by Lisa Kleypas
Zoë stared up at him, her cheeks fever-colored, her mouth kiss-bruised. Her hand went to the taut plane of his cheek, and he felt the vibration of her palm. She was shaking. Or maybe it was him.
She began to say something, but an unearthly yowl interrupted her.
“What the hell was that?” Alex asked hoarsely, infuriated to be pulled out of the erotic dream, his heart pounding in heavy blows.
They both looked to the source of the noise near their feet. Baleful green eyes stared out from a huge mass of white fur, a thick neck cinched by a glittering band of crystals.
“That’s Byron,” Zoë said. “My cat.”
It was an enormous, weird-looking cat, with a flat face and enough fur to create at least three more of itself.
“What does it want?” Alex asked, revolted.
Zoë bent to pet the cat. “Attention,” she said ruefully. “He gets jealous.”
Byron began to purr as she stroked him, the sound rivaling a Cessna single-prop engine.
“He can have your attention after I leave.” Alex reached over to shut off the water, and picked up the first-aid kit. Grateful for the distraction, he brought the kit to the table and sat down, gesturing to a nearby chair. “Sit there.”
Zoë obeyed, giving him a bemused glance.
Alex arranged her arm on the table with the burn facing upward. Finding a tube of antibiotic cream, he applied it in a thick layer, his head bent over the task. His hands weren’t steady.
Zoë reached down to pet the massive cat, which was pacing through and around the legs of her chair. “Alex,” she asked in a low voice, “are we going to—”
“No.”
He knew she wanted to talk about it. But denial was a skill that had been honed over generations of Nolans, and it was going to work just fine in this situation.
In the silence, Alex heard the ghost’s sardonic voice. “Is it safe to come back in now?”
Although Alex would have loved to give a scathing reply, he kept silent.
Zoë was befuddled. “You … you want to pretend that what just happened didn’t happen?”
“It was a mistake.” Alex applied a bandage, meticulously sealing the adhesive edges.
“Why?”
Alex didn’t bother to soften the impatient edge of his tone. “Look, you and I don’t need to know each other any more than we already do. You’ve got nothing to gain and everything to lose. You need to find some decent guy to go out with—someone who’ll take it slow and talk about your feelings and all that sensitive crap. You need a nice guy. And that’s not me.”
“I’ll say,” the ghost chimed in.
“So we’re going to forget about this,” Alex continued. “No discussions, no repeat performances. If you want to find some other contractor for the remodel, I’ll totally understand. In fact—”
“No,” the ghost protested.
“I want you,” Zoë said, and blushed hard. “I mean, you’re the right person for the job.”
“You haven’t even seen the designs yet,” Alex said.
The ghost circled them. “You can’t quit. I need to spend time at that cottage.”
Shove it, Alex thought.
Scowling, the ghost folded his arms and went to lean against the pantry door.
Zoë picked up a few of the pages from the table, studying them.
Alex closed the first-aid kit. “That’s how the kitchen will look after the interior wall is taken out and replaced by an island.” He had added as much storage as possible, as well as a row of windows that let in abundant natural light.
“I love how open it is,” Zoë said. “And the island is perfect. Can people sit on this side?”
“Yes, you can line up about four bar stools.” Alex leaned closer to point to the next page. “Here’s the configuration on the other side—the microwave drawer, a spice drawer, and a swing-up mixer lift.”
“I’ve always wanted a mixer lift,” Zoë said wistfully. “But all of this looks expensive.”
“I listed stock cabinets in the specs—they’re a lot cheaper than custom. And I’ve got a supplier who deals in surplus building materials, so we can save on the countertops. If the wood flooring is salvageable, that’ll cut down on costs, too.”
Zoë picked up more pages from the table. “What’s this?” She held up a design of the second bedroom. “There’s a walk-in closet here, isn’t there?”
He nodded. “I included an option for converting that into a full bath.”
“A full bathroom in that little space?” Zoë asked.
“Yeah, it’s tight.” Alex reached over to find the design for the bathroom. He handed it to her. “No room for a cabinet. But I could put a recessed set of shelves in the wall for towels and supplies. I thought …” He hesitated. “I thought living so close with your grandmother, you’d probably like to have a little privacy instead of having to share the main bathroom with her.”
Zoë continued to look over the rendering. “It’s even better than I’d hoped for. How long would it take to get all of this done?”
“Three months, give or take.”
A frown puckered her forehead. “My grandmother will leave the nursing facility in a month. I can afford to pay for her to stay an extra couple of weeks, but probably no more than that.”
“Could she stay at the inn?”
“It’s not set up for her. Too many stairs. And every time we can’t rent out a room, it’s a loss of income. Especially during the summer.”
Alex drummed his fingers lightly on the table, calculating. “I could delay the garage and get some of the subcontractors working simultaneously … in six weeks I could make the house livable. But most of the finish work—moldings, casings, paint, would still have to be done. Not to mention replacing the air-conditioning. Your grandmother probably wouldn’t take well to all the noise and activity.”
“She’ll be fine,” Zoë said. “As long as the kitchen and main bathroom are done, we’ll put up with anything.”
Alex gave her a skeptical glance.
