Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(88)

“I love you, too,” Zoë said, sitting next to her, smiling through a sheen of tears.

“I wish there were a spell to find a man who would treat you the way you deserve. But spells don’t work that way. I knew right away that Alex was dangerous for you, and the worst thing in the world is to see someone you care about headed toward danger and not be able to stop them. So I don’t think a curse—a small one—is entirely unwarranted.”

Zoë leaned against her, and they sat together silently.

Eventually Zoë said, “Alex is cursed enough, Justine. You couldn’t do anything to him that would be worse than what he’s already been through.” Standing, she went back to the counter to finish filling the muffin pan. “Do you want a plastic bag to keep that revolting book in?”

Justine held the book defensively. “No, it needs to breathe.”

As Zoë put the muffin pan into the oven, her cell phone went off. Her heart skipped a beat, as it had for the past few days every time someone called. She knew it wasn’t Alex, but she couldn’t help wanting it to be him. “Would you get that for me?” she asked. “It’s in my bag on the back of the chair.”

“Sure.”

“Wipe your hands first,” Zoë said hastily.

Making a face at her, Justine sprayed Windex on her hands and scrubbed them with a paper towel. She reached into Zoë’s bag for the phone. “It’s your home number,” she said, lifting it to her ear. “Hi, this is Justine, Zoë’s in the middle of something. Can I take a message?”

A moment of silence. “She’ll be there soon.” Another pause. “I know, but she’ll want to come. Okay, Jeannie.”

“What is it?” Zoë asked, sliding another muffin pan into the oven.

“Nothing serious. Jeannie says Emma’s blood pressure is slightly elevated, and she seems confused. Mixing up her words a little more than usual. Jeannie’s giving her medicine and says there’s no need for you to go over there, but you heard what I said.”

“Thanks, Justine.” Zoë’s frown deepened. Removing her apron, she tossed it to the counter. “Take those muffins out in exactly fifteen minutes, okay?”

“Yes. Call me when you can. Let me know if you end up having to take her to the ER.”

Zoë reached the cottage in fifteen minutes flat. She hadn’t seen Emma that morning—when Jeannie had arrived, Emma had still been sleeping. It had been the latest in a string of rough nights. Emma’s sundowning was getting worse, with confusion and irritability in the evenings. She wasn’t sleeping well. Jeannie had made several helpful suggestions, such as encouraging Emma to take naps during the day, and listening to soothing music just before bedtime. “Dementia patients tend to get overwhelmed near the end of the day,” Jeannie had explained. “Even the simple things are a lot for them to handle.”

Although Zoë had been warned what to expect, it was stressful to see her grandmother behaving in ways that weren’t at all like her. When Emma couldn’t find a pair of embroidered slippers, she had mortified Zoë by accusing Jeannie of stealing them. Fortunately Jeannie had been kind and calm, and not at all offended. “She’ll do and say many things she doesn’t mean,” she had said. “It’s part of the disease.”

Entering the cottage, Zoë saw her grandmother sitting on the couch, her face lined and tired. Jeannie was sitting beside her, trying to brush her tangled hair, but Emma pushed her hand away irritably.

“Upsie,” Zoë said with a smile, approaching her. “How are you feeling?”

“You’re late,” Emma said. “I didn’t like my lunch. Jeannie made me a hamburger, and it was too raw inside because I wouldn’t eat it if I didn’t. Because I didn’t like my lunch and you make lunch when it’s not raw but I won’t eat.”

Zoë struggled to maintain her calm expression, while panic surged inside. Even for Emma, this “word salad” was unusual.

Jeannie stood and brought the hairbrush to Zoë, murmuring, “Stress. She’ll get better once the blood pressure medication takes effect.”

“I didn’t like my lunch,” Emma insisted.

“It’s not lunchtime yet,” Zoë said, sitting beside her, “but when it is, I’ll make you whatever you want. Let me brush your hair, Upsie.”

“I want Tom,” Emma said gravely. “Tell Alex to bring him.”

“Okay.” Although Zoë wanted to ask who Tom was, she thought that it was better just to agree, until Emma’s blood pressure lowered. Gently Zoë drew the brush over her hair, pausing to pull apart a tangle. Emma fell silent for a while, seeming to enjoy the feeling of Zoë’s hands in her hair. The simple task helped them both to relax.

How many countless times Emma had done the same thing for Zoë, when she was a little girl. Emma had always finished by telling her that she was beautiful, inside and out, and those words had taken root inside her. Everyone should have someone who loved them unconditionally … and for Zoë, it had always been Emma.

When Zoë was done, she set aside the brush and smiled into her grandmother’s face. “Beautiful,” she said, “inside and out.”

Emma’s arms went around her. They hugged each other in a moment of pure quiet joy, with no thought of the past or future. They focused on what they had right now, together.