Glaring at him, Alex lurched to his feet. Unfortunately the motion was too much for his outraged digestive system, and he was forced to lean over the toilet, retching.
After a long time he made it to his feet again, rinsed his mouth and splashed his face with cold water. Looking into the mirror, he saw a pale, haggard complexion and puffy eyes. He recoiled in horror, having seen his father in this shape about a thousand times while growing up.
Gripping the sides of the sink, he forced himself to raise his head and stare in the mirror again.
This wasn’t who he wanted to be. But it was what he’d become, what he’d made of himself.
Had there been any tears in him, he would have wept.
“Alex,” came the quiet voice from the doorway. “You’re not afraid of work. You’re used to tearing things down. Rebuilding.”
Even as sick as Alex was, the metaphor didn’t escape him. “Houses aren’t people.”
“Everyone’s got something that needs fixing.” The ghost paused. “In your case, it happens to be your liver.”
Alex struggled to strip off his shirts, having sweated through both of them. “Please,” he managed to say. “If there is any mercy in you … don’t talk.”
The ghost obliged, retreating.
By the time Alex had gotten dressed again, the shaking had subsided, but the clammy hot-and-cold feeling kept crawling over him. His nerves were strung tight. The difficulty in finding the work boots he wanted, the same ones he’d worn the previous day, sent him into a full-blown fury. As soon as he laid his hands on the boots, he threw one of them at the wall so hard that it ruined the paint and left a dent in the Sheetrock.
“Alex.” The ghost reappeared. “You’re acting crazy.”
He hurled the other boot, which shot through the ghost’s midsection and left another dent in the wall.
“Feel better now?” the ghost asked.
Ignoring him, Alex retrieved the boots and jammed them on. He tried to think above the violent pounding of his head. He had to get the check from Justine and take it to the bank.
“Don’t go to Artist’s Point,” he heard the ghost say urgently. “Please. You’re in no shape. You don’t want anyone to see you like this.”
“By ‘anyone’ you mean Zoë,” Alex said.
“Yes. You’ll upset her.”
Alex gritted his teeth. “I don’t give a damn.” Grabbing his car keys, wallet, and heavy black sunglasses, he went to his truck and pulled it out of the garage. As soon as he drove onto the main road, the sunlight seemed to split his skull open with the precision of surgical instruments. He groaned and swerved, looking for a place to pull over in case he needed to puke.
“You’re driving like you’re in a video game,” the ghost said.
“What do you care?” Alex snapped.
“I care because I don’t want you to kill anyone. Including yourself.”
By the time they had arrived at Artist’s Point, Alex had sweated through another T-shirt, and he was trembling with what felt like fever chills.
“For pity’s sake,” the ghost said, “don’t go through the front entrance. You’ll scare the guests.”
Much as Alex would have loved to defy him, the ghost had a point. Surly and exhausted from the effort of driving, he pulled around to the back of the inn and parked near the kitchen entrance. The smell of food drifted outside, causing the hot sting of nausea in his throat. As his sunglasses slipped down his nose on a fresh bloom of sweat, Alex ripped them off and flung them across the gravel with a curse.
“Get control of yourself,” he heard the ghost say tersely.
“Fuck off.”
A retractable screen door covered the kitchen’s back entrance. Through the fine solar mesh, Alex saw that Zoë was alone in the kitchen, making breakfast. Pots simmered on the stove, and something was baking in the oven. The smell of browning butter and cheese nearly made Alex recoil.
He tapped on the doorjamb, and Zoë looked up from a cutting board piled high with hulled strawberries. She was dressed in a short pink skirt and flat sandals, and a white ruffly top, and an apron tied at the waist. Her legs were toned and gleaming, calf muscles neatly rounded. The blond curls had been drawn up to the top of her head, a few escaping to dangle against her cheeks and neck.
“Good morning,” she said with a smile. “Come in. How are you?”
Alex avoided her gaze as he entered the kitchen. “I’ve been better.”
“Would you like some—”
“I’m here for the check,” he said curtly.
“Okay.” Although this was certainly not the first time he’d ever been brusque with her, Zoë gave him a questioning glance.
“The first payment’s due,” Alex said.
“Yes, I remember. Justine handles the office work, so she’ll write the check for you. I’m not sure which account to write it from.”
“Fine. Where is she?”
“She just went out for an errand. She’ll be back in five or ten minutes. The big coffee machine is broken, so she’s picking up some carafes of breakfast blend from a local place.” A timer went off, and Zoë went to take a dish out of the oven. “If you want to wait for her,” she said over her shoulder, “I’ll pour some coffee and you can—”
“I don’t want to wait.” He needed the check. He needed to leave. The heat and light of the kitchen were killing him, and yet he had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering like one of those plastic windup skulls from a joke shop. “She knew the check was due today. I texted her.”
Zoë set the casserole dish on a pair of trivets. Her smile had vanished, and her voice was even softer than usual as she replied. “I don’t think she knew you would be here this early.”
“When the hell else would I come? I’m going to be working on the cottage all day.” The anger rushed through him in stronger and stronger waves, and he was helpless to do anything about it.
