Meet Me in Barefoot Bay

by Roxanne St Claire

  Will didn’t react; now he knew why “Big Guy” had left the force: Charity’s blackmail pictures. “Some of the older guys said he had trouble and started mentally slipping on the job,” Slade continued.

  “Must have,” Will said, not interested in sharing the truth with the young man. “I really appreciate you keeping an eye out on things, Slade.”

  “Not a problem. Plus, it seems to make Charity happy and I’m trying to get in good with that whole family.”

  “Looks to me like you’re in good with her niece.”

  Slade grinned. “Workin’ on it, buddy. How about you and Jocelyn?”

  Was it that obvious? “Workin’ on it, buddy.”

  “Even though she had an affair with that movie star?”

  Irritation rocked him. “She didn’t. It’s all a lie.”

  Slade’s brows lifted. “Sure going to a lot of trouble to hide from the media if that actress is lying. And the guy? Miles? He’s kind of letting on that it’s true.”

  His fists balled like he was going to give a good punch to his catcher’s mitt. “He is?”

  “Don’t you read these rags you’re so busy hiding from?” Slade turned to the passenger seat and grabbed a paper, shoving it at Will. “You ought to.”

  “Thought Charity wasn’t selling these.”

  “Gloria gave it to me.”

  Will took the tabloid but didn’t look at it. “I’ll use this to wrap Guy’s dishes,” he said. “ ’Cause I don’t have a dog who could shit on it.”

  Laughing, Slade put the car in Reverse. “Do whatever you want with it, Will. But you should know things are only getting worse for her. I’ll watch this street as long as I can, but those guys…” He nodded toward the paper. “They’re going to be relentless until she makes some kind of statement. Maybe you could convince her to do that.”

  Maybe he’d be playing in the World Series next year, too. “I’ll try,” he said, backing away just as another car came down Sea Breeze.

  Slade used his side-view mirror to check the car. “There she is now. Perfect timing.”

  He pulled out and Jocelyn drove into the empty driveway, her window down, her hair blown, her expression oddly happy.

  Will rolled the tabloid and ignored a jolt of pleasure as he opened her door. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

  She smiled, stepping out, then tilted her head to get a good look at him. “I wish I could say the same thing.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Tough night, Will?”

  He dragged his hand through his hair and rubbed his unshaven cheeks. Yeah, he probably looked like hell. “I will show you exactly how tough. Brace yourself, Ms. Bloom. I have a surprise.”

  With the hand that held the paper, he put his arm around her and walked her toward the garage. “Never let it be said that I’m not a man of action, or one who can’t make a decision.”

  Inside the garage, he waved a hand to the boxes and bags, everything but the very top of the loft empty. “I emptied the attic, too. And you did the kitchen and dining room. All that’s left is a few closets in the house. Oh, and I signed up for two more tours at assisted-living places, so I figure we can have him settled somewhere by next week.”

  She stilled, turning toward him. “This is quite a one-eighty you’ve done. You’re a life coach’s dream.” She took a step closer, tentatively reaching for his face. If she touched him it’d all be over. Her fingers barely grazed his unshaven cheek.

  “I’d like to be a life coach’s dream,” he said. “If you’re the life coach.”

  Her eyes widened, and her whole body kind of stilled. “Will, I…”

  “Listen, Joss.” He stopped her by taking her shoulders and holding tight. “Last night at the baseball field was…” Life-changing. “Really nice with you. And when we came home and found Guy throwing that little temper tantrum, I knew I couldn’t drag my heels on this anymore.”

  She searched his face, taking in each word. “This change of heart isn’t just because of—of the pictures? Of what happened that night?”

  “Partially,” he admitted. “I’m pissed beyond words and I kind of feel duped by him.”

  “He can’t help that he doesn’t remember.”

  He inched back, trying to process that statement. “Look who’s had a change of heart.”

