Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)

by Roxanne St Claire

  She saw him react to the change of subject, but he let it go. “Well, Raj is pretty persuasive, as you will no doubt see,” he said with a laugh. “And he happens to be one of the smartest physicians I ever met. He started IDEA himself because he was so sick of the bureaucracy of hospitals and administration and all the red tape and medical crap that gets in the way of saving lives.”

  His voice was deep with emotion as he shifted into another gear.

  “So you left Mount Mercy to work with him.”

  “I couldn’t resist. I’d been drawn to everything the clinic was doing and knew if I didn’t move when I had the opportunity, it might never come along again. Gene therapy is so exciting, Zoe. It’s a complete game changer in cancer research.”

  “What exactly is it?”

  “It’s the injection of vectors full of viruses into cancer cells to fire up immune systems and angiogenesis that can…” He slid her a look. “I’m losing you, huh?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’re staring at me.”

  How could she not? Impassioned Doctor Oliver was even sexier than regular hot-as-sin Oliver. “No, I’m just impressed and happy for you. Everyone should find what turns them on so much.”

  He gave her a grateful smile. “But not everyone in my life was thrilled with the decision,” he said. “Starting with my ex-wife, continuing to her father, and ending with my son. I gave up a lot for my passion, but it was worth it.”

  She considered that, looking out the window at the deep-blue water of the Intracoastal and curling her fingers around his hand to feel his strength.

  His father-in-law was the CEO of Mount Mercy Hospital and, although Zoe didn’t know it for a fact, she’d bet her last dollar he had been in line for that job. “So the decision to take this new position broke up your marriage?”

  “Not exactly. It was the proverbial straw that whacked an already crippled camel.” He let go of her hand to downshift and instantly scooped it up again, as if he couldn’t stand a second without touching her. Zoe tried really hard not to let that little gesture worm its way into her heart. Tried, and failed.

  “To be honest, nothing happened overnight,” he continued. “I pushed at the hospital for change and a budget for advanced research, trying to use my position in administration but hitting the brick wall that happened to be Adele’s father. All the while, she and I grew farther apart.”

  She swallowed, hating that she had to ask the next question. But she had to. “Were you ever…close?” In other words, did you love the woman you married five weeks after I left you?

  The question hung in the wind, getting heavier as each second he didn’t answer ticked by. “We tried,” he finally admitted. “We got married because it seemed like the right thing to do and I was…”

  On the rebound? She didn’t have the nerve or heart to ask.

  “Anyway, I tried. She tried. It didn’t ever…” He puffed out a breath. “I never got over you.”

  “Oh.” It was all she could manage under the suffocating weight of that confession.

  “She knew it. She knew I was seeing you when she told me she was pregnant, and she thought that I gave you up to marry her.”

  But he hadn’t. Zoe had taken off before they had any chance. “You didn’t tell her I left town and we…lost touch?” Speaking of bad euphemisms.

  “No, I didn’t tell her that,” he said. “I didn’t want her to have horrible doubts about me. It was bad enough we had to get married. I didn’t want her to be completely miserable.” He pulled into a small parking lot behind a glass-and-metal three-story building, sliding the gear into Park but making no effort to get out.

  She mulled the confession over. He hadn’t been totally honest with his wife, but that reminded her that under all that authority and confidence and sex appeal was a guy who deeply cared about people.

  “If she thought I married her because I couldn’t find you, then I knew that she’d never believe in our marriage.” The statement made sense, and a surprising wave of sympathy for Adele Townshend rolled over Zoe. No woman should have to marry a man who was in love with someone else, no matter how rich and bitchy she was.

  “But we didn’t really have a chance,” he continued. “I never really loved her, I mean, not the way I…”

  Loved you.

  She swallowed and nodded, understanding why he couldn’t even say it.

