Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)

by Roxanne St Claire

“Where are you going?”

  “Check on the patient.”

  “Keep it impersonal, Oliver,” Raj warned. “Stress is the enemy.”

  Oliver shot Raj a look as he walked out. Did he think Oliver didn’t realize that?

  The patient room was dim and Pasha’s eyes were closed, but he knew better than to assume she was asleep. Still, he moved around quietly, checking the monitors but mostly watching her face.

  Her expressionless, calm, and very much alive face.

  God, he wanted to save this woman’s life, despite the fact that he suspected she didn’t have a lot of years left. Still, if she made it to eighty-five or eighty-eight or even ninety, he’d have given her a gift.

  What would she do with it? Hopefully, explain why she’d sat on that letter for nine years, then left it as some kind of explanation or act of goodwill.

  Her lids fluttered and she opened her eyes slowly to focus on him.

  “Hello there, Pasha,” he said softly.

  “Actually, my name is Patricia.”

  Either the drugs made her want to be honest, or the realization that she could be knocking on death’s door had done the trick. Either way, he took a slow step closer to the bed. “I know that,” he said simply.

  “And Zoe’s name is Bridget.”

  He nodded. “I know that, too.”

  “I know you do. I remember it all.”

  Was she lucid enough to remember why she’d hidden the letter he’d written that somehow did manage to get forwarded to her? Because he’d sure as hell like to know. And why she decided to share it now? And while she was remembering things, what had really happened with that boy of hers?

  But not now. The doctor in him knew the timing of those questions could be fatal.

  Instead, Oliver gently lifted her hand to touch her pulse. “You don’t need to remember anything right now, Pasha. I want you to sleep. The more you sleep, the more your cells are going to reproduce and become healthy.”

  She gave him a dubious look. “If it’s that easy, why isn’t everyone who has cancer having this treatment?”

  “Everyone might, someday, thanks to pioneers like you. Are you in any pain?” he asked.

  “No. Yes. Heartache.”

  “Your chest hurts?”

  “My heart. There’s a difference. It’s actually aching because I think it might be broken.”

  “No, no, Pasha,” he reassured her. “Don’t get emotional. Not now.”

  Her eyes flashed open. “Then when?”

  “When you’re healthy and this has been a rousing success, then you and Zoe can—”

  “Where is Zoe?”

  He wished to hell he knew. “She’s not back yet.”

  “Are we alone, then?”

  “We are, but Pasha, I don’t want your blood pressure to go up and I don’t want your heart rate to increase, so I’m going to give you a seda—”

  “I don’t want to sleep anymore.”

  “You have to. Sleep is nearly as important a part of this treatment as the gene therapy itself. I’ll prepare an IV for—”

  “I always knew you were the one for her.”

  Then why screw with their chances by hiding that letter? He tamped down the question and put his hand on her thin shoulder. “Not now, Pasha.”

  She looked up at him. “What if I die?”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he said with true confidence. “I think you’re going to live, and live well.”

  “The only way for me to live well is to know you and Zoe are together.”

  He clamped his mouth shut and turned to a cabinet where IV bags were kept.

  “You know I’m right,” she said. “You should be together.”

  “It seems we always have obstacles that keep us apart.” Like you.

  “Has she found the letter yet?”

  Damn it. He wasn’t going to spend the day pushing the boundaries of modern medicine only to see her fail because of anxiety that he could have avoided. He didn’t answer, signing the forms as he entered the security code that kept the cabinet locked.

  “Is she mad at me?”

  I am. “We’ve been too focused on today. As you should be,” he added with a stern look over his shoulder.

  “Doctor…Oliver…I need to say something.” Her dark eyes flashed with desperation. “There’s so much more to the story than you understand. There’s more to my life, my past.…”

  The heart monitor started to beep. “Not now, Pasha. You need to say it when you’re better.” He attached the sedative to the existing IV bag, snapping the opening in place to connect to her port.

  “What if I die?”

