Barefoot in the Rain (27 page)

“But he’s forgotten it.”

“Has he? I don’t know. I certainly haven’t.”

“You think he’s faking it?” She stole a glance at Jocelyn. “ ’Cause I have to tell you, the thought occurred to me, too.”

“Would be convenient, don’t you think?”

Zoe puffed out a breath of disgust. “It would be so fucked up there are no words. But kind of brilliant, too.”

Jocelyn squeezed her hat brim against the wind. “I don’t know how sick you’d have to be to forget you took your wife’s favorite perfume and dumped it down the toilet because she forgot to call the plumber.”

“What kind of perfume?”

Jocelyn choked. “Chanel Number Five.”

“Ouch. The good stuff. But, seriously, you think the old guy is faking this?”

Jocelyn pulled the seat belt away from her chest; the
pressure on her heart was making it hard to breathe. “I wouldn’t put anything past him. How could he remember Henry the Heron and not his own daughter?”

“I read somewhere that Alzheimer’s patients remember the most random things, like what shoes they wore in 1940 but not what underwear they put on that morning.”

“When were you reading about Alzheimer’s?”

“I read a lot of stuff about old people, Joss. The woman who raised me is damn near eighty. Maybe older, maybe younger, she won’t say.”

“Pasha is healthy as a horse.”

Zoe just looked out over the deep blue water of the Intracoastal. “So, what if this is all an act and he finds out his shenanigans are landing him in an old-age home? That would blow.”

“It’d blow his cover, is what it would blow.”

Zoe tapped on the brakes as the car in front of them slowed, using the chance to give Jocelyn a hard look. “Do you really think he’s faking it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe at times he is, maybe not. It wouldn’t change my decision either way.”

“But if he can take care of himself, why don’t you just let him be?”

“Because he can’t take care of himself,” she said, ire and frustration rising. “Will has to take care of him and that’s wrong. Will’s not his son, regardless of what Guy thinks. So he’s going, whether he wants it, knows it, or has an opinion about it.”

“That’s right,” Zoe said. “Plus you love shit like this. Organizing, managing, shoving bad people into their proper boxes.”

Jocelyn just closed her eyes and let the powerful gusts
partially drown out the words she didn’t want to hear. Was she shoving Guy in a box? Well, what the hell, why not? He shoved her mother into a closet once.

“So where were we?” Zoe asked.

“On our way to Vista d’Or.”

“I mean where were we on the Jocelyn Bloom Life Management Track.”

“We came to the end.” She folded her arms and turned away, hoping that would end the conversation.

“Without taking a trip down Will Palmer Road?” Zoe asked.

“Dead end. Take a left at the next light.”

Zoe took the turn down a wide boulevard in the middle of Naples, taking in the designer stores and upscale restaurants as they passed. “Are we in the medical district?” she asked.

“I think the hospital is nearby.”

“Always is near those assisted-living facilities, isn’t it? And then the graveyard.”

“Nice, Zoe.”

“Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be good and happy if Guy dropped dead and made this simple for you.”

Jocelyn closed her mouth, unwilling to lie. Instead she squinted at the GPS on her phone. “Just keep going a few more blocks.”

“Okay, back to Will-I-Am. Did he pop your cherry?”

Oh, God
. Jocelyn tsked. “ Remind me again why I’m friends with you.”

“Easy.” Zoe grinned. “I held your head when you got drunk and threw up after the Alabama game. Remember?”

Actually, she remembered next to nothing, but Zoe
loved to remind her of that night their freshman year at Florida. “First, last, and only time I’ve ever been that drunk. And yet you will lord it over me forever.”

“That’s what friends are for. And for sharing secrets. Tell me about Will. I want to know if—” Zoe slammed on the brakes so hard Jocelyn smashed into her seat belt. Jocelyn scanned the road; no car or pedestrian or errant dog in sight.

“What the heck, Zoe?”

Zoe stared to her left, her jaw open.

Leaning forward, Jocelyn tried to see who or what had caused Zoe to nearly kill them. Dream shoes? A hot guy? No, a simple Spanish-style office building next to a frozen yogurt shop.

