by Lisa Kleypas
And then she understood what Alex wanted, what he was trying to force from her even though he wasn’t aware of it. The moment she gave it to him, she would lose him. But she had known from the beginning that this was where they’d been heading. Withholding the truth wouldn’t change what was real, what was inevitable.
Turning her face, she spoke close to his ear. “I love you.”
She felt the jolt that went through him, as if she’d just hurt him. But he began to thrust harder, losing control. “I love you,” she said again, and he crushed his mouth over hers, his hips pumping roughly. She felt herself splintering, rapture spilling and spreading. Tearing her mouth free, she repeated the words as if they were an incantation, a charm to break a spell, and he buried his face against her neck and found his own shattering release.
Twenty-three
In the morning they treated each other with the forced casualness of two people desperately trying to pretend nothing had changed, when everything had. Zoë found it unbearable, trying to pretend to be light and cheerful when she could see the way Alex was pulling back from her. They talked impersonally while he drove her to the cottage. It was positively gruesome, Zoë thought privately, feeling miserable and defiant. She knew with every fiber of her being that Alex loved her but would never admit it, that he wanted her to love him but would never allow it.
The home-care nurse’s car was in the driveway. Justine had already returned to the inn.
Pausing at the front door, Zoë turned to face Alex. “Last night was fun,” she said brightly. “Thanks.”
He leaned forward and brushed a light, dry kiss against her lips. His gaze didn’t quite meet hers. “It was fun,” he agreed.
“Will I see you later?” Zoë asked. “Maybe tonight?”
Alex shook his head. “I’m going to be busy the next couple of days with this Inari stuff. But I’ll call you.”
“No … don’t,” she heard herself say.
Alex looked at her then, his eyes questioning.
Zoë didn’t want to keep up pretenses. The idea of waiting and wondering while their relationship drained like sand in an hourglass was too depressing. She had to be honest with him. “What I said last night … I’m sorry it freaked you out. But I can’t take it back. And I don’t want to.”
“I don’t—”
“Please let me finish,” she said with a wavering smile. “If this is the point where you feel like breaking it off, that’s okay.” She reached up to touch his taut cheek. “The only thing is … if you want this to go on, we can’t pretend last night didn’t happen. You have to be okay with me loving you … or else we shouldn’t see each other anymore.”
He was silent for a long moment, his face expressionless. “Maybe we should take a break.”
“Okay,” she whispered, her heart plummeting.
It was over. He was right there with her, but the distance between them might as well have been infinity.
“Just for a few days,” he said.
“Absolutely.” She wanted to plead with him. “Don’t leave me. Let me love you. I need you.” Somehow she managed to lock the words away before they could escape.
“But if you need anything,” Alex said, “call me.”
Never. She wouldn’t do that to him, or herself.
“Yes.” Zoë turned and fumbled in her bag for her key, and somehow managed to unlock the front door. “Bye,” she said without turning back, her eyes burning. And she went inside and closed the door.
The ghost didn’t say anything until they had returned to Rainshadow Road. Alex felt sick and exhausted. He hadn’t slept all night, he’d just watched Zoë while she had pretended to sleep. He longed to jump into the truck and go back to her, but at the same time he couldn’t handle it if she said those three words again. That had been the deal breaker. He knew he was screwed up—hell, he’d never doubted it—but this wasn’t something he could joke about or sneer at or ignore. This was painful.
He went to the kitchen and saw the place at the counter where Zoë had leaned while he’d undressed her. He remembered the intense pleasure of the previous night, the earth-shattering joy and tenderness of a physical act that could only be described as making love. He’d never known anything like it before … he hoped he never would again.
His gaze touched on a bottle of half-finished wine, a cork wedged in the top. Sam’s wine. Despite the early hour, Alex wanted a drink more than he ever had in his life. Whenever something went wrong, something in his gut clamored for booze. He wondered if that would ever change. Swallowing an excess of saliva, he went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face.
The ghost spoke behind him. “So this is it, I guess.”