“You don’t know my grandmother,” Zoë said. “She loves noise and activity. She used to be a reporter for the Bellingham Herald during the war, before she got married.”
“That’s cool,” Alex said, meaning it. “Back in those days, a woman who wrote for a newspaper was probably a …”
“Hot tomato,” the ghost said.
“… hot tomato,” Alex repeated, and then snapped his mouth shut, feeling like an idiot. He sent the ghost a discreet glare. Hot tomato—what did that even mean?
Zoë smiled quizzically at the old-fashioned phrase. “Yes, I think she was.”
The ghost told Alex, “Ask how her grandmother is.”
“I was going to,” Alex muttered.
Zoë looked up from the design. “Hmm?”
“I was going to ask,” Alex said, “about how your grandmother’s doing.”
“The therapy is helping. She’s tired of staying in the nursing facility, and she’s impatient to move out. She loves the island—she hasn’t lived here in a very long time.”
“She used to live in Friday Harbor?”
“Yes, the cottage is hers—it’s been in the family forever. But my grandmother actually grew up at that house on Rain-shadow Road. The one you’re helping Sam restore.” Seeing Alex’s interest, she continued, “The Stewarts—that’s her family—owned a fish-canning business on the island. But they sold the Rainshadow house a long time before I was born—I’d never set foot in there until I went to visit Lucy.”
Hearing an imprecation from the ghost, Alex glanced at him quickly.
The ghost looked stunned and worried and excited. “Alex,” he said, “it’s all connected. The grandmother, Rainshadow Road, the cottage. I’ve got to find out how I fit in.”
Alex gave him a short nod.
“Don’t screw this up,” the ghost said.
“Okay,” Alex muttered, wanting him to shut up.
Zoë gave him a questioning glance.
“It’s okay,” Alex revised hastily, “if you want to bring her to Rainshadow Road for a visit. She might get a kick out of seeing it restored.”
“Thank you. I think she would. I’m going to visit her this weekend, and I’ll let her know. It’ll give her something to look forward to.”
“Good.” Alex watched her as she continued to look over the renderings. It struck him that she was doing something remarkably selfless in sacrificing a year or more of her life to take care of an ailing grandparent. Was she going to have some help? Who was going to watch over Zoë? “Hey,” he said softly. “You got someone to give you a hand with this? Taking care of your grandmother, I mean.”
“I have Justine. And a lot of friends.”
“What about your parents?”
Zoë shrugged in the way people did when they were trying to gloss over something unpleasant. “My father lives in Arizona. He and I aren’t close. And I don’t even remember my mother. She bailed on us when I was still pretty young. So my dad gave me to my grandmother to raise.”
“What’s her name?” the ghost asked in wonder.
“What’s your grandmother’s name?” Alex asked Zoë, feeling like he was playing the old telephone game in which a sentence was repeated until it no longer made sense.
“Emma. Actually, it’s Emmaline.” Zoë pronounced the last syllable “lin,” as if there were no e at the end. “She took me in when my dad moved to Arizona. She was a widow at the time. I remember the day Dad dropped me off at her house in Everett—I was crying, and Upsie was so sweet to me—”
“Upsie?”
“When I was little,” Zoë explained sheepishly, “she would always say, ‘Upsie-daisy,’ when she picked me up … so I started calling her that. Anyway, when my dad left me with her, she took me into the kitchen and stood me on a chair at the counter, and we made biscuits together. She showed me how to dip the biscuit cutter in flour, so the circles of dough would come out perfectly.”
“My mother made biscuits sometimes,” Alex said, before he thought better of it. He wasn’t in the habit of revealing anything about his past to anyone.
“From scratch or from a mix?”
“From a can. I liked to watch her hit it against the countertop until it split open.” Zoë looked so horrified that he was privately amused. “They weren’t bad biscuits,” he told her.
“I’ll make you some buttermilk biscuits right now,” she said. “I could whip them up in no time.”
He shook his head as he stood from the table.
Standing in the fragrant kitchen with its cherry-print wallpaper, Alex watched as Zoë went to retrieve her apron from where it had landed on the floor earlier. She bent over, her denim capris stretching over a perfect heart-shaped bottom. That was all it took to make him want her again. He had the insane urge to go to her, take her in his arms, and hold her, just hold her and breathe her soft fragrance while the minutes bit through a long quiet hour.
He was tired of denying himself the things he wanted, and of being haunted, and most of all he was tired of picking up the pieces of his life and discovering that most of them were pieces he didn’t even want. He’d learned nothing from his failed marriage with Darcy. They had always done what was necessary to satisfy their own selfish needs, taking without giving, knowing it was impossible to hurt each other because the worst hurts had already been inflicted.
“Take a few days to look at this stuff,” he told Zoë as she returned to the table. “Talk it over with Justine. You’ve got my e-mail and phone numbers if you need to ask something. Otherwise I’ll be in touch at the beginning of next week.” He glanced at the bandage on her arm. “Keep an eye on that. If it starts to look infected—” He stopped abruptly.
Zoë smiled slightly as she looked up at him. “You’ll put another Band-Aid on it?”
Alex didn’t smile back.
