Dream Lake

by Lisa Kleypas

  “No. Structurally it’s built about the same as a garage. I’d just have to add sides, insulation, and a door.”

  “Would you include that in the quote, then?”

  “Sure.”

  Their gazes caught, and an electric awareness crackled between them. With effort, Alex refocused on the pad of sticky notes. “You can go now,” he said. “I’m going to be here for a while, getting some measurements and taking pictures. I’ll lock up when I leave and have a new key made for you.”

  “Thanks.” She hesitated. “Do you need me to stay and help with anything?”

  Alex shook his head. “You’d only get in the way.”

  The ghost approached the table. “All that charm,” he said to Alex in a marveling tone. “Is it natural, or do you have to work on it?”

  Zoë approached the table and waited until Alex brought his gaze to meet hers. “I want to … well, thank you,” she said, her face pink.

  “It was nothing,” Alex muttered.

  “You were very kind,” she persisted. “Maybe to return the favor … I could make dinner for you sometime.”

  “Not necessary.”

  The ghost looked disgusted. “What’s wrong with letting her make you dinner?”

  “It would be no trouble,” Zoë persisted. “And I’m … not a bad cook. You should try me.”

  “You should try her,” the ghost repeated emphatically.

  Alex ignored him and looked at Zoë. “My schedule’s pretty tight.”

  The ghost spoke to Zoë as well, even though she couldn’t hear him. “He means he’d rather sit somewhere alone and drink like an attention-deficit camel.”

  Zoë’s gaze dropped in response to Alex’s refusal.

  “In a couple of days,” Alex said, “I’ll drop by the inn with some drawings. We’ll go over them and make changes if necessary. After that, I’ll work up a quote.”

  “Come by any day after breakfast. It ends at ten on the weekdays, eleven-thirty on the weekends. Or … come a little earlier and have some breakfast.” Zoë touched the surface of the chrome table with a neatly filed fingertip. Her hands were small but capable, the nails clear-varnished. “I like this dining set. I wish there was a way to restore it.”

  “It can be restored,” Alex said. “All it needs is a workover with some steel wool and few coats of spray chrome.”

  Zoë looked at the table speculatively. “I suppose it’s not worth the trouble, with one of the chairs missing.”

  “The fourth chair is in a corner of the carport,” Alex said. “You can’t see it because my truck is parked there.”

  Zoë brightened at the information. “Oh, good. That makes the set worth saving. Otherwise I thought we’d have to sixty-nine it.”

  Alex looked at her blankly.

  She stared back at him with innocent blue eyes.

  “You mean eighty-six it,” Alex said, his voice carefully monotone.

  “Yes, what did I—” Zoë broke off as she realized the slip she’d made. A tide of crimson color washed over her face. “I have to be going,” she said in a small voice. She grabbed her bag and scampered from the house.

  The door closed with a slam.

  The ghost was laughing so hard he was soundless.

  Alex braced his hands on the table and lowered his head. He was so turned on he couldn’t stand straight. “I can’t take this,” he managed to say.

  “You should ask her out,” the ghost eventually said, when he was able.

  Alex shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “The number of ways I could hurt a woman like that …” Alex paused with a faint smile. “Hell. I can’t count that high.”

  After Zoë had told her cousin everything that had happened at the lakeside cottage, Justine wasn’t merely amused. She laughed until she nearly toppled off her chair.

  “Oh my God,” Justine gasped, grabbing a paper towel to blot the tears from her eyes. The sight of Zoë’s indignant expression only seemed to make it worse. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m laughing with you, not at you.”

  “If you were laughing with me,” Zoë said, “then I would be laughing, too. And I’m not. Because all I can think about is stabbing myself with the first thing I can grab from the nearest utensil drawer.”

  “Don’t even try,” Justine said, still snorting. “With the luck you’ve had today, it would turn out to be a melon baller.”

  Zoë lowered her forehead to the kitchen table. “He thinks I’m the biggest idiot in the world. And I wanted so badly for him to like me.”

  “I’m sure he likes you.”

