Dream Lake

by Lisa Kleypas

  “You’ll still be you. You’ll just need a little more help. I’ll be there to remind you of things.” At her grandmother’s silence, Zoë said softly, “I’ve got to go, Upsie. I’ll call you later today. In the meantime, you’d better start packing. I’m coming to get you the day after tomorrow.”

  “The day after tomorrow,” her grandmother repeated. “Bye, Zoë.”

  “Bye. Love you.”

  Ending the conversation, Zoë slid the phone into her back pocket and stirred some sugar into Alex’s coffee. She handed it to him.

  “Thanks.” His face was unreadable as he looked down at her.

  Zoë’s throat was so tight that she wasn’t sure she could talk.

  Seeming to understand, Alex filled the silence by saying easily, “I’ve already loaded the boxes into the pickup. I’ll take you and Justine to the cottage, and you can start putting away the dishes and books and that stuff. When Duane gets there, we’ll hitch up the trailer and move the furniture from storage.” He paused to take a swallow of coffee, his gaze sweeping briefly over her.

  Zoë had dressed in a pair of jeans, a shapeless T-shirt, and a pair of old sneakers. And unlike Justine, who was slender and long-stemmed no matter what she wore, Zoë didn’t have the figure for baggy clothes. On a woman with her breasts and hips, anything that didn’t fit well was unflattering.

  “This outfit makes me look dumpy,” Zoë said, and was instantly annoyed with herself. “Forget I just said that,” she told him before he could reply. “I’m not fishing for compliments, I’m just feeling insecure. About everything.”

  “It’s normal to feel that way,” Alex said, “when you’re facing a lot of challenges. But ‘dumpy’ is never a word that could apply to you.” He drained the coffee cup and set it down. “And if you need a compliment … you’re a great cook.”

  “Can you tell me one that’s not about my cooking?” she asked wistfully.

  That almost made him smile—she could see the subtle deepening at the corners of his mouth. “You,” he said after a moment, “are the kindest person I’ve ever known.”

  Before Zoë could recover from that, he started for the door. “Get your bag,” he said in an offhand tone. “I’ll take you to Dream Lake.”

  The cottage on Dream Lake Road was spotless and light-filled and beautiful, the rows of new casement windows glittering in the sunshine. It smelled agreeably of fresh paint and scrubbed wood. They carried boxes inside, Alex taking two heavy crates of dishes to the new kitchen island. Following him, Zoë was surprised to see the retro dining set, finished with a gleaming coat of new silver chrome, the chairs reupholstered with liqht aqua vinyl that approximated the original hue. She set down the box she was carrying and stared at the dining set in amazement. “You restored it,” she said, running her fingers over the shiny white tabletop.

  Alex shrugged. “Just gave it a few shots of chrome spray.”

  She wasn’t fooled by his nonchalance. “You did a lot more than that.”

  “I worked on it now and then when I needed distraction. You don’t have to use it, by the way. You can sell it and use the money for another dining set.”

  “No, I love this. It’s perfect.”

  “It goes with your bowling lockers,” he agreed.

  Zoë grinned. “Are you making fun of my decorating style?”

  “No, I like it.” Seeing her dubious expression, he added, “Really. It’s cute.”

  Her smile lingered. “I suppose your decorating style is very tasteful.”

  “It’s impersonal,” he said. “Darcy always said that no one would ever be able to tell a thing about either of us by looking at our house. I kind of liked it that way.”

  Noticing a couple of objects in the center of the table, Zoë picked one up. It was a little plastic strap with a buckle, and something that looked like a miniature transmitter. “What is this?”

  “It’s for the cat.” He retrieved the other object on the table, a tiny remote control of some kind, and showed it to her. “This goes with it.”

  She shook her head, mystified. “Thank you, but … Byron doesn’t need a shock collar.”

  That drew a brief grin from him. “It’s not a shock collar.” Taking her by the shoulders, he steered her to the door that led to the back patio. “It’s for that.”

