Chapter Twenty-nine

Why are we waiting?” Tessa asked, leaning against the kitchen counter impatiently. “He said he was blowing out of town, so let’s just go get the stuff and start helping you rehearse.”

Lacey shook her head. “I don’t want to run into him.”

“I do,” Zoe said. “I want to run over him with that big ol’ Jeep, actually, then spit on his broken bones and tell him what I think of cheaters and liars.”

“He didn’t cheat,” Lacey said quietly. “We weren’t official. I let my imagination run away with me.”

“Details,” Zoe shot back.

“Excuses,” Tessa added. “Where’s David, by the way?”

“I let him take Ashley cave diving.”

“You what?” Tessa slammed down her coffee cup hard enough to splash the granite. “I thought you were morally, ethically, and parentally opposed to that.”

“They got me at a weak moment, and it’s really a beginner’s cave. I trust him, and I need the day to rehearse and prepare.”

And lick my wounds.

“Honestly,” she added, “I’m not afraid of him letting her swim tethered in a cave, but I’m scared to death she’s going to tell him Clay had me in tears last night, and now David’s going to drag the whole story out of her and think he has a chance with me.”

“Does he?” Tessa asked.

“Not even a small one.”

“Then come on, Lacey, let’s go,” Tessa insisted. “So what if you see Clay? You know where he stands now.”

“He stands with his father’s wife.” Zoe made a face. “Eww.”

Lacey grabbed her purse. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

Zoe drove while Lacey sat in the front and tried not to summon memories from places she’d been with Clay. When they pulled into the parking lot of Hibiscus Court, she couldn’t resist looking at his empty parking spot, remembering a few hot kisses in his truck before they stumbled into his apartment, and into his bed.

Memories, all bittersweet memories now.

“See? Coast is clear.” Zoe took the space and turned off the ignition, patting Lacey’s leg. “You feel better or worse knowing he’s not here?”

“I just feel empty.”

At his unit, no one answered the knock. She felt even emptier when she opened the door using the key he’d hidden and found exactly what he’d promised: the boards and 3-D model of the resort all neatly lined up on the kitchen table and counter. Everything else—the CAD system, the laptops, even the drafting table—was gone.

But her stomach turned into a hollow pit when she walked down the hall to the bedroom and saw the open closet door with nothing but hangers inside. The bed was partially made, the comforter sliding off, the sheets pulled up like no one had slept there. In the bathroom a dry towel hung over the shower door, but there was no other evidence that a man had been living here for weeks.

Or that a couple had turned it into a love nest.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Zoe said, standing in the doorway.

Lacey turned to her, aware that Tessa was already at work taking the first load of stuff to the car.

“What happened?” she asked Zoe.

“You fell in love with the wrong guy, Lace. Oldest story in the book.”

“Is that what happened with you and Oliver?”

She paled slightly. “’Fraid so.” Instantly Zoe turned back toward the living room. “I’ll get the rest of these boards. You say your last good-byes to the fond memory of all those life-changing orgasms you had in that bed.”

When she heard Zoe go out the front door, Lacey let out a long, pained breath and sat on the corner of the bed. “They did change my life,” she said to herself. “You helped me realize what I was capable of, Clay Walker. So I’m eternally grateful.”

She blew a kiss to the pillow and picked up the comforter out of habit. As she pulled it over the sheets, her foot tapped something tucked beneath the bed.

The drawings. Her heart practically launched into her throat.

He’d left the drawings behind.

Slowly she eased out a roll of paper, glancing over her shoulder to see if the others had come back yet. Still alone, she rolled the rubber band off and started to spread one of the drawings out on the bed.

Before it was fully open, her legs felt unnaturally heavy, like she’d had a half of bottle of wine and tried to stand suddenly. She flattened the paper, instantly recognizing his sure hand drawing their favorite beach, and the penciled outline of Lacey, lying back on the sand, a dress falling open, her breasts partially exposed.

Memories of things that haven’t happened yet.

She slid the picture to the side and looked at the next one. “Oh my God,” she whispered, stunned by the tableau of Lacey and Clay in the water. They were naked, entwined, her backside tucked into his front, her head thrown back as he captured the moment she’d had one of those life-changing orgasms.

That particular moment had most certainly happened. It was burned into her personal memory bank.

She was almost afraid to look at the next one.

It was the drawing of Ashley holding a hammer. But Clay was in this picture, too, holding the wood that Ashley nailed. Building the house together?

I expect her to help build the house, don’t you?

“What are you looking at?” Zoe asked from the living room.

“I’m not sure.”

“More stuff for the presentation?” Tessa walked into the room and stopped. “Hey, is that Ashley? That’s good.”

Lacey hesitated to slide the picture away, not sure she could take another unfulfilled fantasy of Clay’s. “He told me once that he likes to visualize things, then draw them. That’s how he gets them to happen.”

Zoe came up next to her. “Whoa, who knew? He really does have a magic drafting tool.”

“So he was hoping for a moment like that with Ashley?” Tessa asked. “That doesn’t seem like a man who would jettison at the mention of a commitment.”

