Barefoot in the Sun (5 page)

But that hope was dashed now, and not by Aunt Pasha. By Oliver.

Truth was, she couldn’t live in a place that was one causeway drive away from Oliver. And his son.

The son conceived before they’d even met.

Blowing out a breath, she let all the disappointment that had been brewing since yesterday morning settle low in her belly. Pasha needed a doctor, and she’d let pride and jealousy steal the best possible solution.

Somehow, she had to go back to Oliver and try again.

Or did she?

The debate had raged for twenty-four hours now. Would he treat Pasha in secret? The man who obviously felt compelled to marry the woman he got pregnant, whether or not he loved her? Because Zoe might question a lot of things in her life, but not that. Oliver had loved her; she believed that. But he would always do the right thing in any situation—that was what made him tick.

So what was the right thing in this situation?

And, really, did he have to be hot, even these nine years later? Did he have to still emit some kind of crazy, sinful, senseless pheromones that attacked Zoe’s sex-deprived brain like little hormone ninjas? Would Oliver fire up her girly bits if she hadn’t sworn off sex after a string of excruciating few-night-stands almost four years ago? Probably.

Come on, Zoe. You practically inhaled the guy the night you met.

But we’d waited, she countered her mental adversary, also known as the voice. They’d waited—almost twenty-four whole hours. And in that time, Oliver said, he’d gone straight to his girlfriend, the daughter of Mount Mercy Hospital’s CEO, and broken up with her.

But obviously not for good.

You left him!

What else could she do after he insisted they turn Pasha in? Pasha had had that panic bag packed and in the car in a flash. She’d given Zoe the choice to stay, but, really, there was no choice. She loved Pasha. And Oliver? Well, how would she know romantic love if it bit her in the nose? She’d never lived with a happily married couple. She didn’t know the rules and regs, or where the lines were drawn with people who were in love—don’t you tell your true love everything?

Zoe had, and look how that turned out. Oliver had practically jumped out of the balloon that day. So she ran. Honestly, both she and Oliver had to be accountable for the demise of that romance.

A trickle of sweat meandered down her back, the midday sun brutal already. She went inside to dress in the only suitable clothes for a day this hot: a bikini and thin cotton cover-up, which was good enough for finding Pasha, wherever she was.

A tendril of worry wrapped around her throat. Where
was
Pasha?

She hadn’t even mentioned the visit to Oliver’s office to her aunt because, well, she wasn’t ready to leave Barefoot Bay and she knew what Pasha’s response to Zoe’s idea would be. Exit stage right.

And Zoe would go because she and Pasha were a team, partners, together forever.

She rinsed her cup and looked out into the gardens again.

There was no such thing as forever. Pasha was sick and this team would inevitably end. And the funny thing was, when that happened, Zoe would finally be free. There’d be no need to live “off the grid” once Pasha was gone.

So why was she fighting so hard to keep her alive? Because the only “love” Zoe had ever known, other than her three closest girlfriends, was given and taken by Pasha. Zoe might not have had normal parents to be role models of how good couples acted, but she had had Pasha to shower her with attention and affection for almost all of her life, ever since Bridget Lessington disappeared and Zoe Tamarin was born.

We’ll call you Zoe. …Zoe means “new life.”

And twenty-four years later, she was still Zoe and they were still running. God, she was so, so tired of running. Of keeping everyone in the dark and at a distance. Of building walls made of sarcasm and apathy. Of skimming the surface with men because anything more would mean repeating what had happened with Oliver.

Tired, but scared of losing the only person who’d ever truly loved her, Zoe headed outside again to find Pasha.

She wandered through the gardens, marveling at Tessa’s pungent herbs, sniffing tangy basil and sweet tomatoes as she made her way to the greenhouse where her friend spent every waking hour.

But the greenhouse was locked.

Worry ratcheted up a notch as Zoe scanned the grounds, her eyes landing on the barrel-tile roof of Clay and Lacey’s home, perched on a rise of land between the gardens and the Gulf.

But where was Pasha? Had she collapsed somewhere? Out in the west field, hidden in the cornstalks? Zoe froze, torn between common sense and her wild imagination. Maybe—

“Hey, Aunt Zoe! Come and see my new brother!” Lacey’s teenage daughter, Ashley, stood on the upstairs balcony, waving. “They just brought him home from the hospital! Everyone’s here!”