Following Zoe’s stunned gaze, Jocelyn read the elegant gold lettering on the undertstated building.

Dr. Oliver Bradbury

Oncology

For a long, silent moment, Jocelyn just stared at the words.

“He doesn’t need an oncologist,” Jocelyn said. “And, whether you want to believe it or not, I’m grateful for that.”

Very slowly, Jocelyn turned around, all color drained from her cheeks. “He must live here,” she whispered.

“Who?” Jocelyn looked at the name again and instantly a memory flashed. “That’s the same guy we saw in front of the Ritz in Naples last year, isn’t it? The one who freaked you out.”

“I didn’t freak out,” she said. Behind them, a car honked impatiently. Jocelyn expected a typical Zoe response, which could be anything from a friendly wave
to the finger, but she just gently put her foot on the accelerator and drove about five miles an hour.

“You freaked out,” Jocelyn said. “You dove onto the floor of this very car—or one a lot like it from the same rental company—and…” Jocelyn snapped her fingers, the whole thing coming back now. “It was an oncology conference at the Ritz. And that guy, Oliver, was there with his wi—” She let the word fall away.

Zoe was biting a damn hole in the bottom of her lip.

“You okay?” Jocelyn asked gently.

“Fine,” she croaked. “Where’s my next turn?”

“Zoe, who is this guy? What happened?” Other than the obvious. Only, God, she hoped Zoe wasn’t stupid enough to get involved with a married man.

“Nothing. Ancient history.”

It was so tempting to tease, if for no other reason than to make Zoe laugh. But something about this Oliver wasn’t funny. Not to Zoe.

“Straight ahead, just a few more blocks,” Jocelyn said instead, and they drove in silence until they reached a two-story stucco building with meager landscaping and, oh Lord, bars on the windows.

“I thought you said this place was in high demand.”

“I got that impression from the marketing materials,” Jocelyn said. “Maybe it’s nicer in the back. Plus, the octogenarians probably don’t notice.”

“He’s in his sixties, Joss,” Zoe said as she threw open her door. “Not eighty, which, correct me if I’m wrong, is what an octogenarian is.”

Jocelyn didn’t answer, but came around the car and headed to the front door. As they got closer she saw chipped paint, a flowerless trellis, and rust on the giant doorknob.
Inside, the reception area was dim, just two beige sofas and a plastic panel hiding the top of a woman’s head. Jocelyn approached her and waited. The woman didn’t look up.

“Excuse me,” Jocelyn said.

“Hang on.” The woman continued to write something. Finally, cold gray eyes met Jocelyn’s. “Yes?”

“I was contacted about an opening and came for the tour.”

“Patient’s name?”

“Um… well, I just really wanted to look around first.”

“Insurance?”

“Some, but I really don’t—”

“Hang on.” She pressed an earpiece Jocelyn hadn’t noticed earlier. “What is it, Mrs. Golgrath?” She closed her eyes and let out an impatient sigh. “Well, that’s the only channel you pay for, so you have to watch
Singing in the Rain
one more time, dear.” She paused, biting off the last word. “No, an aide cannot get to your room for at least two hours. So watch the movie. I’m sure it’ll seem like brand-new every time. Good-bye, now… What?” She shook her head, still focused on the voice in her ear, impatience rolling off her like body odor. “Mrs. Golgrath, you will get your lunch when you get your lunch. Have we ever forgotten? Ever since you’ve been here?” She waited a second, then looked back up to address Jocelyn. “We can have someone walk you around after lunch. Maybe three o’clock. We’re seriously shorthanded today.”

Jocelyn swallowed. “No, that’s all right.”

“We have a video you can watch in the waiting room.”

Jocelyn backed away, bumping into Zoe, who was right behind her. “I don’t…”
Want to put even my worst enemy in this hellhole
. “… have the time.”

The woman shrugged and returned to her work.

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered to Zoe, practically dragging her back outside. “It looked a lot better on the Internet.”

“Most things do,” Zoe said drily.

