Dream Lake
Page 17It would be a full-time job to fend off the poachers. Until he’d met Zoë, Alex would have scoffed at the idea that beauty could be a problem for someone. But it would be difficult for any woman to be subjected to that kind of relentless attention. It explained the reason for Zoë’s innate shyness—the wonder was that she ever dared to go out at all.
Now that the work on the Dream Lake cottage had started, Alex wouldn’t have to see Zoë for at least a month, except in passing. It would be a relief, he thought. He would get his head clear.
The first payment was due tomorrow. Justine had offered to drop it in the mail, but Alex had asked to pick it up at the inn in the morning. He needed to take it directly to the bank. He’d laid out his own money for the initial supplies and expenses, and since the divorce there wasn’t a hell of a lot of surplus cash in the coffers.
After working late on the cottage with Gavin and Isaac, Alex went home. He was so tired from the day’s exertions that he didn’t bother scrounging for dinner. He didn’t even reach for the bottle of booze, only took a shower and went to bed.
When the alarm went off at six-thirty, Alex felt like hell. Maybe he was coming down with something. His mouth was parched, and his head ached ferociously, and the effort to lift a toothbrush felt like bench-pressing a kettlebell. After a long shower, he dressed in jeans and a tee with a flannel shirt over it, but he was still cold and shaking. Filling a plastic cup with water from the sink, he drank until a wave of nausea forced him to stop.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, he struggled to keep the water down, and wondered wretchedly what was wrong with him. Gradually he became aware of the ghost standing at the bathroom doorway.
“Personal space,” Alex reminded him. “Get out.”
The ghost didn’t move. “You didn’t have anything to drink last night.”
“So?”
“So you’re in withdrawal.”
Alex looked at him dumbly.
“Hands aren’t steady, right?” the ghost continued. “Those are the DTs.”
“I’ll be fine after I have some coffee.”
“You should probably have a shot of booze. Guy who drinks as much as you, it’s better to wean off slowly rather than go cold turkey.”
Alex was swamped with incredulous outrage. The ghost was wildly overstating the case. He drank a lot, but he knew what he could tolerate. Only drunks got the DTs, like the homeless guys in alleys or the barflies who drank the nights away. Or his father, who’d died of a heart attack while recreational diving at a tourist resort in Mexico. After a lifetime of alcohol abuse, Alan Nolan’s coronary arteries had been so blocked that, according to the doctors, he would have needed a quintuple bypass surgery had he lived.
“I don’t need to wean off anything,” Alex said.
It would have been easier to take if the ghost had been mocking or superior, or even apologetic. But the way he looked at Alex, with a sort of gravity touched with pity, was too offensive to bear.
“You might want to take the day off and rest,” the ghost said. “Because you’re not going to get much work done.”
Glaring at him, Alex lurched to his feet. Unfortunately the motion was too much for his outraged digestive system, and he was forced to lean over the toilet, retching.
After a long time he made it to his feet again, rinsed his mouth and splashed his face with cold water. Looking into the mirror, he saw a pale, haggard complexion and puffy eyes. He recoiled in horror, having seen his father in this shape about a thousand times while growing up.
Gripping the sides of the sink, he forced himself to raise his head and stare in the mirror again.
This wasn’t who he wanted to be. But it was what he’d become, what he’d made of himself.
Had there been any tears in him, he would have wept.
Even as sick as Alex was, the metaphor didn’t escape him. “Houses aren’t people.”
“Everyone’s got something that needs fixing.” The ghost paused. “In your case, it happens to be your liver.”
Alex struggled to strip off his shirts, having sweated through both of them. “Please,” he managed to say. “If there is any mercy in you … don’t talk.”
The ghost obliged, retreating.
By the time Alex had gotten dressed again, the shaking had subsided, but the clammy hot-and-cold feeling kept crawling over him. His nerves were strung tight. The difficulty in finding the work boots he wanted, the same ones he’d worn the previous day, sent him into a full-blown fury. As soon as he laid his hands on the boots, he threw one of them at the wall so hard that it ruined the paint and left a dent in the Sheetrock.
