Dream Lake

by Lisa Kleypas

  You still do, Alex thought. He wanted to go to her, put his arms around her, tell her that with him she never had to pretend something she didn’t feel. It took the force of his entire will to stay where he was.

  The ghost spoke gruffly. “Ask her about this.”

  The last picture on the shelf was a wedding portrait. Emma, young and attractive and unsmiling. And the groom, James Augustus Hoffman Sr. … stalwart and heavy-jawed. His resemblance to his son was unmistakable.

  “This was your grandpa Gus?” Alex asked.

  “Yes. He wore glasses later on. They made him look just like Clark Kent.”

  “Is that me?” the ghost asked in a hushed tone, staring at the photo.

  Alex shook his head. The ghost, with his lean face and dark-eyed handsomeness, wasn’t at all similar to Gus Hoffman.

  The ghost looked torn between relief and frustration. “Then who the hell am I?”

  Alex straightened the pictures on the shelf with care. When he looked up from the task, the ghost had gone to Emma’s room.

  Feeling uneasy, Alex went to the kitchen island and sat on a bar stool. He hoped to hell the ghost wasn’t going to scare Emma into a damned heart attack. “Who made breakfast at the inn this morning?” he asked Zoë.

  “Justine and I have a couple of friends who like to help out and make a little extra money now and then … so I put some breakfast casseroles in the freezer and left instructions for heating everything.”

  “You’re going to wear yourself out,” Alex said, watching her spoon the apple crisp, with its crumbly browned topping, into two bowls. “You need to rest.”

  She smiled at him. “Look who’s talking.”

  “How much sleep have you been getting?”

  “Probably more than you,” she said.

  In a couple of minutes they were sitting side by side at the island, and Zoë was telling him about bringing her grandmother over on the ferry, and how much she had liked the cottage, and about the variety of medications she was taking. And while she talked, Alex ate. The oatmeal topping crumbled between his teeth with a crunch that quickly turned into something marvelously chewy and melting, a tart ambrosia of apples inflected with cinnamon and a zing of orange.

  “I would ask for this on death row,” Alex told her, and although he hadn’t meant it to be funny, she laughed.

  The sound of the pet door heralded Byron’s entrance from outside, the massive cat sauntering into the kitchen as if he owned the place.

  “The cat door is working perfectly, as you can see,” Zoë said. “I didn’t even have to train Byron—he knew exactly what to do.” She sent a fond look to the Persian, who wandered into the living room and jumped onto the sofa. “If only the collar wasn’t so ugly. Would it cause any technical problems if I decorate it?”

  “No. But don’t decorate it. Leave him some dignity.”

  “Just a few sequins.”

  “It’s a cat, Zoë. Not a showgirl.”

  “Byron likes being decorated.”

  Alex gave her an apprehensive glance. “You don’t ever dress him up in little outfits. You’re not one of those people.”

  “No,” she said instantly.

  “Good.”

  “Maybe just one little Santa’s helper outfit around Christmas.” She paused. “And last Halloween I dressed him in a—”

  “Don’t tell me any more,” Alex said, trying not to laugh. “Please.”

  “You’re smiling.”

  “I’m gritting my teeth,” he said.

  “It’s a smile,” Zoë insisted cheerfully.

  It wasn’t until midway through another serving that Alex wondered about the ghost and Emma. The door of the main bedroom was closed, no sound or movement of any kind. But Alex became aware of a free-floating sweetness filling the air, an elation that surrounded them until he couldn’t avoid breathing it in, absorbing it in his pores. The feeling was made even more potent by its complexity, just as a pinch of salt enhanced the flavors of a cake. The swirling, dizzying joy made his chest uncomfortably tight, as if it were being pried open. He looked down, fiercely concentrating on the wood grain of the butcher-block countertop.

  Don’t, he thought, without even knowing whom he was saying it to.

  Emma.

