Chapter 16
Sixteen
“You look good,” were the first words Darcy uttered when Alex opened the front door. Her tone was inflected with mild surprise, as if she’d expected to find him sprawled in a pile of empty cough syrup bottles and drug paraphernalia.
“So do you,” Alex said.
Darcy lived and dressed as if she were the subject of a fashion magazine layout, ready for photographs to be taken at random angles. Her exterior was a hard, brilliant gloss of perfect makeup and retail chic. Her blouse was unfastened one more button than necessary, her hair flat-ironed and expertly highlighted. If she had any deeper goals than acquiring money by any and all means available, she had never expressed them. Alex didn’t blame her for that. He knew without a doubt that she would marry again soon, to some wealthy and well-connected man from whom she would eventually garner an immense divorce settlement. Alex didn’t blame her for that, either. She had never pretended to be anything other than what she was.
Pleasantries were exchanged as Darcy introduced the stager, an artfully made-up woman of indeterminate age, with layered hair that had been sprayed until it didn’t move. Her name was Amanda. Darcy and the stager wandered through the sparely furnished house, occasionally asking questions that obliged Alex to follow in their wake. The place was scrupulously clean, every wall freshened with touch-up paint, the lighting and plumbing in perfect working order, the landscaping tidy with beds of new mulch.
Darcy had set a Vuitton overnight bag inside the front entranceway. Alex glanced at it with a frown, having hoped that Darcy wouldn’t stay after the stager had left. The prospect of making conversation with his ex-wife was depressing. They had run out of things to say to each other even before the divorce.
The prospect of having sex with his ex-wife was even more depressing. No matter if his body was clamoring to fire one off, no matter if Darcy was hot and willing… it wasn’t going to happen. Because the problem with having tried something new and amazing was that you could never go back and take the same pleasure in the thing you used to enjoy. You could never erase the awareness that somewhere out there was a better experience you weren’t having. You knew you were eating a canned biscuit after you’d tried a fluffy, tender homemade one with a crisp buttered top, the whole of it split open and doused with honey.
“You should tell Darcy before she decides to stay,” the ghost said, lounging nearby.
“Tell her what?”
“That you’re not going to sleep with her.”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
The ghost had the effrontery to grin. “Because you’re looking at that bag like it’s full of live cobras.” The smile changed, gentling at the edges. “And Darcy doesn’t fit with your new direction.”
The ghost had been in a strange mood the past few days, impatient, eager, worried, and most of all filled with a burning quicksilver joy at the knowledge that he would see Emma soon. It rattled Alex to be in the vortices of such intense moods—he was having enough trouble keeping his own emotions in check. Probably the thing he missed most about drinking was how it had kept him anesthetized from that kind of turmoil.
What Alex did appreciate was that the ghost had been making an effort to give him as much space as possible, trying not to interfere. The remark he’d just made about Darcy was the only vaguely manipulative thing he’d said in days. He hadn’t uttered a word about the way Alex had kissed Zoe at the cottage. In fact, he’d actually pretended not to notice. For his part, Alex had tried like hell to forget it.
Except that part of his brain had locked around it, viselike, and wouldn’t let go. Zoe’s sparkling blue eyes looking up into his, the provocative way she had lifted on her toes and molded herself against him. He had never been so overwhelmed by anyone, by the idea that he might actually have made a woman happy for a moment. And she had moved with him so easily, letting him do whatever he wanted. She would be like that in bed, open to anything. Trusting him.
Christ.
If that happened, before long he would have turned her into someone else entirely, someone cynical, angry, guarded. Like Darcy. That was what happened to women who got mixed up with him.
After a couple of hours of discussing ideas and looking at photos and designs on an electronic tablet, Amanda said it was time to leave. She didn’t want to miss the late afternoon ferry.
“I’ll take Amanda to Friday Harbor and pick up something for dinner,” Darcy told Alex. “How does Italian sound?”
“You’re staying overnight?” Alex asked reluctantly.
Darcy looked sardonic. “You saw my bag.” A quick blink of annoyance as she saw his face. “You don’t have a problem with that, I hope. Considering the fact that it’s my house.”
“I’m maintaining it and paying the bills until it sells,” he said. “Not a bad deal for you.”
“True.” She smiled, her gaze provocative. “Maybe I’ll give you a bonus later.”
“Not necessary.”
A little over an hour later, Darcy returned with takeout boxes of pasta marinara and salads. They plated the food and sat at the kitchen table, just as they had done while they were married. Since neither of them cooked, they had lived on takeout and frozen dinners, or had eaten at restaurants.
