Tessa gasped and grinned and gave a solid clap. “A capital idea!”
And just like that, they managed to steer the conversation away from babies and onto business.
Chapter Sixteen
Will climbed out of his truck at the Mimosa Community Credit Union a few minutes after the bank opened, the last of the stops he had to make that morning. Just as he reached for the handle of the charcoal-tinted glass door, it popped open, pushed by someone inside.
“’Scuse me,” he murmured, stepping to the side and nearly getting run over by Charity Grambling, who had her head down, her nose in the open end of a manila envelope.
With a soft gasp, she looked up, jerking the envelope away. Then she shot him a vile look, her features arranged in a way that screamed anger. Brows drawn, lips down, nothing but fury carved into the deep lines on her face.
Man, she’d been poorly named.
“Everything okay, Charity?”
Her dark eyes tapered as the wind lifted her frizzy caramel-colored hair, revealing a band of gray roots underneath. “No, Will. Some things are just not okay.”
He hesitated, stepping farther to the side but still holding the door for her. “Sorry to hear that,” he said, expecting her to fire a retort and stomp away.
But she just sucked in a breath so deep it made her narrow nostrils quiver.
Oh, boy. Charity was in a mood to gossip. “Hope your day gets better,” he said quickly, trying to zip by her into the air-conditioned lobby of the credit union.
But she stood stone still, five feet two inches of granite and grit. “Where’s Jocelyn?”
The question threw him enough to make him stop. Charity may be playing the good cop this week, but he’d known this woman too long to trust her. “Is someone looking for her?” he asked, purposely not answering.
“Yes, for cryin’ out loud. I am. Where is she?”
He just shook his head.
“I need to see her. I have something for her. I promised it to her.”
She had? Curiosity tweaked, but he tamped it down. “I can give her whatever you have, Charity.”
“No way. This is eyes only. Her eyes only.”
“I won’t look at it.”
She practically hooted with disbelief. “Like I’d believe a man.”
“You can believe me.”
She shook her head. “Where is she?”
“I’m sorry, Charity. I’m sworn to secrecy and my word is good. Whatever you have, give it to me. Does it have to do with her situation?”
“I’ll say it does.” She tapped the manila envelope against her hands.
“I know everything,” he said earnestly. “I know the truth and she trusts me. Is that what you want to give her?”
She clutched the envelope tighter, scrutinizing his face like she could eyeball whether or not he was a liar.
“You can trust me.” He held out his hand.
“Have her call me and come to the store.”
“She might not,” he said. “She’s keeping a very low profile. But suit yourself. I’ll tell her I saw you.” He tried to slip by her, but she inched to the side.
“I can trust you for sure?”
“You have my word.”
She shoved the envelope into his hands. “Give this to her. And if you even think about opening it, God’ll strike you down dead. And if He doesn’t, I will.”
What the hell could it be? He didn’t make the mistake of looking remotely curious, but took the envelope with a solemn nod and tucked it under his arm. “You want her to call you or anything?”
“Just…” She drew in another breath. “Be there if she falls.”
Coming from anyone else, it would have been a cliché. Coming from Charity, who hadn’t spoken five kind words in her life, the expression damn near blew him away.
And piqued his curiosity, but he kept the envelope under his arm the whole time he made his transaction at the teller window and returned to his truck. Feeling a little like he had contraband, he set the envelope on the passenger seat with his bandanna, Gatorades, and a box of protein bars that kept him going all day. After glancing around for wayward reporters who might jump or follow him, he headed up to Barefoot Bay.
How did Charity fit into the whole Miles Thayer–Coco Kirkman scandal? What could she have? Copies of those texts he’d heard about on TV? An affidavit? The confidentiality agreement? News stories? Why the hell would Charity Grambling have anything like that?
Why would she tell him to be there if Jocelyn falls?
As if he needed someone to suggest that. But maybe there was more news about to break and—
As he came around the bend near the bay, he slammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop a few feet from a roadblock of bright-orange drums and two DOT trucks.
Everything on the passenger seat went sailing forward, the Gatorades thumping, the protein bars flying, and Charity’s envelope shooting to the floor.
Shit, he’d totally forgotten the transportation inspection was today.
Clay and another man stepped out from behind the truck and waved.
“Hang on, Will,” Clay called. “We’ll get you through in a second.”
Will waved back, holding the brake with his left foot and reaching down to the floor to retrieve the lost bars and juice.
And the contents of the envelope, which had slipped out and lay on the floor.
Pictures.
Will froze halfway to the floor, absolutely unable to keep his gaze from going where he’d given his word it wouldn’t go. But his gaze had a will of its own and he glanced at pictures of—
He blinked, his head buzzing at the image that scarred his brain.
Pictures of Jocelyn.
Nothing on earth—no promise, no word of honor, no guarantee that he wouldn’t look—could stop him from staring at the sight. His breath stopped, his heart leaped into overdrive, and he picked up a photograph with a shaky hand.
He stared at it, only half aware that his throat had closed up and out of his mouth came an inhuman whimper of pain.
