by Lisa Kleypas
She shook her head, looking evasive. She didn’t want to discuss it. “After Tom installed the window, my father had him do other things around the house. He built a set of shelves, and did some cabinetry work, and made a beautiful mantel for the parlor fireplace. Since I was hardly immune to the charms of a handsome young man with a wicked reputation, I talked to him while he worked.”
“You flirted with me,” the ghost said.
“But I wouldn’t go out with him,” Emma told Alex, “because I knew my mother would never approve. One night I saw him at a dance in town. He came up to me and asked if I was too much of a scaredy-cat to dance with him. Of course I had to take the dare.”
“You wouldn’t have danced with me otherwise,” the ghost said.
“I told him the next time he’d have to ask like a gentleman,” Emma told Alex.
“Did he?” Alex asked.
She nodded. “He was so bashful about it—stammering and blushing—that I fell in love with him right then.”
“I didn’t stammer,” the ghost protested.
“We kept our relationship secret,” Emma said. “We saw each other all through the summer. This cottage was our favorite meeting place.”
“I proposed to you here,” the ghost said, remembering.
“Did you ever talk about getting married?” Alex asked Emma.
A shadow crossed her face. “No.”
“We did,” the ghost insisted. “She’s forgotten, but I did propose to her.”
Wondering at the contradictions, Alex asked gently, “Are you sure, Emma?”
She looked directly at him. “I’m sure I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why not?” the ghost implored. “What happened?”
Alex wasn’t about to push Emma for answers she didn’t want to give. “Can you tell me what happened to Tom?”
“He died in the war. His plane crashed in China. His squadron had been assigned to protect cargo lifters flying the Hump, and they came under attack.” Her shoulders slumped, and she looked tired. “Afterward, I received a letter from a stranger. A Hump pilot. He flew one of those big clumsy planes carrying troops and supplies …”
“A C-46,” the ghost murmured.
“And he wrote to tell me that Tom had died a hero, that he had shot down two of the enemy in the air, and helped to save the lives of all thirty-five men on the cargo plane. But his Warhawk was outmaneuvered. The Japanese fighters were so much lighter and more agile than our P-40s …” She looked distressed and shaky, her fingers plucking fitfully at the throw blanket.
Alex reached out to engulf her hands in a warm grip. “Who wrote the letter to you?” he asked, although he thought he might know the answer.
“Gus Hoffman. He sent me the piece of cloth that had been sewn into Tom’s jacket.”
“A blood chit?”
“Yes. I wrote back to thank him. We corresponded for two years. Only as friends. But Gus wrote that if he made it back home, he wanted to marry me.”
“I’ll bet he did,” the ghost said grimly. The air seethed with jealousy.
“And you said yes?” Alex asked Emma.
She nodded. “I suppose I thought if I could never have Tom, it didn’t matter whom I married. And Gus wrote lovely letters. But then his plane was shot down. It reminded me so much of losing Tom. When I found out that Gus had survived, I was very relieved. He had a head wound … they operated to remove shrapnel … and he was sent back to the States on medical discharge. After he left the hospital, I married him. But there were problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
“It had to do with the head wound. It changed his personality … flattened it, somehow. He was still intelligent, but his emotions were gone. He was indifferent to everything. Like a robot. His family said he wasn’t the same man.”
“I’ve heard of that happening with some brain injuries,” Alex said.
“He never got better. He never really cared about anything. Even our son.” Blinking like an exhausted child, Emma pulled her hands from Alex’s and settled back against the sofa. “It was a mistake. Poor Gus. I need to rest now.”
“May I help you to your room?” Alex asked.
She shook her head. “I like it here.”
He stood and reached down to lift her feet to the ottoman.
“Alex,” Emma said as he rearranged the throw blanket and drew it up to her shoulders.
“Yes?”
“Let him help you,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “For his sake.”
Alex shook his head, slightly mystified.
The ghost looked shaken. “My God, Emma.”
Hearing the sound of a car pulling into the carport, Alex went outside. It was Zoë, back from the grocery store. She hopped out of the car and opened the back, reaching for a pair of canvas bags filled with groceries.
“I’ll get those,” Alex said, walking toward her.
Zoë started at the sound of his voice and looked at him in surprise. “Hi,” she exclaimed brightly. She looked stressed as hell, her face pale, her eyes tired. “How was the wedding?”
