Barefoot in the Rain

by Roxanne St Claire

  He took a few steps closer, instinctively flexing his muscles, ready to fight for the turf of a building that somehow had become “his.”

  He took cover behind an oleander bush, slipping around to get a better view into the bedroom. He could see the sheer film of netting Lacey had hung from the bed’s canopy, the decor as romantic as Morocco itself.

  If anyone defiled one inch of that villa there’d be hell to pay. He’d laid the marble in the bath, shaved the oak wood crown molding, and hand-carved the columns on the fireplace mantel from one solid piece of rosewood. The whole job had given him more satisfaction than picking off a runner trying to steal second ever had.

  Irritation pushed him closer to the deck, another damn thing he’d made with his own two hands. If some stupid kid had—

  The filmy gauze around the bed quivered, then suddenly whisked open. Holy hell, someone was sleeping in that bed. He bounded closer, sucking in a breath to yell, then one long, bare, shapely leg emerged from the clouds of white.

  His voice trapped in his throat and his steps slammed to a stop. The sun beamed on pale skin, spotlighting pink-tipped toes that flexed and stretched like a ballerina preparing to hit the barre.

  The other leg slid into view, followed by an audible yawn and sigh that drifted over the tropical air to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He took a few stealthy steps, wanting to keep the advantage of surprise but, man, he didn’t want to miss what came out of that bed next.

  The feet touched the floor and a woman emerged from the netting, naked from head to toe, dark hair falling over most of her face. Not that he’d have looked at her face.

  No, his gaze was locked on long limbs, a narrow waist, and subtle curves that begged to be handled. Her breasts were small, budded with rose-colored nipples, her womanhood a simple sliver of ebony that matched her sexy, messy hair.

  She stretched, widening her arms, yawning again, giving him a centerfold-worthy view as her breasts lifted higher. Every functioning blood cell careened south, leaving his brain a total blank and his cock well on its way to being as hard as the planks of African wood in his truck.

  Son of a bitch. He backed up, ducking behind the oleander and cursing himself for being some kind of pervie Peeping Tom. He had to get back down the path and come back later—noisily, in his truck—to find out who the hell she was.

  A footstep hit the wood deck and Will inched to the side, unable to stop himself from looking. At least she had on a thin white top now, and panties. With both hands, she gathered her hair up to—

  His heart stopped for at least four beats, then slammed into quadruple time.

  Jocelyn.

  Was it possible? Was he imagining things? Was this a mirage spurred by a couple of lousy pictures in the paper and three days of fantasies and frustration?

  She let go of her hair, shaking her head so that a thick, black mane tumbled over her shoulders like an inky waterfall. Then she closed her eyes and turned her face to the rising sun.

  Any doubt disappeared. Along with common sense and years of rationalization and a decade and a half of telling himself he had no choice—even though he knew differently.

  Everything suddenly changed at the sight of Jocelyn Mary Bloom. The sun was warmer. The air was cleaner. And his heart squeezed in a way it hadn’t for fifteen years.

  She turned, rubbing her arm as if a sixth sense had sent a chill over her. “Is someone there?”

  Make a joke. Say something funny. Walk, smile, talk. C’mon, William Palmer, don’t just stand here and gawk like you’ve never seen a female before.

  “It’s me.”

  She squinted into the bushes, then reared back in shock as he stepped out and revealed himself. Her lips moved, mouthing his name, but no real sound came out.

  “Will,” he said for her. “I thought someone was trespassing.”

  She just stared, jaw loose, eyes wide, every muscle frozen like she’d been carved out of ice.

  He fought the urge to launch forward, take the three stairs up to the deck in one bound and… thaw her. But, whoa, he knew better with Jocelyn Bloom. One false move and poof. Out at the plate.

  “What are you doing here?” They spoke the words in perfect unison, then both let out awkward laughs.

  “Lacey brought you here?” he guessed.

