Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(68)

“Does she smoke?”

“Not for forty years, according to Zoë. And cigarettes are the worst possible thing for someone in Emma’s condition.”

The ghost, who stood just behind Alex, muttered, “Hell, let her have them.”

The nurse wore a resigned expression. Alex couldn’t help wondering how many times she had accompanied patients along this path, watching their inevitable deterioration, steering families through the pain and confusion of losing someone day by day. “Does it ever get easier?” he asked.

“For the patient or—”

“For you.”

The nurse smiled. “You’re very kind to ask. I’ve been through this with many patients, and even knowing what to expect … no, it doesn’t get easier.”

“How long does she have?”

“Even the most experienced doctors can’t predict—”

“In your personal opinion. You’ve been in the trenches, you probably have some idea. What’s your take on how it’s going to progress?”

“A matter of months. I think she’s headed for a major stroke or an aneurysm. And maybe that’s for the best—I’ve seen it when it’s a long and drawn-out process. You wouldn’t want that for Emma, or Zoë.”

“Where is Zoë?”

“She went to the inn as usual, and then to buy groceries.” Jeannie stepped back to let him into the house. “Emma is awake and dressed, but I think she would do better without a lot of noise today.”

“I’ll stick to caulking and painting.”

The nurse seemed relieved. “Thank you.”

Entering the main room, Alex saw that Emma was watching television with a throw blanket over her lap, in spite of the warmth of the day. The ghost was already at her side.

Even if Jeannie hadn’t told Alex what had transpired over the weekend, he would have known that something had changed. There was a new delicacy about Emma, a touch of radiance at her outline, as if her soul were no longer fully contained in her skin.

“Hi, Emma,” Alex said, approaching her. “How are you feeling?”

She gestured for him to have a seat. Taking the ottoman near the sofa, Alex sat and faced her, leaning forward until his forearms were braced on his knees. Emma looked fine to him, her gaze clear and direct, her expression calm.

“I’m going to do some straightening up,” Jeannie said as she headed to the bedroom. “Do you need anything, Emma?”

“No, thank you.” The older woman waited until the nurse was out of earshot. Her gaze returned to Alex. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Startled, Alex kept his face expressionless. She could sense the ghost? But what had made her assume that Alex had a connection to him? His thoughts moved at a rapid pace. Emma was in a vulnerable condition. He had to be careful. But he wasn’t going to lie to her.

So Alex settled for giving Emma a blank look and saying, “Who?”

“Damn it, Alex,” the ghost exploded, “now’s not the time to play dumb. Tell her I’m here, I’m with her right now, and I love her, and—”

Alex sent him a quick scowl, silencing him.

Emma’s gaze was steady. “The way I used to feel whenever he was near … I knew that if I ever felt that again, it was because he’d found a way to come back. But it only seems to happen when you’re near. He’s with you.”

“Emma,” Alex said gently, “as much as I want to talk to you about this, I don’t want to stress you out.”

A little smile stretched the dry, feathery contours of her lips. “You’re afraid to give me a stroke? I have them all the time. Believe me, no one will notice any extra thrombosis. Especially me.”

“It’s your call.”

“I’ve never talked about him to anyone,” Emma said. “But I’m forgetting things every day. Soon I won’t even remember his name.”

“Then tell me.”

Emma lifted her fingers to her lips as if to pat a tremulous smile into place. “His name was Tom Findlay.”

The ghost stared at her, riveted.

“I haven’t said his name in so long.” A glow came to Emma’s cheeks, like light shining through pink glass. “Tom was the kind of boy that all the mothers warned their daughters about.”

“Including yours?” Alex asked.

“Oh, yes, but I didn’t listen.”

He smiled. “I’m not surprised.”

“He worked at my father’s factory on the weekends, cutting tin plate and soldering cans. After he graduated high school, he became a carpenter—he taught himself out of books. He was smart, and he had the hands for it. Like you. Everyone knew when he built something, it was done right.”

“What kind of family did Tom come from?” Alex asked.

“There was no father. His mother had already had Tom by the time she came to live on the island, and there were rumors that … well, not nice rumors. She was very beautiful. My mother told me she was a kept woman. There were relationships with prominent men in town. I think that for a while my father was one of them.” She sighed. “Poor Tom was always getting into fights. Especially when other boys would say something about his mother. The girls had eyes for him—he was so handsome—but no one dared to go out with him openly. And he was never invited to the nice parties or picnics. Too much of a hell-raiser.”