“It was fine.” He took the bags from her. “How are you?”
“Great,” she said, too quickly.
Alex set the bags down and turned Zoë to face him. She was standing a step above him, all fast-breathing tension and locked muscles. “I heard that Emma was a handful this weekend,” he said bluntly.
Zoë avoided his gaze. “Oh, we had a rough patch. But it’s fine now.”
Alex discovered that he couldn’t stand it when she put up a front for him. He settled his hands at her hips. “Talk to me.”
Zoë stared at him, looking flustered. In the silence, he brought her against him slowly. She took an anxious breath, her composure unraveling. Wrapping his arms around her, he surrounded her with all his warmth and strength. She fit against him perfectly, her head tucked into the crook of his neck and shoulder.
He slid his hand into her hair and sifted lightly through the blond curls. “What did Emma do to your computer?”
Zoë’s voice was compressed against his shoulder. “She zoomed the screen out so far that the icons are ginormous and I can’t close the magnifier. And somehow she made copies of the task bar so there are at least eight of them, and I can’t make them go away. And to top it all off, she somehow managed to turn the entire screen upside down.”
“I can fix that stuff,” he said.
“I thought Sam was the computer genius.”
“Trust me on this: don’t ever let Sam near your computer. By the time he leaves, he’s changed all your passwords, illegally hooked you up to the Department of Defense grid, and Bluetooth-enabled everything in your house until you can’t use your toaster because it’s not discoverable.” He felt the shape of Zoë’s smile against his neck. Smoothing her hair back, he murmured near her ear, “You don’t need a genius. You just need a guy who can do some troubleshooting.”
“You’re hired,” she said, her face still hidden.
He pressed his lips to her hair. “What else can I do?”
“Nothing.” But her arms had crept tentatively around him.
“Think of something,” he coaxed.
“Well …” Her voice turned watery. “I called my father this morning. To tell him that if he’s going to visit, he’d better do it soon. Or Emma isn’t going to remember him by the time he gets around to it.”
“What did he say?” Feeling that she had tensed again, Alex began to rub her back.
“He’s coming this weekend, with his girlfriend, Phyllis. They’re going to stay at the inn. He’s not especially happy about it, but he’s doing it. I’m going to make a special dinner for them and Upsie and Justine, and …” Her voice faded as his hand slid lower on her spine, massaging in small circles.
“You want me to be there?” he prompted gently.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Really?”
“I’d love to.”
“I�
��m so glad you—” She stopped and gripped handfuls of his shirt.
His hand stilled instantly. “Did I hurt you?”
Zoë looked up at him with dilated eyes, her cheeks flushed. Slowly she shook her head, looking as if she’d been hypnotized.
Desire shot through him as he realized she was aroused by the way he’d been touching her. For few white-hot seconds, all he could think about was her naked body caught under his like a flower pressed between the pages of a book.
“There’s one more thing I need from you,” she said. The sound of her voice could have been classified as a legal sexual stimulant.
Alex couldn’t seem to make his arms let go. He had to pry his hands from her one finger at a time. “Let’s talk about that later,” he said gruffly, and steered her into the house.
Nineteen
Although Emma stabilized during the next few days, Zoë noticed that she was more forgetful and distracted. Emma needed frequent reminders to get through her morning routine—she might forget to have breakfast or to take a shower. Or when she was in the shower, she might miss a step such as using shampoo or conditioner.
Near the end of the week, Justine spent the afternoon with Emma, taking her to the salon to have her hair done. Afterward, they had lunch down by the docks. Zoë was grateful to have the break, and Emma had been in a great mood when Justine dropped her off.
“She lectured me for at least an hour about what kind of guys I should go out with,” Justine told Zoë the next morning, as Zoë washed dishes at the inn.
“No bikers,” Zoë guessed.
“Exactly. And then she forgot that she’d just lectured me, and told me the whole thing again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, it was fine. But jeez, that kind of repetition would drive me crazy if I had to live with her.”
“It’s not that bad. Some days are worse than others. For some reason she’s better when Alex is around.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“She likes him. She really tries to focus when he’s there. He’s been doing tile work in the little bathroom he built where the old closet used to be. So the other day I found her sitting on the bed, chatting up a storm while he was gluing tile and grouting.”
“So even grandmothers think carpenters are hot.”
Zoë laughed. “I guess so. And Alex is very patient with her. Very sweet.”
