Page 83 of Dream Lake

“I grasp reality,” Emma said with dignity. “But sometimes I like to choke it into submission.”

The ghost regarded her with an approving grin. “What a woman.”

Zoë laughed and glanced at Alex. “Hi,” she said softly.

Alex had temporarily lost the power of speech. Zoë was impossibly beautiful in a sleeveless black dress with straps and a twist front, the stretchy fabric clinging lightly to spectacular curves. Her only accessory was a brooch pinned at the lowest point of the vee neckline, an Art Deco half-circle encrusted with white and green rhinestones.

“I forgot about music,” Zoë told him. “Do you have a playlist on your phone? Maybe some of those old tunes that Upsie likes? There’s a dock with speakers on that bookshelf.”

When Alex was slow to respond, the ghost said impatiently, “The jazz list. Put on some music.”

Alex shook his head to clear it, and went to set his phone into the dock. In a minute, the sultry strains of Duke Ellington’s “Prelude to a Kiss” floated into the air.

Sitting beside Emma at the table, Alex watched as Zoë brought in a tray of white porcelain spoons. She set one in front of him. It contained a small, perfectly seared scallop nestled into a little dab of something green.

“It’s a scallop and fried pancetta on artichoke puree,” Zoë said, smiling down at him. “Eat it all in one bite.”

Alex took it into his mouth. The salty pancetta crackled against the sweet scallop, the smoky bite of black pepper warming the smooth artichoke. He heard a few hums of delight around the table.

Zoë lingered beside Alex, her lashes lowering as she watched his reaction. “Do you like it?” she asked.

It was the best thing he had ever tasted. “Are there more? Because I could skip the rest of dinner and just have these.”

Zoë shook her head with a grin, reaching to collect the empty spoon. “Amuse-bouche,” she told him, and went to the kitchen to bring out the next course.

“This is so much fun,” Phyllis exclaimed, swaying a little in her seat as Benny Goodman’s “Sing Sing Sing” began. She held up the wine bottle invitingly. “Alex, would you like some?”

“No, thanks,” Alex said.

“Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder,” Emma murmured, and patted his shoulder.

Somehow James had heard from across the table. “Mother, you’ve got the saying wrong.”

“Actually,” Alex said, smiling down at Emma, “she got it exactly right.”

The next course was a small plate of fiddleheads, tightly coiled fronds of young ferns. After being blanched in hot water until they had turned a brilliant green, the fiddleheads had been tossed in a warm vinaigrette of browned butter, fresh lemon, and sea salt. Toasted walnuts were sprinkled on top, along with snowy flakes of fresh Parmesan cheese. The guests exclaimed over the salad, tongues rolling the flavors inside their cheeks. Phyllis and Justine giggled together at their own efforts to scrape every last drop from the salad plates. Zoë’s gaze often touched on Alex, as if she savored his obvious pleasure in the food.

Only James seemed unaffected. Midway through the dish, he set down his fork, looking disgruntled. He lifted a glass of red wine to his mouth and drank a deep swallow.

“You’re not going to finish your salad?” Phyllis asked incredulously.

“I don’t care for it,” he said.

“I’ll help you, then.” Phyllis reached over and began to spear his remaining fiddleheads enthusiastically.

Zoë, who had just begun on her own salad, looked at her father with concern. “Can I get you something else, Dad? A dish of field greens?”

He shook his head, looking like an airport traveler waiting for his boarding pass number to be called.

Billie Holiday’s ebullient rendition of “I’m Gonna Lock My Heart” danced across the dining table. Soon Justine and Zoë brought out individual bowls of mussels, their abundant steam perfumed with white wine, saffron, butter, parsley. The guests picked up the dark, gleaming shells with their fingers, and used tiny forks to spear the sweet tidbits inside. Empty bowls were set on the table for the discarded shells.

“My God, Zoë,” Justine exclaimed after her first taste of the mussels. “Thissauce.I could just drink it.”

A relaxed and jovial mood spread through the room, accompanied by the busy clacking of shells. It was a dish that required activity, involvement, conversation. The broth was indecently good, a savory elixir that washed exquisite, truffly sensation through his mouth. Alex was about to ask for a spoon, having decided there was no way in hell he was giving back his bowl until he’d consumed every drop. But homemade French rolls were being passed around, crisp on the outside, fine textured and chewy on the inside. The diners tore the bread with their fingers and used the pieces to sop up the rich liquid.

The discussion turned to the half-day whale-watching trip that Phyllis and James had arranged to take the next morning, and an alpaca farm that Phyllis wanted to visit.

“Have you ever treated an alpaca?” Zoë asked Phyllis.

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