He needed to numb out. He needed to drink until there were a half-dozen layers of smoked glass between him and the rest of the world.
Turning away from her, he picked up his keys and wallet. “See you,” he said curtly, and left without looking back.
Twelve
“Well, that was fun,” the ghost said, as Alex took a right on Spring Street and headed to San Juan Valley Road. “Where are we going now?”
“Sam’s place.”
“We’re going to clear out more of the attic?”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?”
Exasperated by the constant necessity of having to explain his every move, Alex said, “I want to catch up with my brother. I haven’t talked to him in a while. That okay with you?”
“Are you going to tell him about doing the remodeling for Zoë?”
“Justine may have mentioned it to him already. But if she hasn’t, then no, I’m not going to say anything.”
“How come? It’s not like it’s a big secret.”
“It’s not a done deal,” Alex said tersely. “I may back out.”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me.” Alex found perverse satisfaction in riling the ghost.
He expected all kinds of arguments and insults. But the ghost was silent as the truck headed out of the commercial district.
Alex visited Rainshadow Road to help Sam install a pair of carriage lantern sconces on a fireplace wall paved with antique handmade bricks. As they worked, an English bulldog named Renfield sat on a cushion in the corner and watched them with bulging eyes and an open drooling mouth. Renfield had been a rescue dog, with such abundant health problems that no one had wanted him. Somehow Mark’s girlfriend, Maggie, had sweet-talked him into taking in the dog, and although Sam had initially protested, he had eventually caved as well.
It was hardly a surprise that Renfield paid no attention to the presence of a ghost in the room. “I thought dogs were supposed to have a sixth sense about supernatural beings,” the ghost had once remarked to Alex.
“On his best day,” Alex had replied, “he’s only got about three senses working right.”
As they worked together on the installation, it was clear that Sam was in the kind of relaxed good mood that could only have come from recently getting laid. As the ghost had predicted, Sam was falling for Lucy Marinn in a major way, although Sam was determined to view it as one of his usual no-commitment deals. “I hit the jackpot with this girl,” Sam told Alex. “She is sweet, sexy, smart, and she’s fine with having a casual relationship.”
It had been a long time since Alex had seen his brother as preoccupied with a woman as he was with Lucy Marinn. Maybe never. Sam always played it cool, never letting his feelings—or anyone else’s—get the better of him.
“This casual relationship involves sex?”
“It involves great sex. Like, an hour after we’re done, my body is still saying ‘thank you.’ And Lucy doesn’t want commitment any more than I do.”
“Good luck with that,” Alex said. Leveling a light fixture against the wall, he used a chalk pencil to mark the screw hole locations.
Sam’s enthusiasm dimmed visibly. “What do you mean?”
“Ninety-nine percent of the women who say they don’t want commitment either secretly do want it, or at least they want you to want it.”
“Are you saying Lucy’s playing me?”
“It could be even worse than that. She could be sincere in thinking she can handle being a jump-off, when in reality she’s not equipped for it. In which case—”
“What’s a jump-off?”
“A woman you’re having a no-strings relationship with. As in, you have sex with her, and then—”
“You jump off.” Sam scowled. “Don’t call Lucy that. And the next time you ask me how my life is going, remind me not to tell you.”
“I didn’t ask you how your life was going. I asked you to pass me the half-inch masonry bit.”
“Here,” Sam said in annoyance, giving him the drill bit.
For the next couple of minutes, Alex drille
d pilot holes in the brick and vacuumed the dust out of them. Sam held the light fixture in place as Alex connected the wiring, inserted sleeve anchors into the carriage lantern, and tapped them into the pilot holes. He tightened it with a few deft twists of a wrench.
“Looks good,” Sam said. “Let me try the other one.”
Alex nodded and picked up the second lantern to hold it against the brick.
“There’s something I wanted to mention,” Sam said casually. “Mark and Maggie set the wedding date for mid-August. And Mark just asked me to be the best man. Hope that’s okay with you.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well, he could only ask one of us. And I guess since I’m the next oldest—”
“You think I might have wanted to be the best man?”Alex interrupted with a brief, sardonic laugh. “You and Mark have been raising Holly together. Of course you should be the best man. It’ll be a miracle if I show up at all.”
“You have to,” Sam said in concern. “For Mark’s sake.”
“I know. But I hate weddings.”
“Because of Darcy?”
“Because a wedding is a ceremony where a symbolic virgin surrounded by women in ugly dresses marries a hungover groom accompanied by friends he hasn’t seen in years but made them show up anyway. After that, there’s a reception where the guests are held hostage for two hours with nothing to eat except lukewarm chicken winglets or those weird coated almonds, and the DJ tries to brainwash everyone into doing the electric slide and the Macarena, which some drunk idiots always go for. The only good part about a wedding is the free booze.”
“Can you say that again?” Sam asked. “Because I might want to write it down and use it as part of my speech.”
The ghost, who was in the corner of the room, sat with his head resting on his bent knees.
Finishing the wiring for the second sconce, Sam attached it to the brick, tightened the anchor sleeves, and stood back to view his handiwork. “Thanks, Al. You want some lunch? I’ve got some sandwich stuff in the fridge.”