“I’m not listening,” Alex said hoarsely, but the ghost was undeterred.
“Zoë committed the unforgivable crime of saying she loves you—for what reasons I can’t begin to imagine—and now you’re bailing on her. You know what’s funny? I heard Darcy tell you dozens of times how much she hated you, and you couldn’t seem to get enough of that. Why is it easier to tolerate a woman who hates you than one who loves you?”
Alex turned, swiping at the excess water on his face, pushing back wet locks of hair. “It won’t last.”
“That’s what I used to think,” the ghost said. At Alex’s stony silence, the ghost looked grim and defeated. “I’ve never understood why I’ve been shackled to you. I probably never will. There’s no point in any of this. I should be with Emma, not you. What’s going to happen to her when she passes on and I’m not there?”
“Nothing will happen. She’s going to die whether you’re there or not. She’ll end up where she’s supposed to be, and you’ll end up where you’re supposed to be, and God willing, I’ll be left alone.”
“You don’t believe in God. You don’t believe in anything. You asked if I could find a way to disappear, and I told you I was afraid that if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to talk to you anymore. Now I don’t care. Might as well be invisible.” He saw Alex’s gaze alighting on the wine bottle once more. His mouth twisted with scorn. “Go ahead and have a drink. What does it matter? I’d pour one for you if I could.”
In the blink of an eye, he was gone.
The kitchen was quiet.
“Tom?” Alex asked, almost stunned by the complete absence of movement or sound.
No reply.
“Good riddance,” Alex said aloud. He went to the wine bottle, his hand closing around it. The weight of the liquid inside, the inky slosh of it against the glass, wrenched him with sudden craving. He pulled the cork from it with his teeth and began to take a swig. Out of the corner of his eye, however, he saw a shadow slide across the floor.
In an explosive movement, Alex hurled the bottle at the dark shape, and the glass shattered everywhere. Wine hit the cabinet in splatters. The rich smell of cabernet flooded the room. Alex sat and leaned back against a cabinet, gripping his head in his hands, while red liquid pooled on the floor and spread outward.
“What kind of curse?” Justine asked, flipping busily through a tattered old book in the kitchen while Zoë made breakfast. “Let’s see. Impotence? Warts, boils? Digestive upset, halitosis, hair loss … I think we’ll let him keep his sex drive, but we’ll make him so hideous no one will want him.”
Zoë shook her head in bemusement, using an ice cream scoop to fill muffin pans with batter. That morning she had admitted to Justine that she and Alex had broken up a few days earlier, and Justine had practically gone on a rampage. She seemed convinced that she could exact some kind of supernatural revenge on Zoë’s behalf.
“Justine,” she asked mildly, “what are you looking at?”
“A book my mother gave me. Lots of good ideas in here. Hmm, maybe a plague of some kind … frogs or something …”
“Justine,” Zoë said, “I don’t want to curse anyone.”
“Of course you don’t, you’re much too nice. But I don’t have that problem.”
Setting aside the scoop, Zoë
went to the table where Justine was sitting. She glanced at the grimy, ancient-looking book, which was filled with bizarre symbols and mildly alarming illustrations. A touch of something weirdly gelatinous dripped down the side. “Good Lord. Justine, make sure to wash your hands after handling that disgusting thing … there’s goo over all the pages.”
“No, not all the pages, it’s just chapter three. It always oozes a little.”
Grimacing, Zoë brought some Windex and paper towels to the table. “Cover it back up,” she commanded, gesturing to the piece of cloth the book had been wrapped in.
“Wait, let me just find a quick little spell—”
“Now,” Zoë said inexorably.
Scowling, Justine wrapped the book in the cloth and held it in her lap, while Zoë cleaned the table.
“I don’t know if you’re being serious or just having fun,” Zoë said, “but there is no need for spells or curses. If a man doesn’t want to be with me, he’s allowed to make that decision.”
“I agree,” Justine said. “He’s allowed to make that decision. And I’m allowed to make him suffer for it.”
