“They’ll probably end up throwing the cupcakes at each other at the reception,” Zoë said.

“My God, I hope so. I’ll just stand in the middle with my mouth open.” Justine licked the last of the raspberry buttercream off her fingertip. “You saw Lucy this morning, right? How’s she doing?”

“Pretty well, all things considered. She’s on pain medication, but Sam seems to be taking good care of her.”

“I knew he would,” Justine said in satisfaction.

Their friend Lucy, a local glass artist, had been staying at Artist’s Point for the past couple of months, ever since her boyfriend had broken up with her. After Lucy’s bike accident yesterday, Justine had realized that in light of Lucy’s leg injuries, and the wedding taking place that weekend, there was no way she and Zoë could take care of her. So she had talked Sam into letting Lucy recuperate at his house.

“I told Sam how much we appreciate it,” Zoë said. “It’s incredibly nice of him, especially since he and Lucy have only gone out a couple of times before.”

“They’re already in love with each other. They just don’t know it yet.”

Zoë paused in the middle of trimming the fondant from another cupcake. “How do you know it, if they don’t?”

“You should have seen Sam at the clinic yesterday. He was so worried about her, and she was so glad to see him, and for a few seconds, you could tell they were the only two people in the world.”

As Zoë worked with the cupcakes, she pondered what she remembered of Sam Nolan from elementary school. He had been geeky and skinny. No one would have guessed that he would have grown up into the robust, good-looking man she had seen earlier that morning. Sam had a roguish quality tempered with quiet strength … he might be exactly what Lucy needed, after her boyfriend had treated her so terribly.

“So now that Lucy’s got someone,” Justine said, “we have to find a guy for you.”

“No we don’t,” Zoë countered evenly. “I keep telling you, I’m not ready to start that kind of relationship.”

“You’ve been divorced for a couple of years now, and you’ve been a nun. Sex is good for you, you know. Relieves stress and improves cardiovascular health, and lowers the risk of prostate cancer, and besides—”

“I don’t have a prostate. Men have prostates.”

“I know, but think of how much you’ll be helping some poor guy out.”

A reluctant grin spread across Zoë’s face.

There could have been no better antidote for Zoë’s shyness and occasional self-doubt than Justine. She was like a cool, brisk September breeze that blew away the sultry heat of summer and made you think of apples and wool sweaters and planting tulip bulbs.

Before rolling out the next sheet of fondant, Zoë poured some coffee, and told Justine about a phone call she’d received that morning. The previous day, her grandmother Emma, who was living in a senior apartment at an independent living community in Everett, had been taken to a nearby medical facility. She had complained of numbness in her left arm and leg, and had seemed disoriented. It had turned out to be a ministroke, but the doctor believed that with physical therapy, she would regain most of the use of the affected limbs.

“But when they did a brain scan,” Zoë said, “they found that she’d already had a few ministrokes. It’s a condition called—oh, right now I can’t remember the word—but it basically boils down to a diagnosis of vascular dementia.”

“Oh, Zoë.” Justine reached out to put her hand on Zoë’s back, and kept it there for a moment. “I’m sorry. Is that a kind of Alzheimer’s?”

“No, but it’s similar. With vascular dementia, it’s a stair-step process … one of these ministrokes takes away some of your ability, and then you plateau for a while, and then you have another episode—” Zoë broke off and blinked against tears. “Eventually she’ll have a major stroke, and that’s that.”

Justine frowned. “When Emma came out to visit over Christmas, she was in great shape. Didn’t seem at all her age. What is she now, like, ninety?”

“Eighty-seven.”

“Do you need to go to her?” Justine asked quietly.

“Yes, I thought tomorrow after the wedding reception—”

“No, I mean right now.”

“I have a hundred and seventy-two cupcakes to cover with fondant.”

“Show me how to do it. I’ll take over.”

“You’ve got too many other things to do.” Zoë felt a rush of fond gratitude for her cousin, who could always be counted on in times of trouble. “And this isn’t as easy as it looks. You’d end up with a pile of big pink balls.”