  “No,” Zoë said mournfully, “he doesn’t.”

  “Then there’s something wrong with him, because everyone else in the world does.” Justine paused. “Why do you want him to like you?”

  Zoë lifted her head and leaned her chin on her hand. “What if I say it’s because he’s so good-looking?”

  “God, that’s incredibly shallow. I’m so disappointed in you. Tell me more.”

  Zoë smiled. “It’s not really about his looks. Although he is … dazzling.”

  “Not to mention a carpenter,” Justine said. “I mean, all carpenters are sexy, even the ugly ones. But a good-looking carpenter … well, that’s pretty hard to resist.”

  “At first I wasn’t all that tempted by him, but then he killed the spider. Which was a huge point in his favor.”

  “Absolutely. I love men who kill bugs.”

  “And then when I was freaking out and couldn’t breathe, he was so … gentle.” Zoë sighed and colored, remembering. “He was holding me, and talking to me in that voice … you know, sort of low and rough around the edges …”

  “All the Nolans sound like that,” Justine said reflectively. “Like they’ve got a mild case of bronchitis. Totally hot.”

  A curl dangled in front of Zoë’s eyes, and she puffed it away. “When was the last time a man focused on you,” she asked reflectively, “as if you were the only thing in the world? Like he was paying attention to your every heartbeat. Like he was trying to absorb the feel of you.”

  “Never,” Justine admitted.

  “That was how it felt,” Zoë continued. “And I couldn’t help thinking about what it would be like, with a man like that. Because whenever men have told me in the past that they wanted me, I always knew that what they really wanted was a notch on the bedpost. And with Chris, even though he was very sweet and considerate, when we were … together, in that way … it was never …”

  “Intense?”

  Zoë nodded. “But there’s something about Alex that makes me think …” Her voice faded as she thought better of what she had been about to say.

  Justine’s velvet-brown eyes darkened with concern. “Zo. You know I’m all for having fun. And I’ve told you for months that you need to go out with someone. But Alex is not the guy to start with.”

  “Do we know for certain that his drinking is a problem?”

  “If you even have to ask that, it’s a problem. And when you get involved with someone like that, you’re heading into a love triangle—you, him, and the booze. You don’t need his kind of trouble, especially now that you’ve taken on the responsibility of looking after Emma. I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but … never mind, I am. I’m telling you straight up, don’t get involved with Alex. There are too many nice, normal guys out there who would all love to be with you.”

  “Are there?” Zoë asked dryly. “Why haven’t I ever met any of them?”

  “They’re intimidated by you.”

  “Oh, please. You’ve seen me on my bad hair days, and when I gained seven pounds over Thanksgiving, and later when I lost them during the most disgusting case of the flu ever … there is no reason for any man ever to be intimidated by me.”

  “Zoë, even on your worst day, you are still the kind of woman that most men fantasize about having wild, crazy monkey sex with.”

  “I don’t want crazy monkey sex,” Zoë protested. “I just
want …” Unable to find the right words, she shook her head ruefully, and swatted back a few dangling curls. “I want solutions,” she admitted, “not more problems. And with Alex, there would be nothing but problems.”

  “Yes. So let me fix you up. I know a ton of guys.”

  Zoë hated blind dates nearly as much as spiders. She smiled and shook her head, and tried to forget about the feeling of safety she’d found in Alex Nolan’s arms. It was a bad habit of hers … looking for safety in places where there wasn’t any.

  Nine

  The attic at Rainshadow Road was filled with boxes, a battered wooden trunk, a few pieces of musty broken furniture, and decades’ worth of flotsam and jetsam abandoned by previous tenants. Alex reflected that it was a good thing he wasn’t afraid of insects or rodents, since there were bound to be a lot of them nesting in so much junk.

  “I think you should start over here,” the ghost said from the far corner of the room.

  “I’m not climbing across that mountain of crap,” Alex said, shaking out an industrial garbage bag.

  “But the stuff I want to look at is at the back.”

  “I’ll work my way over there eventually.”

