Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(21)

Taking care to stay out of the way, Zoë stood beside the door and watched as Alex inserted a metal pick into the jammed lock. In a minute or two, he had jimmied the broken key loose. Deftly he gripped the protruding end with a pair of needle-nosed pliers and pulled out the key.

“You made it look so easy,” Zoë exclaimed.

He replaced the tools in the box and stood. She had the impression that it cost him something to meet her gaze. “May I?” he asked, and held out his hand for the key ring.

She gave it to him, taking care to avoid touching his fingers. He sorted through them, tried one, and the door opened with a creak.

The house was dark, musty-smelling, and silent. Alex preceded Zoë into the main room, found a light switch, and flipped it on.

Zoë set her bag by the door and ventured farther into the main living space. Turning a slow circle, she was pleased to discover that the floor plan was simple and open. However, the kitchen was a small galley style, cramped and sadly lacking in cabinet space, floored with ancient linoleum. The only furnishings in sight were an antique chrome kitchen table and three dingy vinyl-upholstered chairs, and a cast-iron wood-stove in the corner. Crumpled aluminum blinds covered the windows like a row of skeletons.

Zoë went to unlock a window casing to let in some fresh air, but she couldn’t budge it. The window was stuck.

Alex approached, and ran a fingertip along the seam of the window sash and sill. “It’s been painted shut.” He went to the next window. “This one, too. I’ll cut through the paint later.”

“Why would someone paint the windows shut?”

“Usually to keep out drafts. Cheaper than weather sealing.” His expression conveyed exactly what he thought about the idea. He went to the corner, pulled up a loose section of carpeting, and looked beneath it. “Wood flooring under here.”

“Really? Would it be possible to refinish it?”

“Maybe. There’s no telling what condition the floor’s in until you take out all the carpet. Sometimes they cover it for a reason.” Alex went to the kitchen and lowered to his haunches to inspect a section of the wall, where a patch of mold had spread like a bruise. “You’ve got a leak,” he said. “We’ll have to take part of the wall out. I saw wood ants on the exterior—they’re nesting because of the moisture.”

“Oh.” Zoë frowned. “I hope it’s worth fixing up this place. I hope it’s not too far gone.”

“It doesn’t look that bad. But you’ll have to get an inspection.”

“How much will that cost?”

“A couple hundred bucks, probably.” He set his toolbox on the dingy chrome table. “You’ll be living here with your grandmother?”

Zoë nodded. “She has vascular dementia. It may soon get to the point where she needs a walker or a wheelchair.” She went to get her bag, rummaged for a pamphlet, and brought it to him. “These are things that need to be done to make the house safer for her.”

After a cursory glance at the pamphlet, Alex gave it back to her.

“Maybe you should keep it,” Zoë said.

Alex shook his head. “I know all about ADA codes.” With a speculative glance at their surroundings, he continued, “If your grandmother’s going to use a walker or wheelchair, you should have laminate flooring put in.”

Zoë was annoyed by the fact that he had barely looked at the list. His manner was just a hairsbreadth short of patronizing. “I don’t like laminates. I prefer real wood.”

“Laminate’s cheaper and more durable.”

“I’ll consider it, then. But I would like carpet in the bedrooms.”

“As long as it’s not too plush. Trying to get a wheelchair across that is like trying to roll through sand.” Alex stood at the opening of the kitchen galley and flipped on a light. “I don’t think this is a load-bearing wall. I could take it out and turn this area into an island. It would double your cabinets and countertop space.”

“Could you? It would be wonderful to have an open kitchen.”

Alex took a pad of sticky notes from the toolbox and scrawled a few words on the top one. He reached for a tape measure and went into the kitchen. “Do you know what kind of countertops you want?”

“Oh, yes,” Zoë said immediately. “Butcher block.” It had always been her dream to have butcher-block countertops, but she’d never had the chance. When she’d started working at Artist’s Point, soapstone counters had already been installed.

The measuring tape clicked and rasped a few more times. “If you do a lot of cooking, butcher block is going to show a lot of rough wear. It’s expensive. And high maintenance.”

“I’m aware of all that,” Zoë said. “I’ve worked in kitchens with butcher-block counters.”

“What about engineered stone?”

“I prefer butcher block.”

Alex emerged from the kitchen with his lips parted as if he were about to argue. As he saw her defensive expression, however, he closed his mouth and continued to make notes.

Zoë found herself beginning to actively dislike him. His silences were especially unnerving because he didn’t reveal a clue about what was behind them. No wonder he was divorced … the concept of anyone living comfortably with this man seemed impossible.