“I got a bottle of Chianti,” Darcy said, rummaging in the drawer for a bottle opener.
“None for me, thanks.”
She cast a surprised glance over her shoulder. “You’re joking, right?”
The ghost, who was sitting on one of the counters with his long legs dangling, asked rhetorically, “Since when does he joke about anything?”
“I just don’t feel like it tonight,” Alex said to Darcy, and sent the ghost a hard glance.
“Okay,” the ghost said, easing off the counter, sauntering away. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”
Darcy took two wineglasses from the cabinet, filled them both, and brought them to the table. “Amanda says we need to make the house look warmer. It’s going to be easy, since the house is already uncluttered and everything is in neutrals. She’s going to bring colorful pillows for the sofa, some silk trees, centerpieces for the tables, things like that.”
Alex looked at the glass of Chianti, the liquid glowing pomegranate red. He remembered the taste of it, dry and violety. It had been weeks since he’d had a drink. One glass of wine wouldn’t hurt. People drank wine with dinner all the time.
He reached for the glass but didn’t pick it up, only ran his fingertips along the smooth circular base of the stem. He pushed it away an inch.
Dragging his gaze to Darcy’s face, he focused on what she was saying. She was talking about her latest promotion—she was a marketing communications manager for a massive software company, and she had just been put in charge of the internal business group newsletter, which would go out to thousands of people.
“Good for you,” Alex said. “I think you’ll be great at it.”
She grinned at him. “You almost sound like you mean it.”
“I do. I’ve always wanted you to be successful.”
“That’s news to me.” She drank deeply of her wine. Extending a long leg, she rested her foot on his thigh. Delicately her toes began to burrow into his lap. “Have you been with anyone?” she asked. “Since our last time?”
He shook his head and caught her wiggling foot, keeping it still.
“You need to let off steam,” Darcy said.
“No, I’m fine.”
A disbelieving smile touched her lips. “You’re not trying to turn me down, are you?”
Alex found himself reaching for his wineglass, his fingers closing lightly around the gleaming bowl. He cast a wary glance around the kitchen, but the ghost was nowhere to be seen. Lifting the glass, he took a sip, and the flavor of wine filled his mouth. He closed his eyes briefly. It was a relief. It promised that he would feel better soon. He wanted more. He wanted to guzzle it without pausing for breath.
“I’ve met a woman,” he said.
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re interested in her?”
“Yes.” It was the truth, not to mention the biggest understatement of his life. But of course he had no intention of doing anything about it.
“She doesn’t have to know,” Darcy said.
“I would know.”
Darcy’s voice was coolly mocking. “You want to be faithful to a woman you haven’t even had sex with yet?”
Alex carefully pushed her foot from his lap. He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time in a while, noticing a flicker of something… unhappiness, loneliness. It reminded him of the reluctant compassion he’d felt when Zoe had told him what it had been like to be let down by her husband.
Darcy had been let down by a husband, too. By him.
Alex wondered how it could have been so easy to make vows he had never intended to keep. Neither of them had, but it hadn’t seemed to matter to Darcy any more than it had to him. It should have mattered, he thought.
With an effort, he poured the wine into the sink and set the glass aside. The fragrance spilled into the air, fruit and tannin and oblivion.
“Why did you do that?” he heard Darcy ask.
“I’ve stopped drinking.”
She looked incredulous. Her brows lowered. “For God’s sake, one glass of wine won’t hurt.”
“I don’t like who I am when I’m drinking.”
“I don’t like who you are when you’re not drinking.”
He smiled without amusement.
“What’s going on?” Darcy demanded. “Why are you pretending to be someone you’re not? I know you better than anyone. I’ve lived with you. Who is this woman you’re seeing? Is she a Mormon or Quaker or something?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“This is bullshit,” Darcy said, but somewhere in the snapping tension of her voice, he heard a bewildered note. He felt more compassion for her in that moment than he had in the sum total of their marriage. Once he’d read or heard something to the effect that it was never too late to save a relationship. But that wasn’t true. Sometimes too much damage had been done. There was an invisible line of “too late” in a marriage, and after it had been crossed, the relationship would never thrive.
“I’m sorry,” he said, watching her drain a glass of wine the way he’d wanted to a few moments earlier. “You got a raw deal, marrying me.”
“I got the house,” she reminded him smartly.
“I’m not talking about the divorce. I’m talking about the marriage.” Part of him warned against lowering his guard. But Darcy deserved the truth. “I should have been a better husband to you. I should have asked how your day was, and paid attention to the answers. I should have gotten us a damn dog, and made this place seem like a home instead of a corporate suite at the Westin. I’m sorry I was a waste of your time. You deserved a lot more than you got.”
