Barefoot Bay: When You Touch Me (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by Marilyn Baxter

  Jocelyn pursed her lips and tapped the desk with her fingertips. “I checked into that even though I didn’t believe it was anything more than him wanting an excuse to spend the day by the pool instead of on the table. But as it turns out, one of the housekeepers put the wrong oil in the diffuser.”

  “What oil?”

  “Ylang ylang.”

  Jillian stared at her boss and then dissolved into a fit of laughter. “So he was calling to complain about being aroused?”

  “Not in those exact words. He danced all around the issue, but I know that oil can have an amorous effect on some individuals. Like my husband. But he’s not complaining and neither am I,” she explained. “And that’s TMI and I should not have said it.” Jocelyn’s face flushed bright red.

  “Forgotten already,” Jillian pledged and raised her right hand.

  “Maybe you can explain to him how the oil has a paradoxical effect on some people.”

  “I will,” Jillian assured her. “If he shows up this afternoon. He blew off yesterday afternoon. I’m guessing he might have spent the night in Naples chasing a skirt.”

  Jocelyn raised an eyebrow, and Jillian began to worry that the statement had come across the wrong way and might raise suspicion about her and Sam. She hastily explained how he had hit on the lifeguard’s fiancée that first day and expressed his desire for sex.

  “I think we need to give him the benefit of the doubt, the awkward oil issue notwithstanding. He’s been through a lot. We’re not psychologists here so we can’t work on anything but the physical concerns. Just keep me in the loop, okay?”

  Jillian agreed. The Reiki and aborted attempt at meditation had been efforts to positively affect Sam’s state of mind. But no drug, medical treatment or alternative therapy could help a person if they refused to take advantage of it. Even placebos had positive effects because patients believed in them.

  Sadly, Sam appeared to have lost belief in everything except his own perceived failure.

  “Since I don’t have a client to work on, what can I do to help out around here for the next couple hours?”

  “Your sister is coming home tomorrow, isn’t she?” Jocelyn asked.

  “She is. I haven’t seen her in….” Jillian’s voice faltered, and she cast her gaze downward. “In three years, except for video chats. The woman who lives with us and runs my mother’s shop has planned a big welcome home party for her tomorrow night.”

  “Then why don’t you go home and help her?”

  “But—”

  Jocelyn cut her off. “No arguments. I know what it’s like to reunite with family after an absence. I’ll have security check around the resort for him, and if he’s on the property, I’ll strongly encourage him to keep his appointment at two o’clock. If not, then you’ll have the afternoon off as well.”

  “I…I don’t know what to say,” Jillian said, overwhelmed at her boss’s generosity. “Thank you seems so inadequate.”

  “Thank you is plenty. I’ve said it before. We’re a family at Casa Blanca, and we look out for each other. Now go. I’ll text you one way or another about the afternoon.”

  * * *

  Jillian entered the house and was greeted by the aroma of cake, chocolate and Aunt Daffy’s cheese biscuits, which were famous all over Mimosa Key. She made her way to the kitchen where Daphne stood carefully piping cake icing to spell out Welcome Home Becca.

  Jillian reached toward the cake with her index finger, and Daphne slapped her hand away with a grunt.

  “Here,” she said, holding out the pastry bag and squirting a line along Jillian’s finger. “And why are you home so early? Is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing but a client who seems to be unappreciative of a wonderful gift.” She licked the icing from her finger, then wiped her hand on the towel Daphne handed her. “He blew me off yesterday afternoon,” Jillian said and then blushed at the memory of what Sam had done to her with his mouth the previous morning. “My boss gave me the morning off to help you with the party, and if she can’t round him up, I’ll have the afternoon free as well.”

  “This is the young soldier Charity told me about?” Daphne asked.

  Well, damn. The grapevine had wasted no time.

  “What exactly did she say about him?” Jillian twisted the end of her braid nervously.

  “Oh, nothing much,” Daphne said, still concentrating on the cake icing. “Just that he had been in the Super Min several times and you said you knew him from the resort. I hope nothing is wrong with him. If you’d like, I could try to tune in to his aura and locate him.”

