Dream Lake (Friday Harbor 3)

Alex glanced at him, sensing the wistfulness in his mood. “You lived here?”

Looking troubled, the ghost said distractedly, “No, I was … visiting someone.”

“Who?”

“A woman.”

“To do what?” Alex persisted.

Although the ghost wasn’t capable of blushing, his discomfort was impossible to miss. “None of your business,” came the curt reply.

“So you were boning her?”

The ghost glowered at him. “Up yours.”

Pleased at having annoyed him, Alex continued to wander around the exterior of the house. The satisfaction faded quickly, though, drowned in the awareness of a yearning so powerful and raw that it almost hurt to be near it. Did the ghost know who or what had inspired the feeling? Alex was tempted to ask him, but somehow that seemed brutish … the only way to respect that degree of unexpressed pain was to keep silent.

“She’s here,” the ghost said, as they heard the crunch of tires on the graveled driveway.

“Great,” Alex said dourly. The prospect of talking to Zoë, interacting in even the most mundane way, was enough to make him break into a cold sweat. He reached up to the back of his neck to rub the tense muscles.

The ghost had been right when he’d called Alex a coward. But Alex wasn’t worried for his own sake.

The failed marriage with Darcy had confirmed some of the worst things he had ever suspected about himself. It had taught him that intimacy not only gave you the weapons but the will to hurt the people you were closest to. And most of all it had convinced him that he was fated to end up like both his parents. He would inevitably destroy everything and everyone he cared about.

The worst of the damage had become apparent after he and Darcy had separated. They’d continued to have sex on the occasions when she came to the island. “For old time’s sake,” Darcy had said at one point, but there had been nothing of reminiscence or regret in their savage encounters. Only anger. Retaliation. They’d fu**ed each other out of mutual resentment, and the worst part was that it had been far better than any experience they’d shared out of affection. He was still haunted by the memories of what they’d done, how they had turned each other into the worst possible versions of themselves.

There was no return to innocence after that.

And there was no place in his life for anyone like Zoë Hoffman. The only act of kindness he could offer was to keep his distance from her.

Before going to the front entrance, Alex said sotto voce, “Stay out of my way and don’t distract me while I’m talking to her. People tend not to hire schizophrenic contractors.”

“I’ll shut up,” the ghost promised.

Doubtful. But they both knew that if the ghost pissed Alex off, he would refuse to go through the attic and sift through the heaps of long-forgotten junk that might yield a clue about his former life. And the ghost desperately wanted to find out who he was. Although Alex would never have admitted it, he’d become just as curious. It was impossible not to wonder why the ghost had been condemned to such merciless isolation. Maybe the ghost was paying for his past sins—maybe he’d been some kind of criminal or lowlife. But that didn’t explain why Alex had ended up towing him around.

Alex cast a suspicious glance at him, but the ghost didn’t appear to notice. He was staring at the house, and Zoë’s approaching figure, mesmerized by distant shadows.

To Zoë’s consternation, a pickup truck was already parked beneath the carport. Was Alex there already? It was still five minutes before they were supposed to meet.

Her heartbeat quickened to a sharp staccato. She parked beside the truck and consulted the visor mirror, and checked to make certain the buttons of her flower-print shirt were fastened. The top two had been left undone to her collarbone. After a moment’s thought, she fastened those as well. Emerging from the VW, she approached the truck and realized it was empty. Had Alex found a way inside the house?

She crossed the gravel in her pink leather flats and went to the front door and found it was still locked. Delving into her bag, she found the keys from the property management company. The first one didn’t work. As she extracted the second key and jiggled it into the lock, she became aware of someone approaching from the side. It was Alex, who had been walking around the exterior of the house. He had an athletic, loose-limbed way of moving, his body nearly rawboned in a black short-sleeved shirt and jeans. He came to stand beside her, a large and brooding presence.

“Hi,” she said with forced cheer.

Alex gave her a brief nod, the sunlight sliding across the layers of his dark hair. He was almost inhumanly beautiful, with those angular cheekbones and strongly marked brows, and eyes of frozen fire. Something restless lurked beneath his controlled façade, as if he hadn’t had enough food, or enough sleep, or enough something. That mysterious and unexpressed need practically glowed through his skin.

