Dream Lake (2 page)

Before Sam made an offer for the property, he brought someone else to look at it—a man who looked to be about his age, thirty or thereabouts. Maybe a little younger. His gaze was cold with a cynicism that should have taken lifetimes to acquire.

They had to be brothers—they had the same heavy brown-black hair and wide mouth, the same strapping build. But whereas Sam’s eyes were tropical blue, his brother’s were the color of glacial ice. His face was expressionless, except for the bitter set of his mouth within deeply carved brackets. And in contrast to Sam’s roughcast good looks, the other man possessed a near prodigal handsomeness, his features blade-like and perfect. This was a man who liked to dress well and live well, who shelled out for expensive haircuts and foreign-made shoes.

The incongruous note in all that impeccable grooming was the fact that the man’s hands were work-roughened and capable. The ghost had seen hands like that before … maybe his own? … He looked down at his invisible self, wishing for a shape, a form. A voice. Why was he here with these two men, able only to observe, never to speak or interact? What was he supposed to learn?

In fewer than ten minutes, the ghost perceived that Alex, as Sam called him, knew a hell of a lot about construction. He started by circling the exterior, noting cracks in the substrate, gaps in the trim, the sagging front porch with its decaying joists and beams. Once inside, Alex went to the exact places that the ghost would have shown him to demonstrate the house’s condition—uneven sections of flooring, doors that wouldn’t close properly, blooms of mold where faulty plumbing had leaked.

“The inspector said the structural damage was repairable,” Sam commented.

“Who’d you get to do it?” Alex lowered to his haunches to examine the collapsed parlor fireplace, the fractures in the exposed chimney.

“Ben Rawley.” Sam looked defensive as he saw Alex’s expression. “Yeah, I know he’s a little old—”

“He’s a fossil.”

“—but he still knows his stuff. And he did it for free, as a favor.”

“I wouldn’t take his word. You need to get an engineer in here for a realistic assessment.” Alex had a distinctive way of talking, every syllable as measured and flat as unspooling contractor’s tape, with the hint of a rasp. “The only plus in this whole scenario is that with a structurally unsound house on the property, it’s worth
less
than vacant land. So you might be able to argue for a break on the price, considering the expense of demolition and haul-off.”

The ghost was wrenched with anxiety. Destroying the house might be the end of him. It might send him to oblivion.

“I’m not going to tear it down,” Sam said. “I’m going to save it.”

“Good luck.”

“I know.” Sam dragged a hand through his hair with a scrubbing motion, causing the short, dark strands to stand up in wild dishevelment. He let out a heavy sigh. “The land is perfect for the vineyard—I know I should settle for that and count myself lucky. But this house … there’s something I just …” He shook his head, looking baffled and concerned and determined all at once.

Both the ghost and Sam expected Alex to mock him. Instead, Alex stood and wandered across the parlor, going to a boarded-up window. He pulled at the ancient sheet of plywood. It came off easily, offering only a creak of protest. Light flooded the room along with a rush of clean air, knee-high eddies of dust motes glinting in the newly admitted sun.

“I have a thing about lost causes, too.” A faint, wry note edged Alex’s voice. “Not to mention Victorian houses.”

“Really?”

“Of course. High-maintenance, energy-inefficient design, toxic materials … what’s not to love?”

Sam smiled. “So if you were me, how would you go about this?”

“I’d run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. But since you’re obviously going to buy the place … don’t waste your time with a regulated lender. You’re going to need a hard-money guy. And the rates are going to suck.”

“Do you know anyone?”

“I might. Before we start talking about that, though, you need to face reality. You’re looking at 250K of repairs, minimum. And don’t expect to lean on me for free supplies and labor—I’m going ahead with the Dream Lake site, so I’ll be as busy as a cat burying shit.”

“Believe me, Al, I never expect to lean on you for anything.” Sam’s voice turned arid. “I know better.”

Tension laced the air, a mingling of affection and hostility that could only have come from a troubled family history. The ghost was perplexed by an unfamiliar sensation, a raw chill that would have caused him to shiver if he’d had a human form. It was a depth of despair that even the ghost, in his bleak solitude, had never experienced—and it radiated from Alex Nolan.

