Dream Lake (23 page)

“I’ve met a woman,” he said.

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re interested in her?”

“Yes.” It was the truth, not to mention the biggest understatement of his life. But of course he had no intention of doing anything about it.

“She doesn’t have to know,” Darcy said.

“I would know.”

Darcy’s voice was coolly mocking. “You want to be faithful to a woman you haven’t even had sex with yet?”

Alex carefully pushed her foot from his lap. He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time in a while, noticing a flicker of something … unhappiness, loneliness. It reminded him of the reluctant compassion he’d felt when Zoë had told him what it had been like to be let down by her husband.

Darcy had been let down by a husband, too. By him.

Alex wondered how it could have been so easy to make vows he had never intended to keep. Neither of them had, but it hadn’t seemed to matter to Darcy any more than it had to him.
It should have mattered
, he thought.

With an effort, he poured the wine into the sink and set the glass aside. The fragrance spilled into the air, fruit and tannin and oblivion.

“Why did you do that?” he heard Darcy ask.

“I’ve stopped drinking.”

She looked incredulous. Her brows lowered. “For God’s sake, one glass of wine won’t hurt.”

“I don’t like who I am when I’m drinking.”

“I don’t like who you are when you’re not drinking.”

He smiled without amusement.

“What’s going on?” Darcy demanded. “Why are you pretending to be someone you’re not? I know you better than anyone. I’ve lived with you. Who is this woman you’re seeing? Is she a Mormon or Quaker or something?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“This is bullshit,” Darcy said, but somewhere in the snapping tension of her voice, he heard a bewildered note. He felt more compassion for her in that moment than he had in the sum total of their marriage. Once he’d read or heard something to the effect that it was never too late to save a relationship. But that wasn’t true. Sometimes too much damage had been done. There was an invisible line of “too late” in a marriage, and after it had been crossed, the relationship would never thrive.

“I’m sorry,” he said, watching her drain a glass of wine the way he’d wanted to a few moments earlier. “You got a raw deal, marrying me.”

“I got the house,” she reminded him smartly.

“I’m not talking about the divorce. I’m talking about the marriage.” Part of him warned against lowering his guard. But Darcy deserved the truth. “I should have been a better husband to you. I should have asked how your day was, and paid attention to the answers. I should have gotten us a damn dog, and made this place seem like a home instead of a corporate suite at the Westin. I’m sorry I was a waste of your time. You deserved a lot more than you got.”

Darcy stood and approached him. Her face had turned red, and to his astonishment he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes. Her jaw was trembling. As she drew closer, he had the wildly uncomfortable thought that she might try to embrace him, which was not at all what he wanted. But her hand shot out, and the sound of a slap rang through the kitchen. The side of his face went numb, then turned to fire. “You’re not sorry,” Darcy said. “You’re not capable of it.”

Before he could say anything, Darcy continued with low-voiced vehemence. “Don’t you dare make me out to be the poor little mistreated wife, pining for love. You think I ever expected love from you? I wasn’t stupid. I married you because you could make money, and you were good in bed. And now you can’t do either of those things. What’s the problem, you can’t get it up now? Don’t look at me like I’m a bitch. If I am, it’s because of you. Any woman would be, after being married to you.” She snatched up the wine bottle and her glass, and stormed off to the guest bedroom. It seemed the entire house vibrated from the slam of the door.

Slowly massaging his jaw, Alex went to lean against the counter, pondering Darcy’s behavior. He had expected just about any other reaction than the one he’d gotten.

The ghost came to stand beside him, a glint of friendly sympathy in his dark eyes.

Alex took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“When you started to drink the wine? I’m not your conscience. It’s your battle. I’m not going to be hanging around with you forever, you know.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

The ghost smiled. “You did the right thing, telling her that stuff.”

“You think it might have helped her?” Alex asked dubiously.

“No,” the ghost said. “But I think it helped you.”

Darcy left without a word the next morning. Alex spent most of the weekend working on the house at Rainshadow Road, clearing out the rest of the attic and insulating a knee wall. On Sunday evening he texted Zoë to ask if Emma was at the cottage and if everything had gone well.

