Meet Me in Barefoot Bay

by Roxanne St Claire

  “I am one of your friends,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You have to work.”

  “I’ll… call in sick.”

  And he would, too, she just knew it. Then she’d be with him all day, too close for comfort as he launched his campaign against her plan. No, that would never work. “Will, you can’t go with me and that’s that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll distract me.”

  He lifted his eyebrows as if that amused and didn’t surprise him.

  “And you’ll try to talk me out of my plan.”

  “You need me there and I’m not backing down.”

  Damn the little thrill that went through her. Did he want to be with her that much? Did the idea of that have to feel so good? “I do not need you there.”

  “Anyway, you need a bodyguard.” His serious, even ominous expression erased any little thrills.

  “Oh, Lord. The media found me.”

  He put a hand over hers. “Not yet, but they’re looking.”

  “They’ve been to Guy’s house?” For some reason, that terrified her more than if they’d found her.

  “No, I don’t think so, but we should get down there and warn him not to open the door to anyone.”

  “Then how do you know?”

  “They came into the Super Min.”

  She gasped softly. “Was Charity there?”

  “Yeah, and she not only didn’t talk to them, she kicked them out on their asses and made sure Slade Garrison knew not to give them any information. So Charity’s either overdosed on her nice meds or something is up.”

  Neither one. But she wasn’t about to tell Will the real reason behind Charity’s behavior. Some secrets would last forever.

  “Not only that,” he continued, “she hid the tabloids.” He shook his head, baffled. “I’ve never known her to not exploit every possible opportunity to gossip, and this was on a national scale.”

  Of course he’d think that. Most people would. But most people didn’t know Charity Grambling like she did. “Who was it, TMZ?”

  He nodded.

  “Bottom-feeders,” she said, lifting the computer screen. “Let me call these places and make appointments with every one of them.”

  “Let’s just start with one, Joss,” he said. “Let’s go see one. Together. Let’s find out if it’s the right thing to do. And I can tell Lacey I won’t be gone all day, which will make her happy.”

  “And I can work on Guy’s mess this afternoon,” she agreed.

  “And we can have dinner together tonight.”

  She drew back. “Why?”

  “We still need to talk.”

  “We’ll have all afternoon to talk.”

  He put his hand over hers, so warm and big and familiar. She couldn’t help looking at it, at how his fingers eclipsed hers, at how strong and capable that hand was.

  “We have fifteen years to catch up on,” he said. “That’s going to take longer than a trip to Naples and back.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, to turn him down, to put up the wall she had first erected on that horrible night in his loft and promised herself she’d never, ever tear down.

  But nothing came out.

  And then she nodded.

  “Is that a yes?” he asked, his eyes dark blue with hope.

  Another nod, still not completely sure what she’d say if she opened her mouth.

  “I just want you to forgive me,” he said.

  For a second, she wasn’t sure she understood. “Forgive you?”

  “For never calling, for never finding you, for never making sure fifteen years didn’t pass without… us…”

  His voice trailed off but it didn’t matter; her pulse was thumping so loud she could hardly hear him.

  “Will,” she whispered, “I’m the one who made sure all that time passed. I wouldn’t have returned your call and I figured… this was better.”

  “Better?” He gripped her hand, picking it up, bringing it to his lips and holding her gaze. “Better for who?”

  “For you.”

  He closed his eyes and kissed her fingertips. “It wasn’t better for me.”

  Her heart folded in half, smashed by regret and, damn, hope. Maybe an afternoon with him would squash that for good.

  Or maybe it would make her hope for more. There was only one way to find out.

  Chapter Ten

  Why did that dang thread always get stuck on the up-loop? Guy pushed his glasses up his nose and angled the hooped plastic mesh toward the window to get a good look. Not that the artwork could look good. No, this was one messy piece of needlepoint.

  Maybe William would show him that little movie on the computer again with the lady who explained this needling to children. That had really helped.

  With a sigh he studied the whole project again, letting his eyes unfocus so he could appreciate the shape and colors of the flowers and not the bumps and lumps of his mistakes. He’d gotten half a petal done since yesterday and then he’d lost interest. Why couldn’t he stay with one thing long enough to finish it?

  Same thing with his memory. Stuff disappeared as quickly as it showed up, always with those flashing lights like on a Christmas tree, teasing him in color so bright and bold then fading to black and white, before they disappeared altogether into gray nothingness.

  But ever since that girl landed on his front porch, a few lights were coming on. And staying on. Threads of memories wrapped around his broken brain like it was this plastic embroidery net, then the colors almost caught, and, boom, they were knotted in shadows again.

  Still, when he looked at her something deep in his gut stirred.

  He knew her. And not just from the TV.

  That was the thought that kept getting tangled just like this silky orange yarn.

  He knew her. Was that possible? He had carefully lined up the needle and was ready to push it through the hole when the doorbell startled him and the needle jumped out of the spot.

  “Son of a gun!” No Girl Scouts sold cookies at this time of day, so he hoped it wasn’t some salesperson, ’cause he wasn’t buying. He had enough junk in this place.

