Page 50 of Dream Lake

“Get control of yourself,” he heard the ghost say tersely.

“Fuck off.”

A retractable screen door covered the kitchen’s back entrance. Through the fine solar mesh, Alex saw that Zoë was alone in the kitchen, making breakfast. Pots simmered on the stove, and something was baking in the oven. The smell of browning butter and cheese nearly made Alex recoil.

He tapped on the doorjamb, and Zoë looked up from a cutting board piled high with hulled strawberries. She was dressed in a short pink skirt and flat sandals, and a white ruffly top, and an apron tied at the waist. Her legs were toned and gleaming, calf muscles neatly rounded. The blond curls had been drawn up to the top of her head, a few escaping to dangle against her cheeks and neck.

“Good morning,” she said with a smile. “Come in. How are you?”

Alex avoided her gaze as he entered the kitchen. “I’ve been better.”

“Would you like some—”

“I’m here for the check,” he said curtly.

“Okay.” Although this was certainly not the first time he’d ever been brusque with her, Zoë gave him a questioning glance.

“The first payment’s due,” Alex said.

“Yes, I remember. Justine handles the office work, so she’ll write the check for you. I’m not sure which account to write it from.”

“Fine. Where is she?”

“She just went out for an errand. She’ll be back in five or ten minutes. The big coffee machine is broken, so she’s picking up some carafes of breakfast blend from a local place.” A timer went off, and Zoë went to take a dish out of the oven. “If you want to wait for her,” she said over her shoulder, “I’ll pour some coffee and you can—”

“I don’t want to wait.” He needed the check. He needed to leave. The heat and light of the kitchen were killing him, and yet he had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering like one of those plastic windup skulls from a joke shop. “She knew the check was due today. I texted her.”

Zoë set the casserole dish on a pair of trivets. Her smile had vanished, and her voice was even softer than usual as she replied. “I don’t think she knew you would be here this early.”

“When the hell else would I come? I’m going to be working on the cottage all day.” The anger rushed through him in stronger and stronger waves, and he was helpless to do anything about it.

“What if I run it out to you after breakfast? I’ll drive out to the cottage, and—”

“I don’t want to be interrupted at work.”

“Justine will be here soon.” Zoë went to pour some coffee into a white porcelain cup. “You… don’t seem well.”

“Bad sleep.” Alex went to the counter and tugged at the roll of paper towels. The roll spun out. He let out a few foul curses as a stream of paper toweling shot from the dispenser.

“It’s all right.” Zoë came to him instantly. “I’ll fix it. Go sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down.” He took a paper towel and blotted his sweating face, while Zoë deftly rerolled the long white cylinder. Although he tried to keep his mouth shut, words tumbled out, the syllables shredded like they’d been pulled across razor blades. He was jittery and furious, wanting to throw something, kick something. “Is this how you two run a business? Agree to something, and then no follow-through? We’re going to rewrite the payment schedule. My time may not be important to you, but I have to count on things being done when they’re supposed to be done. I’ve got to get to work. My guys are probably already there.”

“I’m sorry.” Zoë set a cup of coffee on the counter beside him. “Your time is important to me. Next time I’ll make certain the check is waiting for you first thing in the morning.”

Alex hated the way she talked to him, as if she were humoring a lunatic or soothing a barking dog. But it worked anyway. He felt the anger drain so abruptly that he was dizzy. And he was so tired that he could barely stay on his feet. Jesus. There was something really wrong with him.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he managed to say.

“Have this first.” Zoë nudged the cup toward him.

Alex looked down at the coffee. She had put cream in it. He always drank his coffee black. But he found himself reaching for the cup, taking it with both hands. To his stunned mortification, the cup shook violently, liquid sloshing over the edge.

Zoë was staring at him. He wanted to swear at her, turn away, but her gaze held his and wouldn’t let go. Those round blue eyes saw too much, things he had spent a lifetime concealing. She couldn’t help but see how close he was to crumbling. But there was no judgment in her expression. Only kindness. Compassion.

He had a sudden urge to drop to his knees and rest his head against her in exhausted supplication. Somehow he kept standing, swaying on stiff legs.

Carefully Zoë laid her hands over his, so they were both holding the cup. Even though her hands were half the size of his, her grip was surprisingly firm, subduing the shaking. “Here,” she whispered.

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