Barefoot in the Rain

  “I like it. I want to keep it.” She stuffed her hand into her pocket. “Since I moved here, I’ve been collecting them. I met a local artist who’s kind of a shell expert, and he makes—”

  “He? Interesting.”

  “Shut up. He makes these amazing pieces and I thought I might try my hand—”

  “Throw it away,” Jocelyn ordered.

  Tessa stared at her, their gazes locked. “Fine.” Yanking it back out of her pocket, she whipped the shell over her shoulder and angled her head. “And your point is?”

  “That could be your baby.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “I’m serious. Some perfect baby is being… let go today. Somewhere, someone is having a baby that needs a good mother. That child is out there, like one of these shells, waiting for you.”

  Tessa started to argue, then closed her mouth, shaking her head. “I’ve heard the argument and I’m not going to change my mind. If you think that makes me some kind of selfish monster, then—”

  “Of course it doesn’t. It makes you a liar. You don’t want a baby. You want your baby. Your body won’t cooperate. So let go of the dream or adopt a baby.”

  “You should talk about being a liar.”

  Jocelyn almost spewed her sip of coffee. “Excuse me?”

  “Telling your father you’re with Clean House.”

  “I tried to tell him who I was and it didn’t sink in. Don’t try to make that whole charade my fault. I’m just going along with what Will wants. For now, anyway.”

  “Will wants you.”

  “Oh, Tess. Will knows too much about me.”

  “And that’s a problem?” She choked, incredulous. “Look at it another way. He knows everything you’ve been through and he still cares about you. Maybe more because of it. That’s a gift, Joss. That’s a rare and wonderful—Oh my God, look. A fighting conch.”

  Tessa loped away, scooping a shell from the ground.

  “What is it?” Jocelyn asked.

  “A rare beauty.” She flipped the shell on its back, still studying it. “This type of shell is found almost exclusively in the southern U.S. Barefoot Bay has some of the most exquisite conchs in the country.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  She held it up to the sun. “That orange iridescence means the animal that lived in this shell was hearty and maybe got into a few scrapes down at the bottom of the sea.”

  “Whoa. Sounds like someone’s been spending an awful lot of time with the local shell expert.”

  “Who’s about fifty-five. Can it.”

  Jocelyn smiled and reached for the shell. “Let me see. This is a keeper, huh?”

  Tessa pulled away. “Not a chance I’m going to give you this so you can toss it and make some life-coaching point.”

  Laughing, Jocelyn reached for it. “I just want to see it. I swear.”

  “You do?” Tessa’s soft brown eyes glinted. “Fine. Open your hand.”

  She was up to something. Still, Jocelyn obliged, palm up, and Tessa set the shell right in the middle of her hand.

  “This, my friend, is a keeper.” Tessa was so serious and quiet that her voice made the fine hairs on the back of Jocelyn’s neck rise. “Maybe a little flawed, but still great looking.” Tessa traced the soft rim of the shell. “The edges are just worn enough to know this one’s been in the sea for a long time, but it’s still beautiful and will last for several thousand more days before time and sand and wind break it down.”

  Jocelyn looked at her, sensing exactly where this was going. “Will?”

  Tessa lifted one shoulder. “You can throw it back in the sea, if you like. But it is being offered to you to keep.”

  Jocelyn rolled her eyes. “You’ve gone from coaching to melodrama.”

  “I’m making a point using a seashell, just like you did.”

  “Are you giving this to me?” Jocelyn asked.

  “Yeah. I am.”

  She leaned in and gave Tessa a kiss on the cheek. “Then I won’t throw it away. And, Tess? For a gardener, you’re not a bad life coach.”

  She laughed. “Speaking of gardens, you want to walk up there with me?”

  Jocelyn shook her head. “I think I’ll stay down here until the sun rises and then get to my list.”

  “ ’Kay. Thanks for the advice.”

  “Same here.”

  They gave a quick hug and Tessa took off, but Jocelyn stood for a long time looking at the Gulf, holding her shell and thinking.