  “That’s okay. Resort security is looking for him. I seriously doubt he’s in any danger. More than likely he’s with some woman he picked up in a bar in Naples after he sped off from the Super Min yesterday.”

  And as soon as the words left her mouth, Jillian wished more than anything she could pull them back.

  Daphne looked up from the cake and focused her gaze on Jillian. “Do I detect a bit of jealousy there?”

  “Jealousy? Me? What could I be jealous about? He’s a client. I’m not jealous of clients, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Charity said he was quite a hunk.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Jillian winced. Of all the stupid replies.

  “Oh? Even after seeing him half naked on a massage table?”

  And completely naked on his bed.

  Jillian had gathered her wits about her now and that thought would not be vocalized. “I just mean that a client is a client is a client. I’m focused on their muscles, not their—”

  “Hunkiness?” Daphne interrupted and finished the sentence.

  Jillian swallowed hard. What if Aunt Daffy did have psychic gifts? What if Jillian’s aura was screaming “I slept with Sam Hartman and had the most amazing sex ever?”

  “Oh, honey. You can’t fool me. You have it bad for this man.”

  Jillian’s shoulders slumped. The truth stung, and there was no way to outrun it. “It doesn’t matter if he’s a hunk or not. Now tell me what I can do to help,” she said, quickly changing the subject. “I’m so excited about seeing Becca tomorrow.”

  “Me, too, honey. But….”

  Jillian shot the woman a worried look. “But what, Daphne?”

  The woman paused before answering. “You might be…surprised when you see your sister.”

  “Surprised? How so? Has she gotten worse? Is that why she went to the camp?” Multiple scenarios, all disastrous, flitted through Jillian’s mind.

  “Wait and see,” Daphne answered, licking cake icing off the spatula.

  Jillian didn’t like the look on Daphne’s face. Had something happened? Something that would cause more work for her? Guilt reared its head again as she realized how selfish her thoughts were.

  Whatever the situation, she would deal with it. And whatever it was, could it be any worse than the mess she had created with Sam?

  Chapter Eleven

  Two days after his face-off with Jillian at the Super Min, Sam finally returned to Artemisia. He had spent one night at a cheap motel on the outskirts of Naples. After making an ass of himself in front of her and the town gossip, he had sped off and driven around Naples for a while to blow off steam. After dining at a greasy spoon, he had returned to the villa. At bedtime, he had turned on the diffuser as usual, but instead of lulling him to sleep, he had dreamed about Jillian all night. Sex on the beach, sex in the pool, sex in the backseat of his rented Dodge Charger.

  Around five o’clock he had been awakened by a strange sensation and discovered he’d had his first wet dream since his hormone-riddled teenage years. But who wouldn’t after the dream he’d had? Sam called the office to complain, but how did he explain to the manager that he had dreamed of screwing one of her employees and had ejaculated all over the bed sheets? The housekeeper would figure the last part out on her own. And damn it, she probably had a fine for that, too.

  He had tried his best to word the conversation without being specific, but then
felt ridiculous afterward. On the off-chance the diffuser was to blame, he had tossed a few things into a bag and driven back to Naples to try and get some sleep and clear his head.

  Instead, he had alternated between feelings of guilt and self-righteousness, and neither one sat very well with him. No one had asked Trip Granger’s mother to underwrite his stay at Casa Blanca, so why should he feel in the wrong about playing hooky?

  On the other hand, the woman had dropped a bundle to try and help him. Not only had he figuratively spit in his benefactor’s face, but he had taken unfair advantage of a perfectly nice woman – an employee who was simply doing her job. And in the process, he had succeeded in falling for her while at the same time completely alienating her.

  He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, seeing himself clearly for the first time since yesterday. The mirror at the Sweet Dreams Motel had been so discolored and the lighting so dim, he hadn’t been able to see the dark circles under his eyes and the scruff of whiskers shadowing his jaw. And his dreams still had been anything but sweet. Instead of nightmares about sex, the night had been filled with thoughts of how he could make things right with Jillian – if she wasn’t already so pissed with him that he was no longer welcome.