  The ghost approached the sleeping figure on the bed, the delicacy of her skin illuminated by a spill of morning light from the half-shuttered windows. She was still beautiful … it was there in the structure of her bones, the skin embossed with thousands of joys and sorrows that he hadn’t been there to share. Had he been able to share a life with her, his face would have been sketched with the same stories, the same inscriptions of time. To wear your life on your face … what an amazing gift.

  “Hiya,” he whispered, looking down at her.

  Her lashes flickered. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, and for a moment he thought she might be able to see him. Anxious joy awakened.

  “Emma?” he said quietly.

  She got out of bed, her body slim and fragile in a set of lace-trimmed pajamas. Going to the window, she stared outside at the view. Her hands fluttered and went to her eyes, and a sob escaped through her fingers. The sound would have broken his heart, if he’d had one. As it was, the sight of the tears shining in the light nearly shattered the soul that he was.

  “Don’t cry,” he said urgently, even though she couldn’t hear him. “Don’t be upset. My God, I love you. I’ve always—”

  Her breathing took on the velocity of panic. She limped to the door, crying harder with each step.

  “Emma. Be careful, don’t fall—” Flooded with grief and worry, the ghost followed her into the main room.

  Alex and Zoë were sitting at the island. Their heads lifted at the same time as Emma staggered forward.

  Zoë’s face went white with alarm. She jumped from the bar stool and rushed to her grandmother. “Upsie, what happened? Did you have a bad dream?”

  “Why are we here?” Emma sobbed, trembling. “How did I get here?”

  “You came with me yesterday. We’re going to live here together. We talked about it, Upsie—”

  “I can’t. Take me home. I want to go h-home.” Emma could barely speak through the sobs.

  “This is home,” Zoë said softly. “All your things are here. Let me show you—”

  “Don’t touch me!” Emma retreated to the corner, growing more distraught with every passing moment.

  Alex gave the ghost a hard look. “What did you do to her?”

  Although the muttered words had been intended for the ghost, Zoë replied. “She hasn’t had her medicine this morning. Maybe I shouldn’t have waited—”

  “No, not you,” Alex said impatiently, and Zoë blinked in confusion.

  “She can’t see or hear me,” the ghost said. “I don’t know what started this. Help her. Do something.”

  “Upsie, please come sit down,” Zoë begged, reaching for her, but Emma swatted at her hands and shook her head wildly.

  Alex moved forward, approaching Emma.

  “Be careful,” the ghost snapped. “She doesn’t know you.”

  Alex ignored him. The contrast between them—Alex, so physically powerful, Emma, frail and shivering—alarmed the ghost. For a moment he thought Alex might physically restrain Emma or do something to scare her. Perhaps Zoë thought the same thing, because she put a hand on his arm and began to say something.

  But Alex was entirely focused on the older woman. “Mrs. Hoffman. I’m Alex. I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

  The unfamiliar voice drew Emma’s attention. She looked at him with startled wet eyes, her chest heaving with a few hiccupping sobs.

  “I’ve been working on this place to get it ready for you,” Alex continued. “I’m the woodwork guy. And I’ve been helping my brother restore the old Victorian at Rainshadow Road. You used to live there, right?” He paused, a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. “I usually play music while I’m working. Want to hear one of my favorites?”

>   To the ghost’s astonishment, and Zoë’s, Emma nodded and wiped her eyes.

  Alex drew the phone from his pocket, fiddled with it for a few seconds, and turned up the micro speaker volume. Johnny Cash’s baritone seeped through the air in a raggedy, melancholy version of “We’ll Meet Again.”

  Emma stared at Alex in wonder. Her tears stopped, and the sobs eased into unsteady sighs. Alex held her gaze as they listened to the first few bars of the song. And then, incredibly, he sang a bar or two, his voice soft but true.

  Zoë shook her head, watching as if hypnotized.

  Alex smiled and extended a hand to Emma. She took it as if she’d just walked into a dream. He drew her closer, and put his arm around her. The music hung in the air like floating ribbons as the pair moved in a shuffling foxtrot, with Alex being mindful of Emma’s weaker left leg.