No doubt his divorce had taken a physical toll—he could have used a few good meals. Zoë couldn’t help thinking of what she would make for him, given the opportunity. Maybe butternut squash soup, graced with hints of tart green apple and smoky bacon, served with yeast rolls brushed with butter and a sprinkle of sea salt.

She turned the key harder in the resisting lock, her mind still occupied with the imaginary dinner. Maybe she would cook something heavier and more filling … meat loaf made with pork, veal, and crumbs from rustic French bread. Mashed potatoes swirled with caramelized scallions … and a side of green and yellow wax beans sautéed slowly in olive oil and garlic until they were melting-tender—

Zoë’s musings were interrupted as the door key snapped in two. To her dismay, she realized that part of the metal had broken off in the lock. “Oh.” She flushed and darted a mortified glance at Alex.

His face was inscrutable. “That happens with old keys. They tend to get brittle.”

“Maybe we could try to enter through a window.”

He glanced at the key ring in her hand. “Is there another house key?”

“I think so. But you’d have to get the broken one out of the lock first …”

Without a word, Alex went to his truck, reached inside, and pulled out a vintage red metal toolbox. He brought it to the front porch, and rummaged through a clatter of tools.

Taking care to stay out of the way, Zoë stood beside the door and watched as Alex inserted a metal pick into the jammed lock. In a minute or two, he had jimmied the broken key loose. Deftly he gripped the protruding end with a pair of needle-nosed pliers and pulled out the key.

“You made it look so easy,” Zoë exclaimed.

He replaced the tools in the box and stood. She had the impression that it cost him something to meet her gaze. “May I?” he asked, and held out his hand for the key ring.

She gave it to him, taking care to avoid touching his fingers. He sorted through them, tried one, and the door opened with a creak.

The house was dark, musty-smelling, and silent. Alex preceded Zoë into the main room, found a light switch, and flipped it on.

Zoë set her bag by the door and ventured farther into the main living space. Turning a slow circle, she was pleased to discover that the floor plan was simple and open. However, the kitchen was a small galley style, cramped and sadly lacking in cabinet space, floored with ancient linoleum. The only furnishings in sight were an antique chrome kitchen table and three dingy vinyl-upholstered chairs, and a cast-iron wood-stove in the corner. Crumpled aluminum blinds covered the windows like a row of skeletons.

Zoë went to unlock a window casing to let in some fresh air, but she couldn’t budge it. The window was stuck.

Alex approached, and ran a fingertip along the seam of the window sash and sill. “It’s been painted shut.” He went to the next window. “This one, too. I’ll cut through the paint later.”

“Why would someone paint the windows shut?”

“Usually to keep out drafts. Cheaper than weather sealing.” His expression conveyed exactly what he thought about the idea. He went to the corner, pulled up a loose section of carpeting, and looked beneath it. “Wood flooring under here.”

“Really? Would it be possible to refinish it?”

“Maybe. There’s no telling what condition the floor’s in until you take out all the carpet. Sometimes they cover it for a reason.” Alex went to the kitchen and lowered to his haunches to inspect a section of the wall, where a patch of mold had spread like a bruise. “You’ve got a leak,” he said. “We’ll have to take part of the wall out. I saw wood ants on the exterior—they’re nesting because of the moisture.”

“Oh.” Zoë frowned. “I hope it’s worth fixing up this place. I hope it’s not too far gone.”

“It doesn’t look that bad. But you’ll have to get an inspection.”

“How much will that cost?”

“A couple hundred bucks, probably.” He set his toolbox on the dingy chrome table. “You’ll be living here with your grandmother?”

Zoë nodded. “She has vascular dementia. It may soon get to the point where she needs a walker or a wheelchair.” She went to get her bag, rummaged for a pamphlet, and brought it to him. “These are things that need to be done to make the house safer for her.”

After a cursory glance at the pamphlet, Alex gave it back to her.

“Maybe you should keep it,” Zoë said.

Alex shook his head. “I know all about ADA codes.” With a speculative glance at their surroundings, he continued, “If your grandmother’s going to use a walker or wheelchair, you should have laminate flooring put in.”

Zoë was annoyed by the fact that he had barely looked at the list. His manner was just a hairsbreadth short of patronizing. “I don’t like laminates. I prefer real wood.”

“Laminate’s cheaper and more durable.”

