Dream Lake (27 page)

Emma beamed as she saw him. She was wearing a plum silk dress, her light blond hair shining in the candle glow. “There you are,” she exclaimed.

Alex went to her and bent to kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful, Emma.”

“Thank you.” She turned to the brunette by her side. “Phyllis, this handsome devil is Alex Nolan. He’s the one who’s remodeling the cottage.”

The woman was tall and large-boned, her hair cut in an efficient bob. “Nice to meet you,” she said, giving Alex a firm handshake and a friendly smile.

“And this,” Emma continued, gesturing to a squarely built man of medium height, “is my son, James.”

Alex shook his hand.

Zoë’s father greeted him with all the pleasure of a substitute teacher who had just been assigned to a misbehaving classroom. He had the kind of face that appeared boyish and aged at the same time, his eyes flat as pennies behind heavy-rimmed glasses.

“We visited the cottage today,” James told him. “You seem to have done a competent job.”

“That’s James’s version of a compliment,” Phyllis interceded quickly. She smiled at Alex. “It’s a terrific lake house. According to Justine and Zoë, you’ve transformed the place.”

“There’s still more left to do,” Alex said. “We’re starting on the garage this week.”

As the conversation continued, James divulged that he was the manager of an electronics store in Arizona, and Phyllis was a veterinarian who’d been certified as an equine specialist. They were considering the idea of buying a five-acre horse farm. “It’s on the edge of a ghost town,” Phyllis said. “At one point the town had the richest silver mine in the world, but after all of it was extracted, the town dried up.”

“Is it haunted?” Emma asked.

“Some people claim there’s a ghost in the old saloon,” Phyllis told her.

“Isn’t it odd,” James asked dryly, “that you never hear of ghosts haunting a nice place? They always pick some broken-down house or a dusty old abandoned building.”

The ghost, who had been wandering beside the bookshelves and perusing the titles, said sarcastically, “It’s not like I got a choice between an attic or the Ritz.”

Emma responded with a serious expression. “Ghosts usually haunt the places where their suffering was greatest.”

James laughed. “Mother, you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“No one has ever managed to prove that they exist.”

“No one’s proved that they don’t exist, either,” Emma pointed out.

“If you believe in ghosts, you might as well believe in leprechauns and Santa Claus.”

Zoë’s laughing voice came from the doorway as she brought in a pitcher of water. “Dad always told me Santa Claus wasn’t real,” she said to the room in general. “But I wanted to believe in him. So I asked a higher authority.”

“God?” Justine asked.

“No, I asked Upsie. And she said I could believe in whatever I wanted.”

“So much for my mother’s firm grasp on reality,” James said acidly.

“I grasp reality,” Emma said with dignity. “But sometimes I like to choke it into submission.”

The ghost regarded her with an approving grin. “What a woman.”

Zoë laughed and glanced at Alex. “Hi,” she said softly.

Alex had temporarily lost the power of speech. Zoë was impossibly beautiful in a sleeveless black dress with straps and a twist front, the stretchy fabric clinging lightly to spectacular curves. Her only accessory was a brooch pinned at the lowest point of the vee neckline, an Art Deco half-circle encrusted with white and green rhinestones.

“I forgot about music,” Zoë told him. “Do you have a playlist on your phone? Maybe some of those old tunes that Upsie likes? There’s a dock with speakers on that bookshelf.”

When Alex was slow to respond, the ghost said impatiently, “The jazz list. Put on some music.”

Alex shook his head to clear it, and went to set his phone into the dock. In a minute, the sultry strains of Duke Ellington’s “Prelude to a Kiss” floated into the air.

Sitting beside Emma at the table, Alex watched as Zoë brought in a tray of white porcelain spoons. She set one in front of him. It contained a small, perfectly seared scallop nestled into a little dab of something green.

“It’s a scallop and fried pancetta on artichoke puree,” Zoë said, smiling down at him. “Eat it all in one bite.”

Alex took it into his mouth. The salty pancetta crackled against the sweet scallop, the smoky bite of black pepper warming the smooth artichoke. He heard a few hums of delight around the table.

Zoë lingered beside Alex, her lashes lowering as she watched his reaction. “Do you like it?” she asked.

It was the best thing he had ever tasted. “Are there more? Because I could skip the rest of dinner and just have these.”