  A young man trying to forget his past … an old woman trying desperately to remember hers … but somehow they had found a connection in this liminal moment.

  The ghost was spellbound. Disbelieving. He’d gotten to know Alex so thoroughly that he would have sworn nothing could surprise him. But he had never expected this.

  Alex, lowering his cheek to Emma’s hair. Holding her with a tenderness he must have carried in some secret cache in his heart. Emma leaned into the vibration of his low crooning.

  The ghost remembered dancing with Emma at a nighttime party held outdoors. The dance area had been lit with strings of little painted metal lanterns.

  “I don’t really like this song,” Emma had said.

  “You told me it was your favorite.”

  “It’s beautiful. But it always makes me sad.”

  “Why, love?” he’d asked gently. “It’s about finding each other again. About someone coming home.”

  Emma had lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him earnestly. “It’s about losing someone, and having to wait until you’re together in heaven.”

  “There’s nothing in the lyrics about heaven,” he’d said.

  “But that’s what it means. I can’t bear the idea of being separated from you, for a lifetime or a year or even a day. So you mustn’t go to heaven without me.”

  “Of course not,” he had whispered. “It wouldn’t be heaven without you.”

  What had happened to them? Why hadn’t they married? He couldn’t fathom that he would have left to fight in the war without first having made Emma his wife. He must have proposed to her … in fact, he felt sure that he had. Maybe she had refused him. Maybe her family had stood in the way. But he and Emma had loved each other so much, it seemed impossible that any force on earth could have kept them apart. Something had gone unspeakably wrong, and he had to figure out what it was.

  The song finished with a near spectral chorus of voices. Slowly Alex lifted his head and looked down at Emma.

  “He used to sing that to me,” she told him.

  “I know,” Alex whispered.

  She squeezed his fingers until the veins showed on the back of her hand like delicate blue lace.

  Zoë came forward to slip an arm around her grandmother’s shoulders, pausing only to tell Alex in a distracted tone, “Thank you.”

  “No problem.”

  As Zoë guided her to a chair at the dining table, Emma said, “You were right, Zoë. He does have big muscles.”

  Zoë darted a mortified glance at Alex. “I didn’t say that,” she protested. “I mean, I did, but—”

  His brows lifted into mocking arcs.

  “What I mean is,” Zoë said awkwardly, “I don’t sit around discussing the size of your—” She broke off and went crimson.

  Alex averted his face to hide a grin. “I’ll get my tools from the truck,” he said.

  The ghost followed him outside.

  “Thanks,” the ghost said, as Alex hefted a couple of tool buckets from the back of the truck. “For taking care of Emma.”

  Alex set the buckets on the ground and faced him. “What happened?”

  “She woke up distraught. I don’t know why.”

  “You sure she can’t see or hear you?”

  “I’m sure. Why did you play that song for her?”

  “Because it’s your favorite.”

  “How did you know that?”

  Alex looked sardonic. “You sing it all the time. Why do you look so pissed off?”

  After a long moment, the ghost said morosely, “You got to hold her.”

  “Oh.” Alex’s face changed. He gave the ghost a sympathetic glance, as if he understood the torture it was to be so close to the person you loved beyond anything, and yet not be able to touch her. To comprehend that you were only a shadow, an outline, of the physical being you once had been.

  In the yearning silence, Alex said, “She smells like rose perfume and hairspray and the air just after it rains.”

  The ghost drew closer, hanging on to every word.

  “She has the softest hands of anyone I’ve ever met,” Alex said. “They’re a little cool, the way some women’s are. And her bones are as light as a bird’s. I could tell she used to be a good dancer—if it wasn’t for her weak leg, she’d still be able to move well.” He paused. “She has a great smile. Her eyes light up. I’ll bet she was as fun as hell when you knew her.”

  The ghost nodded, comforted.

  Zoë served breakfast to her grandmother and went to the bathroom for her medication. She saw her reflection in the mirror, cheeks too red, eyes too bright. She felt as if she had to relearn how to breathe.