  “If you die, Zoe will be heartbroken, so I recommend you sleep.”

  “But that…child…my child…”

  The drip started, the IV open and successful. Nothing that was said now could upset her; she’d be asleep in a matter of two minutes.

  In fact, in the next thirty seconds, thanks to the meds surging into her veins, every word she said would probably be the absolute, unvarnished truth. Might as well get it. There’d be no reaction to stress now, and she’d never remember what she’d told him.

  “What about your child, Pasha?”

  “You have to find Matthew.”

  He let out a slow breath. “I don’t think that’s possible anymore,” he said as calmly as he could manage. “Matthew’s dead, isn’t he?”

  Her eyes widened, more from fighting the need to close the lids than from alarm.

  “Find him,” she whispered.

  “How can I do that?”

  Her eyelids fluttered. “All these years, I had to run from him.”

  “From his memory or from what…happened to him?”

  “From…the…killer. From Matthew.”

  Oliver startled at the words, but Pasha did exactly the opposite, slipping into a deep sleep, completely still and completely silent.

  “Dr. Bradbury!” In the hall, Wanda’s voice rose with an uncharacteristic note of panic. She stopped at the door, a little breathless.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I got rid of them, but…” She shook her head. “It wasn’t easy.”

  “Them? Who? What are you talking about?”

  “The sheriff was here, with an FBI agent. They wanted to take Ms. Tamarin.”

  “Take her?”

  “She’s wanted in connection to a murder, Doctor.”

  The murder of Matthew…but she’d just said he was the killer. Someone named Matthew had killed Matthew. Is that what she’d meant? And she’d been running from him all these years?

  He glanced at the sleeping woman, his heart squeezing to put the puzzle pieces together with the same ease as his brilliant son assembled toy puzzles. Something was missing, someone named Matthew. Would Zoe know who Pasha was talking about? Would the sheriff and the FBI agent who’d just been sent away?

  Someone knew, and Oliver meant to find out. Hustling out of the clinic, he realized that Raj was right. He cared about this patient. He cared about her, because Zoe did.

  Now he had to fix her inside—and out.

  “You are really, really good at this.” The balloon pilot, a sixty-something charmer named Syl, had let Zoe take over the operation of the balloon about twenty minutes after they hit their cruising altitude.

  Since they’d been out, almost two hours now, Zoe had waited for the happy, light, mind-numbing relief that ballooning always gave her. It never came.

  Sure, she’d enjoyed the excursion, floating over the Intracoastal Waterway and up the coast, and now she could see the question-mark-shaped island of Mimosa Key, which gave her a little thrill. “Do we have time to fly over Mimosa?”

  “If you can get us there.” He gave her an easy, toothy smile. “Which I’m certain you can, since I’m gonna say you’re the best damn pilot I’ve seen in a long time.”

  She laughed. “I’m pretty good at it, I’m not going to lie.”

  She twisted the p
arachute regulator, pulling the cord to let some air escape, which dropped the balloon a few feet so they could catch an easterly breeze.

  “You read the wind,” Syl said, his arms crossed as he leaned against an extra propane tank and watched her. “That’s not something that’s easy to teach.”

  “Better know how if you want to go anywhere but up or down.”

  “You do it on instinct,” he said, his voice rich with admiration. “I’ve seen older pilots fight the wind like a battle to the death. And lose. Men, too.”

  She smiled, not fazed by his sexism or ageism, more concerned with the redline on the thermistor. But that was all good. “I lose other battles, but not with the wind. Oh, here we go.” The breeze caught the balloon and it swayed left, then right, then left again, drifting closer to Mimosa Key. “The trick will be getting us back to the mainland.”

  “I can call my runners when we land,” Syl said. “That’s all part of my business.”

  “If I can land up in Barefoot Bay, I could walk home.”

  “You live on Mimosa Key?”

  She pulled the chute again, catching a breeze like a windsurfer, the movement almost taking her breath away. But not her heavy heart.

