Maybe it wasn’t depression. It felt worse than that. It felt as if she’d made a pie with poisoned fruit and eaten all of it.
No, definitely not depression. It was jealousy.
Zoë tried to smile through the feeling as if she didn’t care. The effort made her mouth hurt. “Have a good weekend,” she managed to say.
“You, too.” And he left.
He always left without looking back, Zoë thought, and jabbed another brooch into the glittering mannequin.
“What was all that crap about?” the ghost asked in a surly tone, walking beside Alex. “Existentialism … life is meaningless … you can’t really believe that.”
“I do believe it. And stop eavesdropping on me.”
“I wouldn’t have to if there was anything else to do.” The ghost scowled at him. “Look at yourself. You’re being haunted by a spirit. That’s about as unexistential as you can get. The fact that I’m with you means it doesn’t all end with death. And it also means that someone or something put me in your life for a reason.”
“Maybe you’re not a spirit,” Alex muttered. “You could be a figment of my imagination.”
“You have no imagination.”
“Maybe you’re a symptom of depression.”
“Then why don’t you take some Prozac, and see if I disappear?”
Alex paused at the door of his truck and regarded the ghost with a contemplative scowl. “Because you wouldn’t,” he finally said. “I’m stuck with you.”
“So you’re not an existentialist,” the ghost said smugly. “You’re still just an asshole.”
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 Zoë 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. Zoë’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 Zoë 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 Zoë to ask if Emma was at the cottage and if everything had gone well.
“Got here just fine,” Zoë 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 Zoë’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,” Zoë 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 lumin
ous, 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,” Zoë 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,” Zoë 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 Zoë. 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.
Zoë 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, Zoë 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.”