Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(62)

“Who’s this?” Alex asked, picking up the framed picture.

Zoë looked over from the kitchen. “That’s my dad. James Hoffman Jr. I’ve asked for a more recent photo, but he never remembers to send one.”

“Any pictures of your mom?”

“No. My dad got rid of them all after she left us.” At Alex’s intent glance, Zoë forced a quick smile. “No need for pictures—apparently I look just like her.” The brittle smile didn’t fully conceal the pain of having been abandoned.

“Did you ever find out why she left?” Alex asked gently.

“Not really. My dad would never talk about it. But Upsie said she thought my mother got married too young and couldn’t handle the responsibility of having a child.” She let out a little breath of amusement. “When I was little, I thought she must have left because I cried too much. So for most of my childhood, I tried to act happy all the time, even when I didn’t feel like it.”

You still do, Alex thought. He wanted to go to her, put his arms around her, tell her that with him she never had to pretend something she didn’t feel. It took the force of his entire will to stay where he was.

The ghost spoke gruffly. “Ask her about this.”

The last picture on the shelf was a wedding portrait. Emma, young and attractive and unsmiling. And the groom, James Augustus Hoffman Sr. … stalwart and heavy-jawed. His resemblance to his son was unmistakable.

“This was your grandpa Gus?” Alex asked.

“Yes. He wore glasses later on. They made him look just like Clark Kent.”

“Is that me?” the ghost asked in a hushed tone, staring at the photo.

Alex shook his head. The ghost, with his lean face and dark-eyed handsomeness, wasn’t at all similar to Gus Hoffman.

The ghost looked torn between relief and frustration. “Then who the hell am I?”

Alex straightened the pictures on the shelf with care. When he looked up from the task, the ghost had gone to Emma’s room.

Feeling uneasy, Alex went to the kitchen island and sat on a bar stool. He hoped to hell the ghost wasn’t going to scare Emma into a damned heart attack. “Who made breakfast at the inn this morning?” he asked Zoë.

“Justine and I have a couple of friends who like to help out and make a little extra money now and then … so I put some breakfast casseroles in the freezer and left instructions for heating everything.”

“You’re going to wear yourself out,” Alex said, watching her spoon the apple crisp, with its crumbly browned topping, into two bowls. “You need to rest.”

She smiled at him. “Look who’s talking.”

“How much sleep have you been getting?”

“Probably more than you,” she said.

In a couple of minutes they were sitting side by side at the island, and Zoë was telling him about bringing her grandmother over on the ferry, and how much she had liked the cottage, and about the variety of medications she was taking. And while she talked, Alex ate. The oatmeal topping crumbled between his teeth with a crunch that quickly turned into something marvelously chewy and melting, a tart ambrosia of apples inflected with cinnamon and a zing of orange.

“I would ask for this on death row,” Alex told her, and although he hadn’t meant it to be funny, she laughed.

The sound of the pet door heralded Byron’s entrance from outside, the massive cat sauntering into the kitchen as if he owned the place.

“The cat door is working perfectly, as you can see,” Zoë said. “I didn’t even have to train Byron—he knew exactly what to do.” She sent a fond look to the Persian, who wandered into the living room and jumped onto the sofa. “If only the collar wasn’t so ugly. Would it cause any technical problems if I decorate it?”

“No. But don’t decorate it. Leave him some dignity.”

“Just a few sequins.”

“It’s a cat, Zoë. Not a showgirl.”

“Byron likes being decorated.”

Alex gave her an apprehensive glance. “You don’t ever dress him up in little outfits. You’re not one of those people.”

“No,” she said instantly.

“Good.”

“Maybe just one little Santa’s helper outfit around Christmas.” She paused. “And last Halloween I dressed him in a—”

“Don’t tell me any more,” Alex said, trying not to laugh. “Please.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m gritting my teeth,” he said.

“It’s a smile,” Zoë insisted cheerfully.

It wasn’t until midway through another serving that Alex wondered about the ghost and Emma. The door of the main bedroom was closed, no sound or movement of any kind. But Alex became aware of a free-floating sweetness filling the air, an elation that surrounded them until he couldn’t avoid breathing it in, absorbing it in his pores. The feeling was made even more potent by its complexity, just as a pinch of salt enhanced the flavors of a cake. The swirling, dizzying joy made his chest uncomfortably tight, as if it were being pried open. He looked down, fiercely concentrating on the wood grain of the butcher-block countertop.

Don’t, he thought, without even knowing whom he was saying it to.