“What if I run it out to you after breakfast? I’ll drive out to the cottage, and—”
“I don’t want to be interrupted at work.”
“Justine will be here soon.” Zoë went to pour some coffee into a white porcelain cup. “You … don’t seem well.”
“Bad sleep.” Alex went to the counter and tugged at the roll of paper towels. The roll spun out. He let out a few foul curses as a stream of paper toweling shot from the dispenser.
“It’s all right.” Zoë came to him instantly. “I’ll fix it. Go sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.” He took a paper towel and blotted his sweating face, while Zoë deftly rerolled the long white cylinder. Although he tried to keep his mouth shut, words tumbled out, the syllables shredded like they’d been pulled across razor blades. He was jittery and furious, wanting to throw something, kick something. “Is this how you two run a business? Agree to something, and then no follow-through? We’re going to rewrite the payment schedule. My time may not be important to you, but I have to count on things being done when they’re supposed to be done. I’ve got to get to work. My guys are probably already there.”
“I’m sorry.” Zoë set a cup of coffee on the counter beside him. “Your time is important to me. Next time I’ll make certain the check is waiting for you first thing in the morning.”
Alex hated the way she talked to him, as if she were humoring a lunatic or soothing a barking dog. But it worked anyway. He felt the anger drain so abruptly that he was dizzy. And he was so tired that he could barely stay on his feet. Jesus. There was something really wrong with him.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he managed to say.
“Have this first.” Zoë nudged the cup toward him.
Alex looked down at the coffee. She had put cream in it. He always drank his coffee black. But he found himself reaching for the cup, taking it with both hands. To his stunned mortification, the cup shook violently, liquid sloshing over the edge.
Zoë was staring at him. He wanted to swear at her, turn away, but her gaze held his an
d wouldn’t let go. Those round blue eyes saw too much, things he had spent a lifetime concealing. She couldn’t help but see how close he was to crumbling. But there was no judgment in her expression. Only kindness. Compassion.
He had a sudden urge to drop to his knees and rest his head against her in exhausted supplication. Somehow he kept standing, swaying on stiff legs.
Carefully Zoë laid her hands over his, so they were both holding the cup. Even though her hands were half the size of his, her grip was surprisingly firm, subduing the shaking. “Here,” she whispered.
The cup lifted to his mouth. Her hands kept his steady. He took a swallow. The liquid was hot and smooth, soothing his sandpaper throat, melting through the chill of his insides. It was slightly sweet, and the touch of cream had softened the bitterness, and it was so unexpectedly good that he found himself desperately gulping the rest. His veins hummed with a gratitude that bordered on worship.
Zoë’s hands eased from his. “More?”
He nodded with a hoarse, wordless murmur.
She made another cup, stirring cream and sugar into it, while sunlight broke through the shuttered window and embossed her hair with bright ribbons. It occurred to him that she was making breakfast for a crowd of paying guests. There were still things cooking on the stove, in the oven. And not only had he interrupted her work, he had stood there and ranted about his own schedule like it was so much more important than hers.
“You’re busy,” he muttered in the prelude to an apology. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Everything’s fine.” Her voice was gentle. She set the cup of coffee at the table, and pulled a chair back. Clearly she intended for him to sit for this one.
He cast a wary glance around the kitchen, wondering what the ghost would make of this, but thankfully he was nowhere to be seen. Alex went to the table and sat. He drank the coffee slowly, able to do it on his own as long as he was careful.
Zoë worked at the counter. The clink of utensils, the sounds of pots and plates being deftly wielded, was oddly relaxing. He could sit here and no one was going to bother him. Closing his eyes, he let himself sink into the feeling of temporary peace. Of sanctuary.
“Another?” he heard her ask.
He nodded.
“First try some of this.” She set a plate of food in front of him. As she leaned closer, he could smell her skin, fresh and sweet, like she had been steeped in sugared tea.
“I don’t think I can—”
“Just try.” She put flatware on the table and went back to the stove.
The fork was as heavy as a lead mallet. Alex looked at the plate. It contained a neat portion of something with layers of bread, the top lightly puffy and golden-brown. “What is it?”
“A breakfast strata.”
As Alex took a cautious bite, he discovered that the whole of it was infused with a mild custardy lightness. It was like a quiche but infinitely more delicate, the texture perfect for delivering the ripe hint of tomato and mild cheese. The flavor of basil came through last, hitting his tongue with a clean, pungent note.
“Do you like it?” he heard Zoë ask. He couldn’t even reply. Hunger had come raging, and he had given over entirely to the single-minded act of eating.
Zoë brought a glass of cold water. When the plate was empty, Alex set down his fork, and drank the water, and silently evaluated his physical condition. The change was nothing short of miraculous. His headache was fading, and the tremors were gone. He was sated with taste and warmth … it was like being drunk on food.
“What was in that?” he asked, his voice distant as if he were speaking from a dream.
Zoë had replenished his coffee cup. She leaned her hip against the table as she faced him. Her cheeks were satiny from the heat of the stove. “French bread I made myself. Heirloom tomatoes I bought at the farmer’s market. The cheese was made on Lopez Island, and the eggs were laid this morning from wyandotte hens. The basil was grown in the herb garden out back. Would you like another helping?”