“Pasha, too?”

“She’s reading his little palm right this minute!”

Zoe puffed out a prayer of thanks and made her way to the house, not surprised that relief washed her skin with a chill despite the heat. She paused in a cluster of sea grass to gather her wits and push away all those thoughts of staying and regretting and running. Pasha was safe and, right now, that was all that mattered.

Although, damn it, she really didn’t want to leave this time. “Look at this place,” she mumbled to herself. Why did they always have to
leave
?

Because Pasha freaked the minute people asked questions or became too close or needed some official paper. But that wouldn’t happen here, would it? Zoe looked around at the nearly complete resort. Casa Blanca was nothing less than heavenly. Clay Walker, Lacey’s husband, had somehow managed to break the mold of the typical Florida resort, building a place that was clean, natural, and fitted into the foliage like Mother Nature herself had been on the architectural review board.

Stop ogling. You can’t live here.

Zoe followed the path to the private drive to Lacey and Clay’s two-story hacienda, which was already hugged by vibrant bougainvillea vines wrapped over the arched entryway.

A pang of something that could only be called the green monster twisted inside Zoe as tight as those flowery vines. Tessa may be envious of Lacey’s baby, but Zoe longed for something different.

What would it be like to call a place like this home? To build a family. To put down roots. To come home every night, year after year after year, to…
home
?

Not in your lifetime, girlie. Well, certainly not in Pasha’s lifetime.

The front door swung open before she reached it, and Jocelyn Bloom stood in the doorway, sporting a most uncharacteristic wet splotch on the shoulder of her always-pressed-to-perfection blouse.

Zoe pointed at the stain. “Will really ought to wipe his drool.”

“Very funny.” Jocelyn took a cursory swipe at the stain, remarkably unconcerned by it. A year ago she’d be changed into something fresh and already have this shirt cataloged in her closet under D for Dry Cleaners. “It’s baby vomit.”

Zoe sniffed. “Tessa probably wants to bottle and drink that.”

Jocelyn gave her a look. “Don’t start.”

“What? We can’t make jokes about each other’s not-so-secret desires anymore?”

“Tessa’s infertility issues aren’t the butt of your crass jokes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Everything’s the butt of my crass jokes. Even Baby Pukes-A-Lot. Where is he, anyway?” She inched around Jocelyn to look into the house. “I heard Pasha’s giving a reading.”

“She is.” Jocelyn laughed. “Oh, Zoe. He’s so tiny and perfect. It makes you want to…” She squeezed her hands together and made a soft mewing sound that could only be hormonally driven.

“Woman, you got engaged two nights ago.” Zoe nudged her. “No ovary bomb detonations yet.”

Will Palmer stepped into the hallway, tall and tanned and looking at Jocelyn like he’d trudged through the desert and found an oasis. “Who’s detonating?” he asked, still beaming like he had been the night the baby was born and he’d squeezed a “yes” out of Jocelyn.

“Don’t rush her, Will,” Zoe said. “She’ll need months just for the list making.”

“Not true,” Jocelyn countered. “I’ve already promised him a quick and easy ceremony with no stress.”

“And no waiting,” Will added, capturing Jocelyn under his arm.

“You two are killing me.” Zoe shouldered between them. “Let me at the kid, please.”

“Get in line,” Will said. “Pasha and Tessa aren’t about to give him up. Lacey went to rest, and Clay’s with her.”

“Is Pasha feeling okay?” she asked.

Jocelyn shrugged. “She seems tired today. All the excitement, I guess.”

“I guess,” Zoe agreed. She hadn’t told her friends about the initial diagnosis they’d gotten before they’d left Arizona. Pasha had sworn Zoe to secrecy—big shockeroo there—and the others didn’t know Pasha well enough to notice the subtle signs of deterioration, weight loss, and easy exhaustion.

Of course, if Zoe told them, she’d have to have a damn good explanation for why they didn’t just go to a doctor. And she’d have to do better than her usual joking and sarcasm. They loved Pasha, too. Especially Tessa, who, after her divorce, had lived with Pasha and Zoe for a few months and gotten close to the older woman.

But not close enough to know the truth.

How much longer could she keep her closest friends in the dark? Not only was Pasha’s illness forcing Zoe to find medical care—a daunting task without insurance, let alone without legal identification—but it was entirely possible the jig was up for Zoe, too. At the very least, she might have to face Lacey, Jocelyn, and Tessa and admit they didn’t even know her name.