  “Anyway, we faked a life for the sake of Evan,” he said, the words so softly she barely heard them over the hum of the engine he had yet to turn off. “At least we did until neither one of us could fake it anymore. And at the same time, I was so far removed from the reason I got into medicine in general and oncology in particular. This opportunity came up”—he gestured toward the building and the small sign that said IDEA near the door—“and I grabbed it. A chance to start over in a new city, a chance to do hands-on medicine again, a chance to break ground. And, of course, a chance to save lives.”

  “And she wouldn’t relocate?”

  He shrugged. “We were pretty far gone by then. Separate bedrooms, separate lives. Evan was the only thing even remotely keeping us together, so we worked out a custody arrangement when I left about eight months ago. Christmas, spring break, two weeks in the summer.”

  “Ugh. That’s not enough time. So much for a chance to relax and have fun.”

  He gave her a tight smile and quick nod. “Don’t I know it. But she surprised me with a trip to Europe this summer, and so I have this chance to be with him.” His smile relaxed into a genuine grin. “And learn from the Mistress of Fun.”

  She winked. “I’ve been called worse, big guy.”

  He switched off the ignition and, as he unlatched his seat belt, she reached over to touch his hand, the words bubbling up. She owed him an apology. Not just for leaving without an explanation, but for longer-lasting effects.

  “I’m sorry if I wrecked your marriage.”

  He smiled, but his eyes were dark and sad. “You didn’t, Zoe. But you broke my fucking heart.”

  After a tour of the facility—which was surprisingly large, with multiple labs, in-house patient-care suites, a twenty-four-hour nursing staff, and a state-of-the-art surgery center—Oliver took Zoe into a conference room to meet with his partner.

  Wiry, energized, and one of those keenly intelligent people who instantly make you feel at ease and yet in awe, Raj Mahesh was the perfect complement to Oliver’s rationale approach to everything. Raj was the dreamer; Oliver made things happen.

  And they were both very good doctors.

  As Oliver brought his partner up to speed on the case, the other man’s interest ratcheted from mild to wild. His clipped British-and-Indian accent couldn’t hide the fact that the case electrified him and was exactly the opportunity they’d been looking for.

  In a way that revealed none of the complex history of Pasha’s life, Oliver let Raj know this was a patient who’d received absolutely no treatment by choice, leaving her free and clear of all other medical input.

  “I’m deeply sorry for your aunt,” Raj said to Zoe. “Please forgive me if I sound enthusiastic, because, of course, this is painful for you.”’

  Zoe nodded, seeing the honesty in his jet-black eyes. “I’m willing to do anything to help her.”

  “Gene therapy isn’t anything,” Raj said. “It’s everything.”

  “How many times have you done the kind you’re proposing for my aunt?”

  “We’re not proposing it yet,” Oliver replied quickly. “Just thinking that she might be an excellent candidate. She doesn’t strike me as a patient who could handle the standard treatments.”

  Zoe closed her eyes, a mix of relief and terror. “That’s exactly what I think.”

  “And the other options are a ridiculously expensive trip to Switzerland for basically the same treatment, or peptide receptor radionuclide therapy,” Raj said.

  Zoe gave him a blank look, and he waved away the obvious question of what that was. “It wouldn’t
be right for someone her age. But to answer your question, I’ve done the procedure in Europe, but not here. However, we’ve done so much preliminary work for this, growing the vectors and planning for the possibility of finding the right candidate for the treatment.”

  He looked at Oliver, and Zoe easily interpreted the silent communication. Pasha could very well be that patient. A test patient.

  “What exactly will you do?” she asked.

  Raj answered. “We’d essentially be taking a disabled form of a very nasty virus, probably HIV, and using it to carry cancer-fighting genes to Pasha’s T-cells. We’d be trying to train her own immune system to kill the cancer.”

  She glanced at Oliver. “I want to protect her,” she said softly. “If this works, she can’t be the poster child for new treatment or forced to meet with FDA representatives.”

