Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(27)

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.”