  “But if you—”

  “Don’t push it,” Alex said. “I’m not taking orders from a spook.” He plugged his phone into a pair of portable speakers by the door. The app played songs from an Internet radio service, based on selections previously entered. Because of the ghost’s nonstop complaints, Alex had added some big band music to his playlist. And he had secretly found himself starting to like a couple of pieces by Artie Shaw and Glenn Miller, although nothing would have induced him to admit it.

  Sheryl Crow’s smooth, smoky voice filled the air with a slow rendition of “Begin the Beguine.” The ghost wandered over to the speakers. “I know this one,” he said in pleasure, and began to hum along.

  Alex opened a ragged cardboard box and found it packed with old VHS tapes of B movies. He shoved the box aside and pulled out a faded plaster owl statue. “Where do people get this junk?” he asked aloud. “Or a better question is why?”

  The ghost was listening intently to the song. “Used to dance to this one,” he said distantly. “I remember a woman in my arms. She had blond hair.”

  “Can you see her face?” Alex asked, intrigued.

  The ghost shook his head in frustration. “It’s like the memories are hidden behind a curtain. All I can see are shadows.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone else … like you?”

  “You mean other spooks? No.” The ghost smiled without humor as he saw Alex’s expression. “Don’t bother asking about the afterlife. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  The ghost met his gaze directly. “Yeah, I’d tell you.”

  Alex bent back to his work. He unearthed a bag filled with bottles and broken glass. Carefully he placed it inside the box filled with old tapes. The ghost softly sang a few lyrics.

  “I wonder what you did, to end up like this,” Alex said.

  The ghost looked wary. “You think it’s a punishment?”

  “It sure as hell doesn’t look like a reward.”

  The ghost grinned briefly, then sobered. “Maybe it’s something I didn’t do,” he said after a moment. “Maybe I let someone down, or wasted some chance I should have taken.”

  “Then why are you stuck here with me? What does that solve?”

  “Maybe I’m supposed to keep you from making the same mistake I did.” The ghost cocked his head slightly, studying him.

  “If I want to waste my life, that’s my business. And there ain’t crap you can do about it, buddy.”

  “Be my guest,” came the sour reply.

  Alex pulled out a box filled with folders.

  “What’s in there?” the ghost asked.

  “Nothing.” Alex riffled through the dusty heap of paper. “Looks like notes on college courses from the seventies.” He tossed them into the garbage bag.

  The ghost went back to the speakers and hummed along to a U2 cover of “Night and Day.”

  As the hours passed, Alex moved boxes and filled garbage bags, finding nothing of value except a few rolls of wallpaper printed with a wildly mod design of brown stripes and lime green circles, and an antique L. C. Smith and Corona typewriter in a tweed case.

  “That could be worth something,” the ghost commented, coming to look over Alex’s shoulder.

  “Maybe fifty bucks,” Alex said, annoyed by the ghost’s proximity. “Hey … personal space here.”

  The ghost retreated a few inches, but continued to stare at the typewriter. “Look inside the case,” he said. “Is there anything in it?”

  Alex lifted the typewriter and looked beneath the chassis. “Nope.” He flexed his sore shoulders and stood to ease his cramped thighs. “I’m going to call it a day.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. I have to work on the designs for Zoë. And I’ve got to find a place to live before Darcy has me forcibly ejected from the house.”

  The ghost stared morosely at the boxes they hadn’t touched yet. “But there’s so much more to look at.”

  “We’ll come back tomorrow.”

  The ghost’s outrage was nearly palpable, filling the air like a cloud of angry hornets. “A few more minutes,” he said stubbornly.

  “No. I just spent the better part of a day sorting through garbage on your behalf. I have other stuff to do. Paid work. Unlike you, I can’t survive on air.”

  The ghost responded with a baleful glance.

  In the silence, Alex organized the clutter, detached his phone from the speakers, picked up the massive plastic bag, and began to lug it out of the attic. Amid the rattling and clanking and rustling of trash, he heard the ghost began to sing the song he knew Alex hated more than any other.

