by Lisa Kleypas
Zoë grinned fondly at the top of her head. “Thank you, grammar police.”
Emma’s voice resonated in the dryer. “I don’t know why I can remember that but not the name of the paper I wrote for.”
“The Bellingham Herald.” Zoë exchanged a glance with Alex as he crossed the room and went to the kitchen sink for a glass of water. He’d become used to those looks by now, the worry she couldn’t quite conceal, the need for reassurance that no one was able to provide.
During the two weeks since Emma had come to live on Dream Lake Road, she had experienced moments of forgetfulness, confusion, agitation. Some days she was alert and competent, some days she was in a fog. There was never any predicting how she would feel or what she would remember from one day to the next.
“Don’t hover, Zoë,” Emma said irritably one afternoon. “Let me watch a TV program in peace.” Apologizing, Zoë went to the kitchen, where she kept stealing concerned glances at Emma.
“You’re still hovering,” Emma said.
“How can I be hovering when I’m twenty feet away?” Zoë protested.
“Alex,” Emma asked, “would you take my granddaughter for a walk?”
“I can’t leave you alone,” Zoë said. “Jeannie isn’t here.”
Jeannie, a part-time home-care nurse, came early every morning to take care of Emma, and usually left around lunchtime. Her unflappable poise made it comfortable for Emma to accept her help with private matters like dressing, bathing, and physical therapy.
“Just for fifteen minutes,” Emma persisted. “Go outside and get some fresh air with Alex. Or go by yourself, if he won’t keep you company.”
Alex picked up Emma’s cell phone from the kitchen island and entered his number on it. “I’ll walk with Zoë, Emma, as long as you promise not to move while we’re gone.” He went to hand the phone to her. “Any problems, you call me. Got it?”
“Got it,” Emma said with satisfaction.
Observing all this, the ghost frowned. “I don’t like this idea.”
“She’ll be fine,” Alex said, and swerved his gaze to Zoë. He made his voice gentle. “Come with me. Nothing’s going to happen to Emma.”
She was still reluctant. “You’re in the middle of your work day.”
“I can take a break.” Extending his hand, Alex gave her an expectant look.
Slowly Zoë reached out and put her hand in his.
Something as casual as the feel of her fingers in his made him hot and ravenous. He savored every small, accidental contact between them, the brush of her arm, the silky tickle of her hair against his ear as she leaned to set a plate in front of him. He noticed every detail about her, the bruise on her shin where she had bumped it against something, the flowery scent of the new soap she’d bought at the farmer’s market.
There was no word for this kind of relationship, for the way she made him feel. The clasp of their hands contained something more than shared warmth, more than skin pressed to skin … it felt as if they were holding something together, keeping it safe.
Even when he made himself let go, he could still feel the clasp of their hands and the invisible imprint of that mysterious secret something between them.
Emma settled back into the sofa to watch TV, looking more than a little satisfied. Byron hopped up and crept into her lap.
The ghost stood over Emma. “You little schemer,” he said in soft amusement. “You want them to be together. You have rotten taste in men, you know that?”
Although he wanted badly to stay with her, he eventually felt the inevitable traction of his connection with Alex, and he was forced to go outside.
“I can’t help it,” Zoë said, as she and Alex walked on the side of the road beneath a canopy of big leaf maples and Pacific madrones, the forest ground padded with licorice fern and sword fern, and blackberry bramble in the places where enough sun had penetrated. “I know I’m worrying too much, and micromanaging. But I don’t want her to get hurt. I don’t want her to need something she’s not getting.”
“What she needs—what you both need—is an occasional break from each other. You should go out at least one night a week.”
“Do you want to go to a movie with me?” Zoë dared to ask. “Maybe this weekend?”
Alex shook his head. “My brother Mark’s getting married in Seattle.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten. Lucy’s going with Sam. Are you taking anyone?”
“No.” Alex was already regretting the impulse to take a walk with Zoë. Being alone with her was the surest way to give him that giddy, intoxicating feeling he dreaded, the hundred-proof shot of exhilaration that threatened to crack his chest open.
“Lucy and Sam seem happy together,” Zoë said. “Do you think it might turn into something serious?”
“As in marriage?” Alex shook his head. “There’s no reason for them to do that.”
“There’s a great reason.”
“Joint filing on their tax return?”
“No,” Zoë said with an exasperated laugh. “Love. People should marry because they love each other.”
