Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(27)

… Oh, I don’t care if you’ve loved the ladies far and near … You’d forget about them all if you could hear … Yaaka hula hickey dula, Yaaka hula hickey doo!

Ten

As Zoë put the last of the Friday morning breakfast plates into the dishwasher, she heard a scratch at the back door of the kitchen. She went to open it, and Byron came in with a plaintive meow, his tail held high like a gentleman doffing his hat. He sat and looked at her with expectant green eyes.

Zoë grinned and reached down to smooth his fluffy white fur. “I know what you’re after.”

She went to the stove, and spooned a few last curds of scrambled eggs from a skillet into Byron’s dish. The cat proceeded to eat daintily, his ears and tail twitching with enjoyment.

Justine entered the kitchen. “Someone’s here to see you. I wasn’t sure what to tell him.”

“Is it Alex?” Zoë’s nerves jolted pleasantly. “Please send him back here.”

“It’s not him. It’s your ex.”

Zoë blinked. She hadn’t seen or talked to Chris in more than a year, their contact limited to a couple of impersonal e-mails. As far as Zoë knew, there was no reason for him to come to the island.

“Is he alone or is he with his partner?”

“Solo,” Justine said.

“Did he tell you why he’s here?” Zoë asked.

Justine shook her head. “Want me to get rid of him?”

Zoë was almost tempted to say yes. It wasn’t that she and Chris had parted on bitter terms. In fact, their divorce had been a low-key and bloodless process. As his wife, she had felt betrayed, but as his friend, she couldn’t help feeling sympathy for the pain and confusion he’d so obviously been going through. Just after their first anniversary, Chris had come to her with tears in his eyes, and had tried to explain that even though he loved her, would always love her, he had been having an affair with a man who worked at his law firm. Chris had explained that until recently he’d never been able to face his feelings and desires, but he couldn’t pretend any longer. Whenever he’d been attracted to men in the past, he had always compartmentalized such feelings, knowing that his conservative family would never approve. However, it had gotten to the point where he could no longer live a lie. And what he regretted most was having caused Zoë disappointment and pain. He had never intended to hurt her.

“Doesn’t matter,” Justine had said to Zoë, regarding this last point. “He handled it the wrong way. Chris could have come to you and said, ‘Zoë, I’m having some complicated feelings,’ and then you could have talked about it. Instead, he lied to you repeatedly, until you were blindsided. He cheated on you. And that makes him a jackass, whether he’s g*y or straight.”

Now, contemplating the prospect of seeing Chris, Zoë felt dread settle in her stomach like a lead weight. “I’ll talk to him,” she said reluctantly. ”It wouldn’t feel right to turn him away.”

“You’re such a pushover,” Justine grumbled. “Okay, I’ll send him back here.”

In a couple of minutes, the door opened, and Chris entered cautiously.

He was as handsome as ever, slim and fit, his hair the rich color of wheat. Chris had always been in great shape, and he was scrupulously careful with his diet, rarely eating red meat or drinking a second glass of wine. “No butter, cream, or carbs,” he had always told Zoë when she had cooked for him. She had obliged, even though she had found the restrictions more than a little aggravating. The first meal she had made for herself after she had moved out of their apartment had been a huge bowl of spaghetti carbonara, with a sauce of white wine, cream, and three entire eggs, the whole of it covered in a snowy layer of grated Pecorino-Romano and Parmesan cheese and sprinkled with crisp shards of bacon.

Chris smiled when he saw her. “Zoë,” he said quietly, and stepped forward.

An awkward moment followed as they moved toward each other in the beginnings of a hug, and ended up clasping hands instead. Zoë was inwardly surprised by how good it was to see him again, and how much she had missed him.

“You look wonderful,” he said.

“So do you.” But she saw with concern that there was a weathering of sadness around his hazel-green eyes, and lines of tension that had been carved too deep and too fast.

Reaching into the pocket of his impeccably tailored blazer, Chris brought out a small object in a flannel pouch. “I found this behind the dresser the other day,” he said, handing it to her. ”Remember how hard we looked for it?”

“My goodness,” Zoë said as she saw the brooch inside the pouch. It had always been one of the favorites in her collection, a vintage silver and enameled teapot embedded with amethysts. “I thought I’d never see it again.”

“I wanted to return it to you in person,” Chris said. “I knew how much it meant to you.”

“Thank you.” She gave him an unguarded smile. “Are you staying on the island for the weekend?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?” she brought herself to ask. They were both trying hard to be casual, to mask the awkward edges and corners of a conversation between two people who were trying to reconnect.

Chris nodded. “I needed to get away and do some thinking. I’m renting a waterfront house for a couple of nights. Hoping to see some orcas, maybe do some kayaking.” His gaze flicked around the kitchen, taking in the pans that still needed to be cleaned, the remains of breakfast. “I came at a bad time. You’re in the middle of stuff—”