Barefoot at Sunset (Barefoot Bay Timeless Book 1) (30 page)

She had to manage her way out of this, but she didn’t quite know what she was in or how bad it could get.

“Wait a second,” Lacey said, pointing from Kyle to Emma. “You know each other?”

A little bad.

“She worked at my agency,” Kyle said. Not,
we were engaged to be married.
Which stung, but—

“You did?” Lacey’s eyes widened. “Why didn’t you tell me that when I interviewed you?”

“You interviewed her?” Kyle choked. “Nice, Emma. Anyone tell you it’s slimy to poach business?”

Okay, more than a little bad.

“What?” Mark shot back, his shoulders tensing as he inched a little closer into Kyle’s face. “Anyone ever tell you it’s slimy to have a girlfriend two weeks after you leave your fiancée at the altar?”

Lacey gasped. “The altar?” she asked, voice rising. “I thought you were engaged to Mark.”

“So you’re the ex I had to steal him from,” Rachel said, eyeing Emma with a mix of suspicion and curiosity, then attempted a sympathetic smile. “Sorry.”

Emma felt pressure squeeze her chest. Rachel
stole
Kyle?

“Wait a second.” Kyle stepped closer, his gaze slicing Mark. “So you knew who I was when I told you I left Emma for Rachel and didn’t say a word.”

And that’s when bad went way down to worse, the very instant the truth punched through Emma’s fog, more sickening than the sweet smell of patchouli that hung in the air.

Mark
knew
this?

“Whoa, whoa,
whoa
.” Lacey stopped the avalanche like a referee. “I’m either in a bad sitcom, or the joke’s on me. You all know each other? And you…” She pointed from Kyle to Emma. “Were going to get married?”

“And honeymoon at Casa Blanca,” Emma said.

“And you didn’t tell me this?” Lacey’s voice had an understandably sharp edge, and Emma knew that trying to defend herself would just make her sound worse.

“She planned to tell you tomorrow, Lacey,” Mark said, putting a hand on Emma’s arm. “She didn’t have the opportunity before, but—”

Lacey cut off the defense with a swipe of her hand. “It sounds like you all have sort of a personal mess here that doesn’t really involve me, but…” She leveled her gaze at Emma. “You lied to me.”

You wouldn’t let me finish a sentence. Your daughter called. You were all enthusiastic about my ideas. I was helping Mark and…

I was scared to tell you.

There was the truth, all ugly and real. The rest were just excuses for a lie of omission, and it all left a bitter taste of self-loathing in Emma’s mouth.

“No wonder your ideas were so spot-on,” Lacey said with a dry laugh.

“You gave her
ideas
?” Kyle interjected.

“I planned to tell you everything tomorrow,” Emma finally said. “Everything.”

Lacey’s eyes shuttered as she slowly shook her head. “Let’s, uh, reschedule that.”

Emma’s heart dropped.

“Lacey,” Mark said. “If you let us explain, it will all make sense.”

She looked up at him, no warmth in her expression. “You lied, too, Mark.”

Just then, a loud cheer came through the open doors and windows of the shop, and a noisy stadium organ started screaming out loud notes.

“And the game’s starting,” Lacey said. “A different game,” she added, giving Emma a look of disappointment that she probably used frequently on that problematic college daughter of hers.

Three beats of silence passed before Kyle leaned closer. “I can’t believe you tried to steal my—”

Mark’s hand rose involuntarily. “Shut up and get out of here before I slam my fist through your teeth.”

Kyle shook him off, fire in his eyes. “Who the hell
are
you?”

“Emma’s fiancé,” he said.

Something in Emma’s head popped, a little white explosion of fury and frustration and fear. “No,” she said. “That was just a…game. A charade.” She closed her fingers over the ring on her left hand, trying like hell to yank it off, but it stuck on her knuckle.

“Emma, come on.” Mark put his hand on her back, but she jumped away from his touch, still fighting with the ring.

“No.” All her anger and misery and resentment and sadness bubbled up and made her want to rip the skin off if she had to.

Rachel grabbed something from a bin next to her. “Do you need some soap?”

Emma choked at the offer, glaring at the little blonde. Deep inside, hadn’t she suspected all along? Hadn’t she known there was someone else? Hadn’t she refused to face it? Way down, in her own hidden place, hadn’t she known Kyle was just like her father?

Finally, the ring popped over her knuckle, and she took it off and held it in the middle of the three of them. “I don’t want this. Any of you can have it.”

She dropped it on the ground, pivoted, and marched out of the store, fighting tears.

“Emma!”

Outside, she held up her hand to silence him. “Don’t even think about talking to me. I mean it. Just let me go, Mark. Let me go.”

* * *

Mark saw Emma run off to a tiny cab stand outside the stadium. He didn’t want to, but his gut told him to respect her request and let her go alone.

He left Kyle and Rachel—and the ring—behind in the store. He stood in the sunshine, watching her take off, regret strangling him. Why didn’t he tell her? Why did he avoid the very things he knew he shouldn’t?

The question pounded in his head as he walked across the grass toward the parking lot as
The Star-Spangled Banner
rose up from the stadium behind him, building to a land of the free and home of the brave crescendo.

He didn’t feel very free or brave, he thought glumly. He had last night and today, but all that freedom had disappeared, and he felt very much alone.

And not in the way he was used to or liked…more like lonely.

Which would be the downside of falling in love, and losing.

Why
didn’t
he tell her the truth? To protect her from pain…or to protect himself from possibilities?

Shit, now even his thoughts sounded like her. How had she climbed into his brain and heart that way?

He reached the Porsche and opened the door, half hoping to find her sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for him. But she wasn’t there.