“
Got here just fine
,” Zoë texted immediately.
“She loves the cottage.”

“Need anything?”
he couldn’t resist texting back.

“Yes. Making apple pie. Need help with it tomorrow AM.”

“Pie for breakfast?”

“Why not?”

“ok,”
he texted.

“gn”

“gn”

Although
gn
was standard text shorthand for “goodnight,” it could, in certain contexts, be interpreted as “get naked.” Alex’s mind summoned images of Zoë’s clothes dropping to the floor, and it set off a deep pang of lust.

The feeling was quickly supplanted by a nervous thrill emanating from the ghost.

“Chill,” Alex said curtly. “Listen, when we go there tomorrow, if you’re emoting all over the place, I’m hauling ass out of there. I can’t work like this.”

“Sure.” But it was clear the ghost wasn’t even listening.

“This is what it feels like to love someone …”
the ghost had once told him. Alex didn’t want to know how it felt, even secondhand.

“She’s still sleeping,” Zoë said softly, opening the front door of the cottage to let Alex in. “I thought I should let her rest as long as possible.”

Alex stopped at the threshold, looking down at her. There were smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes, and her hair was unwashed, and she was dressed in khaki shorts and a modest tank top. She was weary and luminous, her face innocently clean of makeup. He wanted nothing more than to hold and comfort her.

Instead he said, “I’ll come back later.”

The ghost, who was behind him, said shortly, “We’re staying.”

“Have breakfast with me,” Zoë said, catching at Alex’s hand, pulling him inside.

The air smelled like butter and sugar and warm apples. Alex’s mouth watered.

“Instead of pie,” Zoë said, “I made apple crisp in a skillet. Sit at the island, and I’ll get some for us.”

He began to follow her into the kitchen, pausing as he saw that the ghost had stopped in front of a bookshelf in the living room. Although he couldn’t see the ghost’s face, something about his utter stillness alerted Alex. Casually he wandered to the bookshelf to see what had caught the ghost’s attention.

One shelf contained a row of framed pictures, some of them sepia-toned and faded with age. Alex smiled slightly as he saw a snapshot of Emma holding a cherubic blond toddler who could only have been Zoë. Beside it was an old black-and-white photo of three girls standing in front of a 1930s sedan. Emma and her two sisters.

His gaze moved to a photo of a man with a seventies haircut and sideburns, and a broad, lantern-jawed face. He was the kind of man who wore his dignity like a three-piece suit.

“Who’s this?” Alex asked, picking up the framed picture.

Zoë looked over from the kitchen. “That’s my dad. James Hoffman Jr. I’ve asked for a more recent photo, but he never remembers to send one.”

“Any pictures of your mom?”

“No. My dad got rid of them all after she left us.” At Alex’s intent glance, Zoë forced a quick smile. “No need for pictures—apparently I look just like her.” The brittle smile didn’t fully conceal the pain of having been abandoned.

“Did you ever find out why she left?” Alex asked gently.

“Not really. My dad would never talk about it. But Upsie said she thought my mother got married too young and couldn’t handle the responsibility of having a child.” She let out a little breath of amusement. “When I was little, I thought she must have left because I cried too much. So for most of my childhood, I tried to act happy all the time, even when I didn’t feel like it.”

You still do
, Alex thought. He wanted to go to her, put his arms around her, tell her that with him she never had to pretend something she didn’t feel. It took the force of his entire will to stay where he was.

The ghost spoke gruffly. “Ask her about this.”

The last picture on the shelf was a wedding portrait. Emma, young and attractive and unsmiling. And the groom, James Augustus Hoffman Sr. … stalwart and heavy-jawed. His resemblance to his son was unmistakable.

“This was your grandpa Gus?” Alex asked.

“Yes. He wore glasses later on. They made him look just like Clark Kent.”

“Is that me?” the ghost asked in a hushed tone, staring at the photo.

Alex shook his head. The ghost, with his lean face and dark-eyed handsomeness, wasn’t at all similar to Gus Hoffman.

The ghost looked torn between relief and frustration. “Then who the hell am I?”

