Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(72)

“There’s still more left to do,” Alex said. “We’re starting on the garage this week.”

As the conversation continued, James divulged that he was the manager of an electronics store in Arizona, and Phyllis was a veterinarian who’d been certified as an equine specialist. They were considering the idea of buying a five-acre horse farm. “It’s on the edge of a ghost town,” Phyllis said. “At one point the town had the richest silver mine in the world, but after all of it was extracted, the town dried up.”

“Is it haunted?” Emma asked.

“Some people claim there’s a ghost in the old saloon,” Phyllis told her.

“Isn’t it odd,” James asked dryly, “that you never hear of ghosts haunting a nice place? They always pick some broken-down house or a dusty old abandoned building.”

The ghost, who had been wandering beside the bookshelves and perusing the titles, said sarcastically, “It’s not like I got a choice between an attic or the Ritz.”

Emma responded with a serious expression. “Ghosts usually haunt the places where their suffering was greatest.”

James laughed. “Mother, you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“No one has ever managed to prove that they exist.”

“No one’s proved that they don’t exist, either,” Emma pointed out.

“If you believe in ghosts, you might as well believe in leprechauns and Santa Claus.”

Zoë’s laughing voice came from the doorway as she brought in a pitcher of water. “Dad always told me Santa Claus wasn’t real,” she said to the room in general. “But I wanted to believe in him. So I asked a higher authority.”

“God?” Justine asked.

“No, I asked Upsie. And she said I could believe in whatever I wanted.”

“So much for my mother’s firm grasp on reality,” James said acidly.

“I grasp reality,” Emma said with dignity. “But sometimes I like to choke it into submission.”

The ghost regarded her with an approving grin. “What a woman.”

Zoë laughed and glanced at Alex. “Hi,” she said softly.

Alex had temporarily lost the power of speech. Zoë was impossibly beautiful in a sleeveless black dress with straps and a twist front, the stretchy fabric clinging lightly to spectacular curves. Her only accessory was a brooch pinned at the lowest point of the vee neckline, an Art Deco half-circle encrusted with white and green rhinestones.

“I forgot about music,” Zoë told him. “Do you have a playlist on your phone? Maybe some of those old tunes that Upsie likes? There’s a dock with speakers on that bookshelf.”

When Alex was slow to respond, the ghost said impatiently, “The jazz list. Put on some music.”

Alex shook his head to clear it, and went to set his phone into the dock. In a minute, the sultry strains of Duke Ellington’s “Prelude to a Kiss” floated into the air.

Sitting beside Emma at the table, Alex watched as Zoë brought in a tray of white porcelain spoons. She set one in front of him. It contained a small, perfectly seared scallop nestled into a little dab of something green.

“It’s a scallop and fried pancetta on artichoke puree,” Zoë said, smiling down at him. “Eat it all in one bite.”

Alex took it into his mouth. The salty pancetta crackled against the sweet scallop, the smoky bite of black pepper warming the smooth artichoke. He heard a few hums of delight around the table.

Zoë lingered beside Alex, her lashes lowering as she watched his reaction. “Do you like it?” she asked.

It was the best thing he had ever tasted. “Are there more? Because I could skip the rest of dinner and just have these.”

Zoë shook her head with a grin, reaching to collect the empty spoon. “Amuse-bouche,” she told him, and went to the kitchen to bring out the next course.

“This is so much fun,” Phyllis exclaimed, swaying a little in her seat as Benny Goodman’s “Sing Sing Sing” began. She held up the wine bottle invitingly. “Alex, would you like some?”

“No, thanks,” Alex said.

“Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder,” Emma murmured, and patted his shoulder.

Somehow James had heard from across the table. “Mother, you’ve got the saying wrong.”

“Actually,” Alex said, smiling down at Emma, “she got it exactly right.”

The next course was a small plate of fiddleheads, tightly coiled fronds of young ferns. After being blanched in hot water until they had turned a brilliant green, the fiddleheads had been tossed in a warm vinaigrette of browned butter, fresh lemon, and sea salt. Toasted walnuts were sprinkled on top, along with snowy flakes of fresh Parmesan cheese. The guests exclaimed over the salad, tongues rolling the flavors inside their cheeks. Phyllis and Justine giggled together at their own efforts to scrape every last drop from the salad plates. Zoë’s gaze often touched on Alex, as if she savored his obvious pleasure in the food.

Only James seemed unaffected. Midway through the dish, he set down his fork, looking disgruntled. He lifted a glass of red wine to his mouth and drank a deep swallow.

“You’re not going to finish your salad?” Phyllis asked incredulously.