Page 45 of Dream Lake

“What is it?” the ghost asked.

“I think it’s an account book from a fish-canning factory.” Alex turned a few pages. “Here’s an inventory… Steam machines, flaying and frying grids, soldering tools, tin plate scissors… A whole hell of a lot of olive oil…”

The ghost watched as Alex skimmed through the book. “Whoever owned the factory must have had plenty of dough.”

“For a while,” Alex said. “But this area was overfished until the salmon disappeared for a while. Most of the fisheries and factories went out of business in the sixties.” He delved into the box and pulled out more ledgers. Opening another, he found a few handwritten business letters, one concerning a lithographing company that was supplying labels, and another about a state-run committee that was forcing the cannery to lower its prices. He paused to look more closely at one of them. “The factory was owned by Weston Stewart.”

The ghost looked at him alertly, recognizing Emma’s maiden name.

Alex continued to sift through the ledgers. The entries in the last few books were typed instead of handwritten. A few newspaper clippings and black-and-white photographs had been tucked into the pages.

“What are those pictures?” the ghost asked, approaching.

Alex sensed the ghost’s eagerness to hover over him, to get a good view. “Don’t crowd me. I’ll tell you if there’s anything you need to see. These are just exterior shots of buildings.” He picked up a newspaper article announcing the closing of the factory. “Place went out of business in August 1960,” he said. Sorting through more clippings, he saw one titled “Local Fish Industry on Brink of Collapse” and one describing local complaints about the stench of the waste products coming from the cannery. “Here’s an obituary for the factory owner,” Alex said. “Weston Stewart. He died less than a year after the cannery closed. Doesn’t say what cause. Survived by a widow, Jane, and three daughters: Susannah, Lorraine, and Emmaline.”

“Emmaline,” the ghost repeated as if the word were a talisman.

A tiny picture of a young woman headed the last newspaper clipping. Her shoulder-length blond hair had been arranged in sculpted waves, her lips rouged with lipstick. She was the kind of woman who was beautiful in spite of technically not being beautiful. Her eyes were clear and curious and melancholy, as if she stared into an unwritten future with nothing to hope for.

“Come take a look at this,” Alex said.

The ghost hurried to look over his shoulder. The moment he saw the photo, he made a quiet sound as if he’d been gut-punched.

EMMALINE STEWART, JAMES HOFFMAN TO BE MARRIED SEPTEMBER 7, 1946

After resigning her staff position at theBellingham Herald,Miss Emmaline Stewart has returned home to San Juan Island to prepare for her coming marriage to Lieutenant James Augustus “Gus” Hoffman, who served as a transport pilot in the China-Burma-India theater. During the last two years of the war, Lieutenant Hoffman flew 52 missions across the aerial support route over the Himalayas. Vows will be spoken at 3:30 at an open service at First Presbyterian on Spring Street.

As Alex read the article a second time, he felt emotion closing around him, so heavy and smothering that the more you tried to wade through it, climb out, the deeper and faster you sank.

“Stop,” Alex managed to say.

The ghost retreated, his face tearless and drawn. “I’m trying.” But he wasn’t, and they both knew it. This grief was his way of being close to Emma, the only connection available until he was with her again.

“Justchill,” Alex said tersely. “I won’t be much use to you…”—he paused for a deep gasp of air—“if you give me a damned heart attack.”

The ghost’s gaze followed the faded clipping that had dropped from Alex’s fingers. The yellowed paper spun, leaflike, to the floor. “This is what it feels like to love someone you can’t have.”

Crouched there amid piles of boxed-up memories and dust and shadows, Alex thought that if he were ever capable of feeling that way about anyone—which he doubted—he’d rather take a bullet to the head.

“It’ll happen to you,” the ghost said, as if he could read Alex’s thoughts. “It’ll hit you like an ax someday. Some things in life, you can’t escape.”

“Three things,” Alex said unsteadily. “Death, taxes, and Facebook. But falling in love, I can definitely escape.”

The ghost let out a huff of amusement. To Alex’s relief, the agonizing yearning began to fade.

“What if you could meet your soul mate?” the ghost asked. “You’d want to avoid that?”

“Hell, yes. The idea that there’s one soul out there, waiting to merge with mine like some data-sharing program, depresses the hell out of me.”

“It’s not like that. It’s not about losing yourself.”

“Then what is it?” Alex was only half listening, still occupied with the viselike tightness of his chest.

“It’s like your whole life you’ve been falling toward the earth, until the moment someone catches you. And you realize that somehow you’ve caught her at the same time. And together, instead of falling, you might be able to fly.” The ghost went to the discarded clipping and stared down at the photo, riveted. “She’s a beaut, isn’t she?”

“Sure,” Alex said automatically, although there was nothing of Zoë’s sparkling allure in the photo, only a hint of resemblance.

“Fifty-two missions over the Himalayas,” the ghost said, reading the article aloud. He looked at Alex. “They called it the ‘Hump.’ The transport pilots had to fly fully loaded cargo planes. Bad weather, high altitude, hostile aircraft. Dangerous as hell.”

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