Meet Me in Barefoot Bay - Roxanne St. Claire Page 0,3

the best thing that ever happened to us.”

Ashley’s eyes popped open with an incredulous look. “Are you nuts?”

Maybe she was, but insane optimism was all she had right now.

“Think about it, Ash. We can do anything with this property now. We don’t have to pay to remodel a sixty-year-old house; we can start from scratch and make it amazing.” Her voice rose as the idea sprouted to life and took hold of her heart. “You know I’ve always dreamed of opening an inn or B and B, something all mine that would be an oasis, a destination.”

Ashley just closed her eyes as if she couldn’t even compute an oasis right then. “But if you couldn’t figure out a way to make it happen when you had an actual house, how can you now?”

The truth stung, but Lacey ignored the pain. This time she wouldn’t make excuses, that was how. She wouldn’t be scared of not finishing what she started and she wouldn’t let anyone’s disapproval make her doubt herself. Not anymore.

“Old Mother Nature just handed us a ‘get out of jail free’ pass, kiddo,” she said, giving Ashley’s shoulder a squeeze. “And you know what? We’re taking it.”

Chapter Two

Six Weeks Later

He’s probably at lunch.

He wouldn’t take a job this small.

He might refuse to come to Florida in August.

Lacey had plenty of reasons why she shouldn’t press the Call button and ask to speak with Clayton Walker, president and CEO of Walker Architecture and Design. A trickle of sweat meandered down her back and trailed into the waistband of the cutoffs Ashley had pronounced too short for a mom to wear.

Too short? Too bad. She could walk around Barefoot Bay naked if she wanted to. Ever since the storm had ravaged the north hook of the island, she and Ashley had been alone out here at the beach. The insurance adjusters had come and gone, promising the rebuilding money, and the bulldozers had already leveled the storm-damaged house. Lacey’s two neighbors, one to the north and one to the south and neither very close by, had bailed after settling their claims and promising to sell her their lots for a song.

The next step in her ambitious scheme didn’t require age-appropriate attire, anyway. Her sweaty finger streaked the smooth glass of her phone, but before she dialed, she set the phone on the picnic table, one of the few items she’d salvaged from the storm.

What was stopping her from calling the architect?

Fear of rejection? Of course, an architect with Clayton Walker’s outstanding credentials, reputation, and portfolio of glorious hotels and resorts might not want to design her beachfront bed-and-breakfast.

But he had responded to her e-mail personally. And he had said, “Call when you have the insurance money and I’ll take a look at the property.”

She swiped beads of sweat from her upper lip and scooted the bench closer to the table, trying to slide into the one slice of shade formed by the trunk of a royal poinciana that had survived the storm. Peering through humidity-drenched curls, she studied her daughter at the water’s edge a few hundred feet of burning sand away. Madly texting, something she’d been doing more and more of lately, Ashley seemed oblivious to the squawking seagulls fluttering around her.

Ashley had rebounded remarkably after the storm, moving into Lacey’s parents’ house with a fairly positive attitude, probably since living down on the south end of the island put her closer to more kids she’d be going to Mimosa High with in a few weeks.

Most of the twelve-mile-long barrier island hadn’t fared quite as poorly as the northern end, where Barefoot Bay was located. South of Center Street they’d lost only screens and roof tiles, and a few windows. Businesses were all open in town and life was nearly back to normal down there. Even still, Lacey’s parents had decided to stay longer up north with her brother, giving Lacey and Ashley a place to live.

Good thing, because if Marie Armstrong were breathing down Lacey’s neck right now, harping on the complete impossibility of these plans, Lacey would never have the nerve to make this call.

She angled the phone and eyed the architect’s name, imagining the conversation with a man she considered a legend. She’d seen his picture on the company Web site and on the Internet. The guy looked like Colonel Sanders with all that white hair and a Southern-gentleman bow tie. How scary could he be?

Okay. It was time. She turned so the sight of Ashley wouldn’t