  “I live there temporarily,” she said. And wasn’t that the story of her life?

  “Where you from?” he asked.

  Good question, with no answer. “I live in Arizona. At the moment.”

  “Good ballooning in Arizona. You pilot there?”

  She turned her face to the sun, the breeze taking away all the heat, leaving nothing but glorious warmth on her cheeks. This was usually the moment she felt free, unencumbered, and safe.

  But she didn’t really feel any of those things right now. She felt lonely and scared and so, so tired of running. “Yes,” she replied. “I freelance pilot wherever I live.”

  “Why don’t you move here and work for me?”

  Zoe almost laughed at the irony of that—exactly what Pasha had suggested she do when she’d seen the ad in the paper. Which, Zoe had to admit, might have been why she’d driven toward Fort Myers when she’d run off, checking the skies until she had caught a few glimpses of a bright-red-and-white balloon. On instinct, she’d followed it until she’d reached an open airfield owned by Sylver Sky.

  It had taken a few hours to get a balloon, but she’d gotten to know the owner, Sylvester McMann, and just being at an airfield made her feel a little better.

  Before she’d taken off she’d checked with the clinic. Everything was going well. Then she’d texted Tessa, who had informed her that Evan was enjoying a day working in the greenhouse. Cleared of her immediate responsibilities and forced to turn off her phone, Zoe seized the chance to get as far away from the sheriff—and the FBI—as she could. For now.

  Then she waited for that natural high that came only with a good escape. But with every foot they climbed, she felt lower.

  “Look, there’s the causeway,” she said, peering out at the long bridge that connected Mimosa Key to Florida’s mainland. From up here, the eight-mile-long and two-mile-wide curved island was even more beautiful, a forest-green sanctuary trimmed with white sand beaches, boat-studded harbors, and long docks reaching out like tentacles all around.

  At the northern end, the west-facing inlet of Barefoot Bay glimmered like a necklace of emeralds and sapphires.

  As they floated over the northeastern side of the island, Zoe got a look at the undeveloped side of Barefoot Bay, where there were no roads, homes, or people. Toward the coast, she spotted a clearing big enough to land.

  “I could put us down there,” she said.

  Syl launched an eyebrow in the direction of the balloon’s crown. “You could land us in the water, too. Don’t you dare.”

  “The beach winds are kind of unpredictable, but I could do it.”

  “One wrong cross breeze and…” Syl leaned over the basket and then grinned at her, his hazel eyes dancing. “You could probably do it.”

  She puffed out a breath. “No could about it.”

  “Okay, young lady, if you drop this baby right on that clearing, I’d pay you twice what you’re making in Arizona to work for me.”

  A funny lightness popped in her chest—was that the release she’d been seeking all day? “You would?”

  “Hell yeah. I have a dozen customers a week asking to come over here to Mimosa or one of the other islands, and I’ve never had a pilot qualified to land it.”

  “Damn, Syl, I love a challenge.”

  “Go for it.”

  A ping of excitement shot through her, and for the next few minutes Zoe sparred with the Gulf breezes, depending on instinct and experience to guide her as she adjusted the valves and took the balloon up, down, and directly over the clearing.

  “Woo-hoo!” she called out, exhilarated with her success as she curled her fingers confidently around the maneuvering vent.

  Syl lifted his hand. “Don’t get too cocky!”

  Just as he said that, a gust pushed them off course, whipping the basket toward the west. She responded instantly, twisting the valve to shoot out more gas and take them above the breeze, high enough above the tree line that she could now see the buttercream rooftops of Casa Blanca tucked into the foliage and beach.

  “My friend owns that resort,” she said proudly. “Her husband is the architect.”

  “Really?” He leaned over the side of the basket while she gave full attention to the burners. “I figured it was some corporate conglomerate who owned it.”

  “Nope, just a mom-and-pop deal, but it’s top notch.”

  “Think you could get your friend to send some of those rich clients my way?”

  Zoe struggled with another gust. “Done and done. Okay, I’m going to try this again.”

