Dream Lake

“Emma,” Alex said gently, “as much as I want to talk to you about this, I don’t want to stress you out.”

A little smile stretched the dry, feathery contours of her lips. “You’re afraid to give me a stroke? I have them all the time. Believe me, no one will notice any extra thrombosis. Especially me.”

“It’s your call.”

“I’ve never talked about him to anyone,” Emma said. “But I’m forgetting things every day. Soon I won’t even remember his name.”

“Then tell me.”

Emma lifted her fingers to her lips as if to pat a tremulous smile into place. “His name was Tom Findlay.”

The ghost stared at her, riveted.

“I haven’t said his name in so long.” A glow came to Emma’s cheeks, like light shining through pink glass. “Tom was the kind of boy that all the mothers warned their daughters about.”

“Including yours?” Alex asked.

“Oh, yes, but I didn’t listen.”

He smiled. “I’m not surprised.”

“He worked at my father’s factory on the weekends, cutting tin plate and soldering cans. After he graduated high school, he became a carpenter—he taught himself out of books. He was smart, and he had the hands for it. Like you. Everyone knew when he built something, it was done right.”

“What kind of family did Tom come from?” Alex asked.

“There was no father. His mother had already had Tom by the time she came to live on the island, and there were rumors that … well, not nice rumors. She was very beautiful. My mother told me she was a kept woman. There were relationships with prominent men in town. I think that for a while my father was one of them.” She sighed. “Poor Tom was always getting into fights. Especially when other boys would say something about his mother. The girls had eyes for him—he was so handsome—but no one dared to go out with him openly. And he was never invited to the nice parties or picnics. Too much of a hell-raiser.”

“How did you meet him?”

“My father hired him to install a stained-glass window that had been shipped from Portland. My mother objected and wanted to pay someone else to do it. But my father said that for all Tom’s wild ways, he was the best carpenter on the island, and the window was too valuable to take chances with.”

“What did the window look like?”

Emma hesitated so long before answering that he thought she might have forgotten. “A tree,” she finally said.

“What kind of tree?”

She shook her head, looking evasive. She didn’t want to discuss it. “After Tom installed the window, my father had him do other things around the house. He built a set of shelves, and did some cabinetry work, and made a beautiful mantel for the parlor fireplace. Since I was hardly immune to the charms of a handsome young man with a wicked reputation, I talked to him while he worked.”

“You flirted with me,” the ghost said.

“But I wouldn’t go out with him,” Emma told Alex, “because I knew my mother would never approve. One night I saw him at a dance in town. He came up to me and asked if I was too much of a scaredy-cat to dance with him. Of course I had to take the dare.”

“You wouldn’t have danced with me otherwise,” the ghost said.

“I told him the next time he’d have to ask like a gentleman,” Emma told Alex.

“Did he?” Alex asked.

She nodded. “He was so bashful about it—stammering and blushing—that I fell in love with him right then.”

“I didn’t stammer,” the ghost protested.

“We kept our relationship secret,” Emma said. “We saw each other all through the summer. This cottage was our favorite meeting place.”

“I proposed to you here,” the ghost said, remembering.

“Did you ever talk about getting married?” Alex asked Emma.

A shadow crossed her face. “No.”

“We did,” the ghost insisted. “She’s forgotten, but I did propose to her.”

Wondering at the contradictions, Alex asked gently, “Are you sure, Emma?”

She looked directly at him. “I’m sure I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?” the ghost implored. “What happened?”

Alex wasn’t about to push Emma for answers she didn’t want to give. “Can you tell me what happened to Tom?”

“He died in the war. His plane crashed in China. His squadron had been assigned to protect cargo lifters flying the Hump, and they came under attack.” Her shoulders slumped, and she looked tired. “Afterward, I received a letter from a stranger. A Hump pilot. He flew one of those big clumsy planes carrying troops and supplies …”

“A C-46,” the ghost murmured.

