Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(61)

“I’m not talking about the divorce. I’m talking about the marriage.” Part of him warned against lowering his guard. But Darcy deserved the truth. “I should have been a better husband to you. I should have asked how your day was, and paid attention to the answers. I should have gotten us a damn dog, and made this place seem like a home instead of a corporate suite at the Westin. I’m sorry I was a waste of your time. You deserved a lot more than you got.”

Darcy stood and approached him. Her face had turned red, and to his astonishment he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes. Her jaw was trembling. As she drew closer, he had the wildly uncomfortable thought that she might try to embrace him, which was not at all what he wanted. But her hand shot out, and the sound of a slap rang through the kitchen. The side of his face went numb, then turned to fire. “You’re not sorry,” Darcy said. “You’re not capable of it.”

Before he could say anything, Darcy continued with low-voiced vehemence. “Don’t you dare make me out to be the poor little mistreated wife, pining for love. You think I ever expected love from you? I wasn’t stupid. I married you because you could make money, and you were good in bed. And now you can’t do either of those things. What’s the problem, you can’t get it up now? Don’t look at me like I’m a bitch. If I am, it’s because of you. Any woman would be, after being married to you.” She snatched up the wine bottle and her glass, and stormed off to the guest bedroom. It seemed the entire house vibrated from the slam of the door.

Slowly massaging his jaw, Alex went to lean against the counter, pondering Darcy’s behavior. He had expected just about any other reaction than the one he’d gotten.

The ghost came to stand beside him, a glint of friendly sympathy in his dark eyes.

Alex took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“When you started to drink the wine? I’m not your conscience. It’s your battle. I’m not going to be hanging around with you forever, you know.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

The ghost smiled. “You did the right thing, telling her that stuff.”

“You think it might have helped her?” Alex asked dubiously.

“No,” the ghost said. “But I think it helped you.”

Darcy left without a word the next morning. Alex spent most of the weekend working on the house at Rainshadow Road, clearing out the rest of the attic and insulating a knee wall. On Sunday evening he texted Zoë to ask if Emma was at the cottage and if everything had gone well.

“Got here just fine,” Zoë texted immediately. “She loves the cottage.”

“Need anything?” he couldn’t resist texting back.

“Yes. Making apple pie. Need help with it tomorrow AM.”

“Pie for breakfast?”

“Why not?”

“ok,” he texted.

“gn”

“gn”

Although gn was standard text shorthand for “goodnight,” it could, in certain contexts, be interpreted as “get naked.” Alex’s mind summoned images of Zoë’s clothes dropping to the floor, and it set off a deep pang of lust.

The feeling was quickly supplanted by a nervous thrill emanating from the ghost.

“Chill,” Alex said curtly. “Listen, when we go there tomorrow, if you’re emoting all over the place, I’m hauling ass out of there. I can’t work like this.”

“Sure.” But it was clear the ghost wasn’t even listening.

“This is what it feels like to love someone …” the ghost had once told him. Alex didn’t want to know how it felt, even secondhand.

“She’s still sleeping,” Zoë said softly, opening the front door of the cottage to let Alex in. “I thought I should let her rest as long as possible.”

Alex stopped at the threshold, looking down at her. There were smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes, and her hair was unwashed, and she was dressed in khaki shorts and a modest tank top. She was weary and luminous, her face innocently clean of makeup. He wanted nothing more than to hold and comfort her.

Instead he said, “I’ll come back later.”

The ghost, who was behind him, said shortly, “We’re staying.”

“Have breakfast with me,” Zoë said, catching at Alex’s hand, pulling him inside.

The air smelled like butter and sugar and warm apples. Alex’s mouth watered.

“Instead of pie,” Zoë said, “I made apple crisp in a skillet. Sit at the island, and I’ll get some for us.”

He began to follow her into the kitchen, pausing as he saw that the ghost had stopped in front of a bookshelf in the living room. Although he couldn’t see the ghost’s face, something about his utter stillness alerted Alex. Casually he wandered to the bookshelf to see what had caught the ghost’s attention.

One shelf contained a row of framed pictures, some of them sepia-toned and faded with age. Alex smiled slightly as he saw a snapshot of Emma holding a cherubic blond toddler who could only have been Zoë. Beside it was an old black-and-white photo of three girls standing in front of a 1930s sedan. Emma and her two sisters.

His gaze moved to a photo of a man with a seventies haircut and sideburns, and a broad, lantern-jawed face. He was the kind of man who wore his dignity like a three-piece suit.