  She nodded, reaching up to run a hand through that mass of midnight hair, then, as if she suddenly realized how little she had on, she stepped back into the shadows of the villa, but he could still see her face.

  “How about you?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat. “I work here.”

  She looked completely baffled. “You play baseball.”

  “Not at the moment. I work for the builder. You?”

  “I’m staying here.”

  Hiding here, more like. The pieces slid together like tongue in groove. She’d run away from the mess in L.A., and her best friend had cloistered her in a place that wouldn’t even show up on a GPS yet, let alone at the other end of a reporter’s camera.

  Then another thought hit him like a fastball to the brain. “You alone?” He must have had a little accusation in his voice, because she raised an eyebrow and looked disappointed.

  “Yes,” she said quietly, sadness in her eyes and a softness in her posture.

  Shit. He’d hurt her. He regretted the question the instant it had popped out. She was hiding from prying eyes and personal questions and what had he done? Pried and questioned.

  He held up a hand as though that could deliver his apology and took a few steps closer. “How long are you here? I’d love to…” Talk to you. Kiss you until you can’t breathe. Spend every night in your bed. “Get caught up.”

  “I shouldn’t be here that long.”

  In other words, no. “Too bad,” he said, hiding the impact of disappointment. “Maybe I’ll see you on the south end when you go home.”

  “I won’t go there.” The statement was firm, clear, and unequivocal. Don’t argue with me, dripped the subtext.

  She wouldn’t even see her dad? A spark flared, pushing him closer, up the stairs. She wouldn’t even do a drive-by to see if her old man was dead or alive? Because he’d bet his next paycheck she didn’t know… anything.

  Something hammered at him, and this time it wasn’t his heart reacting to the sight of a beautiful, not entirely dressed woman. No, this was the physical jolt of a whole different kind of frustration.

  “So, what exactly do you do for the builder?” she asked, apparently unaware she’d hit a hot button.

  But her casual question barely registered, her astounding near nakedness practically forgotten despite God’s professional lighting that gave him a perfect view of her body under those slips of white silk.

  “Carpentry,” he said through gritted teeth, a little surprised at how much emotion rocked him. He had to remember what she’d gone through, what her father was in her eyes, but right now all he could think about was a harmless, helpless old man who had no one to call family.

  Even though he had a perfectly good daughter standing right here.

  “A carpenter just like your father,” she said, nodding. “I remember he was quite talented.”

  “Speaking of fathers.” He dragged the word out, long enough to see her expression shift to blank. “I’m back in my parents’ house. They moved out to Oregon to be closer to my sister and her kids.”

  In other words, I live next door to your father. He waited for the reaction, but she just raised her hand, halting him. “I really have to go, Will. Nice to see you again.”

  Seriously? She wouldn’t even hear him out?

  She backed into the opening of the french doors, hidden from view now. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, though,” she called, one hand reaching for the knob to close him out.

  He grabbed the wood frame and held it as tightly as he had when he’d installed the very door she was about to slam in his face. “Jocelyn.”

  “Please, Will.”

&n
bsp; “Listen to me.”

  “I’m sure our paths will cross.” But her voice contradicted that cliché. And so did history. One wrong word and Jocelyn would find another hiding place in another corner of the world.

  Was he willing to risk that? If he so much as spoke the name Guy Bloom, she’d be on a plane headed back to California. But, damn it, shouldn’t she know?

  He let go of the door and she pushed it closed. He thrust his boot in the jamb to keep the door from closing.

  “Will, I have to—”

  “Your father has Alzheimer’s.” He had enough strength in his foot to nudge the opening wider and see the shocked look that drained all the color from her cheeks. “I take care of him.”

  He slipped his boot out and the door slammed shut.

  Well, he was right about the winds of change. And maybe that change was simply that after half a lifetime, he could finally get over Jocelyn Bloom.

  Keep telling yourself that, buddy. Someday you might believe it.