Darcy stood and approached him. Her face had turned red, and to his astonishment he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes. Her jaw was trembling. As she drew closer, he had the wildly uncomfortable thought that she might try to embrace him, which was not at all what he wanted. But her hand shot out, and the sound of a slap rang through the kitchen. The side of his face went numb, then turned to fire. “You’re not sorry,” Darcy said. “You’re not capable of it.”
Before he could say anything, Darcy continued with low-voiced vehemence. “Don’t you dare make me out to be the poor little mistreated wife, pining for love. You think I ever expected love from you? I wasn’t stupid. I married you because you could make money, and you were good in bed. And now you can’t do either of those things. What’s the problem, you can’t get it up now? Don’t look at me like I’m a bitch. If I am, it’s because of you. Any woman would be, after being married to you.” She snatched up the wine bottle and her glass, and stormed off to the guest bedroom. It seemed the entire house vibrated from the slam of the door.
Slowly massaging his jaw, Alex went to lean against the counter, pondering Darcy’s behavior. He had expected just about any other reaction than the one he’d gotten.
The ghost came to stand beside him, a glint of friendly sympathy in his dark eyes.
Alex took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“When you started to drink the wine? I’m not your conscience. It’s your battle. I’m not going to be hanging around with you forever, you know.”
“God, I hope you’re right.”
The ghost smiled. “You did the right thing, telling her that stuff.”
“You think it might have helped her?” Alex asked dubiously.
“No,” the ghost said. “But I think it helped you.”
***
Darcy left without a word the next morning. Alex spent most of the weekend working on the house at Rainshadow Road, clearing out the rest of the attic and insulating a knee wall. On Sunday evening he texted Zoe to ask if Emma was at the cottage and if everything had gone well.
“Got here just fine,” Zoe texted immediately. “She loves the cottage.”
“Need anything?” he couldn’t resist texting back.
“Yes. Making apple pie. Need help with it tomorrow AM.”
“Pie for breakfast?”
“Why not?”
“ok,” he texted.
“gn”
“gn”
Although gn was standard text shorthand for “goodnight,” it could, in certain contexts, be interpreted as “get naked.” Alex’s mind summoned images of Zoe’s clothes dropping to the floor, and it set off a deep pang of lust.
The feeling was quickly supplanted by a nervous thrill emanating from the ghost.
“Chill,” Alex said curtly. “Listen, when we go there tomorrow, if you’re emoting all over the place, I’m hauling ass out of there. I can’t work like this.”
“Sure.” But it was clear the ghost wasn’t even listening.
“This is what it feels like to love someone…” the ghost had once told him. Alex didn’t want to know how it felt, even secondhand.
***
“She’s still sleeping,” Zoe said softly, opening the front door of the cottage to let Alex in. “I thought I should let her rest as long as possible.”
Alex stopped at the threshold, looking down at her. There were smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes, and her hair was unwashed, and she was dressed in khaki shorts and a modest tank top. She was weary and luminous, her face innocently clean of makeup. He wanted nothing more than to hold and comfort her.
Instead he said, “I’ll come back later.”
The ghost, who was behind him, said shortly, “We’re staying.”
“Have breakfast with me,” Zoe said, catching at Alex’s hand, pulling him inside.
The air smelled like butter and sugar and warm apples. Alex’s mouth watered.
“Instead of pie,” Zoe said, “I made apple crisp in a skillet. Sit at the island, and I’ll get some for us.”
He began to follow her into the kitchen, pausing as he saw that the ghost had stopped in front of a bookshelf in the living room. Although he couldn’t see the ghost’s face, something about his utter stillness alerted Alex. Casually he wandered to the bookshelf to see what had caught the ghost’s attention.
One shelf contained a row of framed pictures, some of them sepia-toned and faded with age. Alex smiled slightly as he saw a snapshot of Emma holding a cherubic blond toddler who could only have been Zoe. Beside it was an old black-and-white photo of three girls standing in front of a 1930s sedan. Emma and her two sisters.
His gaze moved to a photo of a man with a seventies haircut and sideburns, and a broad, lantern-jawed face. He was the kind of man who wore his dignity like a three-piece suit.
“Who’s this?” Alex asked, picking up the framed picture.
Zoe looked over from the kitchen. “That’s my dad. James Hoffman Jr. I’ve asked for a more recent photo, but he never remembers to send one.”
“Any pictures of your mom?”
“No. My dad got rid of them all after she left us.” At Alex’s intent glance, Zoe forced a quick smile. “No need for pictures—apparently I look just like her.” The brittle smile didn’t fully conceal the pain of having been abandoned.
