Barefoot in the Sun (Barefoot Bay)(65)

“The wedding package that Lacey wants to create for the resort. Zoe had some amazing ideas, and if we can swing some of them, we could turn Casa Blanca into one of the top destination-wedding resorts in the country. I didn’t even know there was such a thing,” he added with a laugh. “That’s where I’m going now, as a matter of fact.”

“A wedding?”

“A meeting. Apparently a whole parcel of land up on the east side of Barefoot Bay is going up for sale, and I want to see if we can get part of it for the resort. But we can’t bite off the whole thing. I’m hoping someone will want a few acres and Lacey and I can buy the rest to expand. If her wedding-destination idea takes off, we’re actually going to need more rooms to accommodate bigger parties and…” Clay waved an apology. “Hell, I’m sorry, doc. You got enough on your mind today. I’ll let you know if we find out who owns the dog.”

“Thanks, Clay. Good luck with the meeting.”

Clay put a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “Good luck with Zoe.”

He inched back. “I don’t think luck’s going to do it for us, man. There’s too much…” Wrong. “Going on.”

Clay nodded. “Hey, you never know. Stranger things have happened, and I’m living proof. Zoe is nothing if not unpredictable.”

But could Oliver hold on to that hope again? Or should he just get on with his life? And his life was—

“Dad, I taught her to shake paws!”

His life was Evan. Just like last time.

“Don’t get too attached,” Oliver said, walking toward his son. “I don’t want your heart broken when…she’s gone.”

But Evan laughed. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Oliver guessed Evan would have to learn the hard way, like he had.





Chapter Twenty-eight

The morning of Pasha’s service, Zoe dressed in white. Because she felt lighter than she had in days, and it was a bajillion degrees outside.

Plus, Pasha would want white. No black, no tears, no agony, no regrets. Oh, there was a hole in Zoe’s heart, no doubt about it. A couple of them, in fact. But she kept stuffing those holes with hope to stop any bleeding, and that seemed to do the trick for now.

Death was final and sad, but so utterly inevitable. No matter how hard Zoe had been trying to stave off the unavoidable consequences of cancer and old age, no matter how she’d begged, borrowed, and stolen extra hours and days, no matter how much she willed Oliver to play God with Pasha’s life, nothing could change what was meant to be.

She was learning to accept that, and she’d gone a few hours without crying each day. Instead, she took solace in certain melodies of the wind, in the sight of a butterfly, and even in a random splatter of tea leaves. Pasha was everywhere, or at least her memory was, and Zoe would stay connected to her forever.

But she would have to go on with her life, different as it might be now.

Last night, Zoe had finally slept in her own bungalow again, trying to think of the little place as her “home.” Could it be? Lacey had said she could live there permanently if Zoe really decided to move to Mimosa Key, work for Sylver Skies, and help build the destination-wedding business.

But, deep inside, Zoe hadn’t decided anything yet. First, she had to gather with her friends on the beach and celebrate the life of a woman who’d left a mark on all of them. Then she’d make a decision about staying or not.

She’d never had the option to make that decision on her own before, and the feeling was more than a little heady. It made her dizzy.

She listened for that voice in her head to bark an order or two, but it had been unusually quiet this week.

Stepping back from the mirror, Zoe checked out her understated sundress and fluffed her hair. Maybe it was too understated. This was Pasha’s funeral, after all. That called for outrageous silver earrings.

Automatically, she went to the door, almost ready to call out to Pasha and ask to borrow some hoops. A now-familiar pain twisted in her chest. That’s what she’d miss: the everyday companionship of her very best friend. Tears threatened, but she blinked them away.

Zoe had other friends, and they wanted her to stay here permanently. For the first time in her life, Zoe was actually considering that, but there were complications.

Complications named Oliver.

He’d left her alone, of course, as she’d expected him to.

But now what?