“Alex.” The ghost reappeared. “You’re acting crazy.”
He hurled the other boot, which shot through the ghost’s midsection and left another dent in the wall.
“Feel better now?” the ghost asked.
Ignoring him, Alex retrieved the boots and jammed them on. He tried to think above the violent pounding of his head. He had to get the check from Justine and take it to the bank.
“Don’t go to Artist’s Point,” he heard the ghost say urgently. “Please. You’re in no shape. You don’t want anyone to see you like this.”
“By ‘anyone’ you mean Zoë,” Alex said.
“Yes. You’ll upset her.”
Alex gritted his teeth. “I don’t give a damn.” Grabbing his car keys, wallet, and heavy black sunglasses, he went to his truck and pulled it out of the garage. As soon as he drove onto the main road, the sunlight seemed to split his skull open with the precision of surgical instruments. He groaned and swerved, looking for a place to pull over in case he needed to puke.
“You’re driving like you’re in a video game,” the ghost said.
“What do you care?” Alex snapped.
“I care because I don’t want you to kill anyone. Including yourself.”
By the time they had arrived at Artist’s Point, Alex had sweated through another T-shirt, and he was trembling with what felt like fever chills.
“For pity’s sake,” the ghost said, “don’t go through the front entrance. You’ll scare the guests.”
Much as Alex would have loved to defy him, the ghost had a point. Surly and exhausted from the effort of driving, he pulled around to the back of the inn and parked near the kitchen entrance. The smell of food drifted outside, causing the hot sting of nausea in his throat. As his sunglasses slipped down his nose on a fresh bloom of sweat, Alex ripped them off and flung them across the gravel with a curse.
“Get control of yourself,” he heard the ghost say tersely.
“Fuck off.”
A retractable screen door covered the kitchen’s back entrance. Through the fine solar mesh, Alex saw that Zoë was alone in the kitchen, making breakfast. Pots simmered on the stove, and something was baking in the oven. The smell of browning butter and cheese nearly made Alex recoil.
“Good morning,” she said with a smile. “Come in. How are you?”
Alex avoided her gaze as he entered the kitchen. “I’ve been better.”
“Would you like some—”
“I’m here for the check,” he said curtly.
“Okay.” Although this was certainly not the first time he’d ever been brusque with her, Zoë gave him a questioning glance.
“The first payment’s due,” Alex said.
“Yes, I remember. Justine handles the office work, so she’ll write the check for you. I’m not sure which account to write it from.”
“Fine. Where is she?”
“She just went out for an errand. She’ll be back in five or ten minutes. The big coffee machine is broken, so she’s picking up some carafes of breakfast blend from a local place.” A timer went off, and Zoë went to take a dish out of the oven. “If you want to wait for her,” she said over her shoulder, “I’ll pour some coffee and you can—”
“I don’t want to wait.” He needed the check. He needed to leave. The heat and light of the kitchen were killing him, and yet he had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering like one of those plastic windup skulls from a joke shop. “She knew the check was due today. I texted her.”
Zoë set the casserole dish on a pair of trivets. Her smile had vanished, and her voice was even softer than usual as she replied. “I don’t think she knew you would be here this early.”
“When the hell else would I come? I’m going to be working on the cottage all day.” The anger rushed through him in stronger and stronger waves, and he was helpless to do anything about it.
“What if I run it out to you after breakfast? I’ll drive out to the cottage, and—”
“I don’t want to be interrupted at work.”
“Justine will be here soon.” Zoë went to pour some coffee into a white porcelain cup. “You … don’t seem well.”
“Bad sleep.” Alex went to the counter and tugged at the roll of paper towels. The roll spun out. He let out a few foul curses as a stream of paper toweling shot from the dispenser.
