Read Online Barefoot in the Rain by Roxanne St. Claire - Free Book Online Page B

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 that hope up,” she said harshly, talking to herself as