  Thirty-two bars of music. The length of an average song. That was all the time it had taken for the earth to spin off its axis and go tumbling into a net of stars.

  She loved Alex Nolan.

  She loved him for every reason and no reason.

  “You are everything that’s ever been my favorite thing,” she wanted to tell him. “You are my love song, my birthday cake, the sound of ocean waves and French words and a baby’s laugh. You’re a snow angel, crème brulée, a kaleidoscope filled with glitter. I love you and you’ll never catch up, because I’ve gotten a head start and my heart is racing at light speed.”

  Someday she would tell him how she felt about him, and he would leave her. He would break her heart the way people did when their own hearts had been broken long ago. But that didn’t change anything. Love would have its way.

  Squaring her shoulders, Zoë brought the medicine to Emma, who was already midway through the bowl of apple crisp. “Here are your pills, Upsie.”

  “He has the hands of a carpenter,” Emma said. “Strong. All those calluses. I used to be sweet on a man with hands like that.”

  “Did you? What was his name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Zoë smiled. “I think you do.”

  Alex came into the house, carrying tool buckets to the threshold of Zoë’s bedroom. “All right if I go in?” he asked. “I want to work on the closet.”

  Zoë had trouble returning his gaze, her face blazing with renewed color. “Yes, it’s fine.”

  His attention turned to Emma. “I have to put up some Sheetrock, Mrs. Hoffman. Think you can handle some hammering for a little while?”

  “You must call me Emma. Once a man has seen me in my pajamas, it’s too late for formality.”

  “Emma,” he repeated, with a swift grin that left Zoë light-headed.

  “Oh, my,” Emma murmured, after Alex had gone into the bedroom and closed the door. “What a divine-looking man. Although he could do with some fattening up.”

  “I’m trying,” Zoë said.

  “If I were your age, I would already have lost my head over him.”

  “I stand to lose a lot more than my head, Upsie.”

  “Don’t worry,” Emma said. “There are worse things than having your heart broken.”

  “Like what?” Zoë asked skeptically.

  “Never having it broken. Never giving in to love.”

  Zoë considered that. “So what do you think I should do?
”

  “I think you should cook dinner for him one night, and tell him that you’re dessert.”

  Zoë couldn’t help laughing. “You are trying to get me into trouble.”

  “You’re already in trouble,” her grandmother said. “Now go ahead and enjoy it.”

  Seventeen

  “Use your left hand,” Zoë instructed patiently, standing with Emma at the laundry closet next to the kitchen pantry. She was reading from a booklet provided by Emma’s physical therapist, describing ordinary household tasks that would strengthen muscles weakened by a minor stroke.

  Emma opened the door of the washer with her left hand and looked at Zoë.

  “Now reach in and grasp a piece of clothing, and drop it into the dryer. Here, hold my hand for balance—”

  “I’ll hold on to the edge of the machine,” Emma said testily.

  Alex paused at the doorway of Zoë’s bedroom, where he had been installing a pocket bathroom in the small space that had originally been a closet. He watched the pair of them with silent amusement, while the ghost sat atop the washing machine with his legs dangling.

  “Don’t grab two things at once,” Zoë cautioned, as her grandmother dropped a couple of shirts into the dryer.

  “It’ll get done faster,” Emma protested.

  “The point isn’t to be efficient. The point is to make your fingers open and close as many times as possible.”

  “What am I supposed to do after this?”

  “Transfer the dry clothes to the laundry basket one at a time. And then we’ll do some dusting to give your wrist a workout.”

  “Now I see why you wanted me to live with you,” Emma said.

  “Why?” Zoë asked.

  “Free maid service.”

  Alex snickered.

  Noticing the sound, Zoë gave him a mock frown. “Don’t encourage her. You two have spent too much time around each other—I can’t tell who’s a worse influence on who.”

  “ ‘Whom,’ ” Emma said, delving into the washer for more clothes. “ ‘Who’ is used when it’s the subject of a verb, ‘whom’ when it’s the object.”