A splash of hot, dark dread shot through her stomach at the thought.

“We’re in the family room,” Tessa called to Zoe. “Come and see your nephew.”

“Brace yourself, Elijah!” Zoe called in a singsong voice. “Here comes the fun aunt!”

Zoe headed into the large, high-ceilinged great room to find Pasha in an overstuffed chair, baby in arms. It was like an artist’s rendering of time passages: Pasha with her silver hair shooting in a few different directions, her skin hanging like crepe paper on bony cheeks, her arms holding the perfect, pink, baby bud of new life.

One ending the journey, the other just beginning.

“Zoe!” Pasha scolded, her voice even raspier than usual, her brown eyes misty. “Don’t you know it’s incredibly bad luck to cry the first time you see a baby?”

Without a quip handy, Zoe dropped to her knees in front of Pasha, swallowing the unexpected lump in her throat.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him,” she said, reaching out to take the tiny bundle, the move revealing his tuft of reddish blonde wisps, the perfect combination of Lacey’s strawberry and Clay’s golden hair. “I was there the other night when Lacey spread her legs and gave new meaning to the term ‘grand opening’ party.” He was ridiculously light. “Hey, little dude. Way to blow lunch on Joss. Didn’t anyone tell you she doesn’t like to get dirty?”

She ran a finger over his air-soft cheek and the dip in his tiny chin, almost speechless at the perfection of his bowed lips and speck of a nose.

Tessa perched on the armrest of the sofa. “He throws up a lot,” she said. “I think Lacey might have to watch the nitrates in her diet.”

Zoe leaned close to inhale powder and warm baby. “That’s Tessa, the healthy auntie who won’t let you eat evil Froot Loops and Pop-Tarts. Don’t worry, I will.” She looked at Pasha. “What did his palms say?”

Pasha lifted her narrow shoulders in a casual shrug. “Longevity, health, happiness, three children, and a weakness for brunettes.”

“Brunettes? We better work on that.” Zoe frowned and wormed her finger into his fist to spread out his hand and see that info-rich palm. He squeezed tighter. “Does that mean he’s going to hold on to his money or something?”

Tessa moved closer. “It means you’re not a brunette. Give that child to me.”

They held each other’s eyes, smiling. “You’ve been holding him all day.”

“How do you know?”

“Am I right?”

“So?” Tessa lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, no trace of the sadness Zoe had expected in her eyes as she held out greedy hands. “Come to Aunt Tess, Eli.”

“Don’t go, baby.” Zoe turned, refusing to give him up. “She’ll make you wear hemp diapers. Are we calling him Eli or Elijah?”

“I don’t know what we’re calling him,” Jocelyn said, coming to the other side so that the three of them surrounded the baby.

“She changed her mind about the name?” Zoe couldn’t believe it. “He’s been Elijah since the day we found out which team he played for.”

Jocelyn shook her head. “Lacey is on a tear to find out that doctor’s name.
You
wouldn’t happen to know, would you, Zoe?”

“Me?” She felt her cheeks warm and directed all her attention to the baby, lifting his little body to her face, hoping he’d cover any unwanted blushing. “Oh, my goodness. Nothing smells like a baby, huh?”

Nobody answered.

Of course they’d all been in the room when Oliver had swept in; they’d all seen Zoe and Oliver react to each other. Had she said his name? Had he said hers? She didn’t even remember. The moment had been like the slow motion of a car wreck—afterwards, the details are impossible to remember. The only thing that lingered was the shock of impact.

When she looked up, she met Jocelyn’s gaze and gave her a look that she hoped, after fifteen years of friendship, could be interpreted correctly:
Shut the hell up or die.

If Jocelyn even
mentioned
the name of the only human on earth who knew their secret in front of Pasha, Zoe would scream. She had to tell Pasha herself, and in her own way, about Oliver’s arrival in their life.

“We are
not
naming him after the doctor.” Surprising them all, Lacey stood in the kitchen, earning a cheer of greetings and “How are you feeling?” questions from everyone, which made little Elijah stir and shudder in Zoe’s arms.

As Lacey came into the room to give Zoe a hug, Pasha asked, “Why not name the baby after this doctor? I think that would be a wonderful tribute to the hero who saved him.”