  You really fucked it up this time, dickhead, he said to his reflection.

  Sam showered and shaved, hoping that and clean clothes would improve not only his appearance but his mood as well. Dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, he slid his feet into dock shoes. And as an afterthought, he grabbed his swim trunks in case Jillian still wanted to do the ocean thing.

  He would tolerate sand to make things right with her. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did have PTSD and was too stubborn and ashamed to admit it. Maybe he didn’t hate sand because it reminded him of gritty food and a dirty bed. Maybe it reminded him of failure.

  And maybe he should stop focusing on what he hadn’t done and focus instead on what he had – saved Trip Granger.

  Wasn’t that what Jillian had been trying to do? Get him to do a check-up from the neck up?

  He left the villa early, hoping he could see Jillian before nine o’clock and explain. As he strolled down the path toward the spa, he noticed for the first time the smell of tropical flowers, the squawks and chirps of birds in the trees and the tingle in his nostrils from the briny ocean air.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Sam.” The distinctive voice came from his left, and he turned to see Poppy emerge from another villa.

  “Poppy,” he said, dipping his chin slightly in her direction. He reached for his wallet, removed a twenty dollar bill and held it out.

  “But you didn’t swear.” She cocked her head to one side.

  “I thought it.” He should offer more because the most recent thoughts were just the tip of his obscenity iceberg. The last two nights had been laced with profanities aimed at everyone from God to Jillian. He was the only one who deserved any of the verbal abuse, and he had cussed at himself plenty.

  “I don’t normally—”

  “Take it,” he insisted, stepping toward her and pushing the bill into her hands. “Please.”

  Poppy shrugged and pocketed the money. “The children will appreciate it.” She spun on one foot to head to the golf cart parked by the side of the path, then changed course and walked to him. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

  Sam froze as her arms enveloped him. She released him, then took his hands in hers.

  “You’re a good man, Mr. Sam. I know you’ve got troubles. Don’t we all? The answer is to recognize you got ’em and ask for help. Men don’t like to do that because you’re stubborn as old mules. But we love you anyway and we want you to be happy. The help is out there. Matter of fact, it’s just down the path waiting at the spa. You just need to accept it.”

  Poppy pulled the twenty from her pocket and pressed it into his palm. “Buy her some flowers.”

  “Who?” Sam cocked an eyebrow.

  Poppy shook with laughter. “See? Stubborn as a mule. You know who. You ain’t fooled Poppy one little bit. Charity has some nice bouquets that won’t bust your budget at the Super Min.”

  Sam weighed his options, then tucked the money back in his wallet. “Thanks, Dear Abby. You’re a gem, ya know.”

  “So I’ve been told. No go tell someone else what a gem she is.” She glanced at the purple wristwatch circling her left wrist. “You’ve got time to drive to the Super Min for those flowers,” she suggested as she climbed into the cart. “Want a lift to the parking lot?”

  “How can I refuse you, Poppy? Let me get my keys.” He retrieved them from the villa, then climbed in beside Poppy.

  “Hold on,” she said as she stomped the accelerator and gave Sam the Barefoot Bay version of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

  Maybe flowers would help. They sure couldn’t hurt. Once Poppy dropped him at his car, he made a beeline for the island’s center and the spot where he had last seen Jillian. He could only hope he wasn’t too late to undo the mess he had created.

  * * *

  Nine-fifteen.

  Jillian checked the clock over the reception desk for the fifteenth time.

  “Nothing has changed since you looked a minute ago,” Lara said. “Special client?”

  “That obvious, huh?” Jillian prayed she didn’t blush.

  “Ohhh,” Lara drawled as her eyes grew wide. “That special?”

  Damn.

  Jillian could kick herself for revealing that, inadvertent as it was. “Not really. If he shows up at all, he’ll have another of his lame excuses for being late.” And it would most likely involve large amounts of booze and, if he’d followed through on his earlier statement, getting laid.