They couldn’t get outside fast enough, both of them sucking in the fresh air after all that stale, miserable sadness.

“I’ll cross that one off the list,” Jocelyn said as they reached the parking lot.

She waited for a Zoe quip, but none came. Zoe just adjusted her sunglasses and Jocelyn could have sworn she reached behind one lens to wipe her eye.

“Maybe this is a bad idea,” Jocelyn said. “I should have come alone.”

“No, no. It’s just…”

“You’re thinking about your Aunt Pasha?” Or… Oliver Bradbury.

“No, that poor Mrs. Golgrath.” Her voice cracked. “I hate that stupid movie.”

Jocelyn sighed and nodded. “The first place I saw was better.”

“Really?”

“I swear it was.”

Zoe stopped in the middle of the parking and took off her sunglasses, looking right at Jocelyn, not hiding the moisture in her eyes. “Do you remember that night you got drunk?”

Seriously? “Jeez, how often are we going to relive it?”

“Do you remember it?” she insisted.

“Well, since I was pretty much pickled on Southern Comfort and orange juice, I’m going to say no, I don’t
remember the details, just the fact that I never wanted to be that drunk again. And I haven’t been.”

“Then you probably don’t remember what you said to me. You told me that the only thing in the world that mattered was seeing your father go to hell.”

Jocelyn swallowed. “Did I?”

Zoe gave her a squeeze. “Guess some dreams die hard, don’t they?”

W
ill didn’t trust himself to stop at Guy’s house when he got home from work. No, he’d be too tempted to give the old bastard a taste of what a fist in the face felt like.

For the first time in months, probably in well over a year, Will bypassed 543 Sea Breeze Drive and pulled into his own garage next door. He didn’t bother with the mail, threw his tools on the kitchen table, and didn’t waste his time opening up his laptop looking for an e-mail from his agent that wouldn’t be there anyway.

Restless, tense, and itching for a fight, he stripped off his work clothes, yanked on a threadbare pair of jeans, and took the stairs up to his old room two at a time.

Halfway there, he paused, closing his eyes.

He’d been in this room a thousand times since that dark evening fifteen years ago. Somewhere along the way, it had stopped reminding him of Jocelyn and even of Guy.

But now he’d have to remember. Remember how the early-evening light had cast Jocelyn in shades of gold as she curled up on his bed and sniffed his comforter. He’d have to remember the way they’d kissed and touched, the sheer breathlessness of knowing it was finally going to happen. He’d have to remember how far they’d gone: He’d had his fingers inside her and she was begging for more, rolling against him and—

“Hey.”

He spun around so fast he nearly lost his balance, grabbing the handrail and barking out, “What are you doing here?” at the sight of Guy standing at the bottom of the stairs. “You never come over here.”

“Thought I’d change that.” Guy drew back, out of the shadows of the landing, into the fading light. “Something wrong, son?”

“I’m not your son.” He spoke through clenched teeth, squeezing the handrail like it was a bat—and he wanted to use it on Guy’s head. “What do you want?”

The words felt foreign and ugly on his tongue. Will didn’t speak like that to Guy; he hadn’t said a harsh word, except for the occasional reprimand when Guy didn’t follow instructions or tossed the remote in the trash.

Guy was too helpless, too old, too lost to be spoken to like that.

Will closed his eyes and let his brain see the purple bruises on Jocelyn’s thin teenage arms and the eggplant-colored shiner that had closed her eye to a slit.

“What do you mean, what do I want?” Guy came up the first few stairs, reaching for the railing.

“Don’t come up here,” Will said.

The older man frowned, then adjusted his crooked glasses. “I just wanted to know if you like what I’m wearing.”

What? What the hell was he wearing, anyway? Bright-yellow pants and an orange sweater.

“You look like a Creamsicle.”

Guy tried to laugh, but it came out more of a cough. “That good or bad?”

“Why are you dressed up?” he asked, wishing he didn’t care or even want to know.

“For the party!”

“What?”

“They’re having a party at my house tonight,” he said, his voice implying that everyone who was anyone would know this. “The whole
Clean House
crew will be there, is what Blondie told me.”