  A small Plexiglas square in a frame had been set into the wall beside the main door. Alex pressed a button on the remote control, and the clear pane slid upward with a quiet whoosh.

  Her mouth fell open. “You … you put in a cat door?”

  “The collar will activate it automatically, but only when Byron approaches directly. So nothing else will get in, including spiders.” At Zoë’s silence, he added, “It’s a gift. I figured you’d be busy enough with your grandmother, you didn’t need to be opening the door a dozen times a day for a cat.” Alex pointed to a sticky note on a nearby cabinet. “Those are directions for how to use it. The instruction manual is in the—” He broke off as Zoë reached for him. Reflexively he snatched her wrists in his hands before she could put them around his neck. The remote control clattered to the floor.

  “I was just going to hug you,” Zoë said on a breath of laughter. No gift had ever pleased her as much. She was too filled with delight to be cautious.

  His grip on her wrists was gentle but inexorable. His face had gone taut, grim, as if he’d just found himself in mortal danger.

  “One hug,” she whispered, smiling.

  Alex shook his head slightly.

  Zoë watched, fascinated, as a band of color crossed the crests of his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. The front of his throat rippled with a swallow. How remarkable his eyes were, striations running through the light blue-green irises like spokes of starlight. He looked at her as if he wanted to eat her alive. And instead of being nervous, she was filled with giddy excitement.

  Since he was still holding her arms, she lifted on her toes and leaned close, until her lips caught gently at his. She kept her wrists yielding in his grip, understanding that he was fighting some inner battle. She sensed the moment that he lost. Slowly he brought her hands behind her back, pressing them toward the base of her spine until her breasts were arched upward. His mouth came to hers. He held her in a way that made movement impossible—she could only answer him with her mouth, her lips clinging desperately.

  Still kissing her, he let go of her wrists and lifted his hands to her face, cradling her cheeks. He seemed determined to pull in every sensation and make it last forever. Neither of them was rational, there was no room left for thought. Only for feeling. Only for wanting. Zoë reached under his T-shirt until the skin of his back was against her palms. She drew them slowly along the muscles on either side of his spine. He reacted with a quiet grunt and pushed her back against the edge of the wooden countertop, and tugged the front of her shirt upward. His breath was rough, but his hands were gentle on her breasts, squeezing and stroking as he kissed her. He licked inside her mouth, hot and deep. His fingers slipped beneath the top edge of her bra until his knuckles brushed a sensitive peak. The tender flesh went tight, and she felt the sweet ache of his touch all through her. He caught the tip and tugged, gently harrowing until the pleasure made her writhe. She struggled to get closer to him, rising on her toes, while he kissed her as if he were feeding on her, open-mouthed and wet and slow—

  Someone opened the front door.

  Too startled to react, Zoë felt Alex yank her shirt back down. He grabbed a box from the island and carried it to the counter area near the sink.

  “We’re here,” Justine announced, shouldering her way inside the cottage with a box in her arms. “Duane’s right behind me. Wow. Would you look at this place. Fantastic!”

  It was difficult to think past the cloud of dream-colored heat that surrounded her. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Zoë asked, feeling swoony and unsteady as she retrieved the tiny remote control from the floor.

  “It’s beautiful and a great investment,” Justine replied
. “I’ll have no trouble renting this place out someday. Nice work, Alex.”

  “Thanks,” he muttered, using a jackknife to open the box.

  “Out of breath already, old man?” Justine asked with a grin. “It’s a good thing Duane’s here to help with the heavy lifting.”

  “Look at this, Justine,” Zoë said hastily, before Alex could say a word. “Alex installed a special door for Byron.”

  The electronic pet door was duly admired, while Duane entered the cottage with another couple of boxes.

  Duane was a good-hearted man who attended his biker church regularly. He tended to be rowdy and impulsive, but he was loyal to his friends and always ready to help someone in need. His appearance was so intimidating—muscle-bulked arms protruding from leather vests, both arms sleeved with tattoos from wrist to shoulder, his face half obscured with boot-shaped sideburns—that it had taken Zoë a while to feel comfortable around him. But he seemed devoted to Justine, with whom he’d been going out for almost a year.

