Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(65)

“Did you? What was his name?”

“I don’t remember.”

Zoë smiled. “I think you do.”

Alex came into the house, carrying tool buckets to the threshold of Zoë’s bedroom. “All right if I go in?” he asked. “I want to work on the closet.”

Zoë had trouble returning his gaze, her face blazing with renewed color. “Yes, it’s fine.”

His attention turned to Emma. “I have to put up some Sheetrock, Mrs. Hoffman. Think you can handle some hammering for a little while?”

“You must call me Emma. Once a man has seen me in my pajamas, it’s too late for formality.”

“Emma,” he repeated, with a swift grin that left Zoë light-headed.

“Oh, my,” Emma murmured, after Alex had gone into the bedroom and closed the door. “What a divine-looking man. Although he could do with some fattening up.”

“I’m trying,” Zoë said.

“If I were your age, I would already have lost my head over him.”

“I stand to lose a lot more than my head, Upsie.”

“Don’t worry,” Emma said. “There are worse things than having your heart broken.”

“Like what?” Zoë asked skeptically.

“Never having it broken. Never giving in to love.”

Zoë considered that. “So what do you think I should do?”

“I think you should cook dinner for him one night, and tell him that you’re dessert.”

Zoë couldn’t help laughing. “You are trying to get me into trouble.”

“You’re already in trouble,” her grandmother said. “Now go ahead and enjoy it.”

Seventeen

“Use your left hand,” Zoë instructed patiently, standing with Emma at the laundry closet next to the kitchen pantry. She was reading from a booklet provided by Emma’s physical therapist, describing ordinary household tasks that would strengthen muscles weakened by a minor stroke.

Emma opened the door of the washer with her left hand and looked at Zoë.

“Now reach in and grasp a piece of clothing, and drop it into the dryer. Here, hold my hand for balance—”

“I’ll hold on to the edge of the machine,” Emma said testily.

Alex paused at the doorway of Zoë’s bedroom, where he had been installing a pocket bathroom in the small space that had originally been a closet. He watched the pair of them with silent amusement, while the ghost sat atop the washing machine with his legs dangling.

“Don’t grab two things at once,” Zoë cautioned, as her grandmother dropped a couple of shirts into the dryer.

“It’ll get done faster,” Emma protested.

“The point isn’t to be efficient. The point is to make your fingers open and close as many times as possible.”

“What am I supposed to do after this?”

“Transfer the dry clothes to the laundry basket one at a time. And then we’ll do some dusting to give your wrist a workout.”

“Now I see why you wanted me to live with you,” Emma said.

“Why?” Zoë asked.

“Free maid service.”

Alex snickered.

Noticing the sound, Zoë gave him a mock frown. “Don’t encourage her. You two have spent too much time around each other—I can’t tell who’s a worse influence on who.”

“ ‘Whom,’ ” Emma said, delving into the washer for more clothes. “ ‘Who’ is used when it’s the subject of a verb, ‘whom’ when it’s the object.”

Zoë grinned fondly at the top of her head. “Thank you, grammar police.”

Emma’s voice resonated in the dryer. “I don’t know why I can remember that but not the name of the paper I wrote for.”

“The Bellingham Herald.” Zoë exchanged a glance with Alex as he crossed the room and went to the kitchen sink for a glass of water. He’d become used to those looks by now, the worry she couldn’t quite conceal, the need for reassurance that no one was able to provide.

During the two weeks since Emma had come to live on Dream Lake Road, she had experienced moments of forgetfulness, confusion, agitation. Some days she was alert and competent, some days she was in a fog. There was never any predicting how she would feel or what she would remember from one day to the next.

“Don’t hover, Zoë,” Emma said irritably one afternoon. “Let me watch a TV program in peace.” Apologizing, Zoë went to the kitchen, where she kept stealing concerned glances at Emma.

“You’re still hovering,” Emma said.

“How can I be hovering when I’m twenty feet away?” Zoë protested.

“Alex,” Emma asked, “would you take my granddaughter for a walk?”

“I can’t leave you alone,” Zoë said. “Jeannie isn’t here.”

Jeannie, a part-time home-care nurse, came early every morning to take care of Emma, and usually left around lunchtime. Her unflappable poise made it comfortable for Emma to accept her help with private matters like dressing, bathing, and physical therapy.

“Just for fifteen minutes,” Emma persisted. “Go outside and get some fresh air with Alex. Or go by yourself, if he won’t keep you company.”