Alex could have eaten an entire pan of it. But he shook his head, deciding it was better not to push his luck. “I should leave some for your guests.”
“There’s more than enough.”
“I’m fine.” After taking a swallow of coffee, he looked intently at her. “I wouldn’t have thought—” He broke off, not able to describe what had just happened to him.
Zoë seemed to understand. A faint smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Sometimes,” she said, “my cooking has a kind of … effect … on people.”
The back of his neck prickled, not unpleasantly. “What kind of effect?”
“I don’t let myself think about it too much. I don’t want to ruin it. But sometimes it seems to make people feel better in a sort of … magical way.” Her smile turned rueful at the edges. “I’m sure you don’t believe in things like that.”
“I’m surprisingly open-minded,” Alex said, conscious of the ghost wandering back into the kitchen.
“Well, look at you.” The ghost sounded relieved. “You’re not going to keel over and die.”
Zoë’s attention was diverted as her cat meowed at the back door, its furry bulk visible through the screen. As soon as she let Byron inside, he sat and looked at her, flicking his tail impatiently.
“Poor little fluff-monster,” Zoë cooed, putting a spoonful of something in a dish, setting it on the floor.
The cat gobbled up the treat ferociously, looking like the kind of pet that would eat its owner.
“Isn’t it against the health code to let him in here?” Alex asked.
“Byron’s not allowed near the dining or food-prep areas. And he only visits the kitchen for a few minutes a day. Most of the time he sleeps on the porch or in the back cottage.” She came to collect Alex’s plate. The front of the apron gaped to reveal just enough lush cleavage to make him light-headed. He dragged his gaze up to Zoë’s face.
“You get grumpy,” she said gently, “after you’ve had too much to drink.”
“No,” Alex said, “I get grumpy when I’ve stopped.”
She looked at him closely. “You mean for good?”
Alex gave her an abbreviated nod. There were countless reasons for him to quit, but the one that mattered most was that he didn’t want to need anything that much. He’d been caught off guard by the realization of how dependent he’d become on booze. It had been easy to delude himself into thinking it wasn’t a problem because he wasn’t disheveled and homeless, had never been arrested. He was still functional. But after what had happened that morning, he couldn’t deny that he had a problem.
It was one thing to be a heavy drinker. It was another to become a full-blown alcoholic.
Zoë went to take his dishes to the sink. “From what I’ve heard,” she said over her shoulder, “it’s not an easy habit to break.”
“I’m about to find out.” Alex stood from the table. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning for the check.”
“Come early,” Zoë said without hesitation. “I’m making oatmeal.”
Their gazes met across the room.
“I don’t like oatmeal,” Alex said.
“You’ll like mine.”
Alex couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away. She was so soft-looking, so radiant, and he let himself think, just for a moment, about the way she would feel under him. The magnitude of his attraction to her was nearly overwhelming. He wanted things from her that he’d never wanted from anyone, things beyond sex, and none of it was possible. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, fighting not to fall while the wind pushed at his back.
As Zoë returned his stare, rampant color washed over her face, contrasting with the brilliant pale gold of her hair. “What is your favorite food?” she asked, as if the question were profoundly intimate.
“I don’t have a favorite food.”
“Everyone has a favorite.”
“I don’t.”
“There must be some—” A timer interrupted her. “Seven-thi
rty,” she said. “I have to pour coffee for the first guests. Don’t go, I’ll be right back.”
When Zoë returned, however, Alex was gone. A sticky note had been applied to the backsplash above the sink, with a word written in black ink:
THANKS
Zoë took the note in her hand, drawing her thumb over the surface. A sweet, terrible ache filled her chest.
Sometimes, she thought, you could rescue a person from trouble. But some kinds of trouble, a person had to rescue himself from.
All she could do for Alex was hope.
Fourteen
Alex was tormented by nightmares from midnight to dawn, his body jerking as if he’d been hit with an electric current. He dreamed of demons sitting at the foot of his bed, waiting to tear at him with long sharp claws, or of the ground opening beneath him and letting him fall into endless darkness. In one dream he was hit by a car on a dark road, the impact knocking him backward onto hard midnight asphalt. He stood over the unconscious body on the road, looking down at his own face. He was dead.
Startled awake, Alex sat up in bed. He was soaked in sweat, the sheets sticking to him in a clammy film. A bleary glance at the clock revealed that it was two in the morning.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
The ghost was nearby. “Go get some water,” he said. “You’re dehydrated.”
Alex lurched from the bed and went into the bathroom. He drank some water, turned on the shower, and stood there for a long time with the hot spray pounding on the back of his neck. He wanted a drink. It would make him feel better. It would take away the dreams, the god-awful sweating. He wanted the taste of alcohol, the sweet burn of it in his mouth. But the fact that he wanted it so badly was enough to steel him against it.
After finishing the shower, Alex dragged on some pajama pants and pulled a blanket from the bed. Too exhausted to change the sheets, he went to the living room. Breathing heavily with effort, he collapsed onto the couch.
“Maybe you should go to a doctor,” the ghost commented from the corner. “There must be something they could give you to make this easier.”