Dream Lake (8 page)

“I still wish you would go with me.”

“I can’t. I’m meeting the loan officer at the bank. You’ll do fine. Just keep the budget in mind.”

“It’s not the budget I’m worried about,” Zoë said, scraping the breakfast plate at the sink with unnecessary vigor. “You know I don’t like talking to strangers.”

“Alex isn’t a stranger. You’ve met him before.”

“For about thirty seconds.”

“You just went to Everett and talked with a whole bunch of strangers.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Oh.” Justine paused in the middle of loading handfuls of flatware into the dishwasher. “I get it. But I promise he’s not going to do anything to make you uncomfortable. He’ll be professional.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. He’s Sam’s brother. He knows Sam would kick his ass if he offended you.”

“I suppose.”

“You talked to him on the phone to set up the meeting, right? Was he friendly?”

Zoë pondered that. “He wasn’t
un
friendly …”

“But he was polite?”

Zoë thought back to the brief conversation they’d had. There had been no pleasantries, not a trace of his brother Sam’s easy charm. But yes … he had been polite. She nodded in answer to Justine’s question.

“The only way to get over your shyness,” Justine was saying pragmatically, “is to practice. You know, be friendly, make small talk. Guys aren’t all that different from us.”

“Yes they are.”

“Okay, they are different from us. What I meant was, they’re not complicated.”

“Yes they are.”

“Well, sometimes they can be complicated, but they are entirely predictable.”

Zoë heaved a sigh. She envied Justine’s confidence, and she knew that Justine was right: she did need to practice. But the idea of being alone in the lakeside cottage with a man who intimidated her on just about every level was incredibly stressful.

“You know what I do when I’m facing something I dread?” Justine volunteered. “I divide it into steps. So if I were going to meet with Alex at the cottage, I wouldn’t let myself think about the whole three-hour ordeal—”

“It’s going to take three hours?”

“More like two. So I would start by telling myself, ‘Step one. All I’m doing is getting into the car and driving to the cottage.’ Don’t worry about the rest of it, just do that. And once you’re there, say to yourself, ‘Step two. All I’m going to do is unlock the door and go inside to wait.’ And when Alex shows up: ‘Step three. I’ll let him in and chitchat for a couple of minutes.’ ” Justine gave her a self-satisfied smile. “See? None of those things are so terrible by themselves. It’s just when you view them all together that you start to feel like you’re sprinting away from a rabid tiger.”

“Spiders,” Zoë said. “I’m not stressed by the idea of a rabid tiger. Spiders are what scare me.”

“Fine, but that ruins the metaphor. No one has to sprint away from a spider.”

“Wolf spiders chase down their prey. And black widow spiders can move very fast. And there are leaping spiders that—”

“Step one,” Justine interrupted firmly. “Find your car keys.”

From the moment Alex had pulled up to the lakeside cottage, the ghost had seemed riveted. He’d stopped talking, for once, and stared in open fascination, taking in every detail.

Alex couldn’t figure out what he found so interesting. The house was small and rustic, with cedar shake siding, a covered front porch, wide eave overhangs, and a stone chimney. Craftsman details like tapered boxed columns on the porch and a fieldstone foundation made it the kind of place that, when properly restored, would have a certain amount of charm. But the cheap carport on the side was a detraction. And it was apparent at first glance that the property management company had done a mediocre job of upkeep. The landscaping was untidy and overgrown, the graveled driveway choked with weeds. If the inside had been as poorly maintained as the outside, there were going to be problems.

Since they were early and Zoë hadn’t arrived yet, Alex decided to walk around the exterior to look for mold, damaged siding, or foundation cracks.

“I know this place,” the ghost had said in wonder, following Alex from the truck. “I remember being here. I remember—” He broke off abruptly.

Alex glanced at him, sensing the wistfulness in his mood. “You lived here?”

Looking troubled, the ghost said distractedly, “No, I was … visiting someone.”

“Who?”

“A woman.”

“To do what?” Alex persisted.

Although the ghost wasn’t capable of blushing, his discomfort was impossible to miss. “None of your business,” came the curt reply.

“So you were boning her?”

The ghost glowered at him. “Up yours.”