  He pushed up, setting down the whole frame and embroidery panel on his chair, then rounded the decorative brick divider to get to the front door. Standing on his tiptoes, he squinted at two men, not recognizing either of them.

  “Yeah, what is it?” he called.

  “Mr. Bloom? Mr. Guy Bloom? Former deputy sheriff of Mimosa Key?” He was the former sheriff, he knew that for a fact. Didn’t remember a blasted thing about it, but William had told him, so it must be true.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked. Wait a second! Could these be people from the show? Where was Missy? Shouldn’t she be here? Dang, she might get in trouble for showing up so late, and he didn’t want that to happen. “You with the TV show?” he asked.

  He saw them look at each other, one with kind of thinning hair holding something black in his hand, the other with those horn-rimmed glasses and hair that women used to call “frosted.” Which looked kind of ridiculous on a man, if you asked him.

  “Yes, and the Web site.”

  Did Clean House have a Web site? Of course, you old coot. Everybody and his cousin was on the stinkin’ computer.

  “Can we talk to you a minute, Mr. Bloom?”

  “About the show?”

  After a beat, the man said. “About Jocelyn.”

  That was her name, even though Guy could never remember it. He’d heard William call her “Joss.” But he didn’t know where she was, and what if they came in here and didn’t like him as much as she did? What if they looked around and didn’t see the potential or had someone with a messier house and kids? They loved kids on that show.

  The only thing he could do was play dumb. A little smile lifted his lips. Like playing dumb would be any challenge.

  “I don’t know anyone named Jocelyn,” he said, his hand on the dead bolt, holding it firmly in th
e lock position. “Sorry.”

  “Your daughter, Jocelyn,” he said.

  Something stabbed his heart, not too hard, not as sharp as that embroidery needle he’d just been holding, but he felt the jab just the same.

  “I don’t have a daughter. I have a son.”

  He lifted up on his toes to catch the two men giving each other confused looks.

  “You aren’t Guy Bloom, father of Jocelyn Bloom? The sheriff said you lived here.”

  Wait a second, he was the sheriff. Well, not anymore.

  A thin trickle of sweat, surprisingly cold, meandered under his collar, finding its way down his back.

  “You got the wrong man. My son is named William and he’s not here. I don’t have a daughter.”

  “Are you sure?” Frosty asked.

  “What kind of a question is that?” he fired back even though, heck, it was a darn good question. He wasn’t sure what day it was, what street he lived on, or who was the president of the United States. But he kept that mostly to himself, so he didn’t wind up in some nuthouse somewhere.

  “Are you positive you don’t have a daughter?” the man demanded, his tone making it clear he didn’t believe Guy.

  “I do not have a daughter,” Guy confirmed. Suddenly the mail slot opened and a little white card tumbled in.

  “That’s my number, Mr. Bloom. If you change your mind, I can make it worth your while to talk. Extremely worth your while.” He waited a moment, then added, “Like fifty thousand dollars worth your while.”

  Fifty thousand dollars! Is that how the show worked? “For remodeling?” he asked, imagining just how much money they spent on all that paint and furniture and the pretty blonde girl who reorganized all the shelves and closets.

  “You can use it for whatever you want if you give us access to or information about Jocelyn.”

  “Why do you want it?”

  “No one can find her, sir. And a lot of people want to talk to your daughter.”

  “I don’t have…” He picked up the card. Robert Picalo, TMZ. Shaking his head, he slipped the card into one of the open spaces between the bricks, where he used to keep his keys when he could drive.

  What a funny thing to remember. For a moment he put his hand on the cool bricks, remembering his keys so distinctly it shocked him. And… a woman. The color in his head was soft and peachy, light and—

  “Call me if you change your mind, Mr. Bloom.”

  Who was he talking to?

  He turned and looked out the little window again at two men. Who were they? Before he could ask, the men headed down the walk, talking and looking around.

  Oh, that’s right, he remembered with relief. They’re with Clean House. He grabbed the memory and squeezed so it wouldn’t go away, just as the bald guy picked up the black thing he was holding—was that a camera?

  Oh, now they’re taking pictures of the place! Video pictures.

  “It’s gonna be fine,” he said to himself, turning around when they got in a van parked on the street. “Missy’ll know what to do.

  Are you positive you don’t have a daughter?

  The words echoed in his head, making him unsure whether he’d just heard them or made them up.

  Maybe he did have a daughter.

  On an instinct that he didn’t understand, he ambled down the hall to his bedroom and, in just that space and time, those dang Christmas lights flashed again, burst of yellow. Orange. Red. Green.

  Gone.

  He shook his head, standing in the bedroom. What had he come in here for?

  Pressing his fingers to his temples with a low growl of frustration, he tried to push the thoughts from the outskirts into the middle of his brain, imagining those little lines and valleys opening to tell him what the hell he had come into this room to get.

  “God damn it!” He punched the doorjamb.

  He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t remember what he was doing, watching, thinking. Everything was shrouded in fog.

  Frustration popping in every vein, he opened the closet door, hoping to remember. A sweater? Shoes? Something to eat?

  No, no, not here.

  And then he remembered the box.