“And he wrote to tell me that Tom had died a hero, that he had shot down two of the enemy in the air, and helped to save the lives of all thirty-five men on the cargo plane. But his Warhawk was outmaneuvered. The Japanese fighters were so much lighter and more agile than our P-40s …” She looked distressed and shaky, her fingers plucking fitfully at the throw blanket.

Alex reached out to engulf her hands in a warm grip. “Who wrote the letter to you?” he asked, although he thought he might know the answer.

“Gus Hoffman. He sent me the piece of cloth that had been sewn into Tom’s jacket.”

“A blood chit?”

“Yes. I wrote back to thank him. We corresponded for two years. Only as friends. But Gus wrote that if he made it back home, he wanted to marry me.”

“I’ll bet he did,” the ghost said grimly. The air seethed with jealousy.

“And you said yes?” Alex asked Emma.

She nodded. “I suppose I thought if I could never have Tom, it didn’t matter whom I married. And Gus wrote lovely letters. But then his plane was shot down. It reminded me so much of losing Tom. When I found out that Gus had survived, I was very relieved. He had a head wound … they operated to remove shrapnel … and he was sent back to the States on medical discharge. After he left the hospital, I married him. But there were problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“It had to do with the head wound. It changed his personality … flattened it, somehow. He was still intelligent, but his emotions were gone. He was indifferent to everything. Like a robot. His family said he wasn’t the same man.”

“I’ve heard of that happening with some brain injuries,” Alex said.

“He never got better. He never really cared about anything. Even our son.” Blinking like an exhausted child, Emma pulled her hands from Alex’s and settled back against the sofa. “It was a mistake. Poor Gus. I need to rest now.”

“May I help you to your room?” Alex asked.

She shook her head. “I like it here.”

He stood and reached down to lift her feet to the ottoman.

“Alex,” Emma said as he rearranged the throw blanket and drew it up to her shoulders.

“Yes?”

“Let him help you,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “For his sake.”

Alex shook his head, slightly mystified.

The ghost looked shaken. “My God, Emma.”

Hearing the sound of a car pulling into the carport, Alex went outside. It was Zoë, back from the grocery store. She hopped out of the car and opened the back, reaching for a pair of canvas bags filled with groceries.

“I’ll get those,” Alex said, walking toward her.

Zoë started at the sound of his voice and looked at him in surprise. “Hi,” she exclaimed brightly. She looked stressed as hell, her face pale, her eyes tired. “How was the wedding?”

“It was fine.” He took the bags from her. “How are you?”

“Great,” she said, too quickly.

Alex set the bags down and turned Zoë to face him. She was standing a step above him, all fast-breathing tension and locked muscles. “I heard that Emma was a handful this weekend,” he said bluntly.

Zoë avoided his gaze. “Oh, we had a rough patch. But it’s fine now.”

Alex discovered that he couldn’t stand it when she put up a front for him. He settled his hands at her hips. “Talk to me.”

Zoë stared at him, looking flustered. In the silence, he brought her against him slowly. She took an anxious breath, her composure unraveling. Wrapping his arms around her, he surrounded her with all his warmth and strength. She fit against him perfectly, her head tucked into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

He slid his hand into her hair and sifted lightly through the blond curls. “What did Emma do to your computer?”

Zoë’s voice was compressed against his shoulder. “She zoomed the screen out so far that the icons are ginormous and I can’t close the magnifier. And somehow she made copies of the task bar so there are at least eight of them, and I can’t make them go away. And to top it all off, she somehow managed to turn the entire screen upside down.”

“I can fix that stuff,” he said.

“I thought Sam was the computer genius.”

“Trust me on this: don’t ever let Sam near your computer. By the time he leaves, he’s changed all your passwords, illegally hooked you up to the Department of Defense grid, and Bluetooth-enabled everything in your house until you can’t use your toaster because it’s not discoverable.” He felt the shape of Zoë’s smile against his neck. Smoothing her hair back, he murmured near her ear, “You don’t need a genius. You just need a guy who can do some troubleshooting.”

“You’re hired,” she said, her face still hidden.