Pleased at having annoyed him, Alex continued to wander around the exterior of the house. The satisfaction faded quickly, though, drowned in the awareness of a yearning so powerful and raw that it almost hurt to be near it. Did the ghost know who or what had inspired the feeling? Alex was tempted to ask him, but somehow that seemed brutish … the only way to respect that degree of unexpressed pain was to keep silent.

“She’s here,” the ghost said, as they heard the crunch of tires on the graveled driveway.

“Great,” Alex said dourly. The prospect of talking to Zoë, interacting in even the most mundane way, was enough to make him break into a cold sweat. He reached up to the back of his neck to rub the tense muscles.

The ghost had been right when he’d called Alex a coward. But Alex wasn’t worried for his own sake.

The failed marriage with Darcy had confirmed some of the worst things he had ever suspected about himself. It had taught him that intimacy not only gave you the weapons but the will to hurt the people you were closest to. And most of all it had convinced him that he was fated to end up like both his parents. He would inevitably destroy everything and everyone he cared about.

The worst of the damage had become apparent after he and Darcy had separated. They’d continued to have sex on the occasions when she came to the island. “For old time’s sake,” Darcy had said at one point, but there had been nothing of reminiscence or regret in their savage encounters. Only anger. Retaliation. They’d fucked each other out of mutual resentment, and the worst part was that it had been far better than any experience they’d shared out of affection. He was still haunted by the memories of what they’d done, how they had turned each other into the worst possible versions of themselves.

There was no return to innocence after that.

And there was no place in his life for anyone like Zoë Hoffman. The only act of kindness he could offer was to keep his distance from her.

Before going to the front entrance, Alex said sotto voce, “Stay out of my way and don’t distract me while I’m talking to her. People tend not to hire schizophrenic contractors.”

“I’ll shut up,” the ghost promised.

Doubtful. But they both knew that if the ghost pissed Alex off, he would refuse to go through the attic and sift through the heaps of long-forgotten junk that might yield a clue about his former life. And the ghost desperately wanted to find out who he was. Although Alex would never have admitted it, he’d become just as curious. It was impossible not to wonder why the ghost had been condemned to such merciless isolation. Maybe the ghost was paying for his past sins—maybe he’d been some kind of criminal or lowlife. But that didn’t explain why Alex had ended up towing him around.

Alex cast a suspicious glance at him, but the ghost didn’t appear to notice. He was staring at the house, and Zoë’s approaching figure, mesmerized by distant shadows.

To Zoë’s consternation, a pickup truck was already parked beneath the carport. Was Alex there already? It was still five minutes before they were supposed to meet.

Her heartbeat quickened to a sharp staccato. She parked beside the truck and consulted the visor mirror, and checked to make certain the buttons of her flower-print shirt were fastened. The top two had been left undone to her collarbone. After a moment’s thought, she fastened those as well. Emerging from the VW, she approached the truck and realized it was empty. Had Alex found a way inside the house?

She crossed the gravel in her pink leather flats and went to the front door and found it was still locked. Delving into her bag, she found the keys from the property management company. The first one didn’t work. As she extracted the second key and jiggled it into the lock, she became aware of someone approaching from the side. It was Alex, who had been walking around the exterior of the house. He had an athletic, loose-limbed way of moving, his body nearly rawboned in a black short-sleeved shirt and jeans. He came to stand beside her, a large and brooding presence.

“Hi,” she said with forced cheer.

Alex gave her a brief nod, the sunlight sliding across the layers of his dark hair. He was almost inhumanly beautiful, with those angular cheekbones and strongly marked brows, and eyes of frozen fire. Something restless lurked beneath his controlled façade, as if he hadn’t had enough food, or enough sleep, or enough
something.
That mysterious and unexpressed need practically glowed through his skin.

No doubt his divorce had taken a physical toll—he could have used a few good meals. Zoë couldn’t help thinking of what she would make for him, given the opportunity. Maybe butternut squash soup, graced with hints of tart green apple and smoky bacon, served with yeast rolls brushed with butter and a sprinkle of sea salt.

