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