Page 51 of Dream Lake

The cup lifted to his mouth. Her hands kept his steady. He took a swallow. The liquid was hot and smooth, soothing his sandpaper throat, melting through the chill of his insides. It was slightly sweet, and the touch of cream had softened the bitterness, and it was so unexpectedly good that he found himself desperately gulping the rest. His veins hummed with a gratitude that bordered on worship.

Zoë’s hands eased from his. “More?”

He nodded with a hoarse, wordless murmur.

She made another cup, stirring cream and sugar into it, while sunlight broke through the shuttered window and embossed her hair with bright ribbons. It occurred to him that she was making breakfast for a crowd of paying guests. There were still things cooking on the stove, in the oven. And not only had he interrupted her work, he had stood there and ranted about his own schedule like it was so much more important than hers.

“You’re busy,” he muttered in the prelude to an apology. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Everything’s fine.” Her voice was gentle. She set the cup of coffee at the table, and pulled a chair back. Clearly she intended for him to sit for this one.

He cast a wary glance around the kitchen, wondering what the ghost would make of this, but thankfully he was nowhere to be seen. Alex went to the table and sat. He drank the coffee slowly, able to do it on his own as long as he was careful.

Zoë worked at the counter. The clink of utensils, the sounds of pots and plates being deftly wielded, was oddly relaxing. He could sit here and no one was going to bother him. Closing his eyes, he let himself sink into the feeling of temporary peace. Of sanctuary.

“Another?” he heard her ask.

He nodded.

“First try some of this.” She set a plate of food in front of him. As she leaned closer, he could smell her skin, fresh and sweet, like she had been steeped in sugared tea.

“I don’t think I can—”

“Just try.” She put flatware on the table and went back to the stove.

The fork was as heavy as a lead mallet. Alex looked at the plate. It contained a neat portion of something with layers of bread, the top lightly puffy and golden-brown. “What is it?”

“A breakfast strata.”

As Alex took a cautious bite, he discovered that the whole of it was infused with a mild custardy lightness. It was like a quiche but infinitely more delicate, the texture perfect for delivering the ripe hint of tomato and mild cheese. The flavor of basil came through last, hitting his tongue with a clean, pungent note.

“Do you like it?” he heard Zoë ask. He couldn’t even reply. Hunger had come raging, and he had given over entirely to the single-minded act of eating.

Zoë brought a glass of cold water. When the plate was empty, Alex set down his fork, and drank the water, and silently evaluated his physical condition. The change was nothing short of miraculous. His headache was fading, and the tremors were gone. He was sated with taste and warmth… it was like being drunk on food.

“What was in that?” he asked, his voice distant as if he were speaking from a dream.

Zoë had replenished his coffee cup. She leaned her hip against the table as she faced him. Her cheeks were satiny from the heat of the stove. “French bread I made myself. Heirloom tomatoes I bought at the farmer’s market. The cheese was made on Lopez Island, and the eggs were laid this morning from wyandotte hens. The basil was grown in the herb garden out back. Would you like another helping?”

Alex could have eaten an entire pan of it. But he shook his head, deciding it was better not to push his luck. “I should leave some for your guests.”

“There’s more than enough.”

“I’m fine.” After taking a swallow of coffee, he looked intently at her. “I wouldn’t have thought—” He broke off, not able to describe what had just happened to him.

Zoë seemed to understand. A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Sometimes,” she said, “my cooking has a kind of… effect… on people.”

The back of his neck prickled, not unpleasantly. “What kind of effect?”

“I don’t let myself think about it too much. I don’t want to ruin it. But sometimes it seems to make people feel better in a sort of… magical way.” Her smile turned rueful at the edges. “I’m sure you don’t believe in things like that.”

“I’m surprisingly open-minded,” Alex said, conscious of the ghost wandering back into the kitchen.

“Well, look at you.” The ghost sounded relieved. “You’re not going to keel over and die.”

Zoë’s attention was diverted as her cat meowed at the back door, its furry bulk visible through the screen. As soon as she let Byron inside, he sat and looked at her, flicking his tail impatiently.

“Poor little fluff-monster,” Zoë cooed, putting a spoonful of something in a dish, setting it on the floor.

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