  “I’m not the falling-in-love type,” Justine had once told her breezily, when Zoë had asked if the relationship with Duane might deepen into something permanent.

  “You mean you’re leery of falling in love, or is there something about Duane—”

  “Oh, I’m not leery of it. And Duane is great. It’s just that I can’t love anyone.”

  “You’re a very loving person,” Zoë had protested.

  “To friends and family, yes. But I can’t love someone in the romantic way you’re talking about.”

  “But you have sex,” Zoë had said, bemused.

  “Well, sure. People can have sex without love, you know.”

  “Someday,” Zoë had said wistfully, “it would be nice to try both at the same time.”

  More labeled boxes were brought in, including those containing Emma’s belongings. After Alex and Duane had left to get the furniture out of storage, Justine and Zoë unpacked shoes and handbags. They put them away on the shoe racks and shelves in the closet of the main bedroom. “I don’t remember all these built-ins being listed on the invoice,” Justine said. “It looks like Alex has been doing some extra work around here. Have you paid him on the side?”

  “No, he did it without even asking,” Zoë said. “He really wants to make the house comfortable for Emma.”

  Justine’s mouth twisted with wry amusement. “I don’t think Emma was the one he did it for. Is there something going on between you and the human iceberg?”

  “No, nothing at all,” Zoë said emphatically.

  Justine’s brows lifted. “I would have believed you if you said ‘a little flirtation here and there,’ or ‘we’ve gotten to be friends.’ But ‘nothing at all’ … nope, I’m not buying it. I’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is noticing.”

  “What way?”

  “Like he’s a starving climber who’s just been rescued after three days with no supplies, and you’re a Cinnabon.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Zoë said.

  “Okay.” Justine continued lining up shoes.

  After a moment, Zoë burst out, “It’s not going to go beyond kissing. He’s made that clear.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, because you already know my opinion.” Justine began to open another box.

  “He’s a better man than you think he is,” Zoë couldn’t resist saying. “He’s a better man than he thinks he is.”

  “Don’t do it, Zoë.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. You’re thinking about doing it, and you’re trying to find all kinds of ways to justify it because of your attraction to emotionally unavailable men.”

  “The other day,” Zoë retorted, “you told me that you were emotionally unavailable to men. Does that mean no one should have sex with you?”

  “No, it means only a certain kind of man should have sex with me, or he’s going to get burned. And if he does, it’s his own fault.”

  “Fine. If I get burned as a result of becoming involved with Alex, or anyone, I won’t ask for your sympathy.” Zoë’s irritable tone caused Justine to glance at her in surprise.

  “Hey, I’m on your side.”

  “I know that. And I’m even pretty sure you’re right. But it still feels like I’m being bossed around.”

  Justine pulled shoes out of the box. “Doesn’t matter anyway,” she said after a moment. “You’re going to be so busy with Emma, you won’t have the time to fool around with Alex.”

  Later Duane and Alex carried furniture and mattresses into the house and set various pieces where Zoë indicated. The afternoon sun was ripening by the time the heavy work had been completed. Now it was just a matter of putting an array of smaller items in their places, which Zoë would finish tomorrow.

  Alex carried Zoë’s old dressmaker’s mannequin into the smaller bedroom, which hadn’t yet been painted. He unwrapped the mover’s blanket from around the mannequin. It was richly covered in a treasure garden of brooches made with crystals, gemstones, enamel, or painted lacquer. “Where do you want this?” he asked Zoë.

  “That corner is fine.” Zoë had left most of her brooch collection pinned to the mannequin, having only removed about a half dozen of the more valuable ones. Taking them out of her bag, she went to pin them back onto the mannequin.

  “I’m sorry this room isn’t finished yet.” He frowned as he glanced around the small space. The carpeting was new, but the room still had to be repainted and the old light fixtures replaced. Although a new wall-to-wall closet had been framed, it hadn’t been drywalled or fitted with doors.