She turned the key harder in the resisting lock, her mind still occupied with the imaginary dinner. Maybe she would cook something heavier and more filling … meat loaf made with pork, veal, and crumbs from rustic French bread. Mashed potatoes swirled with caramelized scallions … and a side of green and yellow wax beans sautéed slowly in olive oil and garlic until they were melting-tender—

Zoë’s musings were interrupted as the door key snapped in two. To her dismay, she realized that part of the metal had broken off in the lock. “Oh.” She flushed and darted a mortified glance at Alex.

His face was inscrutable. “That happens with old keys. They tend to get brittle.”

“Maybe we could try to enter through a window.”

He glanced at the key ring in her hand. “Is there another house key?”

“I think so. But you’d have to get the broken one out of the lock first …”

Without a word, Alex went to his truck, reached inside, and pulled out a vintage red metal toolbox. He brought it to the front porch, and rummaged through a clatter of tools.

Taking care to stay out of the way, Zoë stood beside the door and watched as Alex inserted a metal pick into the jammed lock. In a minute or two, he had jimmied the broken key loose. Deftly he gripped the protruding end with a pair of needle-nosed pliers and pulled out the key.

“You made it look so easy,” Zoë exclaimed.

He replaced the tools in the box and stood. She had the impression that it cost him something to meet her gaze. “May I?” he asked, and held out his hand for the key ring.

She gave it to him, taking care to avoid touching his fingers. He sorted through them, tried one, and the door opened with a creak.

The house was dark, musty-smelling, and silent. Alex preceded Zoë into the main room, found a light switch, and flipped it on.

Zoë set her bag by the door and ventured farther into the main living space. Turning a slow circle, she was pleased to discover that the floor plan was simple and open. However, the kitchen was a small galley style, cramped and sadly lacking in cabinet space, floored with ancient linoleum. The only furnishings in sight were an antique chrome kitchen table and three dingy vinyl-upholstered chairs, and a cast-iron wood-stove in the corner. Crumpled aluminum blinds covered the windows like a row of skeletons.

Zoë went to unlock a window casing to let in some fresh air, but she couldn’t budge it. The window was stuck.

Alex approached, and ran a fingertip along the seam of the window sash and sill. “It’s been painted shut.” He went to the next window. “This one, too. I’ll cut through the paint later.”

“Why would someone paint the windows shut?”

“Usually to keep out drafts. Cheaper than weather sealing.” His expression conveyed exactly what he thought about the idea. He went to the corner, pulled up a loose section of carpeting, and looked beneath it. “Wood flooring under here.”

“Really? Would it be possible to refinish it?”

“Maybe. There’s no telling what condition the floor’s in until you take out all the carpet. Sometimes they cover it for a reason.” Alex went to the kitchen and lowered to his haunches to inspect a section of the wall, where a patch of mold had spread like a bruise. “You’ve got a leak,” he said. “We’ll have to take part of the wall out. I saw wood ants on the exterior—they’re nesting because of the moisture.”

“Oh.” Zoë frowned. “I hope it’s worth fixing up this place. I hope it’s not too far gone.”

“It doesn’t look that bad. But you’ll have to get an inspection.”

“How much will that cost?”

“A couple hundred bucks, probably.” He set his toolbox on the dingy chrome table. “You’ll be living here with your grandmother?”

Zoë nodded. “She has vascular dementia. It may soon get to the point where she needs a walker or a wheelchair.” She went to get her bag, rummaged for a pamphlet, and brought it to him. “These are things that need to be done to make the house safer for her.”

After a cursory glance at the pamphlet, Alex gave it back to her.

“Maybe you should keep it,” Zoë said.

Alex shook his head. “I know all about ADA codes.” With a speculative glance at their surroundings, he continued, “If your grandmother’s going to use a walker or wheelchair, you should have laminate flooring put in.”

Zoë was annoyed by the fact that he had barely looked at the list. His manner was just a hairsbreadth short of patronizing. “I don’t like laminates. I prefer real wood.”

“Laminate’s cheaper and more durable.”

“I’ll consider it, then. But I would like carpet in the bedrooms.”

“As long as it’s not too plush. Trying to get a wheelchair across that is like trying to roll through sand.” Alex stood at the opening of the kitchen galley and flipped on a light. “I don’t think this is a load-bearing wall. I could take it out and turn this area into an island. It would double your cabinets and countertop space.”