Page 12 of Dream Lake

“Of course they do,” Justine had said impatiently. “Theyhaveto have wings or they’d fall out of the sky. There’s no floor up there.”

In third grade, Zoë’s father had moved her to Everett, where her grandmother lived, and it had been years before she had seen Justine again. They had stayed loosely in touch by exchanging birthday and holiday cards. After graduating from culinary school, Zoë had married Chris Kelly, her best friend since high school. At that point, Zoë was busy with her job as a sous-chef at a Seattle resturant, and Justine was trying to make a success of Artist’s Point, and they had completely lost touch. Approximately a year later, however, when Zoë and Chris had filed for divorce, Justine had been an unexpected source of comfort and support, and had offered her the chance to make a new start in Friday Harbor. Tempting as the prospect was, Zoë had been more than a little apprehensive about the idea of working with her headstrong cousin. Thankfully the arrangement had worked out beautifully, playing to each of their strengths. They argued rarely, and when they did, Zoë’s quiet stubbornness usually won out over Justine’s bluster.

Artist’s Point was just a two-minute walk away from downtown Friday Harbor and the ferry landing. A previous owner had converted an old hilltop mansion into a bed-and-breakfast, but the business had never taken off, and eventually Justine had been able to buy it at a rock-bottom price. She had renamed and redecorated the inn. Each of the twelve rooms in the main house had been turned into a homage to a different artist. The Van Gogh room was painted with rich colors and furnished in a French provincial style with a sunflower bedspread. The Jackson Pollock room was decorated with modern furniture and prints of drip paintings, and over the bathtub, Justine had hung a clear plastic shower curtain that she had covered with splatters of acrylic paint.

Justine and Zoë shared a two-bedroom cottage in the back of the main building, a scant seven hundred square feet with one bathroom and a cupboard kitchen. The arrangement worked because they spent most of their time in the bed-and-breakfast, with its spacious kitchen and common areas. To Justine’s chagrin, Zoë had brought a companion to live with them: her white Persian, Byron. Admittedly, Byron was a little spoiled, but he was an affectionate and well-mannered cat. His only flaw was that he didn’t like men—they seemed to make him nervous. Zoë understood exactly how he felt.

In the past couple of years, the bed-and-breakfast had become popular with both tourists and locals. Justine and Zoë held monthly events including cooking classes and a “silent reading” party, and they also hosted weddings and receptions. The event that would take place tomorrow, on Saturday, was what Justine privately referred to as the wedding-from-hell, in which the bride’s mother was an even bigger bridezilla than the bride. “And then you’ve got a whole collection of bridesmaidzillas, and the groomzilla and the dadzilla,” Justine had complained. “This is the most dysfunctional wedding I’ve ever seen. I think they should invite a psychiatrist to the rehearsal dinner tonight, and turn it into one big group therapy session.”

“They’ll probably end up throwing the cupcakes at each other at the reception,” Zoë said.

“My God, I hope so. I’ll just stand in the middle with my mouth open.” Justine licked the last of the raspberry buttercream off her fingertip. “You saw Lucy this morning, right? How’s she doing?”

“Pretty well, all things considered. She’s on pain medication, but Sam seems to be taking good care of her.”

“I knew he would,” Justine said in satisfaction.

Their friend Lucy, a local glass artist, had been staying at Artist’s Point for the past couple of months, ever since her boyfriend had broken up with her. After Lucy’s bike accident yesterday, Justine had realized that in light of Lucy’s leg injuries, and the wedding taking place that weekend, there was no way she and Zoë could take care of her. So she had talked Sam into letting Lucy recuperate at his house.

“I told Sam how much we appreciate it,” Zoë said. “It’s incredibly nice of him, especially since he and Lucy have only gone out a couple of times before.”

“They’re already in love with each other. They just don’t know it yet.”

Zoë paused in the middle of trimming the fondant from another cupcake. “How do you know it, if they don’t?”

“You should have seen Sam at the clinic yesterday. He was so worried about her, and she was so glad to see him, and for a few seconds, you could tell they were the only two people in the world.”

As Zoë worked with the cupcakes, she pondered what she remembered of Sam Nolan from elementary school. He had been geeky and skinny. No one would have guessed that he would have grown up into the robust, good-looking man she had seen earlier that morning. Sam had a roguish quality tempered with quiet strength… he might be exactly what Lucy needed, after her boyfriend had treated her so terribly.

“So now that Lucy’s got someone,” Justine said, “we have to find a guy for you.”

“No we don’t,” Zoë countered evenly. “I keep telling you, I’m not ready to start that kind of relationship.”

“You’ve been divorced for a couple of years now, and you’ve been a nun. Sex is good for you, you know. Relieves stress and improves cardiovascular health, and lowers the risk of prostate cancer, and besides—”

“I don’t have a prostate. Men have prostates.”

“I know, but think of how much you’ll be helping some poor guy out.”

A reluctant grin spread across Zoë’s face.

There could have been no better antidote for Zoë’s shyness and occasional self-doubt than Justine. She was like a cool, brisk September breeze that blew away the sultry heat of summer and made you think of apples and wool sweaters and planting tulip bulbs.

Before rolling out the next sheet of fondant, Zoë poured some coffee, and told Justine about a phone call she’d received that morning. The previous day, her grandmother Emma, who was living in a senior apartment at an independent living community in Everett, had been taken to a nearby medical facility. She had complained of numbness in her left arm and leg, and had seemed disoriented. It had turned out to be a ministroke, but the doctor believed that with physical therapy, she would regain most of the use of the affected limbs.

“But when they did a brain scan,” Zoë said, “they found that she’d already had a few ministrokes. It’s a condition called—oh, right now I can’t remember the word—but it basically boils down to a diagnosis of vascular dementia.”

“Oh, Zoë.” Justine reached out to put her hand on Zoë’s back, and kept it there for a moment. “I’m sorry. Is that a kind of Alzheimer’s?”

“No, but it’s similar. With vascular dementia, it’s a stair-step process… one of these ministrokes takes away some of your ability, and then you plateau for a while, and then you have another episode—” Zoë broke off and blinked against tears. “Eventually she’ll have a major stroke, and that’s that.”

Justine frowned. “When Emma came out to visit over Christmas, she was in great shape. Didn’t seem at all her age. What is she now, like, ninety?”

“Eighty-seven.”

“Do you need to go to her?” Justine asked quietly.

“Yes, I thought tomorrow after the wedding reception—”

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