Dream Lake (7 page)

As soon as she reached the inn, Justine gave her an assessing glance and said, “Go take a nap. You look totally beat.”

“I am.” Gratefully Zoë had gone to the cottage and slept for most of the afternoon. She awoke as low-slanting sunlight pierced the cream-painted plantation shutters of her bedroom and crossed her pink-flowered bedspread in brilliant stripes. A dressmaker’s cloth mannequin stood in the corner, glittering with Zoë’s collection of antique brooches.

Byron lay nearby, watching her with golden-green eyes. As Zoë smiled and reached out to pet him, he began to purr loudly.

“Justine did comb you,” Zoë murmured, running her fingers through his silky white fur. “I bet she gave you a cat massage, too, didn’t she?”

Footsteps approached the doorway. “Only to shut him up,” came Justine’s voice. “He kept yowling for you.” She ducked her head inside the doorway. “How are you doing? Can I come in?”

“Yes, I feel much better.”

“You still have raccoon eyes.” Justine sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her with patent concern.

“Even with the professional packers helping,” Zoë said, “it took two full days just to go through Emma’s apartment. Closets full of stuff. I lost count of how many sets of dishes she has. And so much old junk—a turntable record player, a leather-case radio, a porcelain toaster from the thirties—I felt like I was in an episode of
Hoarders.”

“I sense an eBay seller’s account in your future.”

Zoë groaned and sat up, scrubbing her fingers through her wild blond curls. “I have a lot to talk to you about,” she said.

“Want to walk over to the big kitchen and make a decent pot of coffee?”

“Could we have wine instead?”

“Now you’re talking.”

As they ambled to the main house, with Byron following closely, Zoë told her cousin everything she had discussed with the elder-care consultant. They entered the kitchen, large and cheerful, the walls covered in retro wallpaper adorned with clusters of cherries. While Justine opened a bottle of wine, Zoë glanced at a glass-domed cake plate filled with pastries. In her absence, Justine had relied on a local bakery to provide breakfast for the guests.

“They were okay,” Justine said in answer to Zoë’s unspoken question, “but nothing close to your stuff. The first-time guests didn’t know any better, so they were happy, but you should’ve heard the regulars bitching. ‘Where’s Zoë?’ and ‘I was looking forward to this breakfast so much and
this
is what we get?’ I’m not kidding, Zo: this place isn’t the same without you.”

Zoë smiled. “Oh, stop.”

“It’s true.” Justine handed her a glass of wine, and they sat at the kitchen table. Byron leaped into Zoë’s lap and settled in a purring heap of white fur.

“What happens next?” Justine asked quietly. “Although I think I already know.”

“Emma needs me,” Zoë said simply. “She’s going to come live with me.”

Justine frowned in concern. “You can’t take care of her all by yourself.”

“No, I’ll find a home-care aide who’ll help with the basics and watch over Emma while I go to work.”

“How long will that last? I mean, before Emma …” Justine paused uncomfortably.

“Before she becomes too impaired to live with me anymore?” Zoë finished for her. “I don’t know. It could be fast or slow. But when it happens, I’ll take her to a place in Everett—it’s called a memory-care community. I went there yesterday and talked to the head gerontologist, who was incredibly nice. And I felt a little less guilty afterward, because I realized that when my grandmother can’t walk or wash herself anymore, they’ll be able to keep her more comfortable, and way more safe, than I could.”

“Do you want to move her into the cottage out back? The two of you can stay there, and I’ll take one of the rooms in the main house.”

Zoë was touched by her generosity. “That’s so sweet of you. But that place is too small for what we’ll need. Emma has a lake cottage on the island. It’s about twelve hundred square feet, and it’s got two bedrooms and a kitchen. I think we’re going to try living there.”

“Emma has a lake cottage? How come I didn’t know about it?”

“Well, it came from her side of the family—the Stewarts—and I think she used to spend a lot of time there when she was still pretty young. But she hasn’t gone there in thirty years, and it’s been closed up. Every now and then a property management company checks on it and does some maintenance.” Zoë hesitated. “I think the cottage holds a lot of memories for Emma. I asked why she hadn’t sold it by now, but she didn’t want to explain. Or maybe she was just tired.”

“You think she really wants to stay there now?”

“Yes, she was the one who suggested it.”