  “You’ve done an amazing amount of work,” Zoë replied. “And the most important things were the kitchen and my grandmother’s room, which are beautiful.” Scrutinizing the mannequin, Zoë pinned a brooch on an empty space. “I’m either going to have to stop collecting,” she said, “or get another mannequin.”

  Alex stood next to her, looking over the array of jewelry. “When did you start the collection?”

  “When I was sixteen. My grandmother gave this to me for my birthday.” She showed him a flower covered with crystals. “And I bought this to celebrate graduating from culinary school.” She held up a red enameled lobster with gold antennae before fastening it to the mannequin’s chest.

  “What about that one?”Alex asked, looking at an antique gold-framed ivory cameo.

  “A wedding present from Chris.” She smiled. “He told me if you own a cameo for seven years, it becomes a lucky charm.”

  “You’re due for some luck,” he said.

  “I think people don’t always know when lucky things are happening to them. Or they only realize it later. Like the divorce from Chris. It turned out to be the best thing for both of us.”

  “That wasn’t luck. That was bailing out after a mistake.”

  She made a little face at him. “I try not to think of the marriage as a mistake, but more like something fate put in my path. To help me learn, and grow.”

  “What did you learn?” he asked with a mocking gleam in his eyes.

  “How to be better at forgiving. How to be more independent.”

  “Don’t you think you could have learned that stuff without some higher power putting you through a divorce?”

  “You probably don’t even believe in a higher power.”

  He shrugged. “Existentialism has always made a lot more sense to me than fate, God, or chance.”

  “I’ve never been sure exactly what existentialism is,” Zoë confessed.

  “It’s knowing the world is crazy and meaningless, so you have to find your own truth. Your own meaning. Because nothing else makes sense. No higher power, just human beings stumbling through life.”

  “But … does having no faith make you happier?” she asked doubtfully.

  “To existentialists, you can only be happy if you can manage to live in a state of denial about the absurdity of human existence. So … happiness is out.”


  “That’s horrible,” Zoë said, laughing. “And way too deep for me. I like things I can be sure of. Like recipes. I know that the right amount of baking powder makes a cake rise. And eggs bind the other ingredients together. And life is basically good, and so are most people, and chocolate is proof that God wants us to be happy. See? My mind works on the most superficial level possible.”

  “I like how your mind works.” As he held her gaze, there was a brief, hot flicker in his eyes. “Call if you have any problems,” he said. “Otherwise I won’t see you for a couple of days.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of bothering you during your time off. You’ve worked practically nonstop since the project started.”

  “It’s no hardship to work,” he said, “when I’m being paid well.”

  “I appreciate it anyway.”

  “I’ll come to the cottage on Monday. From now on I won’t start until about ten, so your grandmother will have time to get up and have breakfast before all the noise starts.”

  “Will Gavin and Isaac come with you?”

  “No. Just me, that first week. I don’t want to overwhelm Emma with too many new faces all at once.”

  Zoë was touched and a little surprised by the realization that Alex had considered her grandmother’s feelings so carefully. “What are you going to do this weekend?” she asked, obliging Alex to stop at the doorway.

  He gave her an opaque glance. “Darcy’s visiting. She wants to stage the house to sell faster.”

  “I thought you said it was already impersonal. Isn’t that the point of staging?”

  “Apparently not always. Darcy’s bringing an expert in target staging. The theory is that you’re supposed to fill the house with colors and objects that make potential buyers connect emotionally with the place.”

  “Do you think that will work?”

  He shrugged. “Regardless of what I think, it’s Darcy’s house.”

  So Alex would be spending at least part of the weekend, if not all of it, in the company of his ex-wife. Zoë remembered what he’d once told her, that he and Darcy had slept together after the divorce out of sheer convenience. It would probably happen again, she thought, while depression settled over on her. There was no reason for Alex to turn down an offer of sex if Darcy was willing.