  Jillian’s anger built by the minute as she thought of the wasted time and opportunity. What her mother wouldn’t have given for someone to offer Becca something like this. The Logans hadn’t been poor, but their budget wouldn’t have afforded Eucalyptus either. Camps for special needs children abounded, but they cost plenty. And Becca had only gone to camp once that Jillian could remember aside from the present. Shortly before Jillian had moved to Sedona, eleven-year-old Becca won a raffle at the island’s Fourth of July beach blast. The five hundred dollar prize had covered the cost of a local camp where Becca had finally learned to swim.

  Jillian remembered the moment of the prize drawing. Folks had either been too blasé when Becca’s name had been announced or they had acted overly excited. Jillian knew it had been rigged so Becca could win, and the five hundred dollars had been raised by the citizens of Mimosa Key. One of the advantages to small-town living was that small-town folks looked after their own.

  This raised the question of the camp Becca was attending now. Daphne had been vague about it, assuring Jillian it was highly rated and designed to prepare Becca for more independent living once Daphne moved away. Something like this had to be expensive. What had cost five hundred dollars a decade ago must presently cost in the thousands.

  Had there been another “raffle” on the island? Or had Becca used her inheritance to pay for it? That was certainly her prerogative. Althea’s estate was primarily comprised of real estate – the store and the house. She had a meager savings account and a moderate life insurance policy. And her car, a dark blue SUV, still sat in the carport, unused except when Daphne drove it to the store once a week to keep the battery charged. Daphne had been the executor of Althea’s will, and Jillian had not questioned anything. She had no reason to. But keeping the car seemed pointless when no one drove it.

  She would mention that to Daffy. Maybe selling it could raise enough for some of the much-needed repairs to the house. And updates? Those were a pipe dream. Jillian and her sister would have to live with an avocado kitchen and pink bathrooms until they won the lottery.

  Another glance at the clock showed four more minutes had ticked by with no Sam. Jillian sighed heavily and stood.

  “Looks like he’s a no-show again. Guess I’ll—”

  “Sorry I’m late.” Sam’s
voice interrupted her. “Traffic was a bear even for this place. Someone clipped the back of a trailer hauling a couple goats and they got loose. If I’d had a video camera I’d have taped it for one of those funniest video shows.”

  Jillian saw the flowers he held in one hand as he relayed his latest excuse. Did he think a bouquet of freesias, asters and mums would make a difference?

  Nothing Sam could have done would matter because Jillian had made a big decision in the middle of the night – one she hoped she didn’t regret.

  “Come on back,” she said curtly and motioned to the door leading to the treatment rooms.

  Sam followed silently. Once inside the private room, he thrust the bouquet toward her. “These are for you.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “How lame did that sound? Who else would they be for? I’m kinda hoping they might make up for…well…you know.”

  At least he had the decency to look repentant. His usual smug look and cocky demeanor were gone. Bad hangover, perhaps?

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she said, pushing past him, trying, wanting to escape, but knowing it would hurt despite its necessity.

  “Whoa, wait,” he said as she neared the door. “What do you mean? I know I bugged out the past two days, but I’m ready to get with the program now.”

  “Oh, you’ll get with it. Just not with me. I’m going to recommend you be transferred to another therapist. A guy named Evan. You’ll like him even if they do call him Evan the Terrible sometimes.”

  Sam took a step toward her. “You’re dumping me?”

  “That’s a harsh word, Sam.”

  “It is what it is.”

  Jillian shrugged. “You dumped yourself, Sam. I can’t help you because your biggest problems are on the inside, and I’m not equipped to deal with those. You put on a big bad front and that needs to stop. I can’t help someone who won’t help himself. Someone who won’t face his demons. Nobody can until you do that. You have to face them yourself.”

  “But—”

  She held up her hand. “I suggest you find a good therapist because contrary to what you claim, I believe you have PTSD. You need to deal with your survivor guilt. You need to make an effort. That tattoo on your back? Think about it, Sam. Have you tried? Have you really tried?”