“It’s all right.” Zoë came to him instantly. “I’ll fix it. Go sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.” He took a paper towel and blotted his sweating face, while Zoë deftly rerolled the long white cylinder. Although he tried to keep his mouth shut, words tumbled out, the syllables shredded like they’d been pulled across razor blades. He was jittery and furious, wanting to throw something, kick something. “Is this how you two run a business? Agree to something, and then no follow-through? We’re going to rewrite the payment schedule. My time may not be important to you, but I have to count on things being done when they’re supposed to be done. I’ve got to get to work. My guys are probably already there.”
“I’m sorry.” Zoë set a cup of coffee on the counter beside him. “Your time is important to me. Next time I’ll make certain the check is waiting for you first thing in the morning.”
Alex hated the way she talked to him, as if she were humoring a lunatic or soothing a barking dog. But it worked anyway. He felt the anger drain so abruptly that he was dizzy. And he was so tired that he could barely stay on his feet. Jesus. There was something really wrong with him.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he managed to say.
“Have this first.” Zoë nudged the cup toward him.
Zoë was staring at him. He wanted to swear at her, turn away, but her gaze held his and wouldn’t let go. Those round blue eyes saw too much, things he had spent a lifetime concealing. She couldn’t help but see how close he was to crumbling. But there was no judgment in her expression. Only kindness. Compassion.
He had a sudden urge to drop to his knees and rest his head against her in exhausted supplication. Somehow he kept standing, swaying on stiff legs.
Carefully Zoë laid her hands over his, so they were both holding the cup. Even though her hands were half the size of his, her grip was surprisingly firm, subduing the shaking. “Here,” she whispered.
The cup lifted to his mouth. Her hands kept his steady. He took a swallow. The liquid was hot and smooth, soothing his sandpaper throat, melting through the chill of his insides. It was slightly sweet, and the touch of cream had softened the bitterness, and it was so unexpectedly good that he found himself desperately gulping the rest. His veins hummed with a gratitude that bordered on worship.
Zoë’s hands eased from his. “More?”
He nodded with a hoarse, wordless murmur.
She made another cup, stirring cream and sugar into it, while sunlight broke through the shuttered window and embossed her hair with bright ribbons. It occurred to him that she was making breakfast for a crowd of paying guests. There were still things cooking on the stove, in the oven. And not only had he interrupted her work, he had stood there and ranted about his own schedule like it was so much more important than hers.
“You’re busy,” he muttered in the prelude to an apology. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Everything’s fine.” Her voice was gentle. She set the cup of coffee at the table, and pulled a chair back. Clearly she intended for him to sit for this one.
He cast a wary glance around the kitchen, wondering what the ghost would make of this, but thankfully he was nowhere to be seen. Alex went to the table and sat. He drank the coffee slowly, able to do it on his own as long as he was careful.
Zoë worked at the counter. The clink of utensils, the sounds of pots and plates being deftly wielded, was oddly relaxing. He could sit here and no one was going to bother him. Closing his eyes, he let himself sink into the feeling of temporary peace. Of sanctuary.
“Another?” he heard her ask.
He nodded.
“First try some of this.” She set a plate of food in front of him. As she leaned closer, he could smell her skin, fresh and sweet, like she had been steeped in sugared tea.
“I don’t think I can—”
“Just try.” She put flatware on the table and went back to the stove.
The fork was as heavy as a lead mallet. Alex looked at the plate. It contained a neat portion of something with layers of bread, the top lightly puffy and golden-brown. “What is it?”
“A breakfast strata.”
As Alex took a cautious bite, he discovered that the whole of it was infused with a mild custardy lightness. It was like a quiche but infinitely more delicate, the texture perfect for delivering the ripe hint of tomato and mild cheese. The flavor of basil came through last, hitting his tongue with a clean, pungent note.
“Do you like it?” he heard Zoë ask. He couldn’t even reply. Hunger had come raging, and he had given over entirely to the single-minded act of eating.