“Do not put a spell on Alex. You didn’t put one on Duane, did you?”
“If you ever see him without his sideburns, you’ll know why.”
“Well, I want you to leave Alex alone.”
Justine’s shoulders slumped. “Zoë, you’re the only real family I’ve ever had. My dad’s gone, and my mom is one of those women who should never have had a child. But somehow I got lucky enough to have you in my life. You’re the only really good person I’ve ever known. You know enough about me to hurt me worse than anyone else ever could, but you would never do that. No sister could love you as much as I do.”
“I love you, too,” Zoë said, sitting next to her, smiling through a sheen of tears.
“I wish there were a spell to find a man who would treat you the way you deserve. But spells don’t work that way. I knew right away that Alex was dangerous for you, and the worst thing in the world is to see someone you care about headed toward danger and not be able to stop them. So I don’t think a curse—a small one—is entirely unwarranted.”
Zoë leaned against her, and they sat together silently.
Eventually Zoë said, “Alex is cursed enough, Justine. You couldn’t do anything to him that would be worse than what he’s already been through.” Standing, she went back to the counter to finish filling the muffin pan. “Do you want a plastic bag to keep that revolting book in?”
Justine held the book defensively. “No, it needs to breathe.”
As Zoë put the muffin pan into the oven, her cell phone went off. Her heart skipped a beat, as it had for the past few days every time someone called. She knew it wasn’t Alex, but she couldn’t help wanting it to be him. “Would you get that for me?” she asked. “It’s in my bag on the back of the chair.”
“Sure.”
“Wipe your hands first,” Zoë said hastily.
Making a face at her, Justine sprayed Windex on her hands and scrubbed them with a paper towel. She reached into Zoë’s bag for the phone. “It’s your home number,” she said, lifting it to her ear. “Hi, this is Justine, Zoë’s in the middle of something. Can I take a message?”
A moment of silence. “She’ll be there soon.” Another pause. “I know, but she’ll want to come. Okay, Jeannie.”
“What is it?” Zoë asked, sliding another muffin pan into the oven.
“Nothing serious. Jeannie says Emma’s blood pressure is slightly elevated, and she seems confused. Mixing up her words a little more than usual. Jeannie’s giving her medicine and says there’s no need for you to go over there, but you heard what I said.”
“Thanks, Justine.” Zoë’s frown deepened. Removing her apron, she tossed it to the counter. “Take those muffins out in exactly fifteen minutes, okay?”
“Yes. Call me when you can. Let me know if you end up having to take her to the ER.”
Zoë reached the cottage in fifteen minutes flat. She hadn’t seen Emma that morning—when Jeannie had arrived, Emma had still been sleeping. It had been the latest in a string of rough nights. Emma’s sundowning was getting worse, with confusion and irritability in the evenings. She wasn’t sleeping well. Jeannie had made several helpful suggestions, such as encouraging Emma to take naps during the day, and listening to soothing music just before bedtime. “Dementia patients tend to get overwhelmed near the end of the day,” Jeannie had explained. “Even the simple things are a lot for them to handle.”
Although Zoë had been warned what to expect, it was stressful to see her grandmother behaving in ways that weren’t at all like her. When Emma couldn’t find a pair of embroidered slippers, she had mortified Zoë by accusing Jeannie of stealing them. Fortunately Jeannie had been kind and calm, and not at all offended. “She’ll do and say many things she doesn’t mean,” she had said. “It’s part of the disease.”
Entering the cottage, Zoë saw her grandmother sitting on the couch, her face lined and tired. Jeannie was sitting beside her, trying to brush her tangled hair, but Emma pushed her hand away irritably.
“Upsie,” Zoë said with a smile, approaching her. “How are you feeling?”
“You’re late,” Emma said. “I didn’t like my lunch. Jeannie made me a hamburger, and it was too raw inside because I wouldn’t eat it if I didn’t. Because I didn’t like my lunch and you make lunch when it’s not raw but I won’t eat.”
