Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(16)

“Lockdown,” Zoë repeated faintly, staring at the brochure, the photographs all tinted with warm amber and rose hues. “I don’t think I could put Emma there. I’m sure she would want me close by, and since I live in Friday Harbor, I’d only be able to visit every—”

“Zoë …” Colette interrupted, her dark, tip-tilted eyes soft with sympathy. “By then she probably won’t remember you.”

Six

Zoë returned to the island after three days of feverish activity. She had sorted through Emma’s clothes and personal items, and had hired a professional packing company to help wrap breakable items and put everything into boxes. Stacks of old photographs and memory books had been placed in specially marked containers—Zoë wasn’t certain whether her grandmother would want to look through them or not.

As soon as she reached the inn, Justine gave her an assessing glance and said, “Go take a nap. You look totally beat.”

“I am.” Gratefully Zoë had gone to the cottage and slept for most of the afternoon. She awoke as low-slanting sunlight pierced the cream-painted plantation shutters of her bedroom and crossed her pink-flowered bedspread in brilliant stripes. A dressmaker’s cloth mannequin stood in the corner, glittering with Zoë’s collection of antique brooches.

Byron lay nearby, watching her with golden-green eyes. As Zoë smiled and reached out to pet him, he began to purr loudly.

“Justine did comb you,” Zoë murmured, running her fingers through his silky white fur. “I bet she gave you a cat massage, too, didn’t she?”

Footsteps approached the doorway. “Only to shut him up,” came Justine’s voice. “He kept yowling for you.” She ducked her head inside the doorway. “How are you doing? Can I come in?”

“Yes, I feel much better.”

“You still have raccoon eyes.” Justine sat on the edge of the bed and regarded her with patent concern.

“Even with the professional packers helping,” Zoë said, “it took two full days just to go through Emma’s apartment. Closets full of stuff. I lost count of how many sets of dishes she has. And so much old junk—a turntable record player, a leather-case radio, a porcelain toaster from the thirties—I felt like I was in an episode of Hoarders.”

“I sense an eBay seller’s account in your future.”

Zoë groaned and sat up, scrubbing her fingers through her wild blond curls. “I have a lot to talk to you about,” she said.

“Want to walk over to the big kitchen and make a decent pot of coffee?”

“Could we have wine instead?”

“Now you’re talking.”

As they ambled to the main house, with Byron following closely, Zoë told her cousin everything she had discussed with the elder-care consultant. They entered the kitchen, large and cheerful, the walls covered in retro wallpaper adorned with clusters of cherries. While Justine opened a bottle of wine, Zoë glanced at a glass-domed cake plate filled with pastries. In her absence, Justine had relied on a local bakery to provide breakfast for the guests.

“They were okay,” Justine said in answer to Zoë’s unspoken question, “but nothing close to your stuff. The first-time guests didn’t know any better, so they were happy, but you should’ve heard the regulars bitching. ‘Where’s Zoë?’ and ‘I was looking forward to this breakfast so much and this is what we get?’ I’m not kidding, Zo: this place isn’t the same without you.”

Zoë smiled. “Oh, stop.”

“It’s true.” Justine handed her a glass of wine, and they sat at the kitchen table. Byron leaped into Zoë’s lap and settled in a purring heap of white fur.

“What happens next?” Justine asked quietly. “Although I think I already know.”

“Emma needs me,” Zoë said simply. “She’s going to come live with me.”

Justine frowned in concern. “You can’t take care of her all by yourself.”

“No, I’ll find a home-care aide who’ll help with the basics and watch over Emma while I go to work.”

“How long will that last? I mean, before Emma …” Justine paused uncomfortably.

“Before she becomes too impaired to live with me anymore?” Zoë finished for her. “I don’t know. It could be fast or slow. But when it happens, I’ll take her to a place in Everett—it’s called a memory-care community. I went there yesterday and talked to the head gerontologist, who was incredibly nice. And I felt a little less guilty afterward, because I realized that when my grandmother can’t walk or wash herself anymore, they’ll be able to keep her more comfortable, and way more safe, than I could.”

“Do you want to move her into the cottage out back? The two of you can stay there, and I’ll take one of the rooms in the main house.”

Zoë was touched by her generosity. “That’s so sweet of you. But that place is too small for what we’ll need. Emma has a lake cottage on the island. It’s about twelve hundred square feet, and it’s got two bedrooms and a kitchen. I think we’re going to try living there.”

“Emma has a lake cottage? How come I didn’t know about it?”

“Well, it came from her side of the family—the Stewarts—and I think she used to spend a lot of time there when she was still pretty young. But she hasn’t gone there in thirty years, and it’s been closed up. Every now and then a property management company checks on it and does some maintenance.” Zoë hesitated. “I think the cottage holds a lot of memories for Emma. I asked why she hadn’t sold it by now, but she didn’t want to explain. Or maybe she was just tired.”