  She wanted Will. She wanted him in every imaginable way.

  What was stopping her? Looking down at her hand, she studied the shell. Damn it, she was so sick of shells. Especially the one around her heart.

  Chapter 25

  The garage was done and the sun was up.

  Amazing.

  Will stepped out into the morning light of the driveway, surveying his work, satisfied with the results of six hours of hard labor. The attic was cleaned out. The garage was empty except for some boxes and a half dozen bags of trash. And Guy hadn’t even gotten up yet.

  At the sound of an engine slowing he turned, surprised to see the Lee County sheriff’s car pulling into Guy’s driveway with Deputy Slade Garrison at the wheel.

  “Morning, Will,” Slade said as he rolled down the window.

  “Slade. What’s up?”

  “Just checking in, making sure you haven’t had any problem with the media.”

  “Why? Have they been around again?” Not that he needed any more reason to accelerate his plan, but those guys would certainly give him one.

  “Charity said they stopped in again, and I heard a couple of guys were in the Toasted Pelican last night asking about Jocelyn.”

  “Shit,” he mumbled, putting a hand on the car roof to block the sun from Slade’s face. “Anyone say anything?”

  “Very few people know she’s here.”

  “Charity does.” And that would normally be like putting it on the front page of the Mimosa Gazette.

  “Well, she’s keeping this secret,” Slade said. “For whatever reason.”

  Will knew the reason. Charity had been the one to pick up the pieces when Will had let them all fall apart. Guilt kicked him, as sure and strong as it had all night while he’d packed up Guy’s house.

  “How is the old guy?” Slade asked, his gaze following Will’s to the garage.

  “Moving into assisted living very soon.”

  Slade nodded. “Guess it’s true, then, what I heard.”

  Will gave him a questioning look.

  “So many rumors why ‘Big Guy’ left the force so young, even before his pension kicked in,” Slade explained, air-quoting the former sheriff’s nickname.

  Will didn’t react; now he knew why “Big Guy” had left the force: Charity’s blackmail pictures. “Some of the older guys said he had trouble and started mentally slipping on the job,” Slade continued.

  “Must have,” Will said, not interested in sharing the truth with the young man. “I really appreciate you keeping an eye out on things, Slade.”

  “Not a problem. Plus, it seems to make Charity happy and I’m trying to get in good with that whole family.”

  “Looks to me like you’re in good with her niece.”

  Slade grinned. “Workin’ on it, buddy. How about you and Jocelyn?”

  Was it that obvious? “Workin’ on it, buddy.”

  “Even though she had an affair with that movie star?”

  Irritation rocked him. “She didn’t. It’s all a lie.”

  Slade’s brows lifted. “Sure going to a lot of trouble to hide from the media if that actress is lying. And the guy? Miles? He’s kind of letting on that it’s true.”

  His fists balled like he was going to give a good punch to his catcher’s mitt. “He is?”

  “Don’t you read these rags you’re so busy hiding from?” Slade turned to the passenger seat and grabbed a paper, shoving it at Will. “You ought to.”

  “Thought Charity wasn’t selli
ng these.”

  “Gloria gave it to me.”

  Will took the tabloid but didn’t look at it. “I’ll use this to wrap Guy’s dishes,” he said. “ ’Cause I don’t have a dog who could shit on it.”

  Laughing, Slade put the car in Reverse. “Do whatever you want with it, Will. But you should know things are only getting worse for her. I’ll watch this street as long as I can, but those guys…” He nodded toward the paper. “They’re going to be relentless until she makes some kind of statement. Maybe you could convince her to do that.”

  Maybe he’d be playing in the World Series next year, too. “I’ll try,” he said, backing away just as another car came down Sea Breeze.

  Slade used his side-view mirror to check the car. “There she is now. Perfect timing.”

  He pulled out and Jocelyn drove into the empty driveway, her window down, her hair blown, her expression oddly happy.