“People who want to stay in love should do their best to avoid marriage.” As he saw her smile fade, Alex felt ashamed and vile. “Sorry,” he said. “I hate weddings. And this is the first one where I won’t be able to—” He scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets as they walked.
Zoë understood instantly. “There’ll be an open bar at the reception?”
He gave a single nod.
Another gentle question. “You haven’t told anyone in your family that you’ve stopped drinking?”
“No.”
“Maybe you should let them help you. Give you moral support. If they knew—”
“I don’t want support. I don’t want anyone watching and waiting for me to fail.”
He felt Zoë’s arm slip through his, her fingers curving around his forearm.
“You won’t fail,” she said.
The day of Mark and Maggie’s wedding, held on a retired ferry on Seattle’s Lake Union, was sunny and clear. But even if it had rained, the bride and groom would have been too much in love to notice. After champagne was served and Sam made a toast, the guests filled their plates at the elaborate buffet. Alex retreated to the stern of the ferry and occupied one of the chairs by the railing. He’d never liked to make small talk, and he especially didn’t want to keep company with people who were holding champagne or cocktails. It was strange to face this situation without having alcohol as a crutch. It felt almost as if he were trying to impersonate himself. He would have to get used to it.
He noticed Sam dancing with Lucy Marinn, who still wore a leg brace from her biking injury. They swayed together, flirting and kissing. Sam looked at Lucy in a way he’d never looked at anyone before, evincing the invisible alchemy that sometimes happened to people who were busy making other plans. They had become a couple. Alex was fairly certain that Sam wasn’t even aware that it had happened. The dumbass still thought he was a single guy having a carefree relationship.
Alex lurked in the corner, drinking iced Cokes in highball glasses. The ghost lounged beside him, silent and brooding.
“What are you thinking about?” Alex eventually asked beneath his breath.
“I keep wondering if Emma loved her husband,” the ghost said.
“Do you want her to have loved him?”
The ghost struggled to answer. “Yes,” he eventually said. “But I want her to have loved me more.”
Alex smiled, swirling the ice in his drink.
The ghost stared pensively at the sunstruck water. “I did something wrong,” he said. “I hurt Emma. I’m sure of it.”
“You mean before you died?”
The ghost nodded.
“You probably pissed her off by enlisting,” Alex said.
“I think it was worse than that. I need to remember before something happens.”
Alex gave him a skeptical glance. “What do you think’s going to happen?”
“I don’t know. I have to spend as much time as possible with Emma. I remember more when I’m with her. The other day—” The ghost stopped. “Time to shut up. Maggie’s coming this way.”
Mark’s red-haired wife—now Alex’s sister-in-law—approached him. She was holding a white porcelain coffee cup. “Hi, Alex.” She was radiant with happiness, her brown eyes glowing. “Are you having a good time?”
“Yeah. Nice wedding.” He began to stand up from his chair.
“Don’t get up,” Maggie urged, motioning for him to remain in the chair. “I just wanted to check on you. There are a few women who are dying to meet you, by the way. Including one of my sisters. If I bring her over, would you—”
“No,” he said quickly. “Thanks, Maggie, but I’m not in the mood for small talk.”
“Can I get you something?”
He shook his head. “Go dance with your husband.”
“Husband. I like the sound of that word.” Maggie smiled and gave him the cup she was holding. It was filled with steaming black coffee. “Here. I thought you might like this.”
“Thanks, but I’m—” Alex broke off as he saw her discreetly retrieve his half-finished glass of Coke and ice from the little table next to his chair.
“She thinks you’re plastered,” the ghost said helpfully. “You’ve had about four drinks and now you’re sitting here in the corner talking to yourself.”
“They were nonalcoholic drinks,” Alex said.
“Oh, of course,” Maggie said brightly.
The ghost snorted. “She’s not buying it.”
With a self-mocking smile, Alex took a sip of bitter black coffee. Given his past, it was entirely reasonable to think that he might get drunk on such an occasion. And Maggie, being a sweetheart, was trying to handle it in a way that would spare his pride. “I’m not talking to myself, by the way,” he said. “There’s an invisible guy sitting right beside me.”
Maggie laughed. “I’m glad you told me. Otherwise I might have accidentally sat on his lap.”
“Feel free,” the ghost said without hesitation.
“He wouldn’t mind,” Alex told Maggie. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you, but I’ll leave you and your friend to your conversation.” She bent to kiss his cheek. “Drink the whole cup of coffee, okay?” And she left, taking his half-finished Coke with her.