He jumped when Clay pounded on the hood of the truck. “Hey, wake up, Palmer. You can go through now.”
Trying to swallow, trying to breath, he just stared at Clay, not sure if he could drive or even keep himself from opening the door and puking his guts out.
Clay banged again and made a grand gesture for Will to drive.
Somehow, he did, still holding a picture that changed everything.
Damn it all, she couldn’t even concentrate on a simple garland pose. Jocelyn’s heels sank into the wet sand the same way the conversation she’d just had with Lacey pressed into her heart.
Lacey was pregnant; that was, quite honestly, not a surprise. From the moment Lacey and Clay had stopped fighting the battle and given in to their feelings, Lacey had wanted to beat the biological clock and squeeze in another child. Even with a fifteen-year-old from her long-ago college love affair, Lacey had always wanted a second child.
But that wasn’t what made Jocelyn’s slow rise to a chair pose so unsteady.
The equilibrium problems came from deep inside her gut, the origin of all balance. Because way in her innermost core, Jocelyn was actually considering Lacey’s offer. Lacey needed her and she needed—
“Hey!”
The single word, shot like a bullet across the beach, knocked her right on her ass. Landing in the sand, she turned to see Will marching across the beach, the first flutter of happiness instantly erased by the sense that something was very, very wrong.
He carried a paper or card of some kind in one hand, his arms swinging as though he could propel himself forward faster. His face was dark with a scowl, his muscles bunched, his jaw set.
Was Guy hurt?
She pushed up, brushing sand from her yoga pants, not sure why Guy would be her first thought or why that thought would tighten her stomach with worry.
Something was wrong.
At a distance of about twenty feet, she could pra
ctically see Will’s nostrils flare.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, her words carrying over the breeze but eliciting no response as he marched off the remaining space and stopped right in front of her.
“Will?” She tried and failed to read his expression.
He took a slow breath, his chest rising and falling as he stared at her, the silence so unnerving she bit her lip and took a step backwards.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” The question was low and husky, almost drowned out by the squawk of a gull.
“Tell you…” Her gaze fell to the large envelope he was holding. And her heart stopped.
“I ran into Charity at the credit union,” he said.
Oh, no. No.
“She gave me something for you.”
Finally, she dragged her gaze from the envelope to his face, simply unable to put words to the tornado of emotions twisting through her. “And you looked at it.”
“Not intentionally. But I saw—” He closed his eyes, a shudder rolling through him. “Why didn’t I know this? Why didn’t you come to me? Why?”
She took another step back, the impact of the words—and him knowing the truth—too much for her to handle.
“He gave you a black eye.”
Agony stretched across her chest, pressing so hard she couldn’t breathe.
“He beat you.” His voice cracked and he swallowed, his Adam’s apple quivering. “He left marks all… over… you.”
She shivered, running he hands over goose-bump-covered arms, blood rushing so noisily through her head she couldn’t hear her own thoughts.
“And you never told me.” The last sentence was spoken on a sigh, all the anger gone, only sadness there.
She finally exhaled. “You’d have gotten yourself killed or ended up in jail. It would have cost you everything.”
“Who cares? He beat you because of me.”
No, he beat her because he was a heartless animal. “You shouldn’t have looked at those.”
“Kind of a moot point now, Jocelyn. You should have told me. You should have come to me, not Charity Grambling.”
“I didn’t go to Charity. She picked me up on the street.”
He grunted like she’d punched him. “You left that night and didn’t walk fifty feet to me?”
“So you could do what? Ruin your life and your dreams and your career?”
“Jocelyn.” He could barely say her name. “He deserved to die.”
Stepping closer, she reached for the envelope. “But he wouldn’t have. And you might have. Give it to me.”
He just gripped it tighter. “He could have killed you.”
“He almost did.” She snagged the envelope from his hands, the paper still warm from his touch. “Now you know why I never contacted you.”
He tunneled his fingers in his hair, dragging them through like he could yank out the facts. “God, I hate him.”
“Welcome to my world.”
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Jocelyn looked down at the envelope, part of her almost wanting to open it, but she couldn’t stand to see those images again. She wasn’t even sure why she’d asked Charity to give them to her, except for the joy of burning them.
And now they were burned into Will’s brain. Where she’d never, ever wanted them.
“This can’t come as a surprise to you,” she said softly, tucking the pictures under her arm.
“I didn’t think he’d actually hit you. Fuck, why didn’t he hit me? I was the one on top of you when he found us.”
“Because he’s a wifebeater, Will.” She spat the word. “That kind of sick human doesn’t go after other men who are bigger and stronger. They go after weak females who are dependent on them.”
She started up the beach, but he was right next to her.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
She froze and let out a dry laugh. “Do? I’m not filing charges, if that’s what you mean. I did what I needed to do, Will, fifteen years ago. I left. I gave up the only thing in the whole world that mattered to me and I ran away, put myself through college, and started a life three thousand miles away. It’s too late to do anything else now.”