The ghost moved away instinctively, but there was no escaping the feeling. “Is that how it feels to be you?” he asked, pitying the man. He was startled to see Alex cast a glance over his shoulder in his direction. “Can you hear me?” the ghost continued in wonder, circling around him. “Did you just hear my voice?”

Alex made no response, only gave a brief shake of his head as if to clear away a daydream. “I’ll send an engineer over here,” he eventually said. “No charge. You’re going to be spending more than enough on this place. I don’t think you have a clue about what you’re getting into.”

Almost two years passed before the ghost saw Alex Nolan again. During that time, Sam had become the lens through which the ghost could view the outside world. Although he still couldn’t leave the house, there were visitors: Sam’s friends, his vineyard crew, subcontractors who worked on the electricity and plumbing.

Sam’s older brother, Mark, appeared about once a month to help with smaller weekend projects. One day they leveled a section of flooring, and another they sandblasted and reglazed an antique clawfoot bathtub. All the while, they talked and exchanged good-natured insults. The ghost enjoyed those visits immensely.

More and more, he was recalling things about his former life, gathering memories like scattered beads from the floor. He came to remember that he liked big band jazz and comic book heroes and airplanes. He had liked listening to radio shows: Jack Benny, George and Gracie, Edgar Bergen. He hadn’t yet recovered enough of his past to have any sense of the whole, but he thought he would in time. Like those paintings in which points of color, when viewed from a distance, would form a complete image.

Mark Nolan was easygoing and dependable, the kind of man the ghost would have liked to have as a friend. Since he owned a coffee-roasting business, Mark always brought bags of whole beans and began each visit by brewing coffee—he drank it by the potful. As Mark meticulously ground the beans and measured them out, the ghost remembered coffee, its bittersweet, earthy scent, the way a spoonful of cane sugar and a dollop of cream turned it into liquid velvet.

The ghost gleaned from the Nolans’ conversations that their parents had both been alcoholics. The scars they had left on their children—three sons and a daughter named Victoria—were invisible but bone-deep. Now, even though their parents were long gone, the Nolans had little to do with each other. They were survivors of a family that no one wanted to remember.

It was ironic that Alex, with his bulletproof reserve, was the only one of the four who had married so far. He and his wife, Darcy, lived near Roche Harbor. The only sister, Victoria, was a single mother, living in Seattle with her young daughter. As for Sam and Mark, they were determined to stay bachelors. Sam was unequivocal in his opinion that no woman would ever be worth the risk of marriage. Whenever he sensed that a relationship was becoming too close, he ended it and never looked back.

After Sam confided to Mark about his latest breakup, with a woman who had wanted to move their relationship to the next level, Mark asked, “What’s the next level?”

“I don’t know. I broke up with her before I found out.” The two were sitting on the porch, applying paint remover to a row of salvaged antique balusters that would eventually be used for the front railings. “I’m a one-level guy,” Sam continued. “Sex, dinners out, the occasional impersonal gift, and no talking about the future, ever. It’s a relief now that it’s over. She’s great, but I couldn’t handle all the emotion salad.”

“What’s emotion salad?” Mark asked, amused.

“You know that thing women do. The happy-crying thing. Or the sad-mad thing. I don’t get how anyone can have more than one feeling at a time. It’s like trying to simultaneously watch TVs on different channels.”

“I’ve seen you have more than one feeling at a time.”

“When?”

“At Alex’s wedding ceremony. When he and Darcy were exchanging vows. You were smiling, but your eyes got kind of watery.”

“Oh. At that point I was thinking about the scene in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
, when Jack Nicholson got the lobotomy and his friends smothered him with a pillow out of mercy.”

“Most of the time I wouldn’t mind smothering Alex with a pillow,” Mark said.

Sam grinned, but sobered quickly as he continued. “Someone should put him out of his misery. That Darcy is a piece of work. Remember at the rehearsal dinner when she referred to Alex as her first husband?”

“He is her first husband.”

