Barefoot in the Sun

by Roxanne St Claire

  “I was saying you shouldn’t have left.”

  “It was time.”

  On whose clock? “I want you to spend the night.”

  She gestured toward the dogs. “Gonna get crowded in that house.”

  “I want to sleep with you next to me, Zoe.”

  She inched away as if the very idea gave her claustrophobia. “Not tonight. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  “We’re all ready, and so is Pasha.”

  At the first mention of her aunt’s name, a shadow crossed over Zoe’s face. Instantly she walked away to join Evan. “Did you see that little dachshund?”

  “Yeah, he’s cute, too.” He put his hands on the glass and shook his head. “I can’t pick.”

  Oliver stood behind them, the urge to put a protective hand on both of their shoulders surprisingly strong. But Zoe would just duck and run.

  “Listen, Evan, the man who owns the store has a lot of information about each dog, including how big they’ll be and what their temperaments are. Why don’t we get a copy of that and take it to lunch and you can make a more informed decision?”

  Zoe turned and smiled. “Such an Oliver-like idea.”

  “Logical and sound,” he agreed. “What do you say, Evan?”

  He hesitated, his attention darting from dog to dog; he was clearly overwhelmed with the weight of the doggie decision. “ ’Kay. I’m hungry.”

  The inability to pick a breed lingered over lunch at the mall deli, distracting Evan enough that he barely ate his burger. Side by side in a booth with Zoe, Evan pored over the list from the pet store, troubled.

  Zoe asked him questions and helped the boy hone in on what was important, while Oliver relished the connection between them, enjoying her quips and the sight of his son next to the woman he…

  No. It didn’t matter how he felt. He could love Zoe from now until he took his last breath—and, damn it, he might—but would that ever be enough to hold on to a woman like her? No matter what her circumstances? How many times would he come out of the bathroom to find an empty bed? Home from work to find an empty house?

  Zoe pushed the paper away from Evan. “Stop thinking so hard, kid. Eat your food and think about something else and the right answer will come to you. You, too, Dad.” She winked at Oliver, obviously aware he wasn’t listening to this conversation.

  “Is that what you do? Think about something else when you have a problem?” Evan asked.

  No, she runs off.

  Zoe shrugged. “No, but you’re not me. You’re way smarter and you have too much information now, and you’re no longer going on your gut. Plus, it doesn’t matter.” She picked up an onion ring and used it to point at him. “You’re going to love this dog no matter what you get.”

  “Do you have a dog?” he asked.

  She shook her head and dipped the ring in ketchup. “I move around too much.”

  Like, constantly. Oliver swallowed the retort along with some iced tea.

  “Did you have one when you were a kid?” Evan asked.

  She shook her head, then stopped as if reconsidering that. “Actually, one place had a beagle. …” Zoe’s voice trailed off as she caught herself. She shared a look with Oliver.

  She’d told him earlier that she’d finally come clean with her friends. Would that honesty extend to others now, too? To Evan? Oliver sat perfectly still as he waited to find out.

  “One place? You mean you don’t remember?” Evan asked.

  Zoe put down the onion ring without eating it, brushing her fingers so some crumbs fell on her plate. “I…” She took a slow breath, her eyes cast down. “I lived in a lot of places.”

  “Did your parents move a lot?” he asked.

  Oliver held his sandwich poised in the air, watching and waiting and wondering what was going on in Zoe’s head. She still didn’t meet his gaze.

  “My parents…” She swallowed. “I didn’t really have parents.”

  Evan looked up, ready to argue, but then his expression softened. “Aunt Pasha raised you, right?”

  There, she had her usual out. Oliver waited for her to take it, to quip about life with her gypsy aunt, to mention that her parents died in a car crash when she was ten.

  Basically, he waited for her to lie to his son.

  “She did raise me,” Zoe said. “But before that I lived in foster homes.”

  Something in Oliver’s chest slipped.

  “Like, you were an orphan?” Evan asked.

