Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(4)

The ghost gleaned from the Nolans’ conversations that their parents had both been alcoholics. The scars they had left on their children—three sons and a daughter named Victoria—were invisible but bone-deep. Now, even though their parents were long gone, the Nolans had little to do with each other. They were survivors of a family that no one wanted to remember.

It was ironic that Alex, with his bulletproof reserve, was the only one of the four who had married so far. He and his wife, Darcy, lived near Roche Harbor. The only sister, Victoria, was a single mother, living in Seattle with her young daughter. As for Sam and Mark, they were determined to stay bachelors. Sam was unequivocal in his opinion that no woman would ever be worth the risk of marriage. Whenever he sensed that a relationship was becoming too close, he ended it and never looked back.

After Sam confided to Mark about his latest breakup, with a woman who had wanted to move their relationship to the next level, Mark asked, “What’s the next level?”

“I don’t know. I broke up with her before I found out.” The two were sitting on the porch, applying paint remover to a row of salvaged antique balusters that would eventually be used for the front railings. “I’m a one-level guy,” Sam continued. “Sex, dinners out, the occasional impersonal gift, and no talking about the future, ever. It’s a relief now that it’s over. She’s great, but I couldn’t handle all the emotion salad.”

“What’s emotion salad?” Mark asked, amused.

“You know that thing women do. The happy-crying thing. Or the sad-mad thing. I don’t get how anyone can have more than one feeling at a time. It’s like trying to simultaneously watch TVs on different channels.”

“I’ve seen you have more than one feeling at a time.”

“When?”

“At Alex’s wedding ceremony. When he and Darcy were exchanging vows. You were smiling, but your eyes got kind of watery.”

“Oh. At that point I was thinking about the scene in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, when Jack Nicholson got the lobotomy and his friends smothered him with a pillow out of mercy.”

“Most of the time I wouldn’t mind smothering Alex with a pillow,” Mark said.

Sam grinned, but sobered quickly as he continued. “Someone should put him out of his misery. That Darcy is a piece of work. Remember at the rehearsal dinner when she referred to Alex as her first husband?”

“He is her first husband.”

“Yeah, but calling him the ‘first’ implies there’s going to be a second. Husbands are like cars to Darcy—she’s going to keep trading up. And what I don’t get is that Alex knew it, but he went ahead and married her anyway. I mean, if you have to get married, at least pick someone nice.”

“She’s not that bad.”

“Then why do I get the feeling when I talk to her that I’d be better off viewing her reflection from a mirrored shield?”

“Darcy’s not my type,” Mark said, “but a lot of guys would say she’s hot.”

“Not a good reason to marry someone.”

“In your opinion, Sam, is there any good reason to get married?”

Sam shook his head. “I’d rather have a painful accident with a power tool.”

“Having seen the way you handle a compound miter saw,” Mark said, “I’d say that’s entirely likely.”

A few days later, Alex came to the house at Rainshadow Road for an unexpected visit. Since the ghost had last seen him, Alex had lost weight he hadn’t needed to lose. His cheekbones were as prominent as guard rails, the ice-colored eyes under-mounted by deep shadows.

“Darcy wants to separate,” Alex said without preamble, as Sam welcomed him inside.

Sam shot him a glance of concern. “Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“She wouldn’t tell you?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Jesus, Al. Don’t you want to know why your wife’s leaving you?”

“Not particularly.”

Sam’s tone turned gently arid. “Do you think that might be part of the problem? Like maybe she needs a husband who’s interested in her feelings?”

“One of the reasons I liked Darcy in the first place is that she and I never had to have those conversations.” Alex wandered into the parlor, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He surveyed the door casing that Sam had been hammering into place. “You’re going to split the wood. You need to predrill the holes.”

Sam surveyed him for a moment. “Want to lend a hand?”

“Sure.” Alex went to the worktable in the center of the room and picked up a cordless power drill. He checked the settings and the tightness of the chuck, and pressed the trigger experimentally. A metallic squeal tore through the air.

“Bearings are dried up,” Sam said apologetically. “I’ve been meaning to repack them with grease, but I haven’t had time.”

“It’s better to replace them completely. I’ll take care of it later. Meantime, I’ve got a good drill in the car. Four-pole motor, four hundred fifty pounds of torque.”

“Sweet.”

In the way of men, they dealt with the issue of Alex’s broken marriage by not talking about it at all, instead working together in companionable silence. Alex installed the door casings with precision and care, measuring and marking, hand-chiseling a thin edge of the plastered wall to ensure that the vertical casing was perfectly plumb.