  “Looks like they spotted you, though.”

  She turned to look, her gaze scanning the resort until it landed on the rooftop of Bay Laurel and the driveway in front of the villa. There, two men stood side by side, one of them pointing straight up at the balloon.

  At the sight of Oliver, even a thousand feet below, her heart flipped. Or maybe that was a reaction to the man he was talking to. And the car parked in the driveway—a dark sedan that Pasha would say “screamed” FBI.

  “Those tourists are ripe for the picking, don’t you think?” Syl asked.

  Someone was about to be picked. Someone up here.

  She could only imagine what Oliver was saying. There she is. There’s the woman you’re looking for.

  Had he already turned Pasha in, too?

  She swallowed the metallic taste of betrayal and let out a long sigh. “I can’t do it.”

  “What?”

  She stepped away and gestured to Syl. “You do it. Take us back to the mainland and call a runner to meet us. I can’t get down on that island.”

  “I thought you were so sure.”

  “I’m not sure of anything or anyone,” she admitted. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Come on, you can do it. I want to see you land this thing.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not feeling it today, Syl.” Not feeling free or safe or untethered or any of the things she loved about flying.

  Just numb.

  “Hmm.” Syl stepped to the valves to do the work. “I didn’t really take you for a quitter, miss.”

  Inside her chest, something slipped and gripped and hurt. What was she so afraid of? Whatever the truth, whatever it cost, she had to face this. Until she did, she had no chance at love or a home or the real freedom she’d been searching for all these years. She had to do this.

  “You know,” she said to Syl, “I’m not a quitter. Let me at that valve.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Before Oliver could find Zoe, Special Agent Nicholas Fitzgerald showed up at Casa Blanca looking for her. The woman at the front desk sent him to Bay Laurel, and as they greeted each other in the driveway, a brightly colored spot in the sky told Oliver exactly where Zoe was. The agent was alone and
made no mention of the sheriff who had been with him when they’d been sent away from the IDEA offices. Maybe they’d decided to split the effort, sending the FBI here and the sheriff to get Zoe.

  When the agent asked about her, Oliver pointed to the balloon. His gut told him exactly who was in it, if not flying it.

  Oliver wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say to the agent, so he let the visit unfold to get a feel for the man. His impression wasn’t entirely positive, based on Fitzgerald’s cool demeanor during their conversation, which didn’t change even after Oliver invited him inside.

  “I really wanted to speak with Pasha Tamarin personally,” the agent said. “But the staff at your clinic made that impossible.”

  Oliver made a mental note to give Wanda a raise.

  Once they were seated in the living room, the other man leaned forward and looked earnestly at Oliver. “I’m not sure how much you know about the subtleties of DNA, Dr. Bradbury.”

  He managed not to smile. “I know a little.”

  “Your patient, whose real name is Patricia Hobarth, is allegedly enmeshed in multiple crimes, the worst of which is the murder of her son.”

  “She didn’t do it.”

  Fitzgerald’s crystal-blue eyes sparked. “Perhaps you know a little bit about DNA, Doctor, but determining innocence or guilt really isn’t part of your job.”

  “Maybe it isn’t, but her health is my number-one concern right now. Ms. Tama—er, Ms. Hobarth has undergone an extremely delicate and experimental procedure today. Stress could grossly undermine the treatment. So my job is to keep you away from her. When she’s healthy, I’m sure she’ll talk to you.”

  “You’re sure?” Fitzgerald choked softly. “She’s changed her name, used false identification, fraudulently reported her own death, abducted a child, and God knows what else to avoid being tried for this murder.”

  “She was tried for the murder and acquitted.” He’d done a little research himself after Zoe had left last night.

  “She was not acquitted,” the agent corrected. “And she most certainly can be retried. She can no longer escape the power of technology and our ability to find fugitives. Obviously, she’s living in fear of that.”

  “Maybe she’s living in fear of something else,” Oliver suggested. “Like the real killer.”