  Zoe nodded. “Yep. Little Orphan Zoe.” But the humor didn’t ring true. And he could feel discomfort rolling off her in waves. Oliver wanted to step in, help her out, change the subject, anything to take the agony out of her eyes, but something told him not to.

  This was Zoe’s confession to make and all he could do was love her for making it.

  “What was that like?” Evan asked, a little tentative, as if he knew it wasn’t polite to ask questions about being an orphan.

  Zoe tried for a casual shrug, but her shoulder stayed up and her expression dissolved from a woman about to make a joke to…a face he saw so rarely. Her eyes, which normally glittered with her easy smile, looked wide and sad.

  “It sucked,” she said quietly. “Hope I can use that word in front of your son.”

  “He’s said worse.”

  “Much,” Evan agreed, but his attention was riveted on Zoe. “How come nobody adopted you?”

  Finally that shoulder dropped in a slow slump. “I got too old and most people want babies.”

  “But you’re so much fun.”

  She gave him an elbow nudge. “Just like the dogs in the shelter that you don’t want to consider.”

  Evan’s expression changed as that hit home. “How many houses did you live in?” he asked.

  Oliver stepped in to save her. “Hey, it’s personal business, Ev, so—”

  “It’s okay.” She waved him off as if she were trying to convince herself as much as them. “Really, I’m ready…it’s okay.” She leaned back and took a second to compose herself, then said, “I lost count after fifteen families. Sometimes I was only at one for a few weeks, sometimes longer. I never knew when the call would come that I had to move on. And so I wasn’t really nice to those people because I figured if I got too…” She closed her eyes.

  “Zoe, you don’t have to—”

  She caught the hand that Oliver held out. “I want to. I want to tell him this.” She added a smile. “But thanks.”

  “Zoe doesn’t tell a lot of people this, Evan,” he said softly.

  “But I’m telling him, now.” She let go of Oliver’s hand and turned to Evan. “The hardest part was that I didn’t want to get too comfortable. If I felt like something was mine—like my closet or my drawer or my bed or my family—then, sure enough, some old bag would show up at the door and tell me I had to leave.”

  Evan was silent, mesmerized. And Oliver simply wanted to punch a wall. How had he never considered this aspect of her life?

  She’d said she always wanted to get away from that last horrific home, and he’d accepted that as her reason for running. But it was even deeper than that. Staying—staying anywhere—meant getting hurt.

  “So, as you can imagine,” she said, fighting for that light tone of hers and losing the battle, “it’s always been easier for me”—she shifted her gaze to Oliver, slicing him in two with the sincerity of it—“to not get attached. That way, when I left the closet or the drawer or the bed I liked so much, I didn’t miss it too badly.”

  Of course. It made perfect sense. Now all he had to do was figure out how to convince her that wouldn’t happen. And trust her to love and not leave.

  Was that even possible with a woman as damaged as Zoe?

  “But then you got with Aunt Pasha,” Evan said, like a child determined to find the happy ending. “And it was like somebody took you home, huh?”

  Zoe shook her head. “Not exactly, but it was better.” She reached across the table to touch Oliver’s hand, as if she un
derstood that her message had finally sunk into Oliver’s skull.

  Evan pulled out his phone.

  “What are you doing?” Oliver asked.

  “Googling.”

  “Foster homes?” Zoe smiled. “You want to know everything about everything, don’t you, little Einstein?”

  He tapped a few buttons and scrolled on the screen. “I want to find the closest animal rescue shelter.” His finger paused and he looked up at her. “I bet we could find a dog that needs a real home.”

  “I bet we could.” Zoe beamed at Oliver, her eyes brimming with tears. “Mission accomplished.”

  Zoe ended what had felt like a nearly perfect day by pouring a heavy-on-the-vodka-with-a-molecule-of-tonic and settling onto her bed with an open laptop. Oliver had practically begged her to stay after dinner and she’d been so tempted, but the siren call of the Internet was too strong.

  She had to know more.

  Her fingers touched the keys, ready to type. Patricia Hobarth…Corpus Christi…Matthew Hobarth.