He could beat her to the villa in this car, easily, he thought. He even knew a back road, but he had to give her some time alone, some time to process every betrayal and loss.

Kyle lied to her.

Lacey pulled the job.

And Mark had let her down when he had promised her from day one that he would be nothing but honest.

He couldn’t silence his guilt, not even with the growl of a great engine. He burned a little rubber getting out of the parking lot, earning a look from an attendant and security guard having a conversation.

Windows open, he let the spring air whip through the car, waiting for the punch of memories. And they hit him, all right.

Not Julia…but Emma. Driving in this car. Laughing. Touching. Falling for each other. A thousand minutes packed into one week.

One lousy week.

Except it had been anything but lousy. It had been amazing. Fun. Hot. Perfect. And unforgettable.

He reached the intersection of the beach road. Taking a right would lead to the resort, where Emma had probably gone. Left would take him toward town. The future or the past, Mark Solomon?

For a long moment, he sat at the empty intersection, staring at the blue on blue horizon of Barefoot Bay straight ahead. The fact was, he couldn’t turn right until he turned left.

There was one more thing to do. One more fear to face before it was completely conquered.

He swung left and cruised down the road toward town, stopping at the light and glancing over to the Super Min, revving the engine on Center Street, slipping down a road behind Miss Icey’s, and arriving at the parking lot of Hope Presbyterian.

Parking the car, he turned off the ignition and stared at the Spanish-style building where he’d enjoyed one of the happiest days of his life, and endured one of the worst.

It’s just a church
, he told himself.
Go in and make peace. That’s what it’s there for.

The front door was open, and he stepped into an oversize foyer built for after-church mingling and pastor greeting. The changes were subtle, but he saw them, just like he noticed evidence of time marching on all over Mimosa Key.

The linoleum floor had been replaced by creamy tile, and the resource desk had been updated, and a small ATM for electronic tithing was tucked next to a selection of CDs and books.

Here’s where he’d stood sixteen years ago, shaking hundreds of hands, hugging dozens of shuddering shoulders, and saying “thank you” more times than he’d thought possible.

He closed his eyes for a moment, twisted by an unexpected slap of grief, the deep kind that he had long ago learned to manage and subdue. He hadn’t felt grief last night reliving his romance with Julia. He hadn’t been sad, not really. He’d actually felt joy to have known that kind of love.

But he felt grief now. The heavy, aching, breath-stealing grief that used to be his constant companion.

Determined to fight it, he walked to the glass doors that led to the sanctuary, peering down the very aisle that Julia had walked down on Wayne Coulter’s arm in a hastily purchased white gown and a pearl necklace that had been her grandmother’s.

He grabbed the door handle, half hoping it would be locked and he wouldn’t have to do this. But the door swung open, and he stepped into the hushed chapel.

What was he doing here?

No one was going to help Mark Solomon except Emma DeWitt, so why didn’t he go to the resort to hound her, apologize, grovel, beg her to forgive, forget, and look forward?

Instead, here he was, mired in the past. Why?

Because he’d never really said good-bye. Oh, he’d gone through the motions and carried on, but what he’d really done was…avoid reality, escape the pain, seek a thrill, and wait for his late wife’s next message.

And then he imagined he’d gotten one. Like the class ring that sent him here.

He slipped into a pew a few rows from the front, sitting down and staring ahead. He could still see the flowers his bride carried…and the rows of bouquets that had been sent for her funeral. He could see an eighteen-year-old girl smiling up at him, that secret gleam in her eye because they were soul mates…and the two-foot-high poster of Julia Solomon on an easel during the process of sending that soul to another place.

He could hear her voice saying her vows.

But he couldn’t hear her voice saying anything else anymore.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Mark turned to see a young man with an athletic build and a tentative smile in place.

“I’m just…”
Letting go.
He shrugged, unable to come up with any plausible reason for sitting in an empty church.

“I’m Matthew Cooke, the assistant pastor. Would you like to talk or pray?”

He searched the man’s earnest blue eyes, thinking he was so incredibly young to be a pastor and looked more like a ballplayer than a preacher.

“Not really,” Mark said. “I haven’t been here in a long time, and I thought I’d see the church.”

“Are you with the reunion people?”

Mark gave a soft laugh. Yep, Mimosa Key was still a very small island, despite any changes. “Yeah. And my parents went here years ago. I was, uh, married in this church.”

“Really?” He brightened at that. “How many years have you been married?”

Thirty years, minus sixteen. The math wouldn’t make sense and would just set off a series of questions he didn’t want to answer. “A long time,” he said vaguely, standing up. “But I’m leaving now, Pastor. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

Mark shook his head, done with the heavy memories. He had to get back to Emma. “It’s good, thanks.”

He walked by the man and out to the lobby, crossing the space with brisk steps. He should have made a right at that intersection.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Mark was just about to the exit when the pastor came jogging out of the sanctuary, holding a paper in his hand. “Are you…” He read the paper, squinting. “Mark?”

“Yes.”

“I think you dropped this.”

Mark took the thin time-weathered envelope, seeing only the upside-down heart in place of the
a
in his name. Julia’s letter. He’d forgotten it was in the back pocket of these shorts. “Oh, thanks.”

He took the letter out into the sunshine and stood, stone still, for a moment. Then he ripped open the top and pulled out a thin piece of paper, a memory floating back at the sight of pink and white flowered stationery. She must have written him fifty letters in high school on this paper. He’d find them in his locker, stuck in a math book, in the bottom of his gym bag.

They’d never said anything of consequence, but reminded him of how much she loved him. And he’d never written one back, he thought with a pang.