Page 78 of Dream Lake

“How did you meet him?”

“My father hired him to install a stained-glass window that had been shipped from Portland. My mother objected and wanted to pay someone else to do it. But my father said that for all Tom’s wild ways, he was the best carpenter on the island, and the window was too valuable to take chances with.”

“What did the window look like?”

Emma hesitated so long before answering that he thought she might have forgotten. “A tree,” she finally said.

“What kind of tree?”

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.

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