Meet Me in Barefoot Bay

by Roxanne St Claire

  “As who say?”

  He clapped his hands and let out a laugh. “Very funny.”

  She followed him into the living room, where the TV blared a commercial. He gestured for her to sit on the sofa and settled into his recliner, waving the remote like a magic wand.

  “I’m holding on for dear life to this thing. The way you’re tossing stuff away you’re likely to hide it.”

  She sat on the edge of a heinous plaid sofa that she didn’t remember, something her parents—or Guy—must have bought after she left. Would Mom pick anything this ugly?

  “Relax,” Guy said, using the remote to gesture toward the sofa back. “It’s the fastest hour on TV. But you know that.”

  She didn’t relax, dividing her attention between a home improvement show hosted by a soulful, insightful, no-nonsense woman named Niecy—that must be who Guy called Nicey—and the man next to her.

  She really had to do more research on Alzheimer’s. Didn’t the disease turn its victims nasty and cranky? Or did it just change a person completely? Because this man was…

  No, she refused to go there. Leopards, spots, and all that.

  “Watch the show,” he insisted when he caught her studying him. “This is what you’re going to do for me.”

  Niecy Nash went about her business of taking control of a family’s mess, tossing the junk, selling what could be salvaged, then redecorating their homes, all the while helping her “clients” see what was wrong with their lives. Kind of like what Jocelyn did, only funnier.

  Was that what she was going to do for her father?

  Absolutely not. She already knew what was wrong with him—then and now. She wasn’t redecorating anything, just researching assisted-living facilities and solving this problem. It gave her something to do while she was here, anyway.

  “Cute show,” Jocelyn said, pushing up from the sofa following the big reveal at the end.

  “It’s more than cute,” Guy insisted. “It’s all about what makes people tick. You like that, don’t you?”

  “Made a whole career around it,” she said casually. “I better get back to the china.”

  “You gotta gift me for it.”

  “No, no.” She headed back into the dining room, armed with a little more knowledge of how to play his game. “She ‘gifts’ for things that have huge sentimental value. Half of a chipped china set has no sentimental value. No gifting.”

  “How do you know what has sentimental value to me?” he demanded, right on her heels.

  She stopped cold and he almost crashed into her. Very slowly she turned, just about eye to eye with a man who had once seemed larger than life, but gravity had shaved off a few inches, and surely guilt weighed on his shoulders.

  “I’m willing to bet,” she said without looking away, “that you can’t go through this house and find a single item that means anything at all to you.”

  She didn’t intend for the challenge to come out quite that cruel, but tears sprang from his eyes, surprisingly sudden and strong. “That’s just the problem,” he said, his voice cracking.

  She took a step back, speechless at the sight. Not that she hadn’t seen him cry; he could turn on the tears after an incident. He could throw out the apologies and promises and swear he’d never hit his wife again.

  And Mom fell for it every time.

  “What’s the problem?” she asked, using the same gentle voice she’d use on a client who was deluding herself over something. “Why are you crying?”

  He swiped his eyes, knocking his glasses even more crooked. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  Evidently not.

  “You don’t understand how some things matter,” he said.

  “Yes, I do,” she said, as ultra-patient as one of the crew on Clean House dealing with a stubborn homeowner. “Why don’t you answer a question for me first, Guy?”

  “Anything.”

  “Did you really live in this house?” Or did he just make it a living hell for the people who did? “Did you love anyone here? Make anyone happy? Build anything lasting?”

  “I might have.”

  “Did you?” she challenged, resentment and righteousness zinging right down to her toes. It was bad enough that he didn’t remember the misery he’d inflicted, but to twist the past into something happy? Well, that was too much. That went beyond the symptoms of a sad, debilitating disease and right into unfair on every level.

  Forget the past if that’s nature’s cruel punishment, but, damn it, don’t change the past.

  “I think I did,” he said weakly.

  “You think you did?” She swallowed her emotions, gathering up the sharp bits that stung her heart, determined not to let them hurt quite this much.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said, defeat emanating from every cell in his body. “I just don’t know. That’s why I’ve been so scared to throw anything away. I thought it might help me remember.”

  A wave of pity rose up, a natural, normal reaction to the sight of a helpless old man sobbing. Pity? She stomped it down, searching wildly for a mental compartment where she could lock away any chance of pity.

  She had no room in her heart for sympathy or compassion. Not for this man who had made her childhood miserable and stolen any hope of her having a normal life. With Will. With that big, strong, safe, handsome man who still made her knees weak and her heart swell.

  “Well, you have to give up that hope,” she said harshly, talking to herself as much as the old man in front of her. Without waiting to see his pained reaction, she turned to walk to the table, ready to finish this task, make order, and accomplish her very simple goal. She had to take charge of this situation, not let the situation take charge of her.

  “Why?” he asked, right on her heels. “Why do I have to give up that hope?”

  She ignored the question, scooping up the teacup and saucer.

  “Why should I give up hope?” he insisted, falling into a chair. “Is this like, you know, the part of the show where they make the person look inside their soul?”

  Oh, don’t go there, Guy. You won’t like what you see. “This isn’t a show,” she said stiffly. This is real life.