  Matthew Hobarth? Was that even his name? How would Zoe know? Because the one person she loved and trusted and depended on for everything had failed to tell her.

  How? How could Pasha have had a son and never even told Zoe about it?

  A white-hot spurt of betrayal shot through her, and not for the first time that day. She’d managed to run from the heartache and escape to something better with Oliver and Evan, even with her honest admissions over lunch.

  She was tired of hiding the truth about her life. But, evidently, Pasha was not.

  Had Pasha lied to Zoe all these years? Whether out of omission, fear, or just plain guilt—God, no, please. Not that.

  She had to know.

  Still, she couldn’t type the words. Instead she took a deep, long drink, the vodka harsh on her tongue. A second gulp was a little better, but she still didn’t feel numb enough to face this search.

  Whatever had happened, if it had happened, had taken place over thirty years ago. There might not be anything on the Internet.

  That gave her the strength to begin clicking. She closed her eyes as the links popped up, praying that this was misinformation, a coincidence that the sheriff and nurse had used the same word: murder.

  She finally opened her eyes and read the first link, dated just a few months earlier.

  Police reopen 1965 murder of Matthew Hobarth.

  Shit. Shit!

  She sipped some more, put the glass on the table with a thud, and stared at the words. She jumped when a knock at the bungalow door pulled her out of the sixties and back to the moment.

  She popped off the bed, gathered her wits, and listened for the next knock.

  What if it was the sheriff?

  An old, familiar fear crawled up her back. Grab a bag, get out the back door, hide until it was clear and they could run.

  But Zoe didn’t have to run. She picked up the glass to down the last sip but didn’t drink, carrying it to the door.

  “Zoe, are you home?”

  Tessa. Relief hit as hard as the vodka as Zoe blew out a breath. Tessa was better than the sheriff. Better than anyone, right now.

  She flung the door open. “Tess.”

  “Where have you been all day?”

  “With Oliver and Evan. We went dog shopping. Got a lovely mutt who has a heart of gold and paws the size of basketballs.”

  “Really? And you’re not over there doing an assist on the house-training?”

  She managed a smile. “They can’t bring him home for forty-eight hours. Shelter rules.”

  Tessa inspected Zoe’s face. “You okay?”

  No, she was not okay. Zoe grabbed Tessa’s arm and pulled her in. “I need your help.”

  Inside, Tessa took the drink from Zoe’s hand and sipped. “Whoa. Ever hear of a mixer?”

  “Overrated. Come back here. I need you to read something for me.”

  “Too drunk to read?”

  “I’m not drunk,” Zoe fired back, her voice cracking. “I’m…” What was she, other than shocked, devastated, and dismayed? Hurt. She was hurt down to the bone. “It’s Pasha.”

  Tessa reached for her. “What happened?” The question was loaded with fear and a hint of dread. “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Zoe said glumly.

  “Did she have a setback? Is the treatment still scheduled for tomorrow? What’s the matter?”

  “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know, except that I can’t stand to do this alone.”

  “Do what alone?”

  “Find out the truth.”

  Tessa practically folded Zoe into her arms, patting her back with as much love and understanding as Zoe had ever felt. “Hey.” She gave her a hug. “We’re good, you know that. Whatever it is, tell me the truth. No judging, I swear.”

  The words were like a balm, and incredibly empowering. “I’m not sure what the truth is. That’s the problem.”

  “Then let’s figure it out together, can we?”

  “Maybe.” She handed Tessa the glass. “Mix me up another vodka-and-vodka and get a little something for yourself. You’re going to need it. Meet me in my room.”

  An hour later, neither one of them had finished their drinks. But Tessa had read aloud every single word they could find, which wasn’t much, but it was enough to leave them both in stunned silence.

  Seven-year-old Matthew Hobarth had been stabbed to death in the backyard of his Pennsylvania home.

  That alone was enough to make Zoe nearly throw up.

