Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(41)

“Come take a look at this,” Alex said.

The ghost hurried to look over his shoulder. The moment he saw the photo, he made a quiet sound as if he’d been gut-punched.

EMMALINE STEWART, JAMES HOFFMAN TO BE MARRIED SEPTEMBER 7, 1946

After resigning her staff position at the Bellingham Herald, Miss Emmaline Stewart has returned home to San Juan Island to prepare for her coming marriage to Lieutenant James Augustus “Gus” Hoffman, who served as a transport pilot in the China-Burma-India theater. During the last two years of the war, Lieutenant Hoffman flew 52 missions across the aerial support route over the Himalayas. Vows will be spoken at 3:30 at an open service at First Presbyterian on Spring Street.

As Alex read the article a second time, he felt emotion closing around him, so heavy and smothering that the more you tried to wade through it, climb out, the deeper and faster you sank.

“Stop,” Alex managed to say.

The ghost retreated, his face tearless and drawn. “I’m trying.” But he wasn’t, and they both knew it. This grief was his way of being close to Emma, the only connection available until he was with her again.

“Just chill,” Alex said tersely. “I won’t be much use to you …”—he paused for a deep gasp of air—“if you give me a damned heart attack.”

The ghost’s gaze followed the faded clipping that had dropped from Alex’s fingers. The yellowed paper spun, leaf-like, to the floor. “This is what it feels like to love someone you can’t have.”

Crouched there amid piles of boxed-up memories and dust and shadows, Alex thought that if he were ever capable of feeling that way about anyone—which he doubted—he’d rather take a bullet to the head.

“It’ll happen to you,” the ghost said, as if he could read Alex’s thoughts. “It’ll hit you like an ax someday. Some things in life, you can’t escape.”

“Three things,” Alex said unsteadily. “Death, taxes, and Facebook. But falling in love, I can definitely escape.”

The ghost let out a huff of amusement. To Alex’s relief, the agonizing yearning began to fade.

“What if you could meet your soul mate?” the ghost asked. “You’d want to avoid that?”

“Hell, yes. The idea that there’s one soul out there, waiting to merge with mine like some data-sharing program, depresses the hell out of me.”

“It’s not like that. It’s not about losing yourself.”

“Then what is it?” Alex was only half listening, still occupied with the viselike tightness of his chest.

“It’s like your whole life you’ve been falling toward the earth, until the moment someone catches you. And you realize that somehow you’ve caught her at the same time. And together, instead of falling, you might be able to fly.” The ghost went to the discarded clipping and stared down at the photo, riveted. “She’s a beaut, isn’t she?”

“Sure,” Alex said automatically, although there was nothing of Zoë’s sparkling allure in the photo, only a hint of resemblance.

“Fifty-two missions over the Himalayas,” the ghost said, reading the article aloud. He looked at Alex. “They called it the ‘Hump.’ The transport pilots had to fly fully loaded cargo planes. Bad weather, high altitude, hostile aircraft. Dangerous as hell.”

“Were you … are you …”—Alex reached for the clipping on the floor—“this guy? Gus Hoffman?”

The ghost mused over the possibility. “I flew a P-40. I’m sure of it. Not a cargo plane.”

“You were a pilot facing the enemy,” Alex said. “What’s the difference?”

The ghost looked outraged. “What’s the difference between a fighter or a transport? You’re in a fighter, you’re alone. There’s no low-and-slow, no coffee and sandwiches, no one else to keep you company. You fly alone, you face the enemy alone, you die alone.”

Alex was secretly amused by the pride and arrogance threaded through his tone. “So you were in a P-40. Facts are, you were a pilot, you were in love with Emma, and you remember stuff about the house she grew up in, as well as the cottage at Dream Lake. All this falls in line with you being Gus Hoffman.”

“I must have come back to her,” the ghost said distractedly. “I must have married her. But that would mean—” He gave Alex a sharp glance. “Zoë could be my granddaughter.”

Alex rubbed his forehead and pinched the corners of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “Oh, great.”

“That means hands off from now on.”

“You were pushing me to go after her,” Alex said in outrage.

“That was before I knew about this. I don’t want you becoming part of my family tree.”

“Back off, pal. I’m not going near anyone’s family tree.”

“I’m not your pal. I’m … Gus.”

“Theoretically.” Alex glared at him as he stood and whacked the dust from his jeans. He set the article aside and tied the top of the large garbage bag.

“I want to find out what I looked like. And when I died, and how. I want to see Emma. And I—”

“I want some peace and quiet. Not to mention five minutes alone. I wish to hell you could find a way to disappear for a while.”