  Will rolled the tabloid and ignored a jolt of pleasure as he opened her door. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

  She smiled, stepping out, then tilted her head to get a good look at him. “I wish I could say the same thing.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Tough night, Will?”

  He dragged his hand through his hair and rubbed his unshaven cheeks. Yeah, he probably looked like hell. “I will show you exactly how tough. Brace yourself, Ms. Bloom. I have a surprise.”

  With the hand that held the paper, he put his arm around her and walked her toward the garage. “Never let it be said that I’m not a man of action, or one who can’t make a decision.”

  Inside the garage, he waved a hand to the boxes and bags, everything but the very top of the loft empty. “I emptied the attic, too. And you did the kitchen and dining room. All that’s left is a few closets in the house. Oh, and I signed up for two more tours at assisted-living places, so I figure we can have him settled somewhere by next week.”

  She stilled, turning toward him. “This is quite a one-eighty you’ve done. You’re a life coach’s dream.” She took a step closer, tentatively reaching for his face. If she touched him it’d all be over. Her fingers barely grazed his unshaven cheek.

  “I’d like to be a life coach’s dream,” he said. “If you’re the life coach.”

  Her eyes widened, and her whole body kind of stilled. “Will, I…”

  “Listen, Joss.” He stopped her by taking her shoulders and holding tight. “Last night at the baseball field was…” Life-changing. “Really nice with you. And when we came home and found Guy throwing that little temper tantrum, I knew I couldn’t drag my heels on this anymore.”

  She searched his face, taking in each word. “This change of heart isn’t just because of—of the pictures? Of what happened that night?”

  “Partially,” he admitted. “I’m pissed beyond words and I kind of feel duped by him.”

  “He can’t help that he doesn’t remember.”

  He inched back, trying to process that statement. “Look who’s had a change of heart.”

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “I really don’t have a choice where he’s concerned, but I agree.” She slipped out of his grasp and walked toward the garage storage loft, pointing to the boxes up there. “So that stuff is all that’s left out here?”

  Behind her, he tossed the newspaper on top of an open carton, unwilling to change the direction of this encounter by talking about the media and Miles Thayer. The sooner they got Guy moved out, the sooner they could get past him and on to the next problem.

  Action felt good, he realized, watching her grab the ladder rails and hoist herself up, looking over her shoulder as she climbed.

  “Why are you smiling?” she asked.

  “Nice view,” he said, nodding toward her backside.

  She made a face and climbed and he followed, both of them crouching over so they didn’t hit the ceiling as they made their way to the two cartons he’d left in the back corner.

  “I have no idea what those are,” he said. “I tried to lift them and they weigh a ton, so I figured I’d go through them and throw stuff away or sort.”

  Jocelyn made her way over, then settled next to the boxes, swiping at some cobwebs and brushing off a few that must have hit her face. “These came out of my mother’s closet after she died.”

  “Oh.” He sat next to her. “I didn’t know.”

  She put a hand on top of one of the boxes but made no move to open it. “When I came home for her funeral, these boxes were all packed. I don’t know if Guy did it or what, but I never looked through them.”

  “You want to now?” He put a hand on her back, sensing her hesitation. “We don’t have to.”

  “I do have to,” she said. “It’s all I have of her.”

  “No it’s not, Joss. You have your memories.”

  She sighed as if those didn’t satisfy much. “All right. I’m ready. Open ’er up.” She put her hand on his arm. “But be warned, I might need… comfort.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “You got it.”

  The soft scent of a spicy perfume mixed with the musky smell of old clothes when Will stripped the duct tape off the carton and opened the flap. He pulled out a stack of sweaters and gave her a questioning look.

  “I doubt we can sell these,” she said, taking the pastel-colored pile. “They’re kind of dated.”

  “Oh,” Will said, reaching deeper into the box. “This is what weighed so much.”

  Jocelyn got up on her knees, sneezing softly. “What is it?”

  “Furniture. A small wooden cabinet.” He reached in and wedged his hands on either side of a large box. “Weird. Why put this in a carton? Have you seen it before?”