  Chapter 4

  Mimosa Key curved exactly like a question mark, forming the perfect metaphor for the childhood Jocelyn Bloom had spent there. As she took the curve around Barefoot Bay in the car she’d borrowed from Lacey—with the excuse that she had to go shopping for clothes—and headed to the south end of the island, Jocelyn considered the eternal question that loomed for the seventeen and three-quarters years she’d lived on this barrier island.

  What would happen next?

  With Guy Bloom, no one was ever sure. When she was very young, nothing had been terribly out of the ordinary. But then, overnight it seemed to her childish perception, he’d changed. He’d go weeks, even months, on an even keel—hot tempered, but under control, before he’d snap. Dishes and books could sail across the room, vicious words in their wake. And then he had to hit someone.

  More specifically, he had to hit Mary Jo Bloom, who took those beatings like she’d deserved them. Of course, with maturity, perspective, and the benefit of a psychology degree, Jocelyn now knew that no one deserved that. No one.

  Your father has Alzheimer’s.

  Not for the first time that morning, she had to ask the obvious: Were his episodes some kind of early sign of the disease? When she’d been home for Mom’s funeral he seemed fine. But maybe the signs were there all along and she’d missed them.

  Guilt mixed with hate and anger, the whole cocktail knotting her stomach even more than it had been since she’d seen Will Palmer.

  Will.

  She closed her eyes, not wanting to think about him. About how good he looked. How hours on the baseball field had honed him into a tanned, muscular specimen who still had see-straight-through-you Wedgwood blue eyes, a shock of unexpected color against his suntanned skin and shaggy black hair.

  God, she’d missed him all these years. All these years that she gave him up so he didn’t have to be saddled with a girl who had a monster for a father and now—

  She banged the heel of her hand on the steering wheel.

  He took care of the bastard? It didn’t seem possible or right or reasonable in any way she could imagine.

  Like it or not, Guy was her parent. If he had to be put in a home, she’d do it. But before she could tackle this problem with a list of possible solutions, she had to figure out exactly how bad the situation was and how far gone he was with dementia.

  The word settled hard on her heart. She knew a little about Alzheimer’s—knew the disease could make a person cranky and mean. Wow, Guy must be a joy to take care of, considering he’d already been a ten on the cranky-and-mean scale. Why would Will volunteer for the job?

  Because Will had one weakness: the softest, sweetest, most tender of hearts. And wasn’t that what she’d once loved about him?

  That and those shoulders.

  She pressed her foot against the accelerator, glancing at the ranch houses and palm trees, the bicycles in driveways, the flowers around the mailboxes. This was a lovely residential neighborhood where normal families lived normal lives.

  Right. Where dysfunctional families made a mockery of normal. Where—

  Oh, Lord. Guy was on the porch.

  He was sitting on the front porch swing, hunched over a newspaper, his mighty shoulders looking narrow, his giant chest hollowed as if it had been emptied of all that hot air.

  Looking at him was like looking at something you remember as a child, only as an adult, that something doesn’t seem nearly as big or daunting or dangerous.

  Mom had bought that swing, Jocelyn recalled, with high hopes that the family would sit out there on warm evenings, counting the stars and watching the moon.

  Fat chance, Mary Jo.

  There were no such things as family nights in the Bloom household. And right there, in a faded plaid shirt and dusty gray trousers and a pair of bedroom slippers, was the reason why.

  As Jocelyn slowed the car alongside the curb, Guy looked up, a sheet of newspaper fluttering to the ground. He looked right at her, icy fingers of awareness prickling her whole body.

  She waited for his reaction, some emotional jolt of recognition by him, but there was none.

  Okay, then. He wasn’t going to acknowledge her. Fine. That would make the whole thing easier. It was entirely possible he didn’t recognize her, if what Will said was true.

  But her knowledge of Alzheimer’s said he’d be able to remember things that happened long ago but not what he had for breakfast. If so, he must be wallowing in some unhappy memories.

  Good. That’s what he deserved.