“Yeah, but calling him the ‘first’ implies there’s going to be a second. Husbands are like cars to Darcy—she’s going to keep trading up. And what I don’t get is that Alex knew it, but he went ahead and married her anyway. I mean, if you
have
to get married, at least pick someone nice.”

“She’s not that bad.”

“Then why do I get the feeling when I talk to her that I’d be better off viewing her reflection from a mirrored shield?”

“Darcy’s not my type,” Mark said, “but a lot of guys would say she’s hot.”

“Not a good reason to marry someone.”

“In your opinion, Sam, is there
any
good reason to get married?”

Sam shook his head. “I’d rather have a painful accident with a power tool.”

“Having seen the way you handle a compound miter saw,” Mark said, “I’d say that’s entirely likely.”

A few days later, Alex came to the house at Rainshadow Road for an unexpected visit. Since the ghost had last seen him, Alex had lost weight he hadn’t needed to lose. His cheekbones were as prominent as guard rails, the ice-colored eyes under-mounted by deep shadows.

“Darcy wants to separate,” Alex said without preamble, as Sam welcomed him inside.

Sam shot him a glance of concern. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“She wouldn’t tell you?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Al. Don’t you want to know why your wife’s leaving you?”

“Not particularly.”

Sam’s tone turned gently arid. “Do you think that might be part of the problem? Like maybe she needs a husband who’s interested in her feelings?”

“One of the reasons I liked Darcy in the first place is that she and I never had to have those conversations.” Alex wandered into the parlor, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He surveyed the door casing that Sam had been hammering into place. “You’re going to split the wood. You need to predrill the holes.”

Sam surveyed him for a moment. “Want to lend a hand?”

“Sure.” Alex went to the worktable in the center of the room and picked up a cordless power drill. He checked the settings and the tightness of the chuck, and pressed the trigger experimentally. A metallic squeal tore through the air.

“Bearings are dried up,” Sam said apologetically. “I’ve been meaning to repack them with grease, but I haven’t had time.”

“It’s better to replace them completely. I’ll take care of it later. Meantime, I’ve got a good drill in the car. Four-pole motor, four hundred fifty pounds of torque.”

“Sweet.”

In the way of men, they dealt with the issue of Alex’s broken marriage by not talking about it at all, instead working together in companionable silence. Alex installed the door casings with precision and care, measuring and marking, hand-chiseling a thin edge of the plastered wall to ensure that the vertical casing was perfectly plumb.

The ghost loved good carpentry, the way it made sense of everything. Edges were neatly joined and finished, imperfections were sanded and painted, everything was level. He watched Alex’s work approvingly. Although Sam had acquitted himself well as an amateur, there had been plenty of mistakes and do-overs. Alex knew what he was doing, and it showed.

“Hot damn,” Sam said in admiration as he saw how Alex had hand-cut plinth blocks to use as decorative bases for the casing. “Well, you’re going to have to do the other door in here. Because there’s no way in hell I could make it look like that.”

“No problem.”

Sam went outside to confer with his vineyard crew, who were busy pruning and shaping the young vines in preparation for the coming flush of growth in April. Alex continued to work in the parlor. The ghost wandered around the room, singing during the lulls between hammering and sawing.

As Alex filled nail holes with wood putty and caulked around the casing edges, he began a soft, nearly inaudible humming. Gradually a melody emerged, and the realization hit like a thunderbolt: Alex was humming along to his song.

On some level, Alex could sense his presence.

Watching him intently, the ghost continued to sing.

Alex set aside the caulk gun, remaining in a kneeling position. He braced his hands on his thighs, humming absently.

The ghost broke off the song and drew closer. “Alex,” he said cautiously. When there was no response, he said in a burst of impatient hope and eagerness, “Alex,
I’m here
.”

Alex blinked like a man who’d just come from a dark room into blinding daylight. He looked directly at the ghost, his eyes dilating into black circles rimmed with ice.

“You can see me?” the ghost asked in astonishment.

Scrambling backward, Alex landed on his rump. In the same momentum, he grabbed the closest tool at hand, a hammer. Drawing it back as if he meant to hurl it at the ghost, he growled, “Who the hell are you?”

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