Page 82 of Dream Lake

“How is she doing?”

“She’s having a pretty good day—every now and then she got a little mixed up and kept asking who Phyllis was. But Phyllis has been really nice. I think you’ll like her.”

“What about James?”

Justine gave a snort. “No one likes James.”

They entered the library, where a long mahogany table had been set with crystal and white linen, and decorated with a row of green hydrangea blossoms floating in glass bowls. Emma stood with her son and his girlfriend near the fireplace, which was filled with lit candles set in assorted mercury glass candlesticks.

Emma beamed as she saw him. She was wearing a plum silk dress, her light blond hair shining in the candle glow. “There you are,” she exclaimed.

Alex went to her and bent to kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful, Emma.”

“Thank you.” She turned to the brunette by her side. “Phyllis, this handsome devil is Alex Nolan. He’s the one who’s remodeling the cottage.”

The woman was tall and large-boned, her hair cut in an efficient bob. “Nice to meet you,” she said, giving Alex a firm handshake and a friendly smile.

“And this,” Emma continued, gesturing to a squarely built man of medium height, “is my son, James.”

Alex shook his hand.

Zoë’s father greeted him with all the pleasure of a substitute teacher who had just been assigned to a misbehaving classroom. He had the kind of face that appeared boyish and aged at the same time, his eyes flat as pennies behind heavy-rimmed glasses.

“We visited the cottage today,” James told him. “You seem to have done a competent job.”

“That’s James’s version of a compliment,” Phyllis interceded quickly. She smiled at Alex. “It’s a terrific lake house. According to Justine and Zoë, you’ve transformed the place.”

“There’s still more left to do,” Alex said. “We’re starting on the garage this week.”

As the conversation continued, James divulged that he was the manager of an electronics store in Arizona, and Phyllis was a veterinarian who’d been certified as an equine specialist. They were considering the idea of buying a five-acre horse farm. “It’s on the edge of a ghost town,” Phyllis said. “At one point the town had the richest silver mine in the world, but after all of it was extracted, the town dried up.”

“Is it haunted?” Emma asked.

“Some people claim there’s a ghost in the old saloon,” Phyllis told her.

“Isn’t it odd,” James asked dryly, “that you never hear of ghosts haunting a nice place? They always pick some broken-down house or a dusty old abandoned building.”

The ghost, who had been wandering beside the bookshelves and perusing the titles, said sarcastically, “It’s not like I got a choice between an attic or the Ritz.”

Emma responded with a serious expression. “Ghosts usually haunt the places where their suffering was greatest.”

James laughed. “Mother, you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“No one has ever managed to prove that they exist.”

“No one’s proved that they don’t exist, either,” Emma pointed out.

“If you believe in ghosts, you might as well believe in leprechauns and Santa Claus.”

Zoë’s laughing voice came from the doorway as she brought in a pitcher of water. “Dad always told me Santa Claus wasn’t real,” she said to the room in general. “But I wanted to believe in him. So I asked a higher authority.”

“God?” Justine asked.

“No, I asked Upsie. And she said I could believe in whatever I wanted.”

“So much for my mother’s firm grasp on reality,” James said acidly.

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