Zoë shook her head with a grin, reaching to collect the empty spoon. “Amuse-bouche,” she told him, and went to the kitchen to bring out the next course.

“This is so much fun,” Phyllis exclaimed, swaying a little in her seat as Benny Goodman’s “Sing Sing Sing” began. She held up the wine bottle invitingly. “Alex, would you like some?”

“No, thanks,” Alex said.

“Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder,” Emma murmured, and patted his shoulder.

Somehow James had heard from across the table. “Mother, you’ve got the saying wrong.”

“Actually,” Alex said, smiling down at Emma, “she got it exactly right.”

The next course was a small plate of fiddleheads, tightly coiled fronds of young ferns. After being blanched in hot water until they had turned a brilliant green, the fiddleheads had been tossed in a warm vinaigrette of browned butter, fresh lemon, and sea salt. Toasted walnuts were sprinkled on top, along with snowy flakes of fresh Parmesan cheese. The guests exclaimed over the salad, tongues rolling the flavors inside their cheeks. Phyllis and Justine giggled together at their own efforts to scrape every last drop from the salad plates. Zoë’s gaze often touched on Alex, as if she savored his obvious pleasure in the food.

Only James seemed unaffected. Midway through the dish, he set down his fork, looking disgruntled. He lifted a glass of red wine to his mouth and drank a deep swallow.

“You’re not going to finish your salad?” Phyllis asked incredulously.

“I don’t care for it,” he said.

“I’ll help you, then.” Phyllis reached over and began to spear his remaining fiddleheads enthusiastically.

Zoë, who had just begun on her own salad, looked at her father with concern. “Can I get you something else, Dad? A dish of field greens?”

He shook his head, looking like an airport traveler waiting for his boarding pass number to be called.

Billie Holiday’s ebullient rendition of “I’m Gonna Lock My Heart” danced across the dining table. Soon Justine and Zoë brought out individual bowls of mussels, their abundant steam perfumed with white wine, saffron, butter, parsley. The guests picked up the dark, gleaming shells with their fingers, and used tiny forks to spear the sweet tidbits inside. Empty bowls were set on the table for the discarded shells.

“My God, Zoë,” Justine exclaimed after her first taste of the mussels. “This
sauce.
I could just drink it.”

A relaxed and jovial mood spread through the room, accompanied by the busy clacking of shells. It was a dish that required activity, involvement, conversation. The broth was indecently good, a savory elixir that washed exquisite, truffly sensation through his mouth. Alex was about to ask for a spoon, having decided there was no way in hell he was giving back his bowl until he’d consumed every drop. But homemade French rolls were being passed around, crisp on the outside, fine textured and chewy on the inside. The diners tore the bread with their fingers and used the pieces to sop up the rich liquid.

The discussion turned to the half-day whale-watching trip that Phyllis and James had arranged to take the next morning, and an alpaca farm that Phyllis wanted to visit.

“Have you ever treated an alpaca?” Zoë asked Phyllis.

“No, most of my patients are dogs, cats, and horses.” Phyllis smiled reminiscently as she added, “Once I diagnosed a guinea pig with a sinus infection.”

“What’s your weirdest case ever?” Justine asked.

Phyllis grinned. “That’s a tough one. I’ve seen a lot of weirdness. But not long ago a man and a woman brought in their dog, who’d been having stomach problems. The X-rays showed a mysterious obstruction, which I removed with an endoscopic camera. It turned out to be a pair of red lace panties, which I put in a plastic bag and gave to the woman.”

“How embarrassing,” Emma exclaimed.

“It gets worse,” Phyllis said. “The woman took one look at the panties, clocked the man with her purse, and left the office in a fury. Because the underwear didn’t belong to her. And the man was left to pay the bill for a dog who had just outed him as a cheater.”

The story was greeted with raucous laughter.

Glasses were refilled and little fingerbowls filled with water and rose petals were brought out. They rinsed their fingers and dried them on fresh napkins. A palate-cleansing sorbet was served in frosty lemons that had been hollowed into small cups, the iced puree flecked with lemon zest and mint.

When Zoë and Justine went to the kitchen for the next course, Phyllis exclaimed, “I’ve never had food like this in my life. It’s an
experience.
”

James frowned. Inexplicably, he had become more dour and subdued with every passing minute. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“For goodness’ sake, James,” Emma said. “She’s right. It is an experience.”

He grumbled beneath his breath and poured more wine into his glass.