“Where exactly is this place?”

“Dream Lake Road.”

“I’ll bet it’s pretty rustic.”

“Yes,” Zoë said ruefully. “I’ve driven by it a time or two, but I haven’t been inside yet. I’m sure I’ll have to put money into it. Handrails in the bathroom, a handheld showerhead, and a ramp at the front steps in case Emma needs a wheelchair. Things like that. I’ve got a list of home improvement suggestions from the elder-care consultant.”

Justine shook her head slowly. “You’re going to need a lot of cash.”

A forelock of hair had slipped loose from her ponytail. Justine tugged on it absently, as she often did while deep in thought. “What if I buy the cottage at a fair price, and let you stay there rent-free? You can use the money to take care of Emma. I’ll even pay for the remodel.”

Zoë’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“I’ll make the money back later by renting it out after Emma … well, after the two of you don’t need it anymore.”

“You haven’t even seen the place.”

“I want to help any way I can. I’m responsible for Emma, too.”

“Not really. She’s not a blood relation, she’s your great-great-aunt by marriage.”

“Her last name’s Hoffman. That’s good enough for me.”

Zoë smiled, reflecting that beneath her cousin’s cheerful audacity, there was an underpinning of compassion. Justine was a kind person. People didn’t always realize how deeply it went, or how vulnerable it made her.

“I really love you, Justine.”

“I know, I know …” Uncomfortable as always with displays of affection, Justine waved her hand dismissively in the air. “We’ll need to find someone to start fixing up the house right away. Any contractor who does decent work is going to be booked up, and even the good ones are as slow as a wet weekend.” She paused. “Except … maybe … well, I don’t know …”

“You have someone in mind?”

“Sam Nolan’s brother Alex. He’s built some houses out at Roche—he does great work, and in the past he was known for being reliable. But he went through a divorce, and one of his real estate development deals fell through, and rumors are that he’s turned into a boozer. So I don’t know what the story is with him. I haven’t seen him in a while. I’ll get the lowdown from Sam.”

Zoë dropped her gaze to the cat in her lap and stroked his lavish fur. Byron wriggled and curled into a doughnut shape. “I … I met him, actually.” She took care to keep her voice casual. “When I went to Rainshadow Road to visit Lucy. He was doing some work on the house.”

“You didn’t mention it.” Justine’s brows lifted. “What did you think of him?”

Zoë shrugged uncomfortably. “We talked for all of ten seconds. I didn’t really have a chance to get an impression.”

A slow grin spread across Justine’s face. “You are the worst liar ever. Tell me.”

Zoë struggled to reply, her thoughts refusing to shape themselves into words. How could she explain her reaction to Alex Nolan? Striking, unsettling, his features austerely perfect, his eyes bright as if lit with the last spare voltage of his humanity. He looked thoroughly disillusioned, everything that had been tender and hopeful in him now crushed into diamond hardness. Thankfully he’d paid little attention to her, dismissing her as beneath his notice. That was just fine with Zoë.

From her early teens onward, men had always made certain assumptions about her, with the result that nice men stayed away and left the field open for the not-so-nice ones. She had always been approached by the kind of man who viewed hunting and seducing an attractive woman as a sport. If he got a woman into bed, he won the game. Zoë didn’t want to be a notch on some guy’s belt, and she didn’t want to be used.

She had thought that in marrying Chris, she had finally found someone who would value her for who she was. He was a caring and sensitive man who had always listened to her and treated her with respect and honesty. That had made it all the more devastating when Chris had told her a year after their wedding that he was in love with another man. The betrayal had been a cruel and ironic surprise, coming from someone who had always bolstered Zoë’s self-esteem. Since then, she had gone two years without any kind of romantic involvement. She didn’t trust her instincts where men were concerned. And a man like Alex Nolan was obviously beyond her ability to handle.

“I thought he was handsome,” Zoë finally managed to say, thinking of Alex. “But not very approachable.”

“I get the feeling he doesn’t like women.”

“You mean he’s—”

“No, I don’t mean it that way—he’s straight by all accounts. He has sex with women, but I don’t think he
likes
them.” Justine paused and shrugged. “Of course, that doesn’t have anything to do with remodeling the cottage. So if I call Sam and he says Alex is still on his game, what do you think? Would you have any problem with him doing the work?”