Eighteen
When Alex went to the Dream Lake cottage on Monday morning, the home-care nurse, Jeannie, met him at the door with an expression that instantly warned something was wrong.
“How’s it going?” Alex asked.
“It was a tough weekend,” she said quietly. “Emma had a downturn.”
“What does that mean?”
“The term for it is TIA. Transient ischemic attacks. Tiny blockages that stop the blood flow to the brain. They’re so minor that you may not notice any stroke symptoms, but the damage adds up. With the kind of mixed dementia that Emma has, there’ll be a steady decline with these occasional downward steps.”
“Does she need to see a doctor?”
Jeannie shook her head. “Her blood pressure is fine, and she’s not having any physical discomfort. Many times after a step-down, a patient will show signs of temporary improvement. Today, Emma’s doing well. But as time goes on, the moments of confusion and frustration will last longer and happen more often. And the memories will keep disappearing.”
“So what exactly happened? How can you tell that a TIA occurred?”
“According to Zoë, Emma woke up on Saturday with a slight headache and some confusion. By the time I got there, Emma was determined to make herself breakfast—she insisted on frying an egg at the stove. It didn’t go well. Zoë kept trying to help her—put a pat of butter in the pan first, turn the heat lower—but Emma was having a tough time trying to do something she’d always done, and that made her frightened and angry.”
“She took it out on Zoë?” Alex asked in concern.
Jeannie nodded. “Zoë is the most convenient person for her to vent her frustration on. And even though Zoë understands, it’s still stressful.” Jeannie paused. “Yesterday Emma repeatedly asked for the car keys, messed up Zoë’s computer when she tried to get on the Internet, and kept arguing with me to get her some cigarettes.”
“Does she smoke?”
“Not for forty years, according to Zoë. And cigarettes are the worst possible thing for someone in Emma’s condition.”
The ghost, who stood just behind Alex, muttered, “Hell, let her have them.”
The nurse wore a resigned expression. Alex couldn’t help wondering how many times she had accompanied patients along this path, watching their inevitable deterioration, steering families through the pain and confusion of losing someone day by day. “Does it ever get easier?” he asked.
“For the patient or—”
“For you.”
The nurse smiled. “You’re very kind to ask. I’ve been through this with many patients, and even knowing what to expect … no, it doesn’t get easier.”
“How long does she have?”
“Even the most experienced doctors can’t predict—”
“In your personal opinion. You’ve been in the trenches, you probably have some idea. What’s your take on how it’s going to progress?”
“A matter of months. I think she’s headed for a major stroke or an aneurysm. And maybe that’s for the best—I’ve seen it when it’s a long and drawn-out process. You wouldn’t want that for Emma, or Zoë.”
“Where is Zoë?”
“She went to the inn as usual, and then to buy groceries.” Jeannie stepped back to let him into the house. “Emma is awake and dressed, but I think she would do better without a lot of noise today.”
“I’ll stick to caulking and painting.”
The nurse seemed relieved. “Thank you.”
Entering the main room, Alex saw that Emma was watching television with a throw blanket over her lap, in spite of the warmth of the day. The ghost was already at her side.
Even if Jeannie hadn’t told Alex what had transpired over the weekend, he would have known that something had changed. There was a new delicacy about Emma, a touch of radiance at her outline, as if her soul were no longer fully contained in her skin.
“Hi, Emma,” Alex said, approaching her. “How are you feeling?”
She gestured for him to have a seat. Taking the ottoman near the sofa, Alex sat and faced her, leaning forward until his forearms were braced on his knees. Emma looked fine to him, her gaze clear and direct, her expression calm.
“I’m going to do some straightening up,” Jeannie said as she headed to the bedroom. “Do you need anything, Emma?”
“No, thank you.” The older woman waited until the nurse was out of earshot. Her gaze returned to Alex. “He’s here, isn’t he?”
Startled, Alex kept his face expressionless. She could sense the ghost? But what had made her assume that Alex had a connection to him? His thoughts moved at a rapid pace. Emma was in a vulnerable condition. He had to be careful. But he wasn’t going to lie to her.
So Alex settled for giving Emma a blank look and saying, “Who?”
“Damn it, Alex,” the ghost exploded, “now’s not the time to play dumb. Tell her I’m here, I’m with her right now, and I love her, and—”
Alex sent him a quick scowl, silencing him.
Emma’s gaze was steady. “The way I used to feel whenever he was near … I knew that if I ever felt that again, it was because he’d found a way to come back. But it only seems to happen when you’re near. He’s with you.”
“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 nev
er 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?”