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “I really don’t have a choice where he’s concerned, but I agree.” She slipped out of his grasp and walked toward the garage storage loft, pointing to the boxes up there. “So that stuff is all that’s left out here?”

  Behind her, he tossed the newspaper on top of an open carton, unwilling to change the direction of this encounter by talking about the media and Miles Thayer. The sooner they got Guy moved out, the sooner they could get past him and on to the next problem.

  Action felt good, he realized, watching her grab the ladder rails and hoist herself up, looking over her shoulder as she climbed.

  “Why are you smiling?” she asked.

  “Nice view,” he said, nodding toward her backside.

  She made a face and climbed and he followed, both of them crouching over so they didn’t hit the ceiling as they made their way to the two cartons he’d left in the back corner.

  “I have no idea what those are,” he said. “I tried to lift them and they weigh a ton, so I figured I’d go through them and throw stuff away or sort.”

  Jocelyn made her way over, then settled next to the boxes, swiping at some cobwebs and brushing off a few that must have hit her face. “These came out of my mother’s closet after she died.”

  “Oh.” He sat next to her. “I didn’t know.”

  She put a hand on top of one of the boxes but made no move to open it. “When I came home for her funeral, these boxes were all packed. I don’t know if Guy did it or what, but I never looked through them.”

  “You want to now?” He put a hand on her back, sensing her hesitation. “We don’t have to.”

  “I do have to,” she said. “It’s all I have of her.”

  “No it’s not, Joss. You have your memories.”

  She sighed as if those didn’t satisfy much. “All right. I’m ready. Open ’er up.” She put her hand on his arm. “But be warned, I might need… comfort.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “You got it.”

  The soft scent of a spicy perfume mixed with the musky smell of old clothes when Will stripped the duct tape off the carton and opened the flap. He pulled out a stack of sweaters and gave her a questioning look.

  “I doubt we can sell these,” she said, taking the pastel-colored pile. “They’re kind of dated.”

  “Oh,” Will said, reaching deeper into the box. “This is what weighed so much.”

  Jocelyn got up on her knees, sneezing softly. “What is it?”

  “Furniture. A small wooden cabinet.” He reached in and wedged his hands on either side of a large box. “Weird. Why put this in a carton? Have you seen it before?”

  “I don’t think so. Here. I’ll hold the box, you pull it out.”

  With a little effort, they maneuvered out a stunning rosewood cabinet a couple of feet wide with two drawers.

  “Wow, this is nice,” Will said, grazing the polished wood. “Handmade by a pro. You’ve never seen this before?”

  She shook her head.

  Will tugged on the brass knob. “It’s like an old fashioned…” He pulled the drawer out. “Baby’s dresser.”

  Full of baby clothes. Tiny, newborn, brand-new blue baby clothes.

  Jocelyn’s fingers shook as she reached for the wee navy blue sleeper with a baseball bat on the front. “Are these yours, by some chance?” she asked.

  “No clue. Why would they be in your garage?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, taking out one precious piece after another. “Weird. The tags are still on them.”

  They’d been folded with love, neatly lined up and separated by tissue paper. The top drawer was all onesies and tiny sleepers
with feet.

  The bottom drawer had little-boy T-shirts with trucks and trains, tiny shorts no bigger than her hand, socks, and three little pairs of booties.

  “I should give these to Lacey,” Jocelyn said. “But I don’t know whose they are.”

  “Are you sure this box was left when your mother died?”

  She nodded. “I distinctly remember seeing it come out of my parents’ bedroom, all taped up by my father.” She lifted the last layer of clothes to find a blue satin baby book. “Oh. Maybe this’ll tell us something.”

  The spine cracked when she opened it as if it had never been used. But there was handwriting on the first page. Her mother’s distinctive sideways scrawl. The words tore a gasp from Jocelyn’s throat.

  Alexander Michael Bloom, Jr.

  Laid to Rest January 19, 1986

  She’d had a brother? The words swam in her vision. How was this possible? She tore her gaze from the book to Will’s eyes, his expression as shocked and confused as hers must have been.

