Page 72 of Dream Lake

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.

***

Zoë 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, Zoë 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.”

Zoë smiled. “I think you do.”

Alex came into the house, carrying tool buckets to the threshold of Zoë’s bedroom. “All right if I go in?” he asked. “I want to work on the closet.”

Zoë 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 Zoë 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,” Zoë 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?” Zoë asked skeptically.

“Never having it broken. Never giving in to love.”

Zoë 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.”

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