  “Is this like a pre-show? Where they get the people ready before the cameras come?”

  She could feel the threads of patience pulling, fraying, threatening to snap. God, was she as bad as her father? She’d always feared that horrible blackness was hereditary, but years of psych classes taught her she could overcome whatever ugliness she may have inherited from Guy.

  She took another calming breath and continued packing the china.

  “What should I do?” he asked.

  She looked up, mentally searching for a way to get through to him. “You should start to make new memories.” She slid four salad plates into the carton on the table and turned back to the buffet. “This will be a good change for you. You can replace the old stuff with new and better stuff.”

  In a home somewhere with people just like you.

  But she couldn’t say the words. Behind her, he was silent, no sniffling, no breathing. Oh, God. Was he about to blow? He was too, too quiet.

  Very slowly, she turned. His head rested on the table, his shoulders shuddering with silent sobs. “I want to remember,” he blubbered.

  Automatically, she reached for him, then jerked her hand away like she’d almost touched a hot surface. “Maybe you don’t,” she said simply. Maybe nature is doing you a favor, old man.

  “I really, really do.” He lifted his head, and his glasses slid down to the bottom of his teary nose, his eyes red, his lips quivering. “It’s all I want in the whole world, Missy. A single memory. One crystal-clear story of my past that doesn’t flash and fade before I can hold on to it and enjoy it.”

  She stared at him. “I… can’t help you.” Only that was a lie. She had so many memories, enough to fill up this house. She could tell him a lifetime of stories. Once upon a time there was a nasty man who had no control, a weak woman who’d giv
en up control, and a scared little girl who lived for any shred of control she could muster.

  “Then make one up,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That can be your gift, you know?” He sat up a little, an idea taking hold. “In exchange for throwing away my china, you gift me with a memory.”

  “But it wouldn’t be… real.” Or nice.

  He just lifted one brow, and, for a single, crazy second, she thought he knew exactly who he was talking to. Was that possible? She swallowed hard. Could he really know her, and he’d lied all this time? “Guy?”

  He nodded, excited, sniffing a little. “You have one? A memory?”

  “How could I?” she asked. “If I just met you?”

  “You’re so smart and kind,” he said. “And you’ve been through half my stuff. You did the whole kitchen. The drawers are very neat now, even that junky one with the batteries. Surely you know enough to gift me with one memory.”

  “Okay,” she agreed, looking around, taking in the remnants of their lives: a teapot her mother’s friend brought from England, a salt and pepper shaker set painted as Santa and Mrs. Claus, a set of yellowed lace doilies her mother had loved.

  The doily.

  Somewhere, in her head, a little gold lock turned on, an imaginary safety box where she’d tucked away the bad stuff, never to be pulled out and examined again.

  Until she had to.

  The box opened and there she saw the crystal vase perched on that very doily, stuffed with a vibrant bunch of gladiolas that Mary Jo Bloom had bought at Publix for just $3.99.

  “Four bucks,” she’d said with a giggle in her voice to her little girl. “He can’t get too mad about four dollars, can he?”

  Her mother had placed the vase on the kitchen table, foot-long stems popping with life and happiness.

  “Everyone should have fresh flowers in their life, don’t you think, Joss?”

  Jocelyn opened her eyes, barely aware she’d closed them, and stared at the man across the table from her, ignoring the expectant excitement in his eyes and seeing only the anger, the disgust, the self-loathing that he transferred to his family.

  “Do you remember the day you came home from work and your wife had fresh flowers on the table, Guy?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. What did they look like?”

  “They were gladiolas.”

  He lifted one of his hunched shoulders. “Don’t know what that is, Missy.”

  “They’re long-stemmed, bright flowers,” she explained. “They come in long bunches and they spread out like flowery arms reaching up to the sky, a bunch of ruffles for petals, in the prettiest reds and oranges you’ve ever seen.”

  He gasped, eyes wide, jaw dropped. A memory tweaked?

  “You came into the house and saw the flowers…”

  “All red and orange? Like long sticks of flowers?” He nodded, excitement growing with each word.

  “You wanted to know how much they cost.”

  “In a glass vase?” He hadn’t heard her, she could tell, as he pushed back the chair. “I know these flowers. I remember them!”

  “Do you remember what happened, Guy?”

  He almost toppled the chair getting up, making Jocelyn grip the table in fear. What was he going to do? Reenact the whole scene?

  “Wait here,” he said, lumbering out of the room.

  Did he want the memory or not? Didn’t he want to know about how he’d picked up that vase, screamed about wasting money, and thrown that bad boy across the linoleum floor, scattering water and flowers and one terrified child who tore under her bed and covered her ears?

  You have no right to be happy!

  Those were the precise words he’d said to her mother. She could still hear his voice echoing in her head.

  “I found it! I found it!”

  Just like that little girl, Jocelyn slapped her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut, drowning out the sound of that man hollering. God damn you, Mary Jo, God damn you.

  Why did he hate her so much?

  “Look, Missy!”

  He slapped a half-finished needlepoint pattern clamped into a round embroidery ring on the table.

  “Those are gladiolas,” he said proudly.