He’d made it clear the door was open, but did she have what it took to walk through? The pain of losing Pasha was still fresh enough that the idea of taking that chance, of connecting to one more person she might ultimately lose, was still enough to keep her from even thinking about Oliver.

First she had to hold this ceremony for Pasha. For that, Pasha would want her to look good, and that required those giant earrings Pasha loved so much.

Swallowing any trepidation, she walked across the hall into Pasha’s room, entering it for the first time since she’d died. Actually, the first time since Pasha had run off and ended up in the hospital.

Well, she’d have to come in here sometime, right? She couldn’t put it off forever.

The soft scent of talcum lingered in the air, along with an eerie quiet that seemed so unfamiliar. Zoe stood completely still next to the bed and waited for chills or heartache or even a whisper of air over her skin.

But there were no ghosts in this room. No spirits of fortune-tellers. No Pasha. Zoe started to close her eyes against a wave of grief, but just as she did she spotted an envelope.

Zoe frowned at the rectangular paper on the dresser, halfway under Pasha’s jewelry box as if it had been tossed there. Had Pasha left a farewell note?

Now Zoe got chills and heartache.

The letter lay facedown, making Zoe scared to turn it over and see Pasha’s right-leaning distinct handwriting. A letter would make her cry, for sure. A weepy missive from Pasha would wipe away all those solemn oaths about accepting death and being strong and looking forward. Something like that would surely gouge at those holes in her heart, and today, of all days, she wanted those holes firmly shut.

Then she noticed that the paper was yellowed with age, the corners softened like they’d been folded away forever.

Picking up the envelope, she turned it over and stared at the front, at a different handwriting than she’d been expecting, addressed to Ms. Zoe Tamarin.

Holy God, no.

In the upper left corner—oh, no.

Zoe’s legs buckled, forcing her to back up and fall on the bed. She held the letter with trembling hands.

I left a letter in that box anyway. I saw the postman toss the letter in the trash when I left. I wanted to tell you…

This was Oliver’s letter. How long had Pasha held on to this? The answer was in the postmark, of course. Nine years.

Why? Why?

That answer had died with Pasha. A new feeling welled up inside her, rough and raw. Anger. Zoe ran her finger over the back, certain the seal was the original. No one had ever read this letter.

Another wave of anger took hold, different than she’d been feeling as she went through what Jocelyn called her stages of grief. This was pure fury in all its glory.

“How dare you!” she screamed out, slapping the letter on the bed. “How could you not give me this?”

Then Zoe remembered Pasha’s cryptic words as the alarms had been blaring in the hospital room during the chaotic last second of her life.

It was wrong to keep it, but I was scared you’d go back to him and we’d get caught.

Yes, Pasha, it was wrong.

Once again, fear had held Pasha back. And Pasha’s fear had kept Zoe from knowing what Oliver had written in this letter. And fear was keeping Zoe from…everything she wanted.

Don’t…let…fear…stop…you.

Zoe sat straight up at the sound of a voice. It was the first time she’d heard it in days.

Except that it wasn’t an unknown voice; that was Pasha’s voice. A soft, lilting, sweet voice that usually made Zoe feel better. This voice was telling her not to make the same mistakes Pasha had made. This voice was telling her to walk through the door Oliver had opened and not be afraid of whatever life held.

Don’t let fear stop you.

Anger gave way to a soft appreciation. Pasha had done what Pasha thought she had to do. But Zoe did not have to live with those same shackles on her wrists.

Zoe took the letter and pressed it to her heart, then to her lips.

Standing up, she slipped the envelope into the pocket of her skirt, saving it for later.





Less than an hour later, a very small crowd of about a dozen people milled about the beachside patio of Casa Blanca, where Clay and Lacey had set up the chairs for the service. Zoe’s friends were there, along with a few of the townspeople or staff who’d met Pasha while she’d lived in Barefoot Bay, the whole thing as intimate as a small family gathering.

Zoe stayed in the middle, greeting guests, accepting condolences, quietly listening to people share tidbits and vignettes about their interactions with Pasha.