Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(10)
“I call it remission, Gene.” Not a complete cure, but damn close. “And that’s what the research and medical team there calls our goal.” He added an easy smile. “And you know Raj isn’t going to be happy until you break seventy-five.”
Eugene laughed. “I’m just thrilled to be golfing. He’s a competitor, your partner, that’s for sure.”
“We both are, and we’re both enjoying a victory with your progress,” Oliver told him. “Best we’ve ever seen on a leukemia patient.” Oliver reached out his hand to shake Eugene’s hand, anxious to get back to Zoe and finish the conversation but unwilling to rush this patient, especially after Eugene had waited to see him.
Instantly, the other man took a step forward and held out his arms. “Hey, give me one of those guy hugs.”
Oliver complied, fighting a smile and that warm, welcome sense of satisfaction in his chest. He’d made the right choice in leaving hospital administration for the far less stable world of research medicine, partnering with Raj Mahesh, working with an incredibly talented team of researchers, and getting back to the rewarding business of saving lives.
The move may have cost him his marriage, his high-profile position in Chicago’s society, along with a steady—and monstrous—paycheck, but Gene Carlson’s hug was worth the fee.
Another set of footsteps padded in the hall, almost as fast as Evan’s and made by someone in sandals.
“I’ll see you in three months, Gene,” he said, trying not to rush out of the room even though his whole being wanted to make a mad dash to stop Zoe before she left.
But that would be like trying to stop the sun from rising. Trying to stop waves on the sand or a storm blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico. Nothing could stop the inevitable.
“By then I’ll have a new granddaughter,” Eugene said, dragging Oliver back to the moment.
“I’ll expect pictures, then.” Waiting a polite beat, he opened the door and headed into the hall as the door to the reception area clicked closed. He hustled forward, pulling the door open to nearly mow down his son.
“Evan, what are you doing out here? I told you to stay in the break room.” He looked over the child’s shoulder through the darkly tinted glass door in time to see a big white Jeep whip out of a parking spot, blond curls behind the steering wheel.
Not that he was surprised. But that didn’t change the needle-jab of disappointment right to his chest. “Damn it,” he murmured, an echo of a wound that had long ago stopped festering. Or so he’d thought.
Evan’s face mirrored how Oliver imagined his own looked. Deflated. “You should have hired her to be my sitter, Dad.”
Behind him, Johanna lifted a dubious brow. “I don’t think she’d have made a suitable nanny, Dr. Bradbury.”
Oliver sliced her with a cold look. “When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
“You want my opinion?” Evan asked. “I liked her. I thought she was funny.”
“You talked to her?”
“Yeah. She’s pretty, too.”
No kidding. “Did you tell her you’re my son?”
“Of course. Will she be back?”
Wasn’t that the million-dollar question? “I don’t know. She’s…enigmatic.” He opened the door to the offices and held it for his son. “Which means—”
“I know what that means.” Evan slipped under Oliver’s arm.
“From your Latin class?”
“Nah. Video games. So, she’s gone for good? Because she was about to teach me a card game.” He let out a sigh and mumbled, “Damn it.”
“Evan.”
“You just said it.”
“I’m thirty-nine years old. And don’t tell me; she wanted you to play Egyptian Rat Screws?”
His whole face lit. “Yeah! How’d you know?”
Because he knew her. They’d turned her favorite fast-and-furious card game into Strip Egyptian Rat Screws with a bottle of tequila and a bag of limes one night.
“It must be fun,” Evan said.
That night was. “How do you know?”
“ ’Cause you’re smiling, Dad. And that hardly ever happens.”
He led Evan into his office. “All right, Evan. I’m in the middle of my workday.”
“You’re always in the middle of your workday.”
“Save the guilt trips for your mother.” Who chose to unload Evan at the office the day before she left for a month in the south of France. “We don’t have a choice today. No sitters, no nanny, no day off for me.”
“Well, that blonde lady could have hung out with me. ’Cept she said it’s no fun at a cancer ward.”
“Sounds like something that blonde lady would say.” With that sexy, smart-ass mouth that would now haunt him for the rest of the day.
“She likes to swear, too.”
“Nice of her to share that with you.”
“I thought so.”
He laughed softly. “Evan, do you want to play computer games or something, because I have to…” Sit here and think about Zoe. And her mouth. “Write up some reports.”
Evan sighed, his narrow chest sinking. “No, Dad, I don’t want to play computer games. And I don’t want to sit in the break room. And I don’t want to swim by myself at the Shitz-Carlton—”
“Evan.” Damn, why did he have to have an eight-year-old going on sixteen? He didn’t even want to think about sixteen. If he couldn’t connect to the kid now, God only knew how bad it would be in eight more years.
“I hate it here.”
“A fact you have made undeniably clear, son.”
“Don’t call me son.” He pivoted and headed to the door.
“Evan!”
He stopped, and, for a split second, Oliver half feared he was about to get flipped off by a third-grader. But Evan didn’t move; he kept his back to Oliver.
Oliver dug for the right words and came up with nothing. Why was it easier to talk to a cancer patient than his own preadolescent child?
“Look,” Oliver said, thrashing around his brain for the right words to show some balance of compassion and discipline. “I know you’re not happy about your mom and me splitting up.”
Evan still didn’t move, unless Oliver counted the rise and fall of his shoulders.
“And I know you’d rather be in Chicago where you have friends.”
“And Grandma.”
“And your grandmother. But you can’t be there this summer, Evan. I live here and work here, and your mother’s going to Europe tomorrow, so you’ve got to make the best of this today.” And every day for the rest of the summer.
Slowly, Evan turned. “Can I just sit on the sofa while you work, Dad? I hate the break room.”
Shit. What could he say to that? A few weeks ago, when Adele had announced she’d be coming to Naples with Evan and then leaving him while she traveled, Oliver had been happy—and scared. Maybe because his own father had been so distant and busy, Oliver wasn’t ever sure how to handle a kid. Adele hadn’t been much of a mom, either, making liberal use of nannies and her own mother, who could probably lay claim to really raising the boy.
But this was his chance to bond. However the hell that was done. “Sure. Please turn the sound off your game…thing.”
“I’m not even going to turn it on,” he promised. “I’m reading something.”
As Oliver came around his desk, he frowned, instantly sensing something was different. Evan’s picture had been moved. “Were you sitting at my desk?”
Evan looked up from a brightly colored brochure. “No, she was.”
What did Zoe think about him having a son? Could she possibly know that… “What did you two talk about?”
Evan flipped the paper, mesmerized by whatever it was. “Just, you know, stuff.” He frowned and looked closer. “Whoa, look at that.”
“What kind of stuff?” Like Evan’s age? “Did you tell her you were here for the summer?”
“I think so.”
“What else?”
He held out the paper. “This place looks really cool.”
“What else did you talk about?” Oliver asked.
“Oh, stuff like her fairy godmother who has a man-eating plant. Wow, would you look at that.” Evan flung the paper out. “She left this flyer thingie for a hotel, but it’s not really a hotel. Look.” Evan waved a pamphlet under Oliver’s nose. “Casa Blanca. Sounds neat, huh?”
He took the paper, glancing at it. “I delivered a baby there last night.” He flipped the page, studying the pristine beach and the understated elegance of the architecture.
“I’d rather live there than the Shitz—” Evan stopped in response to Oliver’s stern look. “But they have houses, Dad. Not rooms.” He pointed to a beautifully appointed villa overlooking the Gulf inlet known as Barefoot Bay. “That would almost be like, you know, normal.”