“Did you ever find out why she left?” Alex asked gently.
“Not really. My dad would never talk about it. But Upsie said she thought my mother got married too young and couldn’t handle the responsibility of having a child.” She let out a little breath of amusement. “When I was little, I thought she must have left because I cried too much. So for most of my childhood, I tried to act happy all the time, even when I didn’t feel like it.”
You still do, Alex thought. He wanted to go to her, put his arms around her, tell her that with him she never had to pretend something she didn’t feel. It took the force of his entire will to stay where he was.
The ghost spoke gruffly. “Ask her about this.”
The last picture on the shelf was a wedding portrait. Emma, young and attractive and unsmiling. And the groom, James Augustus Hoffman Sr.… stalwart and heavy-jawed. His resemblance to his son was unmistakable.
“This was your grandpa Gus?” Alex asked.
“Yes. He wore glasses later on. They made him look just like Clark Kent.”
“Is that me?” the ghost asked in a hushed tone, staring at the photo.
Alex shook his head. The ghost, with his lean face and dark-eyed handsomeness, wasn’t at all similar to Gus Hoffman.
The ghost looked torn between relief and frustration. “Then who the hell am I?”
Alex straightened the pictures on the shelf with care. When he looked up from the task, the ghost had gone to Emma’s room.
Feeling uneasy, Alex went to the kitchen island and sat on a bar stool. He hoped to hell the ghost wasn’t going to scare Emma into a damned heart attack. “Who made breakfast at the inn this morning?” he asked Zoe.
“Justine and I have a couple of friends who like to help out and make a little extra money now and then… so I put some breakfast casseroles in the freezer and left instructions for heating everything.”
“You’re going to wear yourself out,” Alex said, watching her spoon the apple crisp, with its crumbly browned topping, into two bowls. “You need to rest.”
She smiled at him. “Look who’s talking.”
“How much sleep have you been getting?”
“Probably more than you,” she said.
In a couple of minutes they were sitting side by side at the island, and Zoe was telling him about bringing her grandmother over on the ferry, and how much she had liked the cottage, and about the variety of medications she was taking. And while she talked, Alex ate. The oatmeal topping crumbled between his teeth with a crunch that quickly turned into something marvelously chewy and melting, a tart ambrosia of apples inflected with cinnamon and a zing of orange.
“I would ask for this on death row,” Alex told her, and although he hadn’t meant it to be funny, she laughed.
The sound of the pet door heralded Byron’s entrance from outside, the massive cat sauntering into the kitchen as if he owned the place.
“The cat door is working perfectly, as you can see,” Zoe said. “I didn’t even have to train Byron—he knew exactly what to do.” She sent a fond look to the Persian, who wandered into the living room and jumped onto the sofa. “If only the collar wasn’t so ugly. Would it cause any technical problems if I decorate it?”
“No. But don’t decorate it. Leave him some dignity.”
“Just a few sequins.”
“It’s a cat, Zoe. Not a showgirl.”
“Byron likes being decorated.”
Alex gave her an apprehensive glance. “You don’t ever dress him up in little outfits. You’re not one of those people.”
“No,” she said instantly.
“Good.”
“Maybe just one little Santa’s helper outfit around Christmas.” She paused. “And last Halloween I dressed him in a—”
“Don’t tell me any more,” Alex said, trying not to laugh. “Please.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m gritting my teeth,” he said.
“It’s a smile,” Zoe insisted cheerfully.
It wasn’t until midway through another serving that Alex wondered about the ghost and Emma. The door of the main bedroom was closed, no sound or movement of any kind. But Alex became aware of a free-floating sweetness filling the air, an elation that surrounded them until he couldn’t avoid breathing it in, absorbing it in his pores. The feeling was made even more potent by its complexity, just as a pinch of salt enhanced the flavors of a cake. The swirling, dizzying joy made his chest uncomfortably tight, as if it were being pried open. He looked down, fiercely concentrating on the wood grain of the butcher-block countertop.
Don’t, he thought, without even knowing whom he was saying it to.
***
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 Zoe were sitting at the island. Their heads lifted at the same time as Emma staggered forward.
Zoe’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,” Zoe 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, Zoe replied. “She hasn’t had her medicine this morning. Maybe I shouldn’t have waited—”
“No, not you,” Alex said impatiently, and Zoe 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,” Zoe 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 Zoe 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 Zoe’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.
Zoe 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.
“I don’t really like this song,” Emma had said.
“You told me it was your favorite.”