“Then I’d put ’em on the groom’s table,” Justine said.

Zoë chuckled, and sighed. “No, I’ll stay until after the wedding, and then I’ll go to Everett.” She hesitated before continuing. “I’ll be meeting with Emma’s elder-care consultant—she helps with insurance care facilities, and knows all the options for what my grandmother will need. So I’ll be gone for a couple of days.”

“Whatever it takes.” Justine slid her a concerned glance. “You think your dad will come up from Arizona to see her?”

“I hope not.” Although Zoë hadn’t seen her father in years, they exchanged occasional brief e-mails and phone calls. And from what she knew of his relationship with Emma, it had been even more distant than that. “It would be really awkward. And he wouldn’t be any help at all.”

“Poor Zoë. I wonder if you’ve ever had a man in your life you could really count on.”

“Right now,” Zoë said, “a man is the last thing I need. Except for Byron, of course. Which reminds me … would you look after him while I’m gone?”

“Oh, jeez.” Justine scowled. “I’ll give him food and water, but that’s it. No treats, no combing, no baths or special outfits, and no cat massage.”

“It’s just a light rubdown at the end of the day,” Zoë protested. “It helps him relax.”

“Zoë, I don’t even do that for my boyfriend. Your big fat fluffball of a cat is going to have to deal with his hypertension on his own.”

Five

Darcy’s tense voice filtered through the answering machine as she left a message at nine in the morning. Hearing it, Alex dragged himself out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and staggered toward the kitchen.

“… don’t know if you’ve found another place to live yet,” Darcy was saying, “but time’s running out. I’m going to start showing the house next week, so you have to be out of there. I want it sold by Labor Day. If you want to buy it from me, you can talk to the Realtor—”

“I’m not going to pay for the same damn house twice,” Alex muttered, ignoring the rest of the message. He pressed a button on the automatic espresso machine and waited for it to heat. Through slitted eyes, he saw the ghost standing at the kitchen island with his forearms braced on the granite counter.

The ghost met his gaze. “Hiya.”

Alex didn’t reply.

Last night, he had turned on the TV and sat on the sofa with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. The ghost had sat in a nearby chair, asking sardonically, “You’re not bothering with a glass now?”

Lifting the bottle to his lips, Alex had ignored him and kept his gaze glued on the television screen. The ghost had fallen obligingly silent … but he had stayed until Alex had passed out.

And this morning he was still here.

Seeing that the espresso machine was ready, Alex pressed the start button. The metallic squall of the automatic grinder filled the air. The machine clicked, clacked, pumped out a double shot of espresso, and emptied the grounds into a hidden plastic receptacle. Alex drank the coffee straight and set the empty cup in the sink.

He turned to face the ghost with grim resignation. It was pointless to keep ignoring him, since he didn’t appear to be going anywhere. And in that weird secondhand way, Alex could sense the ghost’s mood, the weary patience of a man who’d been alone for a long time. Although Alex had never been accused of having an excess of compassion, he couldn’t help feeling a flicker of sympathy.

“You got a name?” Alex eventually asked.

“I did, once. But I can’t remember it.”

“What’s with the flight jacket?”

“I don’t know,” the ghost said. “Are there squadron patches on it? A name tag?”

Alex shook his head. “Looks like an old A-2 with cargo pockets. You can’t see it?”

“I’m visible only to you.”

“Lucky me.” Alex viewed him dourly. “Listen … I can’t function with you following me everywhere. So you need to get invisible again.”

“I don’t want to be invisible. I want to be free.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Maybe if you help me figure out who I am … who I was … it might show me a way out. I might be able to break away from you then.”

“ ‘Maybe’ and ‘might’ aren’t good enough.”

“It’s all I’ve got.” The ghost began to pace in abbreviated strides. “Sometimes I remember things. Bits and pieces of my life.” He stopped at the kitchen window to stare out at the beckoning blue flat of Roche Harbor. “When I first … had awareness, I guess you’d say … I was in the house at Rain-shadow. I think in my former life I had a connection to that place. There’s still a lot of old junk there, especially in the attic. It may be worth poking around for clues.”