  Down Hawaii way, where I chanced to stray, on an evening I heard a Hula maiden play … Yaaka hula hickey dula, Yaaka hula hickey doou …

  “Quit singing that shit,” Alex said. “I mean it.” But as he descended to the second floor, the obnoxious tune continued.

  … Oh, I don’t care if you’ve loved the ladies far and near … You’d forget about them all if you could hear … Yaaka hula hickey dula, Yaaka hula hickey doo!

  Ten

  As Zoë put the last of the Friday morning breakfast plates into the dishwasher, she heard a scratch at the back door of the kitchen. She went to open it, and Byron came in with a plaintive meow, his tail held high like a gentleman doffing his hat. He sat and looked at her with expectant green eyes.

  Zoë grinned and reached down to smooth his fluffy white fur. “I know what you’re after.”

  She went to the stove, and spooned a few last curds of scrambled eggs from a skillet into Byron’s dish. The cat proceeded to eat daintily, his ears and tail twitching with enjoyment.

  Justine entered the kitchen. “Someone’s here to see you. I wasn’t sure what to tell him.”

  “Is it Alex?” Zoë’s nerves jolted pleasantly. “Please send him back here.”

  “It’s not him. It’s your ex.”

  Zoë blinked. She hadn’t seen or talked to Chris in more than a year, their contact limited to a couple of impersonal e-mails. As far as Zoë knew, there was no reason for him to come to the island.

  “Is he alone or is he with his partner?”

  “Solo,” Justine said.

  “Did he tell you why he’s here?” Zoë asked.

  Justine shook her head. “Want me to get rid of him?”

  Zoë was almost tempted to say yes. It wasn’t that she and Chris had parted on bitter terms. In fact, their divorce had been a low-key and bloodless process. As his wife, she had felt betrayed, but as his friend, she couldn’t help feeling sympathy for the pain and confusion he’d so obviously been going through. Just after their first anniversary, Chris had come to her with tears in his eyes, and had tried to explain that even though he loved her, would always love her, he ha
d been having an affair with a man who worked at his law firm. Chris had explained that until recently he’d never been able to face his feelings and desires, but he couldn’t pretend any longer. Whenever he’d been attracted to men in the past, he had always compartmentalized such feelings, knowing that his conservative family would never approve. However, it had gotten to the point where he could no longer live a lie. And what he regretted most was having caused Zoë disappointment and pain. He had never intended to hurt her.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Justine had said to Zoë, regarding this last point. “He handled it the wrong way. Chris could have come to you and said, ‘Zoë, I’m having some complicated feelings,’ and then you could have talked about it. Instead, he lied to you repeatedly, until you were blindsided. He cheated on you. And that makes him a jackass, whether he’s gay or straight.”

  Now, contemplating the prospect of seeing Chris, Zoë felt dread settle in her stomach like a lead weight. “I’ll talk to him,” she said reluctantly. ”It wouldn’t feel right to turn him away.”

  “You’re such a pushover,” Justine grumbled. “Okay, I’ll send him back here.”

  In a couple of minutes, the door opened, and Chris entered cautiously.

  He was as handsome as ever, slim and fit, his hair the rich color of wheat. Chris had always been in great shape, and he was scrupulously careful with his diet, rarely eating red meat or drinking a second glass of wine. “No butter, cream, or carbs,” he had always told Zoë when she had cooked for him. She had obliged, even though she had found the restrictions more than a little aggravating. The first meal she had made for herself after she had moved out of their apartment had been a huge bowl of spaghetti carbonara, with a sauce of white wine, cream, and three entire eggs, the whole of it covered in a snowy layer of grated Pecorino-Romano and Parmesan cheese and sprinkled with crisp shards of bacon.

  Chris smiled when he saw her. “Zoë,” he said quietly, and stepped forward.

  An awkward moment followed as they moved toward each other in the beginnings of a hug, and ended up clasping hands instead. Zoë was inwardly surprised by how good it was to see him again, and how much she had missed him.