“What else is there?” Zoe asked. “Let’s see the rest.”

Lacey moved one picture and smoothed out the next.

Tessa gasped. Zoe let out a soft grunt of disbelief.

And Lacey felt her legs buckle enough to kneel down in front of the bed.

“That’s quite the imagination he’s got there,” Zoe said.

“No kidding,” Tessa agreed. “Looks an awful lot like a woman and man getting married at the water’s edge to me.”

“A woman with curly reddish blonde hair,” Zoe noted. “And, oh my God, is that the mayor dude who is marrying you two?”

It was hard to tell because something had dripped right over Sam Lennox’s face and smeared the pencil. A tear?

Had Clay cried when he’d drawn them getting married?

“And look at the three bridesmaids.” Tessa pointed to the row of women Clay had drawn next to the bride and groom.

“Oh, I look so pretty!” Zoe dropped to her knees next to Lacey. “I knew I loved this guy.”

“There’s one more, Lace.” Tessa said gently. “Let’s see it.”

She looked up. “I’m scared.”

“Oh, come on,” Zoe said, dragging the sheet away. “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes—”

Lacey, nude, joyful, laughing—and at least eight months pregnant.

Another tear fell, but this time it was Lacey’s. Tessa put her hand on Lacey’s shoulder and squeezed. “Maybe we misjudged him.”

She rolled the edge of the page, silently closing up the sketch that revealed what really was going on in Clay Walker’s fruitful imagination.

But she only heard one word.

Okay.

“What are you going to do, Lace?” Zoe asked.

“I’ll save these. I’ve lost a lot of very real memories in the past few months. It’ll be nice to have some new ones, even if they never happened.”

“I wonder why he left them,” Tessa said.

“They weren’t important enough for him to take.” Lacey rolled up the wedding picture. “They were just meaningless drawings.”

“Maybe he wanted you to find them,” Zoe said. “Maybe they’re not meaningless at all.”

Lacey smiled at her friend, but she knew the truth. And, damn, it hurt.

Fourteen hours after he left Mimosa Key, Clay barreled into the parking lot of Duke Raleigh Hospital and headed straight to the ICU. Darcie was waiting with a quick hug and a soft push through the double doors, not giving him a chance to even brace for whatever waited on the other side. The last time he’d seen C-dub…

A man takes what a man wants. Didn’t I teach you anything?

His father’s words still echoed, and still stung. A man doesn’t take his son’s woman.

“Go ahead, Clay.” Next to him Darcie gave his hand a squeeze, sensing his hesitation. “They won’t let us both in there at the same time because there’s a limit of two people.”

So Jayna was in there. Of course. She’d been by his side since the stroke last night, texting updates to everyone, including Clay.

“He’s in the first room on the right,” Darcie added.

He nodded, then walked down the wide hall, assaulted by the bitter smell of antiseptic. Turning to the glass doors, he froze at the sight of his father, who looked blanched and—dead. Ice trickled through his veins, so cold it stole his breath.

Jayna looked up as he entered, her eyes red from sleeplessness and tears. She didn’t speak or smile, just looked at him.

“He’ll be happy you’re here.”

Clay doubted that, but he slowly approached the other side of the bed, aware of the monitors softly beeping to prove that his father was, indeed, still alive, and breathing through the tubes coming out of his nose. “Will he even know?”

“He knows,” she said.

Clay leaned closer, examining the ashen pallor of his father’s face and noticing that the left side seemed to droop.

“Is he conscious at all?” Clay asked.

“They’re saying he’s in a comatose state, but I know he hears us. Take his hand so he knows you’re here.”

Dad’s right hand rested at his side, completely still, but Clay made no move to touch him.

For a moment he imagined Lacey here. Even the thought gave him a surprising comfort, and an ache. If she were here, she’d tell him to…

Take the old man’s hand, of course.

Wasn’t that why he hadn’t told her his father had had a stroke last night? Because she would tell him he had to forgive him, and he refused?

Still, he closed his fingers over older, thicker ones. A hand that had never been raised in anger, he mused. No, this man had other ways to inflict pain.

“Talk to him, Clay,” Jayna said. When he didn’t immediately answer, she added, “See what happens.”

He took a deep breath. “Hey, Dad.”

Jayna looked pointedly at the hand Clay held. “I think it’s really hard for him to react, but if you talk, I swear you’ll feel him squeeze your hand. Right, C-dub?”

His father’s hand remained still.

“See?” She brightened. “Did you feel that?”

Clay didn’t have the heart to tell her he didn’t feel a thing.

She wet her lips, looking down at the hand that held her husband’s, then back to Clay. “This might be a good time to tell him something important. Anything.”

Like what? Hey, old man, you’re forgiven for being the biggest asshole on the face of the earth. For being insecure and miserable, and jealous of your own son.

“Like I told him that Elliott drank out of his sippy cup all by himself this morning.” Jayna’s singsong voice yanked Clay out of his mental musings, giving him a second of emotional whiplash.