  “Everything is private here, Zoe,” Oliver assured her. “As far as the government, the identities of our patients are kept confidential. They, too, are only interested in results, not the personal lives of the patients.”

  And that was the perfect, ideal solution to Pasha’s situation. Hope curled through her. “I’ll try anything,” she said. “Assuming it isn’t going to kill her.”

  Oliver looked at her, silent.

  “Shit,” she murmured.

  He leaned closer. “Obviously, without the standard tests, I don’t know how sick she is right now, but I think she’s in very bad shape. And we will send all of her initial tests to independent oncologists for a second and third opinion, I assure you.”

  Dropping her chin into her palms, she sighed. “Tell me the risks.”

  Oliver took over, referring to some rudimentary sketches he’d done when they’d first started talking. “The biggest risk is that these engineered T-cells could somehow attack healthy tissue,” he said.

  “But the odds are low,” Raj insisted. “Not zero, but low. We’ll know that within hours of the procedure, if she runs a fever or experiences swelling or low blood pressure.”

  She looked at Oliver. “Is this the only thing you’d recommend?”

  “For a cure? Yes. To buy time? Of course there’s chemo, radiation, surgery, and a standard sequence of treatments that can take months.”

  “And how much time do the standard treatments buy?” How could Zoe even think about life without her? She couldn’t.

  “Predicting time is impossible to say without measuring the tumor and getting a sense of how sick she is,” Oliver said. “But certain treatments can buy you months, maybe more.”

  Months? Oh, Lord. Pasha could be gone in months? If she survived the treatment.

  She leaned back, letting that sink in. But it barely did. “This isn’t some nameless patient. This is…my only…” She closed her eyes and whispered, “Family.”

  “I know, Zoe.” Oliver put his hand over hers, giving it a squeeze.

  “What would you do if it were your aunt?” she asked both men. “What would you do?”

  “There’s not even a debate for me,” Raj said. “Chemo and radiation can prolong her life. This could save it.”

  Oliver nodded. “That is the benefit that could outweigh the risk. Plus, if she fights the cancer and goes completely into remission, this treatment will be one step closer to approval for use in the United States, saving many, many lives.”

  Would Pasha be thrilled to have that role, or terrified of any sort of notoriety? It was hard to say. How much did she want to live?

  That morning, very little.

  “I’ll be right back,” Raj said, pushing out his chair. “I’m going to get some results from the international patients that I’m certain will erase any lingering doubts.”

  When Raj left the room, Oliver and Zoe sat in silence for a moment. She reached for one of the charts, the statistics and symbols meaningless without Oliver’s simplified explanations. But she understood enough. This could save Pasha’s life, but there were risks. Or they could go traditional, which probably wouldn’t save her life and might even wreck any quality she had left.

  Wordlessly, Oliver covered her hand with his, and Zoe’s gaze shifted to his long, strong, capable fingers. A healer’s hands. A lover’s hands. Very slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet his.

  “You really think I should do this, don’t you?”

  “After seeing her today, and this conversation, I’m inclined to say yes. There are some tests to run and we can start them tomorrow, but once she passes those, I think this is not only your best option, it’s a brilliant one.”

  She smiled. “So humble.”

  “Trust me, I’m only the lead oncologist. You’ll have a team of some of the finest, most talented professionals in the world.”

  The words settled over her like a cooling salve on an open wound. This was the best imaginable solution, better than anything she could have dreamed of. Except…

  “What about your stipulations?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Did I have any?”

  “About insisting I see a lawyer.”

  “That is entirely separate from this. I said I’ll fix her medically and help you fix her legally. That wasn’t a condition of anything, Zoe.”

  It wasn’t? “But you made it sound like if I didn’t—”

  “If you don’t, then we may end up with a healthy woman who’s still running. That doesn’t help her, and that doesn’t help…us.” He added a little pressure on her hand, kicking up her pulse. “Did you think about what I asked you yesterday?”

  I’d like a shot at something real.

  She shrugged. “I have a lot on my mind.”

