Page 69 of Dream Lake

“You’re going to wear yourself out,” Alex said, watching her spoon the apple crisp, with its crumbly browned topping, into two bowls. “You need to rest.”

She smiled at him. “Look who’s talking.”

“How much sleep have you been getting?”

“Probably more than you,” she said.

In a couple of minutes they were sitting side by side at the island, and Zoë was telling him about bringing her grandmother over on the ferry, and how much she had liked the cottage, and about the variety of medications she was taking. And while she talked, Alex ate. The oatmeal topping crumbled between his teeth with a crunch that quickly turned into something marvelously chewy and melting, a tart ambrosia of apples inflected with cinnamon and a zing of orange.

“I would ask for this on death row,” Alex told her, and although he hadn’t meant it to be funny, she laughed.

The sound of the pet door heralded Byron’s entrance from outside, the massive cat sauntering into the kitchen as if he owned the place.

“The cat door is working perfectly, as you can see,” Zoë said. “I didn’t even have to train Byron—he knew exactly what to do.” She sent a fond look to the Persian, who wandered into the living room and jumped onto the sofa. “If only the collar wasn’t so ugly. Would it cause any technical problems if I decorate it?”

“No. But don’t decorate it. Leave him some dignity.”

“Just a few sequins.”

“It’s a cat, Zoë. Not a showgirl.”

“Byron likes being decorated.”

Alex gave her an apprehensive glance. “You don’t ever dress him up in little outfits. You’re not one of those people.”

“No,” she said instantly.

“Good.”

“Maybe just one little Santa’s helper outfit around Christmas.” She paused. “And last Halloween I dressed him in a—”

“Don’t tell me any more,” Alex said, trying not to laugh. “Please.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m gritting my teeth,” he said.

“It’s a smile,” Zoë insisted cheerfully.

It wasn’t until midway through another serving that Alex wondered about the ghost and Emma. The door of the main bedroom was closed, no sound or movement of any kind. But Alex became aware of a free-floating sweetness filling the air, an elation that surrounded them until he couldn’t avoid breathing it in, absorbing it in his pores. The feeling was made even more potent by its complexity, just as a pinch of salt enhanced the flavors of a cake. The swirling, dizzying joy made his chest uncomfortably tight, as if it were being pried open. He looked down, fiercely concentrating on the wood grain of the butcher-block countertop.

Don’t,he thought, without even knowing whom he was saying it to.

***

Emma.

The ghost approached the sleeping figure on the bed, the delicacy of her skin illuminated by a spill of morning light from the half-shuttered windows. She was still beautiful… it was there in the structure of her bones, the skin embossed with thousands of joys and sorrows that he hadn’t been there to share. Had he been able to share a life with her, his face would have been sketched with the same stories, the same inscriptions of time. To wear your life on your face… what an amazing gift.

“Hiya,” he whispered, looking down at her.

Her lashes flickered. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, and for a moment he thought she might be able to see him. Anxious joy awakened.

“Emma?” he said quietly.

She got out of bed, her body slim and fragile in a set of lace-trimmed pajamas. Going to the window, she stared outside at the view. Her hands fluttered and went to her eyes, and a sob escaped through her fingers. The sound would have broken his heart, if he’d had one. As it was, the sight of the tears shining in the light nearly shattered the soul that he was.

“Don’t cry,” he said urgently, even though she couldn’t hear him. “Don’t be upset. My God, I love you. I’ve always—”

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