  The child’s father, Harry Hobarth, the owner of a string of very successful car dealerships all over the state, had been at a car show in Philadelphia when Matthew was killed. His mother, Patricia, a housewife, was the only real suspect. After scouring for clues around the body, which had been found at the far end of the property, investigators honed in on scratches on the mother’s arms. She’d claimed they’d been climbing a tree together that day; the child had similar scratches. And she’d failed a lie-detector test but the evidence wasn’t admitted into court.

  The trial had ended with a hung jury, and the judge had declared a mistrial.

  With each new fact that Tessa read, Zoe curled more tightly into a ball, wrapping her arms around her pillow, closing her eyes, trying to accept this unacceptable news.

  In a story written about five years earlier in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette about unsolved crimes in the area, a reporter had discovered that Harry Hobarth had divorced his wife and remarried, and Patricia Hobarth had moved away from the area. A search of obituaries listed her as dying of natural causes in Lubbock, Texas, in 1988—the year Zoe and Pasha had started their twenty-five-year run from the law.

  But the case was now open due to new evidence.

  “You okay?” Tessa asked, stroking Zoe’s arm.

  She nodded but kept her stinging eyes shut tight.

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Scream in her face. Demand to know why she never told me.” Was it because she was guilty? Was that even possible? “She doesn’t have a violent bone in her body.”

  “Zoe, you don’t think she did this, do you?”

  Did she? “No, I don’t, but why didn’t she tell me? Why has she been running and hiding and pretending to be dead all these years?”

  Tessa angled her head, frowning. “You know why. Because she basically kidnapped you and would have to face the charges for that, even now. She was protecting you.”

  “Was she?” Zoe pushed herself up. “Or was she protecting herself?”

  “It was a mistrial.”

  “Hung jury. That’s not a clear verdict of not guilty.” Every word hurt to say. The very idea that Pasha could harm a child went beyond unthinkable. “But why be so secretive about it?”

  Tessa gave her a rich look. “Says the queen of subterfuge.”

  “For a reason.”

  “She has her reasons, Zoe, and, frankly, I’m kind of shocked that you’d even consider that she’s capable of something li
ke this. She’s probably terrified of being falsely accused again.”

  Guilt tweaked. No, it did more than tweak—it stomped all over Zoe’s heart. “I know she didn’t do this,” Zoe said, the truth of that so powerful it rocked her. “I absolutely know she’s not guilty. I’m angry at her. I’m hurt and disappointed and miserable and…I feel cheated.” The last one took hold and she nodded, letting the emotion ricochet through her. “She cheated me out of a chance with Oliver.”

  “She thought she was doing the right thing for you, didn’t she?”

  Zoe looked at the screen, where the last story was still visible, but she couldn’t bring herself to lean closer and read every damn word. “What does it say about the open case again?”

  Tessa skimmed the words. “They have the killer’s DNA now, something they didn’t have the technology to get back then. But they haven’t matched it to anyone in any database.”

  “And of course,” Zoe said softly, “the number-one suspect, Patricia Hobarth, is dead.”

  “Except she’s not.”

  “And I’d stake my life on the fact that she’s innocent.”

  “You certainly have buckets of DNA if you wanted to…”

  Turn her in. “Whoa.” Zoe blew out a breath, falling on the pillow to stare at the ceiling. “Talk about a betrayal.”

  “If she’s innocent you’d be helping her. And maybe you could negotiate for the kidnapping charges because she came forward.”

  “Except she wouldn’t have come forward. I’m busting her.” Zoe’s whole body tightened like a coiled spring, the first prickles of a cold sweat breaking out on her neck and scalp.

  Could she do that? Could she even think about it?

  “Why don’t you talk to Oliver?” Tessa said. “You trust him.”

  Zoe slid her a look. “I slept with him last night.”

  “That’s what you wanted, right?” When Zoe didn’t answer, Tessa leaned forward. “How’d it go?”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t feel the earthquake.”

  “When you shared thundering simultaneous orgasms?”

  Zoe smiled, but her eyes were already brimming. “When I ran out the minute he wasn’t looking.”

  “Oh, Zoe.” Tessa reached for her with another of her mother-bear hugs. “Baby, you’re a mess.”