“And he squeezed my hand when I mentioned Elliott’s name.”

Of course he did. He wasn’t competing with Elliott—yet.

Clay cleared his throat, repositioned his hand, and leaned closer, no words ready.

“I told him what you did for me.” Jayna whispered the confession. “He knows that you did that to help me, and to help him. And, Clay, he only continued to blame you because it made him feel less guilty. You know that, don’t you?”

Clay shrugged, ignoring the desperation in her voice. “Kind of moot, now.”

Jayna stood slowly, her eyes on her husband. “Why don’t you talk to him privately?”

She leaned all the way over and kissed Dad’s head, closing her eyes and gently stroking his white hair. Clay stared at the sight, struck by the profound tenderness of the gesture.

She loved the old man. Really, truly loved him.

While Clay, his own flesh and blood, just hated him.

“I’ll be back, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Listen to Clay. He wants to tell you something important.”

What?

Jayna left the room, closing the door with a decisive click, leaving him with the steady beep of life support and his father’s limp hand.

Still he didn’t speak. The words were there, hovering in his head, on the proverbial tip of his tongue.

I forgive you, Dad.

Why couldn’t he say it? Because he didn’t forgive him. And if he didn’t forgive him, then what did that make Clay? Pathetic, harboring a grudge over a woman who, in the scheme of things, didn’t matter. It made him small and guarded and… unable to love, no matter how much he really wanted to.

Unable to love.

Was it possible that this man right here held the key to Clay’s deadened heart? No, Clay held it. He just didn’t want to turn that key and let Lacey in.

Lacey.

Suddenly he knew what he wanted to say to his father.

“I met a woman, Dad.” He cleared his throat again, and powered on. “I met the woman.” He closed his eyes and pictured Lacey in all the ways he remembered her, and all the ways he’d secretly fantasized about her. Lacey, his lover. Lacey, his partner. Lacey, his… wife.

“She’s really something, too.” What was it about her he most wanted to tell his father? “She’s got a heart like no one I’ve ever met before. She’s determined and kind and smart, and she has a teenage daughter who’s a really good kid hidden in a really tough shell.” He knew that kid. He’d been that kid. “Dad?”

Still no reaction. Dad wasn’t hearing this, Clay thought. But that didn’t stop him from wanting to say it all.

“I’m in love with her.”

Great. He could tell his dad, but not Lacey. What the hell? But he’d fix that. First he had to fix this. No, first he had to fix himself.

“I designed something for her. A resort in this place called Mimosa Key. It’s down in Flor—”

The slightest pressure squeezed his hand. Clay looked down at the thick fingers around his, stunned. Had his father just reacted, or was that merely an unconscious twitch?

“Dad?”

Nothing. Okay. A mistake. “Anyway, I designed a resort for her and it’s going to be—”

This time the squeeze was real and one of the monitors kicked up in speed. Clay looked at the screens, pinpointing the one that had just changed its tune. The heart. His heart rate was up.

“Dad, can you hear me?”

Should he call someone? He inched closer, holding tight to his father’s hand.

“So, this project,” he said, sticking with the subject because that was what got the reaction. “We’re calling it Casa Blanca, and I gave it a really strong Henri Post influence. You’d like it.”

Another firm squeeze and the slightest flutter behind his lids. Dad was definitely awake, and reacting to the name of his favorite French architect.

“Do you want me to get the doc?” he asked.

Nothing.

“Do you want me to keep talking?”

Nothing.

“Should I get Jayna? Are you waking up?” Frustration mounted when there was no reaction. “Is there something you want to say, Dad?”

The beep jumped another notch and his hand constricted. Hard.

Clay waited, his breathing as measured and slow as his father’s. “Dad?”

Nothing.

“Is it about the building?”

A squeeze. Seriously? At a time like this he wanted to dole out architectural advice? He didn’t want to clear the air and put their messy past behind them?

Clay leaned on the bed rail and threaded his fingers through his father’s hand.

“The project,” he said, getting a squeeze in return. “Is a resort on the beach.” Another squeeze. “I’ll be perfectly honest: She was looking for you when she accidentally contacted me.”

Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze. Beeeeep.

“Dad, are you familiar with this property?”

Under closed lids, his father’s eyes flickered back and forth and Clay took it as a yes.

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

More flickering, squeezing, and beeping.

“Did you—”

The door flew open. “Clay, what’s going on?” Behind Jayna a nurse ran in, pushing her aside, flying to the bed.

“Out! Everyone out!”

Clay dropped his father’s hand and stepped away from the bed. “Is he okay?”

“He’s having another stroke. We need a doctor. Everyone out of here!”

Jayna grabbed his arm and yanked him to the door, everything moving in slow motion. Clay’s head felt thick with grief and guilt. Had he brought the stroke on? By talking about architecture and resorts and—

Then he knew. He knew exactly what had brought that on. Goddamn it, C-dub, why?

From the other side of the glass he stared at the old man and hoped to God he’d get a chance to ask him that question.