  He gave her a half smile. “Then let’s get it off your mind. The first thing you need to do is trust me.”

  “I trust you,” she said. “It’s me who usually lets me down.”

  He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss so soft it was nothing but air and promise. “One more thing I’d like to fix.”

  “You can’t fix everything, Oliver.”

  He grinned and kissed her knuckle again. “I can sure as hell try.”

  Chapter Ten

  Pasha had gotten sleepy shortly after Ashley arrived, worn out by the game and sun and the little boy who had unknowingly dragged her down memory lane. She settled on a lounge chair in the shade, closing her eyes to listen to his childish voice, letting forty-seven years disappear. Time evaporated, along with the pain and heartache of running and hiding. And, of course, all the fear.

  If Zoe ever found out…if Zoe ever knew what they were really running from. She blew out a sad, slow breath, and that forced her to press a hand on the pain in her chest.

  That was the real reason for this tumor to take her, and fast. Although those dark thoughts of death had certainly lightened in the face of a little boy who reminded her of her own. A little boy who suggested by his smile and wit that maybe, just maybe, life was worth living a little longer, despite the risks.

  That was probably because during those lovely moments of card playing and joke sharing, the little boy at the table became Matthew Hobarth, seven-and-a-half years old, a dark-haired dreamer who saw animals in the clouds and had given his one and only four-leaf clover to Pasha for her birthday.

  This means good luck, Mama.

  How do you know, little one?

  Because there are messages in the grass and promises in the air. All you have to do is find them and figure out what they are.

  “Dude, I’m so sorry I brought this puzzle. I thought you were eight.” Ashley’s teenage voice pulled Pasha from her reverie, making her startle.

  “I am eight.”

  “A normal eight.”

  “He is normal,” Pasha said. “Just very bright and exceptional.” She grinned at him. How could she not? He was the same size, about the same age, and had the same sweet voice that hadn’t yet developed a baritone—and he looked so much like Matthew. The same inquisitive brown eyes, the same upturned and freckled nose. Even his mop of hair was the same shade of dark
chocolate with hints of auburn in the tips.

  “Oh, Aunt Pasha, I’m sorry,” Ashley said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” she assured them both. “I was daydreaming. Don’t you ever do that?”

  Evan shook his head. “I read or go on the computer. I live on my computer.”

  Ashley smiled as if that amused her, but Pasha studied his earnest expression.

  Well, that wasn’t the same as Matthew. There were no computers in 1966, and her little boy was smart, but not quite this serious.

  “You obviously do a lot of puzzles, too,” Ashley said, selecting another piece. “I know this is My Little Pony, which probably isn’t your favorite, but it is for seven-to-nine-year-olds and you’re finishing it like a beast.”

  “I’m good at puzzles,” he said, snapping a piece in place. “I do five hundred pieces in a day.”

  “Wow!” Ashley’s eyes popped as she looked at Pasha. “Can you believe that?”

  “I’m not lying,” Evan said, his tone rising in self-defense.

  “I know you’re not,” Ashley said. “I’m so amazed at that. I don’t think I even owned a five-hundred-piece puzzle when I was your age, or even older. I might have, but if I did, it’s somewhere in Barefoot Bay now.”

  Evan easily fit the new piece in place and looked up. “You threw it in the ocean? I mean, the Gulf. It’s not the ocean, I know.”

  Pasha noticed very quickly that this boy couldn’t stand to have his facts wrong. One more trait that didn’t remind her of Matthew, but it didn’t matter. She was already smitten.

  “I lost everything I owned in a hurricane almost two years ago,” Ashley told him.

  “Oh, that was you! Zoe told me. I thought she said it was her friend.”

  “She meant my mom. I was fourteen and we lived about half a mile from here, down where the main building of the resort is now. During the storm, my mom and I spent the night in a bathtub with a mattress over our heads.”

  Evan looked suitably impressed. “That is so cool.”