Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(12)

“I told Sam how much we appreciate it,” Zoë said. “It’s incredibly nice of him, especially since he and Lucy have only gone out a couple of times before.”

“They’re already in love with each other. They just don’t know it yet.”

Zoë paused in the middle of trimming the fondant from another cupcake. “How do you know it, if they don’t?”

“You should have seen Sam at the clinic yesterday. He was so worried about her, and she was so glad to see him, and for a few seconds, you could tell they were the only two people in the world.”

As Zoë worked with the cupcakes, she pondered what she remembered of Sam Nolan from elementary school. He had been geeky and skinny. No one would have guessed that he would have grown up into the robust, good-looking man she had seen earlier that morning. Sam had a roguish quality tempered with quiet strength … he might be exactly what Lucy needed, after her boyfriend had treated her so terribly.

“So now that Lucy’s got someone,” Justine said, “we have to find a guy for you.”

“No we don’t,” Zoë countered evenly. “I keep telling you, I’m not ready to start that kind of relationship.”

“You’ve been divorced for a couple of years now, and you’ve been a nun. Sex is good for you, you know. Relieves stress and improves cardiovascular health, and lowers the risk of prostate cancer, and besides—”

“I don’t have a prostate. Men have prostates.”

“I know, but think of how much you’ll be helping some poor guy out.”

A reluctant grin spread across Zoë’s face.

There could have been no better antidote for Zoë’s shyness and occasional self-doubt than Justine. She was like a cool, brisk September breeze that blew away the sultry heat of summer and made you think of apples and wool sweaters and planting tulip bulbs.

Before rolling out the next sheet of fondant, Zoë poured some coffee, and told Justine about a phone call she’d received that morning. The previous day, her grandmother Emma, who was living in a senior apartment at an independent living community in Everett, had been taken to a nearby medical facility. She had complained of numbness in her left arm and leg, and had seemed disoriented. It had turned out to be a ministroke, but the doctor believed that with physical therapy, she would regain most of the use of the affected limbs.

“But when they did a brain scan,” Zoë said, “they found that she’d already had a few ministrokes. It’s a condition called—oh, right now I can’t remember the word—but it basically boils down to a diagnosis of vascular dementia.”

“Oh, Zoë.” Justine reached out to put her hand on Zoë’s back, and kept it there for a moment. “I’m sorry. Is that a kind of Alzheimer’s?”

“No, but it’s similar. With vascular dementia, it’s a stair-step process … one of these ministrokes takes away some of your ability, and then you plateau for a while, and then you have another episode—” Zoë broke off and blinked against tears. “Eventually she’ll have a major stroke, and that’s that.”

Justine frowned. “When Emma came out to visit over Christmas, she was in great shape. Didn’t seem at all her age. What is she now, like, ninety?”

“Eighty-seven.”

“Do you need to go to her?” Justine asked quietly.

“Yes, I thought tomorrow after the wedding reception—”

“No, I mean right now.”

“I have a hundred and seventy-two cupcakes to cover with fondant.”

“Show me how to do it. I’ll take over.”

“You’ve got too many other things to do.” Zoë felt a rush of fond gratitude for her cousin, who could always be counted on in times of trouble. “And this isn’t as easy as it looks. You’d end up with a pile of big pink balls.”

“Then I’d put ’em on the groom’s table,” Justine said.

Zoë chuckled, and sighed. “No, I’ll stay until after the wedding, and then I’ll go to Everett.” She hesitated before continuing. “I’ll be meeting with Emma’s elder-care consultant—she helps with insurance care facilities, and knows all the options for what my grandmother will need. So I’ll be gone for a couple of days.”

“Whatever it takes.” Justine slid her a concerned glance. “You think your dad will come up from Arizona to see her?”

“I hope not.” Although Zoë hadn’t seen her father in years, they exchanged occasional brief e-mails and phone calls. And from what she knew of his relationship with Emma, it had been even more distant than that. “It would be really awkward. And he wouldn’t be any help at all.”

“Poor Zoë. I wonder if you’ve ever had a man in your life you could really count on.”

“Right now,” Zoë said, “a man is the last thing I need. Except for Byron, of course. Which reminds me … would you look after him while I’m gone?”

“Oh, jeez.” Justine scowled. “I’ll give him food and water, but that’s it. No treats, no combing, no baths or special outfits, and no cat massage.”

“It’s just a light rubdown at the end of the day,” Zoë protested. “It helps him relax.”