She kicked some sand as she took off toward her villa, absolutely unable to stand the way he was looking at her. She could never look at Will Palmer again without knowing he was seeing those pictures, her pummeled, helpless body.
Pictures that Charity insisted on taking and using to get Guy to resign from the sheriff’s department and hole up in his house for fear of having those images on the cover of the Mimosa Gazette.
Will was next to her in three steps. “What did you give up?” he asked.
She slowed again, kind of unable to believe he didn’t know. “What do you think?”
He frowned and then everything just fell. His shoulders, his mouth, his heart.
“I gave up you,” she said, confirming what he’d obviously just figured out.
“It was me.” He almost choked on the realization. She could see the moment it dawned and all the pieces of the puzzle fit. “I was the person you sacrificed for love.”
She didn’t have to confirm or deny; the sucker punch contorted his expression.
“You walked away from me, to protect me, when I should have protected…” He closed his eyes, unable even to voice the last word. “Oh, God, Jocelyn.”
This was exactly what she didn’t want. His hate and guilt, his regret and anger, his inability to look at her without feeling inadequate.
“This is why I didn’t tell you.”
“But I never went after you. I was… waiting.” His lip curled in self-loathing as he said the word.
“I didn’t expect you to,” she replied quickly, aching to take that look off his face. “In fact, I was relieved you didn’t. I didn’t want you saddled with Guy Bloom any more than you…” Her voice faded away as she realized what she’d just said. “I guess I failed and you’re saddled with him after all.”
“Like hell I am.”
She drew back, surprised by his vehemence.
“If we can’t get that son of a bitch in jail, then the old-age home is the next best thing.”
“Now you want to put him in a home?”
“Now I want to put him in a grave.”
“Well, I’d prefer you didn’t, since I gave up an awful lot a long time ago to make sure you didn’t commit murder.” She kept on walking, her eye on the villa in the distance. If she could get there, she could survive this. She could get through this moment of hell.
“Where are you going?” he demanded.
“Away.” She finally turned and looked at him. “I’m going away.”
“Damn it, why? Why do you always do that? You run and you hide and you disappear. You can’t do that again, Jocelyn.”
Oh yes, she could. “That’s how I survived the first eighteen years of my life, Will. I’m not about to change. Even for you.”
His face registered the hit, and while he stood stone still, she made her escape.
And, just like the last time, he let her go.
Chapter Seventeen
Will Palmer, man of fucking inaction. Protected by the very woman he was supposed to protect. Hatred—for himself, for Guy, for the messy cards they’d been dealt—constricted his chest so hard he could barely breathe through the pain.
He could have gone his whole damn life and not have known that because of him, the only woman he’d ever really loved got the crap kicked out of her.
Because of him.
Shoving his hand in his pocket, he pulled out his bandanna and wiped the sweat from his face, starting the trek across the beach to the path.
This time he was not waiting for an invitation. He was not waiting for a goddamn thing ever again. Not this woman, not permission, not a decision, not the truth. Thrumming with focus and raw with emotion, he approached the villa quietly, noticing that the side french doors were closed tight. His heart finally slowing to a steady, if
miserable, thump, he walked up to the door, turned the handle, and pushed it open.
“Joss?”
From the back, he heard the soft hiss of water. The shower.
“Joss?” he called, a little louder so he didn’t scare her when he went back there.
She didn’t answer, so he rounded the galley kitchen and poked his head into the bedroom. The bed was made like housekeeping had just left, pillows propped, the mosquito netting neatly pulled back.
Except there was no housekeeping at Casa Blanca yet.
In fact, everything in the room was pristine, like it was when Lacey decorated it to shoot pictures for her first brochures. If he hadn’t heard the shower in the bathroom, he’d swear no one was staying here.
He walked to the bathroom door and put his hand on the brass lever and pushed, half expecting it to be locked but relieved when it opened a few inches.
In spite of the hiss of the shower, he heard her sniff.
She was crying, of course. The thought ripped him.
I bet she cried that night Guy beat her.
On the floor, he saw paper. Pages of it, strewn around like someone had opened a package of loose leaf and used it as confetti. Pushing the door open, he looked toward the curved glass doors that had been such a bitch to install. The water was pouring, but the stall was empty.
“Are you in here, Joss?”
This time, the sniff was accompanied by a shudder, and the sound of paper tearing.
He stepped inside and found her sitting against the wall next to the shower, wearing a bra and panties, the floor littered with handwritten pages, some with just a word or two, some with more.
She didn’t look up from the notebook in front of her.
“What are you doing, Bloomerang?” he asked with every drop of gentleness he could muster.
“I was about to take a shower, but decided to make some lists.”
At any other time, that would have made him smile. But nothing about her pain-ravaged face was amusing. He went in a little farther. “What’s on them?”
She finally looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. “Things to do.”
“What things?”
She stared at him for a second, then, without looking down, she stripped a sheet of paper off the spiral, the tearing sound echoing through the bathroom. “Goals, plans, strategies, tactics, time lines, action items.”
Meet Me in Barefoot Bay Page 49