Zoë and Justine returned with plates of crisp-skinned quail, brined with salt and honey before it had been roasted in the oven. The quail was accompanied by quenelles, or small delicate dumplings, made with minced chanterelle mushrooms and a sweet, nutlike kiss of hyacinth.

Alex had eaten quail before, but not like this, enlaced with a pungent, toasted, deeply rich flavor. Conversation turned languid, faces flushed, eyes blinked slowly as repletion settled over the room. Coffee and handmade chocolate truffles were served, followed by pots-de-crème, vanilla and egg creams and honey baked in a water bath. The luscious emulsion dissolved in the mouth and slid gently down the throat, coating the taste buds in rapture.

James Hoffman alone had been silent amid the exclamations of the group. Alex couldn’t fathom what was wrong with the man. He had to be ill, there was no other possible reason why he had eaten so little.

Apparently reaching the same conclusion, Phyllis asked James in concern, “Are you okay? You hardly touched your food all through dinner.”

He looked away from her, focusing his gaze on the pot-de-crème in front of him, blotchy color appearing on his cheeks. “My dinner was inedible. It was bitter. All of it.” He stood and tossed his napkin to the table, and cast a furious, resentful glance at the stunned faces around him. His gaze settled on Zoë’s blank face. “Maybe you did something to my food,” he said. “If so, your point was made.”

“James,” Phyllis protested, blanching. “I ate from your plate, and your food was exactly like mine. Your taste buds must be off tonight.”

He shook his head and strode from the room. Phyllis hurried after him, pausing to turn back at the doorway and say sincerely to Zoë, “It was magnificent. The best meal of my life.”

Zoë managed a smile. “Thank you.”

Justine shook her head after Phyllis had gone. “Zoë, your dad is crazy. This dinner was amazing.”

“She knows it was,” Emma said, gazing at Zoë.

Zoë looked back at her with resignation. “It was the best I could do,” she said simply. “But that’s never been enough for him.” She stood from the table and gestured for them to stay in their chairs. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to put on another pot of coffee.” She left the library.

Seeing Justine begin to stand, Alex said quietly, “Let me.”

She frowned but remained seated as he headed after Zoë. Alex wasn’t entirely certain what he would say to Zoë once he reached her. For the past two hours, he had watched her set plate after plate of magnificent food in front of a father who would never appreciate such offerings. He understood the situation all too well. From his own experiences, Alex knew that parental love was an ideal, not a guarantee. Some parents had nothing to give their children. And some, like James Hoffman, blamed and punished their children for things they’d had nothing to do with.

Zoë was occupied with measuring grounds into the basket of the small coffeemaker. Hearing his footsteps, she turned to face him. She looked expectant, oddly intent, as if she wanted something from him. “I wasn’t surprised,” she said. “I knew what to expect from my father.”

“Then why did you make this dinner for him?”

“It wasn’t for him.”

His eyes widened.

“If you hadn’t agreed to come here tonight,” Zoë continued, “we would have gone to a restaurant. I wanted to cook for you. I planned every course trying to think of what you would enjoy.”

Frustration and bewilderment tangled inside him. He had the sense of being manipulated in the softest possible way, like silken nets being drawn around him. A woman didn’t do these things purely for the sake of kindness or generosity. There had to be something behind it, a motive he would only discover when it was too late.

“Why would you do that for me?” he asked roughly.

“If I were an opera singer, I would have sung you an aria. If I were an artist, I would have painted your portrait. But cooking is what I’m best at.”

He could still taste the flavor of the pot-de-crème, clover and wildflowers and deep amber nectar. The taste bloomed on his tongue and tightened his throat with sweetness, and flowed through him until he could have sworn the honey scent was even rising from his pores. Without meaning to, he reached Zoë in two strides and took her by the arms. The feel of her, voluptuous and silky, sent his blood racing. Emotion and sensation swirled together in a volatile mixture, and all it would take was a single spark to obliterate him. He was so hard, so hungry for her. So tired of trying to keep apart from her.

“Zoë,” he said, “this has to stop. I don’t want you to do things for me. I don’t want you to think about ways to please me. You’ve already ruined me. For the rest of my life, I’ll never be able to look at another woman without wanting her to be you. You’re woven all through me. I can’t even dream without you being there in my head. But I can’t be with you. I hurt people. It’s what
I’m
best at.”