“It’s beautiful. But it always makes me sad.”
“Why, love?” he’d asked gently. “It’s about finding each other again. About someone coming home.”
Emma had lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him earnestly. “It’s about losing someone, and having to wait until you’re together in heaven.”
“There’s nothing in the lyrics about heaven,” he’d said.
“But that’s what it means. I can’t bear the idea of being separated from you, for a lifetime or a year or even a day. So you mustn’t go to heaven without me.”
“Of course not,” he had whispered. “It wouldn’t be heaven without you.”
What had happened to them? Why hadn’t they married? He couldn’t fathom that he would have left to fight in the war without first having made Emma his wife. He must have proposed to her… in fact, he felt sure that he had. Maybe she had refused him. Maybe her family had stood in the way. But he and Emma had loved each other so much, it seemed impossible that any force on earth could have kept them apart. Something had gone unspeakably wrong, and he had to figure out what it was.
The song finished with a near spectral chorus of voices. Slowly Alex lifted his head and looked down at Emma.
“He used to sing that to me,” she told him.
“I know,” Alex whispered.
She squeezed his fingers until the veins showed on the back of her hand like delicate blue lace.
Zoe came forward to slip an arm around her grandmother’s shoulders, pausing only to tell Alex in a distracted tone, “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
As Zoe guided her to a chair at the dining table, Emma said, “You were right, Zoe. He does have big muscles.”
Zoe darted a mortified glance at Alex. “I didn’t say that,” she protested. “I mean, I did, but—”
His brows lifted into mocking arcs.
“What I mean is,” Zoe said awkwardly, “I don’t sit around discussing the size of your—” She broke off and went crimson.
Alex averted his face to hide a grin. “I’ll get my tools from the truck,” he said.
The ghost followed him outside.
“Thanks,” the ghost said, as Alex hefted a couple of tool buckets from the back of the truck. “For taking care of Emma.”
Alex set the buckets on the ground and faced him. “What happened?”
“She woke up distraught. I don’t know why.”
“You sure she can’t see or hear you?”
“I’m sure. Why did you play that song for her?”
“Because it’s your favorite.”
“How did you know that?”
Alex looked sardonic. “You sing it all the time. Why do you look so pissed off?”
After a long moment, the ghost said morosely, “You got to hold her.”
“Oh.” Alex’s face changed. He gave the ghost a sympathetic glance, as if he understood the torture it was to be so close to the person you loved beyond anything, and yet not be able to touch her. To comprehend that you were only a shadow, an outline, of the physical being you once had been.
In the yearning silence, Alex said, “She smells like rose perfume and hairspray and the air just after it rains.”
The ghost drew closer, hanging on to every word.
“She has the softest hands of anyone I’ve ever met,” Alex said. “They’re a little cool, the way some women’s are. And her bones are as light as a bird’s. I could tell she used to be a good dancer—if it wasn’t for her weak leg, she’d still be able to move well.” He paused. “She has a great smile. Her eyes light up. I’ll bet she was as fun as hell when you knew her.”
The ghost nodded, comforted.
***
Zoe served breakfast to her grandmother and went to the bathroom for her medication. She saw her reflection in the mirror, cheeks too red, eyes too bright. She felt as if she had to relearn how to breathe.
Thirty-two bars of music. The length of an average song. That was all the time it had taken for the earth to spin off its axis and go tumbling into a net of stars.
She loved Alex Nolan.
She loved him for every reason and no reason.
“You are everything that’s ever been my favorite thing,” she wanted to tell him. “You are my love song, my birthday cake, the sound of ocean waves and French words and a baby’s laugh. You’re a snow angel, crème brulée, a kaleidoscope filled with glitter. I love you and you’ll never catch up, because I’ve gotten a head start and my heart is racing at light speed.”
Someday she would tell him how she felt about him, and he would leave her. He would break her heart the way people did when their own hearts had been broken long ago. But that didn’t change anything. Love would have its way.
Squaring her shoulders, Zoe brought the medicine to Emma, who was already midway through the bowl of apple crisp. “Here are your pills, Upsie.”
“He has the hands of a carpenter,” Emma said. “Strong. All those calluses. I used to be sweet on a man with hands like that.”
“Did you? What was his name?”
“I don’t remember.”
Zoe smiled. “I think you do.”
Alex came into the house, carrying tool buckets to the threshold of Zoe’s bedroom. “All right if I go in?” he asked. “I want to work on the closet.”
Zoe 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 Zoe 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,” Zoe 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?” Zoe asked skeptically.
“Never having it broken. Never giving in to love.”
Zoe 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.”
Zoe 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.”