“Why haven’t you done it?”

“Because I’d need a physical form to do that,” the ghost said, every word drenched in sarcasm. “I can’t open a door or move a piece of furniture. I don’t have ‘powers.’ “ He accompanied the word with a mystical waggling of all his fingers. “All I can do is watch while other people screw up their lives.” He paused. “You’re going to have to clear all that crap out of the attic eventually, anyway.”

“Sam will. It’s his house.”

“I can’t talk to Sam. And he might miss something important. I need you to do it.”

“I’m not your cleaning lady.” Alex left the kitchen, and the ghost followed. “There’s enough stuff in that attic to fill a ten-yard Dumpster,” Alex continued. “It would take me days to go through it alone. Maybe weeks.”

“But you will?” the ghost asked eagerly.

“I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I’m going to take a shower.” Alex stopped and shot him a glare. “And while I’m in there, stay the hell away from me.”

“Relax,” the ghost said acidly. “Not interested.”

By the beginning of third grade, Zoë’s father had told her that he was getting a new job in Arizona, and she would have to live with her grandmother until he sent for her. “I just have to get the house ready for you,” he had said. “What color do you want me to paint your room?”

“Blue,” Zoë had said eagerly. “Like a robin’s egg. Oh, and Daddy, can I get a kitten when I move to our new house?”

“Sure you can. As long as you take care of it.”

“Oh, I will! Thank you, Daddy.” For months Zoë had painted pictures of what her new room and her new kitten would look like, and had told all her friends she was going to live in Arizona.

Her father had never sent for her. He had come to visit a few times, and he had answered the phone when Zoë had called, but whenever she had dared to ask if the house was ready for her, if he had made a space in his life for her, he was evasive and irritable. She would have to be patient. There were things he had to take care of first.

At the beginning of her freshman year at high school, Zoë had called to tell her father about her classes and her new teachers. An unfamiliar voice had answered her father’s phone—a woman—who had sounded very kind and said that she would love to meet Zoë someday. They had talked for a few minutes. And that was how Zoë had learned that her father had asked a woman with a twelve year-old daughter to live with him. They were his new family. Zoë was nothing but an unwanted reminder of a failed marriage and a woman who had left him.

She had gone to her grandmother, of course, and had cried bitter tears while laying her head on Emma’s lap. “Why doesn’t he want me?” she had sobbed. “Am I too much trouble?”

“It has nothing to do with you. “Emma’s voice had been quiet and kind, her face drawn with regret as she bent over Zoë’s tousled blond head. “You are the best, smartest, most wonderful girl in the world. Any man would be proud to have you as his daughter.”

“Then wh-why isn’t he?”

“He’s broken, sweetheart, in a way that I’m afraid no one can fix. Your mother … well, the way she left him … it did something to him. He’s been different ever since. If you’d known him before then, you would hardly recognize him. He was always in good spirits. Everything went his way. But he fell in love with your mother so deeply … it was like falling down a well with no way to climb back up. And every time he looks at you, he can’t help thinking about her.”

Zoë had listened carefully, trying to understand the secrets tucked between the spare revelations. She needed to know why she had been abandoned, in turn, by both of her parents. There had been only one answer: the fault lay somewhere in herself.

Her grandmother’s gentle hand had smoothed her hair as she continued. “No one would blame you, Zoë, for being angry and bitter. But you need to focus on what’s good in your life, and think about all the people who love you. Don’t let this turn you all sour inside.”

“I won’t, Upsie,” Zoë whispered. It was the name she’d called her grandmother ever since she could remember. “But I feel … I feel as if I don’t belong anywhere.”

“You belong with me.”

Looking up into Emma’s face, softly etched with lines carved by all the humor, sadness, and reflection of seven well-lived decades, Zoë had reflected that her grandmother had always been the one constant in her life.