  He stood slowly, frowning now, angling his head, and even from this far she could see his gray eyes looked more like rain clouds than sharp steel, and his hands shook with age, not rage.

  “Can I help you?” The question came out hoarse, as though he hadn’t spoken to anyone all day.

  She turned off the ignition and opened the door. “You don’t recognize me?”

  He shook his head. What was he? Sixty-five? Sixty-six? He looked ninety.

  “What do you want?” He sounded scared. Was that even possible? Nothing scared the former deputy sheriff.

  “It’s me, Jocelyn.” She stepped onto the lawn, her heels digging into the grass like little spikes into her heart.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

  “Guy, it’s me.” She wasn’t about to call him Dad; he’d relinquished that title on a hot summer night in 1997 when he threatened to ruin the life of a young man. The same young man who now took care of him.

  Injustice rocked her, but she kept a steady path toward him.

  “Do I know you?”

  “You did,” she said.

  “You do look familiar.” He rubbed a face that hadn’t seen a razor in quite some time, frowning. “Pretty, too. What’s your name, young lady?”

  Had he ever called her pretty? She couldn’t remember. Maybe when she was little, before his violent streaks became the norm rather than the occasional nightmare.

  She ran her tongue under her front teeth, a tiny chip on the right front tooth her sacred reminder of just what this man could do.

  “I’m Jocelyn. I’m your daughter.”

  He laughed, a hearty sound, and another thing she had no memory of him doing. “I don’t have a daughter. I have a son.” He reached out his hand, the gesture almost costing him his balance. “I bet you’re looking for him. He’s out now, but never stays gone too long.”

  “You don’t have a son.”

  “Don’t I?” He shrugged and gave her playful smile. “I have a sister, though.”

  No, he didn’t. He didn’t have a son or a sister—or a memory. But suddenly his jaw dropped and his silvery eyes lit with recognition. “Oh my word, I know who you are.”

  “Yep, figured you would.” She reached the cement walk and crossed her arms, just in case he had some notion of hugging her or shaking her hand.

  “You’re the lady from TV! I saw you on TV!”

  His voice rose with crazy excitement, but her heart dropp
ed. So the Hollywood gossip machine had been making noise on Mimosa Key.

  “Didn’t I see you on TV?” He screwed up his face into a tapestry of wrinkles, pointing at her, digging deep for whatever thread of a memory his broken synapse was offering. “Yes, I’m certain of it! I saw you on TV.”

  “You probably did,” she said with resignation.

  “You work for Nicey!”

  Nicey? She slowly shook her head. “No, I’m Jocelyn.”

  “Oh, you can’t fool me.” He slapped his thigh like a rodeo rider. “That William. He is the most remarkable young man, isn’t he? How’d he get you here? Did he call? Send pictures? What’d he say that finally convinced you to come and help me?”

  “He told me about your situation.”

  “So he did write a letter.” He chuckled again, shaking his head. “That boy is something else.” He reached for her arm, but she jerked away before he could touch her. “All right, all right,” he said. “Let’s just start with a little chat before we go in. Because, I hate to tell you, young lady, you have got a lot of work to do.”

  “Work?” She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.

  “Well, you’d like to talk first before you, uh, get to gettin’?” He bared his teeth in a stained but self-satisfied smile. “See? I’m a fan.”

  A fan?

  “Sit down here,” he said, indicating the porch swing. “We’ll have a nice talk.” He inched from side to side, trying to look over her shoulder. “No hidden cameras?”

  “I hope not.”

  He laughed again. Had he ever laughed that much before? Could Alzheimer’s make a person happier? “You never know, those camera folks can be foxy.”

  “Yes, I do know that,” she agreed, following him to perch on the edge of the swing.

  Okay, fine. They could play this little game while she assessed just how bad he was and then she’d do what she surely had to do. Put him away somewhere. He probably wouldn’t like hearing that.

  Face your issues and solve your problems, life coach. You have an old man who needs to go into a home. You owe him nothing but…