“I’ll consider it, then. But I would like carpet in the bedrooms.”

“As long as it’s not too plush. Trying to get a wheelchair across that is like trying to roll through sand.” Alex stood at the opening of the kitchen galley and flipped on a light. “I don’t think this is a load-bearing wall. I could take it out and turn this area into an island. It would double your cabinets and countertop space.”

“Could you? It would be wonderful to have an open kitchen.”

Alex took a pad of sticky notes from the toolbox and scrawled a few words on the top one. He reached for a tape measure and went into the kitchen. “Do you know what kind of countertops you want?”

“Oh, yes,” Zoë said immediately. “Butcher block.” It had always been her dream to have butcher-block countertops, but she’d never had the chance. When she’d started working at Artist’s Point, soapstone counters had already been installed.

The measuring tape clicked and rasped a few more times. “If you do a lot of cooking, butcher block is going to show a lot of rough wear. It’s expensive. And high maintenance.”

“I’m aware of all that,” Zoë said. “I’ve worked in kitchens with butcher-block counters.”

“What about engineered stone?”

“I prefer butcher block.”

Alex emerged from the kitchen with his lips parted as if he were about to argue. As he saw her defensive expression, however, he closed his mouth and continued to make notes.

Zoë found herself beginning to actively dislike him. His silences were especially unnerving because he didn’t reveal a clue about what was behind them. No wonder he was divorced … the concept of anyone living comfortably with this man seemed impossible.

Taking care not to look at him, Zoë went to the back of the house, where a pair of French doors opened to a tiny porch with rotted slats. It was a nice little yard, enclosed by a wrought-iron fence, with a wooded copse and Dream Lake just beyond.

“Would it be possible to put in a cat door?” Zoë asked.

“A what?” came his voice from the other side of the room, near the woodstove.

“A cat door. Back here.”

“There would be a cat,” she heard him mutter.

“What does that mean?” Zoë asked, flushing.

“Nothing.”

“Is there something wrong with having a cat?”

Alex pulled out a length of metal tape and began to lay it out along the floor. “I don’t care what kind of pet you have. Forget I said anything. And yes, I can install a cat door. Although I can’t guarantee that a raccoon or fox won’t get in.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Zoë said shortly.

Silence.

While Alex measured the main room and made notes, Zoë went to investigate the narrow kitchen space. As she had expected, there was no microwave, and no dishwasher. She and Justine had previously agreed that part of their budget would include new kitchen appliances, since renovating the kitchen would increase the value of the house. Zoë thought it would be convenient to have a microwave drawer built into the kitchen island. The dishwasher would be next to the sink, naturally, and the refrigerator would have to be in an area where she could open the door without bumping it against a wall.

It might be possible to save money by painting the cabinets and adding new hardware. She opened a cabinet door. The interior was coated with dust. Seeing an object on the middle shelf, Zoë stood on her toes to pull it down. It was an antique eggbeater, rusted metal with a wooden knob. Although it wasn’t usable, someone certainly might want it as a decoration. Ruefully Zoë reflected that becoming an eBay seller was practically inevitable, with this and all the other antiques that Emma had saved.

As she set the eggbeater aside, Zoë was startled as a palm-sized object dropped from the edge of the cabinet and landed on the counter.

It was a spider. A huge spider.

And it began to hop and bolt toward her with astonishing speed, its articulated legs a blur.

Eight

At the sound of Zoë’s scream, Alex reacted and reached her in a few seconds. She had bolted from the galley kitchen, her eyes huge in her ashen face. “What is it?” he demanded.

“S-spider,” she said hoarsely.

“It’s here,” the ghost called out from the kitchen. “Damn thing just jumped from one counter to the other.”

Dashing into the narrow space, Alex grabbed the antique eggbeater and killed the spider with a few decisive thwacks.

Pausing to look more closely, Alex let out a low whistle. It was a wolf spider, a species that tended to hide during the day and hunt for prey at night. This particular specimen was bigger than anything he’d seen outside of a zoo. A touch of humor quirked one corner of his mouth as he thought of how Sam would have reacted to the situation. Sam would have found a way to capture the spider without harming it and safely transport it outside, all the while lecturing about respect for nature. Alex’s view on nature was that any time it ventured inside, it was going to find itself confronting a big can of Raid.