her.” He scooped up his cards and tapped the half-deck carefully. “What happens when you put down an ace, again?”
“The other person has four tries to beat it.”
His shoulders sagged a little, a gesture she recognized as one Pasha made when she was just a little overwhelmed at the moment. “Let’s take a break,” she suggested, setting down her cards. “I think I’d rather just talk for a little while. You want more of that delicious tea?”
“Nope, makes me have to pee.”
She laughed again. “I love that you say what you’re thinking. It’s always been a problem for me.”
“It bothers my son.”
His son. “Will?”
He nodded.
“Did it always bother him? You know, like when he was little?”
He considered that, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’d like to work on my needlepoint now.”
Either he couldn’t remember or didn’t want to say. Or didn’t want to lie. Because a thought kept niggling at her: Was it possible Guy really did remember the past?
“Sure,” she said, getting up to gather the cross-stitching he’d shown her earlier.
Maybe he did remember who Jocelyn was and maybe he did know Will wasn’t his son. Because what better way to wipe your personal slate clean—especially if it was messy—than to conveniently forget everything you ever did? It was that or just run away when people got suspicious; God knows she knew that trick well enough.
He didn’t strike her as that cunning, but who knew?
She handed him the frame with the thick “training mesh” that a kid would use to learn needlepoint, along with some pearl cotton thread and a needle. “How’d you learn this?” she asked, wondering just how hard it would be to trap him.
“Will taught me.”
“Really? How’d he learn?”
“Computer videos. That tube thing.”
“YouTube.” She watched his hand shake ever so slightly as he pulled the thread through to execute the most basic half cross-stitch. “Will’s good to you,” she said, carefully watching his reaction.
He looked up, his gray eyes suddenly clear. “I love that boy more’n life itself.”
More than his own daughter? “What was he like as a kid? A baseball player, I understand.”
Guy’s eyes clouded up again and he cast his gaze downward. “I don’t recall.”
“You don’t recall or you didn’t really know him that well?”
He refused to look up. “You know, my mind.”
“No, actually, I don’t know your mind. Surely you have a picture of him? His trophies? Where are they?”
“In his house, next door.” He stabbed the needle. “I don’t go over there.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “I just don’t.”
“Why not?”
The needle stuck in a hole and he tried to force it, pulling some of the thread and making an unsightly lump. “Let’s go back to talking about your beer-drinking old aunt.”
She leaned forward. “Why don’t you ever go to your son’s house?”
He looked up. “I did once.”
“And?”
“It made me cry.” His voice cracked and his eyes filled and Zoe felt like a heel.
“I’m sorry,” she said, taking the frame from his hands so she could try to undo the tangled stitch. “I shouldn’t have made you talk about it.”
He just shook his head, swallowing hard. “I can’t remember,” he said, wiping at his eyes under his glasses. “But…”
She got the thread through, saving him from that one little mistake on the needlepoint anyway. “But what?” she prompted, handing it back to him.
“But you wouldn’t be the first person to try to prove I’m lying.”
“I’m…” Her voice trailed off as he lifted his eyebrow. Then she just started to laugh. “Shit.”
He grinned. “Shit what?”
“Shit, you and my aunt would really hit it off.”
Smiling, he leaned back and worked on his flowers in silence.
“There’s a marina around the corner, remember?” Will asked as they stepped outside the deli. “Want to go down there? It’s too pretty to—” Go look at more old-age homes. “Do anything indoors.”
“Sure.” She slipped the sunglasses on again and tugged at the brim of her red cap. “And we can finish your life-coaching session. You want to?”
“I want…” He reached under the cap and pulled the shades down her nose. “You to take off these stupid things. I can’t see your eyes, Jossie.”
A smile threatened but she shook it off. “I have to.”
“No.” He slid the glasses off and slipped them into his pocket, reaching to put his arm over her shoulders. “I’ll protect you from the roving paparazzi.”
She laughed. “You like playing bodyguard.”
“Who’s playing?” He squinted into the parking lot, then pressed an imaginary earpiece. “The coast is clear. Let’s get Bloomerang to her yacht.”
She smiled up at him, the prettiest,