Zoë struggled to maintain her calm expression, while panic surged inside. Even for Emma, this “word salad” was unusual.
Jeannie stood and brought the hairbrush to Zoë, murmuring, “Stress. She’ll get better once the blood pressure medication takes effect.”
“I didn’t like my lunch,” Emma insisted.
“It’s not lunchtime yet,” Zoë said, sitting beside her, “but when it is, I’ll make you whatever you want. Let me brush your hair, Upsie.”
“I want Tom,” Emma said gravely. “Tell Alex to bring him.”
“Okay.” Although Zoë wanted to ask who Tom was, she thought that it was better just to agree, until Emma’s blood pressure lowered. Gently Zoë drew the brush over her hair, pausing to pull apart a tangle. Emma fell silent for a while, seeming to enjoy the feeling of Zoë’s hands in her hair. The simple task helped them both to relax.
How many countless times Emma had done the same thing for Zoë, when she was a little girl. Emma had always finished by telling her that she was beautiful, inside and out, and those words had taken root inside her. Everyone should have someone who loved them unconditionally … and for Zoë, it had always been Emma.
When Zoë was done, she set aside the brush and smiled into her grandmother’s face. “Beautiful,” she said, “inside and out.”
Emma’s arms went around her. They hugged each other in a moment of pure quiet joy, with no thought of the past or future. They focused on what they had right now, together.
Emma rested for most of the afternoon, while Jeannie kept an eye on her blood pressure. Finally satisfied that the hypertension had subsided, Jeannie left for the day. “Try to get her to sip some water at every opportunity,” she told Zoë. “She keeps forgetting to drink, and we don’t want her to become dehydrated.”
Zoë nodded. “Thank you, Jeannie—I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you do for Emma. And for me. We couldn’t do without you.”
The nurse smiled at her. “I’m glad to help. By the way, you may want to give Emma one of the prescription sedatives after dinner, to get a head start on the sundowning. She had a lot of rest today, and even though she needed it, sleeping tonight may be a dicey proposition without a little help.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
Having discovered that Emma stayed calmer when the television was off during the evening, Zoë played some quiet music instead. The strains of “We’ll Meet Again” floated softly through the air. Emma listened as if mesmerized.
“When is Alex coming?” she asked.
The question made Zoë’s heart ache. She missed Alex the most in the evenings, the relaxed conversation while he helped put away the dishes, the way he would hold her and rub her back. One night he had discovered that his laser measure, with its red dot of light dancing across the floor, would drive Byron wild. Alex had sent the cat in circles across the room, chasing after the dot, and then he would switch it off so that Byron thought it was trapped beneath his paw. Watching their antics, Emma had laughed so hard she’d nearly fallen off the couch. On another evening, having learned that Emma was having trouble remembering where things were kept in the kitchen cabinets, Alex had labeled each door with a sticky note, one for plates, another for glasses, another for flatware, and so forth. The sticky notes were still there, making Zoë’s heart twinge every time she saw them.
“I don’t know when Alex will be here,” she told Emma. Or if he’ll ever come back.
“Tom is with him. I want Tom. Can you call Alex?”
“Who is Tom?”
“A rascal.” Emma smiled slightly. “A heartbreaker.”
An old boyfriend. Zoë smiled back at her. “Were you in love with him?” she asked softly.
“Yes. Yes. Call Alex and ask him to bring Tom.”
“A little later, after my bath,” Zoë said, hoping Emma would forget about it as the sedative kicked in. She gave her grandmother a quizzical smile, wondering what connection she had made between her old boyfriend and Alex. “Does Alex remind you of Tom?”
“Oh, yes. Both tall and dark-haired. And Tom was a carpenter. He made such beautiful things.”
There was no telling whether Tom had been real, Zoë thought, or was perhaps a figment of Emma’s imagination.
“I’m tired,” Emma murmured, twisting one of the buttons along the front of her flower-printed pajamas. “I want to see him, Lorraine. I’ve waited for so long.”