  “I don’t think so. Here. I’ll hold the box, you pull it out.”

  With a little effort, they maneuvered out a stunning rosewood cabinet a couple of feet wide with two drawers.

  “Wow, this is nice,” Will said, grazing the polished wood. “Handmade by a pro. You’ve never seen this before?”

  She shook her head

  Will tugged on the brass knob. “It’s like an old fashioned…” He pulled the drawer out. “Baby’s dresser.”

  Full of baby clothes. Tiny, newborn, brand-new blue baby clothes.

  Jocelyn’s fingers shook as she reached for the wee navy blue sleeper with a baseball bat on the front. “Are these yours, by some chance?” she asked.

  “No clue. Why would they be in your garage?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, taking out one precious piece after another. “Weird. The tags are still on them.”

  They’d been folded with love, neatly lined up and separated by tissue paper. The top drawer was all onesies and tiny sleepers with feet.

  The bottom drawer had little-boy T-shirts with trucks and trains, tiny shorts no bigger than her hand, socks, and three little pairs of booties.

  “I should give these to Lacey,” Jocelyn said. “But I don’t know whose they are.”

  “Are you sure this box was left when your mother died?”

  She nodded. “I distinctly remember seeing it come out of my parents’ bedroom, all taped up by my father.” She lifted the last layer of clothes to find a blue satin baby book. “Oh. Maybe this’ll tell us something.”

  The spine cracked when she opened it as if it had never been used. But there was handwriting on the first page. Her mother’s distinctive sideways scrawl. The words tore a gasp from Jocelyn’s throat.

  Alexander Michael Bloom, Jr.

  Laid to Rest January 19, 1986

  She’d had a brother? The words swam in her vision. How was this possible? She tore her gaze from the book to Will’s eyes, his expression as shocked and confused as hers must have been.

  “You were, what, seven years old?” he asked.

  She couldn’t speak, just nodded.

  “And they had a baby you didn’t know about?”

  That wasn’t possible. Her throat felt like someone had a hand around her neck and wouldn’t stop squeezing. Very sl
owly, she turned the pages of a book created with the express purpose of memorializing a baby’s life.

  Baby’s Earliest Days! A grainy, faded sonogram printout on yellowed paper, far blurrier than the kind they used nowadays, was taped to the page. In the corner the letters had almost disappeared with time, but Jocelyn could make out the words.

  Bloom baby boy. December 9, 1985

  “Oh my God, Will.” The words came out like a rasp of pain as she turned the page.

  Mommy’s Growing Too! A list of months from August to January with a number and a pound sign had been inserted in her mother’s writing. Chills blossomed over her whole body despite the heat of the garage. Will turned the next page for her, but every single line was empty.

  Baby Arrives! But that page was empty. No date, no pictures, no words.

  Baby’s First Bath! Blank. Baby’s Sits Up! Blank. Baby Can Crawl! Blank.

  Page after page of the saddest story never told. Never told to Jocelyn. The thought slammed her. “He must have been stillborn. Why didn’t they tell me? I never even knew she was pregnant.”

  “You were only seven, Joss. You couldn’t handle it.”

  “But later? When I got older.” She spread her hand on the blank page reserved for Baby’s Growth Chart, digging back into her memory banks and coming up as blank as the page. “Why wouldn’t my mother have told me she was carrying—and lost—a baby boy?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, turning a page. “Too painful, I guess.”

  And then a memory teased. “She went to the hospital when I was in second grade,” she said, staring ahead, digging for truth. “They told me she had appendicitis. She must have been”—she flipped back to the sonogram and squinted at the old computerized numbers, quickly doing math—“about five months pregnant and lost the baby. I vaguely recall my grandparents came down from up north and stayed for a few days until she came home.”

  “Do you remember how she handled it?”

  “No, but that’s when Guy’s episodes started.” She blinked away the tears, clarity and understanding dawning.

  This was what had made him snap. This was why he’d grown violent and moody. And why—oh, God. Realization dawned. “This is why he thinks you are his son who he was told was gone forever.”