Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(3)

“The inspector said the structural damage was repairable,” Sam commented.

“Who’d you get to do it?” Alex lowered to his haunches to examine the collapsed parlor fireplace, the fractures in the exposed chimney.

“Ben Rawley.” Sam looked defensive as he saw Alex’s expression. “Yeah, I know he’s a little old—”

“He’s a fossil.”

“—but he still knows his stuff. And he did it for free, as a favor.”

“I wouldn’t take his word. You need to get an engineer in here for a realistic assessment.” Alex had a distinctive way of talking, every syllable as measured and flat as unspooling contractor’s tape, with the hint of a rasp. “The only plus in this whole scenario is that with a structurally unsound house on the property, it’s worth less than vacant land. So you might be able to argue for a break on the price, considering the expense of demolition and haul-off.”

The ghost was wrenched with anxiety. Destroying the house might be the end of him. It might send him to oblivion.

“I’m not going to tear it down,” Sam said. “I’m going to save it.”

“Good luck.”

“I know.” Sam dragged a hand through his hair with a scrubbing motion, causing the short, dark strands to stand up in wild dishevelment. He let out a heavy sigh. “The land is perfect for the vineyard—I know I should settle for that and count myself lucky. But this house … there’s something I just …” He shook his head, looking baffled and concerned and determined all at once.

Both the ghost and Sam expected Alex to mock him. Instead, Alex stood and wandered across the parlor, going to a boarded-up window. He pulled at the ancient sheet of plywood. It came off easily, offering only a creak of protest. Light flooded the room along with a rush of clean air, knee-high eddies of dust motes glinting in the newly admitted sun.

“I have a thing about lost causes, too.” A faint, wry note edged Alex’s voice. “Not to mention Victorian houses.”

“Really?”

“Of course. High-maintenance, energy-inefficient design, toxic materials … what’s not to love?”

Sam smiled. “So if you were me, how would you go about this?”

“I’d run as fast as possible in the opposite direction. But since you’re obviously going to buy the place … don’t waste your time with a regulated lender. You’re going to need a hard-money guy. And the rates are going to suck.”

“Do you know anyone?”

“I might. Before we start talking about that, though, you need to face reality. You’re looking at 250K of repairs, minimum. And don’t expect to lean on me for free supplies and labor—I’m going ahead with the Dream Lake site, so I’ll be as busy as a cat burying shit.”

“Believe me, Al, I never expect to lean on you for anything.” Sam’s voice turned arid. “I know better.”

Tension laced the air, a mingling of affection and hostility that could only have come from a troubled family history. The ghost was perplexed by an unfamiliar sensation, a raw chill that would have caused him to shiver if he’d had a human form. It was a depth of despair that even the ghost, in his bleak solitude, had never experienced—and it radiated from Alex Nolan.

The ghost moved away instinctively, but there was no escaping the feeling. “Is that how it feels to be you?” he asked, pitying the man. He was startled to see Alex cast a glance over his shoulder in his direction. “Can you hear me?” the ghost continued in wonder, circling around him. “Did you just hear my voice?”

Alex made no response, only gave a brief shake of his head as if to clear away a daydream. “I’ll send an engineer over here,” he eventually said. “No charge. You’re going to be spending more than enough on this place. I don’t think you have a clue about what you’re getting into.”

Almost two years passed before the ghost saw Alex Nolan again. During that time, Sam had become the lens through which the ghost could view the outside world. Although he still couldn’t leave the house, there were visitors: Sam’s friends, his vineyard crew, subcontractors who worked on the electricity and plumbing.

Sam’s older brother, Mark, appeared about once a month to help with smaller weekend projects. One day they leveled a section of flooring, and another they sandblasted and reglazed an antique clawfoot bathtub. All the while, they talked and exchanged good-natured insults. The ghost enjoyed those visits immensely.

More and more, he was recalling things about his former life, gathering memories like scattered beads from the floor. He came to remember that he liked big band jazz and comic book heroes and airplanes. He had liked listening to radio shows: Jack Benny, George and Gracie, Edgar Bergen. He hadn’t yet recovered enough of his past to have any sense of the whole, but he thought he would in time. Like those paintings in which points of color, when viewed from a distance, would form a complete image.

Mark Nolan was easygoing and dependable, the kind of man the ghost would have liked to have as a friend. Since he owned a coffee-roasting business, Mark always brought bags of whole beans and began each visit by brewing coffee—he drank it by the potful. As Mark meticulously ground the beans and measured them out, the ghost remembered coffee, its bittersweet, earthy scent, the way a spoonful of cane sugar and a dollop of cream turned it into liquid velvet.