“Ha. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard someone call Alex Nolan sweet.”
“He is,” Zoë said. “You can’t imagine what a difference he’s made to Emma.”
“And to you?” Justine prompted, looking at her closely.
“Yes. He’s going to be here for dinner on Saturday night. I asked him for moral support, since my dad’s going to be there.”
“You’ve got me for moral support.”
Zoë started to scrub a baking pan in the sink. “I need all the support I can get from as many people as possible. You know how my dad is.”
Justine sighed. “If it makes Saturday night easier for you, Alex Nolan is welcome. I’ll even be nice to him. What are you going to make, by the way?”
“Something special.”
Justine had bounced on her heels in anticipation. “Your dad does not deserve the dinner you’re making for him. But I’m glad I get to reap the benefits.”
Zoë refrained from telling her cousin that she wasn’t really cooking for her father’s benefit, or even for Emma’s. It was for Alex. She was going to speak to him in a language of fragrance, color, texture, taste … she was going to use all her skill and instinct to create a meal he would never forget.
Justine met Alex at the front door of the inn and welcomed him inside. Her hair was a loose curtain of dark silk, as opposed to the usual ponytail. She was strikingly attractive in slim cigarette pants and flats, and an emerald top with a deeply scooped neckline. But there was something subdued about her this evening, her usual vibrancy diminished.
“Hi, Alex.” Her gaze went to the glass jars in his hands, filled with lavender bath salts and tied with filmy purple bows. “What are those?”
“Hostess gifts.” He handed them to her. “For you and Zoë.”
“Thanks,” she said, looking surprised. “That’s nice. And lavender is Zoë’s favorite smell.”
“I know.”
Justine studied him intently. “You two have been getting close lately, huh?”
He was instantly wary. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. The fact that you’re here for this dinner makes it pretty clear. Zoë’s relationship with her dad is an emotional minefield. He’s never given a damn about her. I think he’s the reason she’s always been attracted to men who are guaranteed to let her down.”
“Are you leading to a point?”
“Yes. If you hurt Zoë in any way, I’ll put a curse on you.”
Justine looked so sincere that Alex couldn’t help asking, “What kind of curse?”
“Something lifelong and incapacitating.”
Although Alex was tempted to tell Justine to mind her own business, part of him was touched by her fierce concern for her cousin. “Understood,” he said.
Seeming satisfied, Justine led him toward the inn’s private library.
“Is Duane here tonight?” Alex asked.
“We broke up,” Justine muttered.
“Can I ask why?”
“I scared him.”
“How could you … never mind, let’s change the subject. When did Zoë’s dad get here?”
“Late last night,” she said. “He and his girlfriend, Phyllis, spent most of the day with Emma.”
“How is she doing?”
“She’s having a pretty good day—every now and then she got a little mixed up and kept asking who Phyllis was. But Phyllis has been really nice. I think you’ll like her.”
“What about James?”
Justine gave a snort. “No one likes James.”
They entered the library, where a long mahogany table had been set with crystal and white linen, and decorated with a row of green hydrangea blossoms floating in glass bowls. Emma stood with her son and his girlfriend near the fireplace, which was filled with lit candles set in assorted mercury glass candlesticks.
Emma beamed as she saw him. She was wearing a plum silk dress, her light blond hair shining in the candle glow. “There you are,” she exclaimed.
Alex went to her and bent to kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful, Emma.”
“Thank you.” She turned to the brunette by her side. “Phyllis, this handsome devil is Alex Nolan. He’s the one who’s remodeling the cottage.”
The woman was tall and large-boned, her hair cut in an efficient bob. “Nice to meet you,” she said, giving Alex a firm handshake and a friendly smile.
“And this,” Emma continued, gesturing to a squarely built man of medium height, “is my son, James.”
Alex shook his hand.
Zoë’s father greeted him with all the pleasure of a substitute teacher who had just been assigned to a misbehaving classroom. He had the kind of face that appeared boyish and aged at the same time, his eyes flat as pennies behind heavy-rimmed glasses.
“We visited the cottage today,” James told him. “You seem to have done a competent job.”
“That’s James’s version of a compliment,” Phyllis interceded quickly. She smiled at Alex. “It’s a terrific lake house. According to Justine and Zoë, you’ve transformed the place.”
“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.”
&nb
sp; “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.