Alex straightened the pictures on the shelf with care. When he looked up from the task, the ghost had gone to Emma’s room.

Feeling uneasy, Alex went to the kitchen island and sat on a bar stool. He hoped to hell the ghost wasn’t going to scare Emma into a damned heart attack. “Who made breakfast at the inn this morning?” he asked Zoë.

“Justine and I have a couple of friends who like to help out and make a little extra money now and then … so I put some breakfast casseroles in the freezer and left instructions for heating everything.”

“You’re going to wear yourself out,” Alex said, watching her spoon the apple crisp, with its crumbly browned topping, into two bowls. “You need to rest.”

She smiled at him. “Look who’s talking.”

“How much sleep have you been getting?”

“Probably more than you,” she said.

In a couple of minutes they were sitting side by side at the island, and Zoë was telling him about bringing her grandmother over on the ferry, and how much she had liked the cottage, and about the variety of medications she was taking. And while she talked, Alex ate. The oatmeal topping crumbled between his teeth with a crunch that quickly turned into something marvelously chewy and melting, a tart ambrosia of apples inflected with cinnamon and a zing of orange.

“I would ask for this on death row,” Alex told her, and although he hadn’t meant it to be funny, she laughed.

The sound of the pet door heralded Byron’s entrance from outside, the massive cat sauntering into the kitchen as if he owned the place.

“The cat door is working perfectly, as you can see,” Zoë said. “I didn’t even have to train Byron—he knew exactly what to do.” She sent a fond look to the Persian, who wandered into the living room and jumped onto the sofa. “If only the collar wasn’t so ugly. Would it cause any technical problems if I decorate it?”

“No. But don’t decorate it. Leave him some dignity.”

“Just a few sequins.”

“It’s a cat, Zoë. Not a showgirl.”

“Byron likes being decorated.”

Alex gave her an apprehensive glance. “You don’t ever dress him up in little outfits. You’re not one of those people.”

“No,” she said instantly.

“Good.”

“Maybe just one little Santa’s helper outfit around Christmas.” She paused. “And last Halloween I dressed him in a—”

“Don’t tell me any more,” Alex said, trying not to laugh. “Please.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m gritting my teeth,” he said.

“It’s a smile,” Zoë insisted cheerfully.

It wasn’t until midway through another serving that Alex wondered about the ghost and Emma. The door of the main bedroom was closed, no sound or movement of any kind. But Alex became aware of a free-floating sweetness filling the air, an elation that surrounded them until he couldn’t avoid breathing it in, absorbing it in his pores. The feeling was made even more potent by its complexity, just as a pinch of salt enhanced the flavors of a cake. The swirling, dizzying joy made his chest uncomfortably tight, as if it were being pried open. He looked down, fiercely concentrating on the wood grain of the butcher-block countertop.

Don’t
, he thought, without even knowing whom he was saying it to.

Emma.

The ghost approached the sleeping figure on the bed, the delicacy of her skin illuminated by a spill of morning light from the half-shuttered windows. She was still beautiful … it was there in the structure of her bones, the skin embossed with thousands of joys and sorrows that he hadn’t been there to share. Had he been able to share a life with her, his face would have been sketched with the same stories, the same inscriptions of time. To wear your life on your face … what an amazing gift.

“Hiya,” he whispered, looking down at her.

Her lashes flickered. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, and for a moment he thought she might be able to see him. Anxious joy awakened.

“Emma?” he said quietly.

She got out of bed, her body slim and fragile in a set of lace-trimmed pajamas. Going to the window, she stared outside at the view. Her hands fluttered and went to her eyes, and a sob escaped through her fingers. The sound would have broken his heart, if he’d had one. As it was, the sight of the tears shining in the light nearly shattered the soul that he was.

“Don’t cry,” he said urgently, even though she couldn’t hear him. “Don’t be upset. My God, I love you. I’ve always—”

Her breathing took on the velocity of panic. She limped to the door, crying harder with each step.

“Emma. Be careful, don’t fall—” Flooded with grief and worry, the ghost followed her into the main room.

Alex and Zoë were sitting at the island. Their heads lifted at the same time as Emma staggered forward.