Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(63)

Emma.

The ghost approached the sleeping figure on the bed, the delicacy of her skin illuminated by a spill of morning light from the half-shuttered windows. She was still beautiful … it was there in the structure of her bones, the skin embossed with thousands of joys and sorrows that he hadn’t been there to share. Had he been able to share a life with her, his face would have been sketched with the same stories, the same inscriptions of time. To wear your life on your face … what an amazing gift.

“Hiya,” he whispered, looking down at her.

Her lashes flickered. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, and for a moment he thought she might be able to see him. Anxious joy awakened.

“Emma?” he said quietly.

She got out of bed, her body slim and fragile in a set of lace-trimmed pajamas. Going to the window, she stared outside at the view. Her hands fluttered and went to her eyes, and a sob escaped through her fingers. The sound would have broken his heart, if he’d had one. As it was, the sight of the tears shining in the light nearly shattered the soul that he was.

“Don’t cry,” he said urgently, even though she couldn’t hear him. “Don’t be upset. My God, I love you. I’ve always—”

Her breathing took on the velocity of panic. She limped to the door, crying harder with each step.

“Emma. Be careful, don’t fall—” Flooded with grief and worry, the ghost followed her into the main room.

Alex and Zoë were sitting at the island. Their heads lifted at the same time as Emma staggered forward.

Zoë’s face went white with alarm. She jumped from the bar stool and rushed to her grandmother. “Upsie, what happened? Did you have a bad dream?”

“Why are we here?” Emma sobbed, trembling. “How did I get here?”

“You came with me yesterday. We’re going to live here together. We talked about it, Upsie—”

“I can’t. Take me home. I want to go h-home.” Emma could barely speak through the sobs.

“This is home,” Zoë said softly. “All your things are here. Let me show you—”

“Don’t touch me!” Emma retreated to the corner, growing more distraught with every passing moment.

Alex gave the ghost a hard look. “What did you do to her?”

Although the muttered words had been intended for the ghost, Zoë replied. “She hasn’t had her medicine this morning. Maybe I shouldn’t have waited—”

“No, not you,” Alex said impatiently, and Zoë blinked in confusion.

“She can’t see or hear me,” the ghost said. “I don’t know what started this. Help her. Do something.”

“Upsie, please come sit down,” Zoë begged, reaching for her, but Emma swatted at her hands and shook her head wildly.

Alex moved forward, approaching Emma.

“Be careful,” the ghost snapped. “She doesn’t know you.”

Alex ignored him. The contrast between them—Alex, so physically powerful, Emma, frail and shivering—alarmed the ghost. For a moment he thought Alex might physically restrain Emma or do something to scare her. Perhaps Zoë thought the same thing, because she put a hand on his arm and began to say something.

But Alex was entirely focused on the older woman. “Mrs. Hoffman. I’m Alex. I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

The unfamiliar voice drew Emma’s attention. She looked at him with startled wet eyes, her chest heaving with a few hiccupping sobs.

“I’ve been working on this place to get it ready for you,” Alex continued. “I’m the woodwork guy. And I’ve been helping my brother restore the old Victorian at Rainshadow Road. You used to live there, right?” He paused, a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. “I usually play music while I’m working. Want to hear one of my favorites?”

To the ghost’s astonishment, and Zoë’s, Emma nodded and wiped her eyes.

Alex drew the phone from his pocket, fiddled with it for a few seconds, and turned up the micro speaker volume. Johnny Cash’s baritone seeped through the air in a raggedy, melancholy version of “We’ll Meet Again.”

Emma stared at Alex in wonder. Her tears stopped, and the sobs eased into unsteady sighs. Alex held her gaze as they listened to the first few bars of the song. And then, incredibly, he sang a bar or two, his voice soft but true.

Zoë shook her head, watching as if hypnotized.

Alex smiled and extended a hand to Emma. She took it as if she’d just walked into a dream. He drew her closer, and put his arm around her. The music hung in the air like floating ribbons as the pair moved in a shuffling foxtrot, with Alex being mindful of Emma’s weaker left leg.

A young man trying to forget his past … an old woman trying desperately to remember hers … but somehow they had found a connection in this liminal moment.

The ghost was spellbound. Disbelieving. He’d gotten to know Alex so thoroughly that he would have sworn nothing could surprise him. But he had never expected this.

Alex, lowering his cheek to Emma’s hair. Holding her with a tenderness he must have carried in some secret cache in his heart. Emma leaned into the vibration of his low crooning.

The ghost remembered dancing with Emma at a nighttime party held outdoors. The dance area had been lit with strings of little painted metal lanterns.