  “You were, what, seven years old?” he asked.

  She couldn’t speak, just nodded.

  “And they had a baby you didn’t know about?”

  That wasn’t possible. Her throat felt like someone had a hand around her neck and wouldn’t stop squeezing. Very slowly, she turned the pages of a book created with the express purpose of memorializing a baby’s life.

  Baby’s Earliest Days! A grainy, faded sonogram printout on yellowed paper, far blurrier than the kind they used nowadays, was taped to the page. In the corner the letters had almost disappeared with time, but Jocelyn could make out the words.

  Bloom baby boy. December 9, 1985

  “Oh my God, Will.” The words came out like a rasp of pain as she turned the page.

  Mommy’s Growing Too! A list of months from August to January with a number and a pound sign had been inserted in her mother’s writing. Chills blossomed over her whole body despite the heat of the garage. Will turned the next page for her, but every single line was empty.

  Baby Arrives! But that page was empty. No date, no pictures, no words.

  Baby’s First Bath! Blank. Baby’s Sits Up! Blank. Baby Can Crawl! Blank.

  Page after page of the saddest story never told. Never told to Jocelyn. The thought slammed her. “He must have been stillborn. Why didn’t they tell me? I never even knew she was pregnant.”

  “You were only seven, Joss. You couldn’t handle it.”

  “But later? When I got older.” She spread her hand on the blank page reserved for Baby’s Growth Chart, digging back into her memory banks and coming up as blank as the page. “Why wouldn’t my mother have told me she was carrying—and lost—a baby boy?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, turning a page. “Too painful, I guess.”

  And then a memory teased. “She went to the hospital when I was in second grade,” she said, staring ahead, digging for truth. “They told me she had appendicitis. She must have been”—she flipped back to the sonogram and squinted at the old computerized numbers, quickly doing math—“about five months pregnant and lost the baby. I vaguely recall my grandparents came down from up north and stayed for a few days until she came home.”

  “Do you remember how she handled it?”

  “No, but that’s when Guy’s episodes started.” She blinked away the tears, clarity and understanding dawning.

  This was what had made him snap. This was why he’d grown violent and moody. And why—oh, God. Realization dawned. “This is why he thinks you are his son who he was told was gone forever.”

  He just closed his eyes at the direct hit.

  She flipped to the last page, tucked in a pocket for keepsakes marked Baby’s First Hair, a piece of paper was folded in half.

  With a glance at Will, she drew it out, her hands trembling as the meaning of this settled on her heart. As she opened the paper, she swallowed hard at the sight of her father’s distinctive handwriting.

  “He wrote this,” she said, her voice as wobbly as the rest of her.

  Will put his arm all the way around her, holding her tight. “Let’s read it together.”

  To my son…

  She closed her eyes and let out a soft whimper.

  “It’s a poem,” Will said, tucking her closer and letting her rest against him.

  After a minute, she opened her eyes and read.

  Today we said goodbye to you

  A little man I never knew.

  I wanted you to be my friend

  But now those plans will have to end.

  Jocelyn covered her mouth to hold back the sob. Will stroked her arm until she could bear to read the rest.

  Even though you were never here

  I love you, son, my little dear.

  There are no words for all this pain

  No way to stop the grief and rain.

  Goodbye. Goodbye. Good…

  That was it.

  “Who knew he wrote bad poetry?” Will asked wistfully.

  She almost smiled. “The man who loves needlepoint and decorating shows? He was always in there. Always.” But then that man had changed. He became a wifebeater. “He must have blamed my mother,” Jocelyn said as pieces fell into place. “He must have cracked and taken out all this agony on her.” She choked back the tears, turning to Will. “I shouldn’t have hated him so much.”

  “It’s no excuse,” Will said quietly. “Do you want to go talk to him?”