  In the closet, he pushed the clothes to the side, determined to find his secret box. William didn’t know about this box. The pretty TV girl didn’t know about the box. No one knew about the box he kept inside the safe at the back of his closet. The “safe” was really a door built into the wall, painted over, and almost impossible to see. Good thing, because if it were a real safe, he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to remember the combination. But in that hole in the wall was the big pink box.

  The top was curved and had an embroidered rose glued to it. On the front, a key with a ragged silver tassel rested in the lock, but the lock didn’t work anymore. He lifted the lid and peered inside.

  Two rings. One tarnished necklace. He lifted out the top section and found what he wanted underneath. The picture. Of a man and a girl, sitting in a rowboat.

  The girl was maybe six or seven? He didn’t know. But she was deep inside a shiny silver boat not much wider than a canoe, oars in her hands, long dark hair blowing in the wind as she looked at the camera and smiled, front teeth missing. A man sat behind her, grinning from ear to ear.

  There was a wisp of a memory. The girl’s laughter, her head turning around, a word on her lips.

  Daddy.

  For a long time he just stared at the girl, and something inside him broke off in little pieces.

  Daddy. Daddy.

  “Guy? Are you here?”

  William! He snapped the box closed, shoved it into its hiding place, and pushed himself up, shaking like a kid who’d been caught smoking in the boys’ room.

  “Guy? Where are you?”

  Missy was there, too! A smile shot through him as he pushed his way out of the closet. Wait till she saw how far he got on those flowers.

  “I’m back here in my room, you two.”

  You two. They made a heck of a nice couple, didn’t they?

  “Oh, I’m so glad.” She came in, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. Lord, the girl was a feast for the eyes, even ones as bad as his.

  “We just came to check on you,” she said.

  “I’m fine. Could use a little lunch, though.”

  “I’ll make him a sandwich, Will. You talk to him.”

  As she headed back down the hall, William came into the room, putting one of his big hands on Guy’s shoulder in that way that made Guy feel so safe. There was just no one like his William.

  “You okay, Guy?”

  “Fine, fine, yeah. Why?”

  Will looked at him funny. “You looked flushed.”

  “Me?” He touched his cheek. “I was just, you know, thinking about things.”

  Will guided him to sit on the bed, always so gentle for a big kid. Always so kind. “God, I love you, William.”

  He smiled. “I know, buddy. Listen, I want to talk to you about not letting—”

  “What is this?” Missy stood in the doorway, eyes wide, face pale, a little white card in her hand. “They were here?”

  She held out the card and William took it, looking just as stunned. “Did you talk to this man, Guy?” he asked.

  Did he?

  “What man?”

  “Oh, God.” Missy put both hands to her mouth, a look of panic making her big brown eyes look like giant saucers. “Please tell me you didn’t tell them I’m here.”

  A flash of light popped in his head and he grabbed that thought, standing up, determined to hold on before the clouds came back. “I told them I didn’t know who they were talking about.”

  “You did?” she asked. “You’re sure?”

  Was he? Son of a gun, he wasn’t sure about anything. “I didn’t let them in, I swear.”

  “It’s okay, Guy.” William eased him back to the bed. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  But the girl looked horror-stricken. “You better stay here, Will. I’m going to�
��”

  “Not alone, you’re not.”

  “But you have to stay with him.”

  A little anger boiled through Guy, firing some synapses that were mostly dead. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” he boomed, pretty loud, because Missy gasped again and took a quick step backwards.

  Then her face kind of froze. “I’m going, Will.” She turned like a soldier and marched down the hall.

  Oh, no! He’d made her mad! “Missy!” he called, jumping up to follow her, a wave of remorse strangling him. “No, don’t get mad! I’m so sorry. I’m sorry!” He choked on the last words, hating that he was about to cry, turning to William for help.

  “Just stay here, Guy. Let me handle this, please.” Will gave him a quick squeeze on the shoulders. “Just wait here and let me talk to her. Please.”

  “She’s upset, William. I hurt her feelings. I yelled at her.” A light flashed in his head again, a pale baby blue this time. A familiar color that reminded him of sadness. “Talk to her, William. Don’t let her leave. I like her. I like her so much.”

  William gave him a tight smile, nodding. “So do I, buddy. Just trust me on this.”

  Alone, Guy counted to ten. Again. And again, and so many times he had to have made a hundred. Then he stood and slowly walked down the hall, where he could hear them whispering in the kitchen.

  Oh, he didn’t want to hear what she was saying. He could just imagine her words: I hate him. I have to leave. I can’t stay with him.

  Where had he heard that before? He squeezed his temples, hard enough to make his head ache.

  But when he walked into the kitchen William was standing next to her, his hand on her shoulder, and she held a phone to her ear.

  “Is she calling someone from her show?” Guy asked.

  William held up one finger, signaling for him to be quiet and wait.

  “Zoe?” she said. “I need you to do me a huge favor, hon. I mean, major huge. Can you come over to my father’s house and, um, hang out with him for a while?” Babysit, was what she meant, but Guy knew better than to argue.

  After a pause, she nodded. “I knew I could count on you.”

  William breathed a sigh of relief and, back in the recesses of Guy’s brain, the blue light faded, replaced by a familiar fog.