“Not at all,” Zoë said, although her stomach did a little flip at the thought of seeing him again.

“No,” Alex said flatly, when Sam told him about Justine’s call. “I’m too busy.”

“I’m asking as a personal favor,” Sam said. “She’s Lucy’s friend. Besides, you need the work.”

The ghost lounged nearby as the two brothers applied a resin medallion to the ceiling of the second-floor landing. “He’s right,” the ghost told Alex, who sent him a scowl.

“I don’t give a shit,” Alex muttered. He was on a stepladder, pressing the adhesive-covered back of the medallion to the drywall above, while Sam stood below with a makeshift padded wooden support.

“Take it easy, Blowtorch,” Sam said mildly. “It wouldn’t hurt you to earn some money.”

Alex struggled to contain his exasperation. He was still getting used to the idea that just because he could see and hear the ghost didn’t mean anyone else could. “Tell her to get someone else to do it.”

“There is no one else. Every other contractor on the island is booked up for the summer, except you. And Justine was trying to ask me with her usual sledgehammer subtlety if you were even capable of handling the job.”

“Remodeling a lake cottage?” Alex was indignant. “Why couldn’t I handle that?”

“I don’t know, Al. Maybe it has something to do with the impression people have gotten lately … that if your life was graphed in a pie chart, half of it would be ‘shitfaced’ and the other half would be ‘hungover.’ Yeah, you can give me the evil eye, but it doesn’t change the fact that someday soon, you’re going to be too drunk to work and too broke to drink.”

“He’s right about that, too,” the ghost commented.

“Screw you,” Alex said to both of them. “I’ve never missed one damn day of work for any reason.”

Sam wedged the padded support beneath the medallion, while Alex checked the pencil marks on the ceiling to make certain the resin hadn’t moved.

“I believe that,” Sam said quietly. “But you’re going to have to go out there and prove it to everyone else, Al. From what I can tell, your 401(k) is now a 501(k).”

“What does that mean?”

“Your net worth is now located in the pocket of your Levi’s.”

“I still have the Dream Lake development. I just need to find new backers.”

“Great. In the meantime, this little cottage of Zoë’s is right on Dream Lake Road. You’ve probably driven past it a hundred times. So you can take a couple of weeks to fix up her place, and—”

“Zoë?” Alex asked sharply, descending the stepladder. “I thought you said it was Justine’s cottage.”

“Justine was the one who called me about it. Zoë’s going to live there with her grandmother, who’s got some kind of Alzheimer’s. You remember Zoë, right? The sweet-faced blonde with the nice set of … muffins.” Sam grinned as he saw Alex’s face. “Help me out. She’s one of Lucy’s best friends. Do it so I can reap the benefits of Lucy’s gratitude.”

The ghost stared at Alex with offhand amusement. “Why not?” he asked. “Unless you’re scared.”

“Why would I be scared?” Alex asked irritably, before he thought better of it.

“Scared of what?” Sam asked, perplexed. “Of Zoë?”

“No,” Alex said in exasperation. “Forget it.”

“It doesn’t have to be complicated,” Sam told Alex. “Go fix the house for the nice woman and her grandmother. Maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll fix you dinner.”

“And if you don’t,” the ghost added, “we’ll know how much of a coward you really are.”

“I’ll do it,” Alex said through gritted teeth. It was clear that the ghost was going to badger him nonstop if he didn’t. And he felt the need to prove to the ghost—and maybe to himself—that Zoë Hoffman would pose no problem for him. “Give me her number. I’ll find out what she wants and work up a quote. If she doesn’t like it, she’s welcome to find someone else.”

“And you’ll give her a good deal, right?”

“I give everyone a good deal,” Alex said icily. “I don’t rip my customers off, Sam.”

“I know that,” came Sam’s quick response. “Wasn’t implying otherwise.”

“I’ll quote a fair price, I’ll do good work, and I’ll finish on time. Like I always do. And afterward, if you don’t quit bitching about my personal life, I’m going to take this support post and shove it up your—”

“Deal,” Sam said promptly.

Seven

“Why can’t you be the one to meet him at the cottage?” Zoë asked as she and Justine cleared the dining room of the breakfast dishes.

“It’s going to be your house,” Justine said reasonably, following her into the kitchen. “And you’re the one who knows best about what Emma’s going to need.”