He pressed his lips to her hair. “What else can I do?”

“Nothing.” But her arms had crept tentatively around him.

“Think of something,” he coaxed.

“Well …” Her voice turned watery. “I called my father this morning. To tell him that if he’s going to visit, he’d better do it soon. Or Emma isn’t going to remember him by the time he gets around to it.”

“What did he say?” Feeling that she had tensed again, Alex began to rub her back.

“He’s coming this weekend, with his girlfriend, Phyllis. They’re going to stay at the inn. He’s not especially happy about it, but he’s doing it. I’m going to make a special dinner for them and Upsie and Justine, and …” Her voice faded as his hand slid lower on her spine, massaging in small circles.

“You want me to be there?” he prompted gently.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“I’d love to.”

“I’m so glad you—” She stopped and gripped handfuls of his shirt.

His hand stilled instantly. “Did I hurt you?”

Zoë looked up at him with dilated eyes, her cheeks flushed. Slowly she shook her head, looking as if she’d been hypnotized.

Desire shot through him as he realized she was aroused by the way he’d been touching her. For few white-hot seconds, all he could think about was her na*ed body caught under his like a flower pressed between the pages of a book.

“There’s one more thing I need from you,” she said. The sound of her voice could have been classified as a legal sexual stimulant.

Alex couldn’t seem to make his arms let go. He had to pry his hands from her one finger at a time. “Let’s talk about that later,” he said gruffly, and steered her into the house.

Nineteen

Although Emma stabilized during the next few days, Zoë noticed that she was more forgetful and distracted. Emma needed frequent reminders to get through her morning routine—she might forget to have breakfast or to take a shower. Or when she was in the shower, she might miss a step such as using shampoo or conditioner.

Near the end of the week, Justine spent the afternoon with Emma, taking her to the salon to have her hair done. Afterward, they had lunch down by the docks. Zoë was grateful to have the break, and Emma had been in a great mood when Justine dropped her off.

“She lectured me for at least an hour about what kind of guys I should go out with,” Justine told Zoë the next morning, as Zoë washed dishes at the inn.

“No bikers,” Zoë guessed.

“Exactly. And then she forgot that she’d just lectured me, and told me the whole thing again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it was fine. But jeez, that kind of repetition would drive me crazy if I had to live with her.”

“It’s not that bad. Some days are worse than others. For some reason she’s better when Alex is around.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“She likes him. She really tries to focus when he’s there. He’s been doing tile work in the little bathroom he built where the old closet used to be. So the other day I found her sitting on the bed, chatting up a storm while he was gluing tile and grouting.”

“So even grandmothers think carpenters are hot.”

Zoë laughed. “I guess so. And Alex is very patient with her. Very sweet.”

“Ha. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard someone call Alex Nolan sweet.”

“He is,” Zoë said. “You can’t imagine what a difference he’s made to Emma.”

“And to you?” Justine prompted, looking at her closely.

“Yes. He’s going to be here for dinner on Saturday night. I asked him for moral support, since my dad’s going to be there.”

“You’ve got me for moral support.”

Zoë started to scrub a baking pan in the sink. “I need all the support I can get from as many people as possible. You know how my dad is.”

Justine sighed. “If it makes Saturday night easier for you, Alex Nolan is welcome. I’ll even be nice to him. What are you going to make, by the way?”

“Something special.”

Justine had bounced on her heels in anticipation. “Your dad does not deserve the dinner you’re making for him. But I’m glad I get to reap the benefits.”

Zoë refrained from telling her cousin that she wasn’t really cooking for her father’s benefit, or even for Emma’s. It was for Alex. She was going to speak to him in a language of fragrance, color, texture, taste … she was going to use all her skill and instinct to create a meal he would never forget.

Justine met Alex at the front door of the inn and welcomed him inside. Her hair was a loose curtain of dark silk, as opposed to the usual ponytail. She was strikingly attractive in slim cigarette pants and flats, and an emerald top with a deeply scooped neckline. But there was something subdued about her this evening, her usual vibrancy diminished.