  The work was awful, no two stitches the same size, loose and knotted threads, but the shape of a tangerine-and peach-colored gladiola was clear, the wide-hole netting made for beginners bearing the design of a bouquet in a glass vase.

  “I never could finish it,” he said glumly. “It made me sad.”

  “That’s the memory making you sad.”

  “It is? What happened?”

  She looked at the craft, each little row of stitches so clearly the work of someone who’d labored to pull that silky yarn and follow the simple pattern.

  “Does it really matter, Guy?” she asked.

  His shoulders slumped, tears forming again. “I just want to know why this makes me so damn sad. Every time I look at these flowers, I want to cry.” A fat drop rolled down his cheek. “Do you know why, Missy?”

  Of course she did. “No,” she lied. “I don’t know why they make you sad.”

  “’Sokay,” he said, patting her hand with thick, liver-spotted fingers, a fresh smile on his face. “Maybe that Nicey lady will help me figure it out when they do the show.”

  “Yeah. Maybe she will.”

  Chapter Seven

  Nice work, Palmer.”

  Will didn’t look up at the sound of a female voice, barely audible over the scream of his mitre saw. He recognized the voice, though. “Just a sec, Tessa.” Cutting wood this costly required a steady hand and a completely focused brain, and, shit, he’d been fighting for both of those since he’d left Guy’s house a few hours ago.

  When he finished cutting the plank, he shut off the saw and shoved his safety goggles onto his head, meeting his visitor’s gaze as she stood in the doorway of Casa Blanca’s largest villa, Bay Laurel.

  “You like?” he asked, gesturing to the one-quarter of the living-area floor he’d managed to nail down.

  “I do.” She raised her bright red sports water bottle in a mock toast. “This must be the astronomically expensive African wood that Clay’s been talking about for two months, right?”

  He grinned. “I picked it up on Friday.” Grabbing his own water and a bandanna to wipe the sweat from his forehead, he paused to admire the wood he’d laid so far. Scary thing was, he didn’t remember leveling or nailing half those planks. His head was not in the game. But the wood was gorgeous, perfectly grained and beautifully stained. “Bay Laurel’s going to be spectacular when it’s done.”

  “As nice as Rockrose?” Tessa asked. “I saw it last night all finished for the first time.”

  “Yeah, I understand we have our first guest.” He picked up the freshly cut plank, dusted off the sawed edge, and rounded his cutting table to return to the floor.

  She nodded. “Small world, isn’t it?”

  He threw her a look as he passed, trying—and failing—to read the expression on a face he’d gotten to know pretty well in the months they’d both worked at Casa Blanca.

  “Sure seems that way,” he said, laying the board so he could get the blind nailer on top of it and start hammering.

  Tessa stepped over the new wood, getting her footing on the underlayment that hadn’t been covered yet, and settled into a corner of the room like she was ready to chat.

  Not that unusual; they’d had plenty of conversations about the resort, her gardens, the other construction workers when someone irritated them. But he knew that she knew—no, he didn’t know what she knew.

  And that made everything awkward.

  He kneed the nailer against the board and waited to let her set the direction and tone of the conversation.

  “So you and Jocelyn were next-door neighbors.”

  So that would be the direction and tone.

  “Moved in next door when we were both ten,” he confirmed, scoopi
ng up the soft-headed dead-blow hammer to start nailing the flooring. This was a critical plank, part of a decorative band of darker wood that offset the shape of the room, an idea he’d had and really wanted to make perfect to impress Clay.

  He’d have a better shot at perfection if he wasn’t nailing at the same time he was having this conversation.

  But Tessa sipped her water and watched, not going anywhere.

  He raised his hammer just as she asked, “Were you two close?”

  He swung and missed the fucker completely.

  “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I didn’t know it was like batting.”

  “It’s nothing like batting,” he said, shifting his knee on the pad and looking over at her. “And, yeah, we were good friends.” The next question burned, and he couldn’t help himself. “She never mentioned me?”

  Tessa looked at him for a beat too long, a lock of wavy brown hair falling from her bright-yellow work bandanna, her soft brown eyes narrowed on him. She never wore makeup, he’d noticed, not even for employee parties or barbecues at Lacey and Clay’s place. But her eyes were always bright and clear, probably from all those vitamins and organic crap she ate.

  “No,” she said simply. “Not once.”

  He nodded and raised the hammer again. This time he hit it direct and hard, a satisfying vibration shooting up his arm. Not once.

  Why would she mention him? He’d never even called to find out where she was, if she made it to college, how she made it to college. Not once. And she’d never called him, either. He’d stopped waiting sometime around the middle of his first baseball season, a mix of relief and loss dogging him like a yearlong dry spell at the plate.

  “I remember when Lacey was fighting for the permits to build Casa Blanca last year, I saw Jocelyn,” he said, remembering how he’d practically jumped her before she’d shot out of the town hall. “And another girl was there with you, a blonde.”

  “That was Zoe Tamarin. The three of us were in a triple dorm room. Lacey was the resident adviser. Zoe’s here, too, by the way. She flew in last night and is staying at my house.”

  “Really? College reunion or something?”