as if he blamed Charity for Jocelyn’s change of heart. “’Kay.” As he opened the truck door, he leaned in, “But I’m still not done with you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Will hadn’t slept more than two hours, maybe three, hot and hard and miserable for most of the night. By five, he’d abandoned his sweaty bed and headed upstairs to his old workout room to pump iron and punch out the frustrations.

  Which hadn’t helped a bit since all he’d done was stare at his old bed and remember all the hours he and Jocelyn had spent there. On the bed, not in it. Either way, it was some one hundred and eighty fucking months later, and he was still imagining what he wanted to do to her on or in that bed.

  After an icy shower, he packed up what he needed for the day and made his usual trek across the backyard to the Bloom house, tapping on the back kitchen door before using his key to go inside.

  Most mornings he found Guy in front of the TV or working on some craft. Sometimes the old boy was still asleep and Will made sure he was up and knew more or less what day it was.

  And some days, like today, Guy was busy in the kitchen, making his own breakfast, whistling a tune and acting like nothing—absolutely nothing—was wrong with him.

  These days baffled Will, of course, but right now it just infuriated him because Jocelyn wasn’t here, seeing just how normal Guy was.

  Sometimes.

  “Good morning, William!” He looked up from the small center island, where he was measuring milk for his oatmeal. “Can I interest you in a heart-healthy breakfast? That Doctor Oz is always yapping about the power of the oat.”

  “I’m good, buddy. Just stopping by to see how you’re doing.”

  Guy beamed at him. “You are the best son in the world.”

  Was he “normal” enough this morning to handle the truth? “I’m not your son,” Will said quietly. “And you know that.”

  He braced for waterworks, but Guy’s smile never wavered. “Does the blood matter that much? You’re as much a son as I could dream of having.”

  Oh, yeah, he was in good shape today. “Thanks.” Will jutted his chin toward the oatmeal. “And, you know what? I’ll have a bowl of that if you’re pouring.”

  The days like this were so rare, and Will didn’t really feel like rushing out of here, leaving Guy alone.

  “I was just wondering,” Guy said as he reached for another cereal bowl. “You think that Clean House gal’s comin’ back here today?”

  “Jocelyn?” Will took a seat at the kitchen table, eyeing the other man. When he was this lucid, Will had to wonder. Didn’t he recognize his own daughter? Didn’t Guy remember Will and the night he’d threatened to end his career or his life?

  Didn’t he remember anything?

  “Yeah. Do you think, William? I really like her.”

  “Me, too,” he admitted.

  Guy turned from the microwave before he punched the numbers to warm his oatmeal. “I can tell.”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “She’s a looker.”

  Will blew out a breath and stabbed his fingers in his hair, the thoughts that kept him awake all night plaguing him. Of course he was still attracted to her. Still lost in pools of brown eyes tinged with vulnerability and a fight for control. Still wanted to take away that control with his mouth, open her up with his hands, get inside her with his—

  “Well, would you?”

  Will shook his head clear. “Sorry. Would I what?”

  Guy chuckled. “Oh, she’s got you good. You don’t even know what day or time it is.”

  Will skewered him with a look. “You should talk.”

  That made Guy laugh more, smiling as he went about the business of serving them both oatmeal, smug with his ability to be the one to handle the chores today.

  After he had his first taste, Will put his spoon down and looked at Guy. “C’mon. What did you just ask me before?”

  Guy gave him a look of sheer incredulity. “You expect me to remember that?” His shoulders shook with more laughter. “I’m funny today.”

  “Were you always funny?” Will asked, knowing the answer but wondering what the hell this old man thought he used to be. He didn’t know his own daughter, he didn’t know his own neighbor; did he know himself?

  “Can’t say.” Guy slurped his oatmeal. “But what the hell difference does it make? I’m funny now.”

  Really, what the hell difference did it make? Why couldn’t he get Jocelyn to see that? Not just because she might change her mind about putting the old guy away but because she could forgive him.

  And if she forgave him, if she could take that monumental, impossible, unbelievably hard step and forgive this man who didn’t even remember who he’d been, then she
could let go.

  Because right now she couldn’t let go of a penny if her fingers were greased, let alone a lifelong hate match she was determined to win.

  Until she let go, she couldn’t do anything that he had been thinking about doing all night.

  “You look mighty serious, William.”

  “I’m just thinking.”

  “ ’Bout Missy?”

  He smiled. “Yeah.”

  “You got it bad, boy. Oh, I know what I was going to ask you!” His whole face brightened.

  “What?”

  “Why aren’t you married?”

  He flinched a little at the question, thrown like an unexpected knuckleball that bounced off the plate and into the dirt. “I was,” he said. “I’m divorced.”

  Guy nodded, scraping his spoon around a nearly empty bowl. “I was married.”

  Will stayed very still. “I know.”

  “Her name was Mary… Beth.”

  “Jo,” he corrected, and Guy looked up with a shocked expression. “Mary Jo,” Will added. “Not Mary Beth.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Will stood slowly, picking up his bowl, watching for signs that Guy was about to lose it. Some conversations just sent him over the edge of frustration because he wanted to remember and couldn’t.

  “Bet she was pretty,” he said softly. “That Mary Jo.”

  “She was.” He rinsed the bowl and opened the dishwasher. “Do you want to know something about her?”

  When he didn’t answer, Will turned to see Guy very slowly shredding his paper napkin into long strips, concentrating with everything he had, his thick fingers shaking a little.

  “Do you, Guy?”

  He looked over the napkin at Will. “I saw a show about papier mâché. Did you know that’s a French word?”

  “I guess.” But how did Guy know that and not his own wife’s name?

  “I think I’m going to try that.”

  “Do you want to know about Mary Jo?” Will insisted, a burn of frustration stinging his gut.

  “Don’t know any Mary Jo,” he said, then he balled up the napkin pieces and squeezed so hard his knuckles turned white. “And I don’t want to.”

  And, just like that, Guy’s moment of clarity was over.