  “What good would that do? He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember anything. Not this unborn child, not me, not my mother, not what he did. He sure as hell won’t remember these clothes or this cabinet.” Her voice rose with each word, squeezing her, choking her.

  She pushed up, desperate for air. Without a word, she scrambled to the side of the loft.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I need to breathe. I need to think.” I need to reevaluate everything I thought was true. “I just need…” Her words trailing off, she got to the bottom of the ladder and took off, aching to get out of the garage.

  A stillborn baby boy. That could change a man and a marriage. It could transform a family from a happy one that went fishing in a rowboat to one that fought over fresh flowers.

  Will was right. It was no excuse for what he’d done, but it was an explanation. And for some reason she didn’t quite understand, she wanted to cling to it.

  She hit the grass of the side yard, walking without thinking, picking up speed, not entirely sure where she was going until she found herself standing at the back door of the Palmers’ house, the one that led up to Will’s room.

  He was next to her in seconds, wrapping his arms around her, cradling her with comfort, just like always.

  She looked up at him. “I need to go back up there.”

  “In the garage?” he asked.

  “Up there.” She pointed to the room. “I need you to hold me.”

  Without a word, he opened the door and guided her up the narrow stairs where she’d long ago let him go and led her right to the comfort of his old Dodgers blanket.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Judging by the sun pouring into the bedroom window, Jocelyn and Will had slept for at least a few hours. Her legs were wrapped around his, her face pressed against his shoulder. She woke with a funny feeling in her heart, a mix of bone-deep exhaustion and something like freedom.

  Was she free now?

  It sure felt like it. Her whole being felt lighter, despite the news that twenty-seven years ago she’d lost a baby brother. Guy must have cracked; maybe her mother had inadvertently caused the miscarriage and Guy just couldn’t forgive her.

  No, it wasn’t an excuse, she realized that. Nothing got him a pass for what he’d inflicted on both of them, but somehow, some way, Jocelyn felt like a chain had been unlocked from around her chest and she could breathe again.

  When they’d come up here, she’d babbled and sniffled and sobbed like a fool, and Will did what Will did best: he’d held
her. And then they fell asleep, in spite of the fact that they’d spent the night apart, restless and longing for each other. Or maybe because of it.

  She sighed and nestled a little deeper into his side, her arm draped over his chest, her hair spilling over her cheeks. She couldn’t see his face from this angle but didn’t want to risk moving and waking him.

  So instead of looking at him, she just let the musky, masculine scent of Will fill her head.

  Stinks like sweat, grass, and a hint of reliability?

  No. It smells like comfort.

  The words were as clear as if the exchange that took place in this very room had been last night, not fifteen years ago. She’d loved him then and she—

  What exactly did she feel now?

  Come on, Joss. You love him. You’ve always loved him. Curling her fingers around the comforter, she pulled it higher, loving the softness of the old blue blanket, the symbol of his ultimate dream team.

  Which was funny; he’d hate L.A. Just like she did.

  She blinked at the thought. She’d always acknowledged her issues with the crowded, glitzy mess that was Los Angeles, but did she actually hate living there? Maybe she hadn’t realized that until she came here, which was, for better or worse, her home.

  So why go back? Why not just settle right here, in these arms, with this man, in a new job, with a new life, and even a new father?

  Now that she knew the truth, could she possibly forgive Guy? Maybe not, but she could tiptoe past her pain and maybe get to a better place with him. Couldn’t she?

  Yes. Because she could do absolutely anything for Will. Even forgive Guy.

  At the thought, an unfamiliar joy warmed her from the very deepest place. It felt radiant, real, and so unshakable.

  Was this love? This sense of certainty? That desire to do anything for someone else? This feeling that life couldn’t get any better, combined with the awareness that it would?

  Yes. This was most definitely love.

  The realization made her shift in Will’s arms, stretching along his hard side, sliding her leg over his, positioning herself to watch this gorgeous man wake up and grow erect at the same time. Talk about watching the sun rise.