Dream Lake (11 page)

Justine shook her head. “Want me to get rid of him?”

Zoë was almost tempted to say yes. It wasn’t that she and Chris had parted on bitter terms. In fact, their divorce had been a low-key and bloodless process. As his wife, she had felt betrayed, but as his friend, she couldn’t help feeling sympathy for the pain and confusion he’d so obviously been going through. Just after their first anniversary, Chris had come to her with tears in his eyes, and had tried to explain that even though he loved her, would always love her, he had been having an affair with a man who worked at his law firm. Chris had explained that until recently he’d never been able to face his feelings and desires, but he couldn’t pretend any longer. Whenever he’d been attracted to men in the past, he had always compartmentalized such feelings, knowing that his conservative family would never approve. However, it had gotten to the point where he could no longer live a lie. And what he regretted most was having caused Zoë disappointment and pain. He had never intended to hurt her.

“Doesn’t matter,” Justine had said to Zoë, regarding this last point. “He handled it the wrong way. Chris could have come to you and said, ‘Zoë, I’m having some complicated feelings,’ and then you could have talked about it. Instead, he lied to you repeatedly, until you were blindsided. He cheated on you. And that makes him a jackass, whether he’s gay or straight.”

Now, contemplating the prospect of seeing Chris, Zoë felt dread settle in her stomach like a lead weight. “I’ll talk to him,” she said reluctantly. ”It wouldn’t feel right to turn him away.”

“You’re such a pushover,” Justine grumbled. “Okay, I’ll send him back here.”

In a couple of minutes, the door opened, and Chris entered cautiously.

He was as handsome as ever, slim and fit, his hair the rich color of wheat. Chris had always been in great shape, and he was scrupulously careful with his diet, rarely eating red meat or drinking a second glass of wine. “No butter, cream, or carbs,” he had always told Zoë when she had cooked for him. She had obliged, even though she had found the restrictions more than a little aggravating. The first meal she had made for herself after she had moved out of their apartment had been a huge bowl of spaghetti carbonara, with a sauce of white wine, cream, and three entire eggs, the whole of it covered in a snowy layer of grated Pecorino-Romano and Parmesan cheese and sprinkled with crisp shards of bacon.

Chris smiled when he saw her. “Zoë,” he said quietly, and stepped forward.

An awkward moment followed as they moved toward each other in the beginnings of a hug, and ended up clasping hands instead. Zoë was inwardly surprised by how good it was to see him again, and how much she had missed him.

“You look wonderful,” he said.

“So do you.” But she saw with concern that there was a weathering of sadness around his hazel-green eyes, and lines of tension that had been carved too deep and too fast.

Reaching into the pocket of his impeccably tailored blazer, Chris brought out a small object in a flannel pouch. “I found this behind the dresser the other day,” he said, handing it to her. ”Remember how hard we looked for it?”

“My goodness,” Zoë said as she saw the brooch inside the pouch. It had always been one of the favorites in her collection, a vintage silver and enameled teapot embedded with amethysts. “I thought I’d never see it again.”

“I wanted to return it to you in person,” Chris said. “I knew how much it meant to you.”

“Thank you.” She gave him an unguarded smile. “Are you staying on the island for the weekend?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?” she brought herself to ask. They were both trying hard to be casual, to mask the awkward edges and corners of a conversation between two people who were trying to reconnect.

Chris nodded. “I needed to get away and do some thinking. I’m renting a waterfront house for a couple of nights. Hoping to see some orcas, maybe do some kayaking.” His gaze flicked around the kitchen, taking in the pans that still needed to be cleaned, the remains of breakfast. “I came at a bad time. You’re in the middle of stuff—”

“No, it’s fine. Do you want to stay for a few minutes and have some coffee?”

“If you’ll have some with me.”

Zoë motioned for him to sit at the table. She went to brew a fresh pot of coffee. Rather than take a chair, Chris leaned back against the sturdy table and watched her.

“Where is the house you’re renting?” Zoë asked, measuring coffee into a filter basket.

“It’s at Lonesome Cove.” Chris paused before adding, “Apropos name, in my current situation.”

“Oh, dear.” Zoë went to fill the coffeepot at the sink. “Trouble with … your partner?”

“I’ll spare you the details. But a lot has been running through my mind. Memories and thoughts … and the thing I keep running into, again and again, is that I never really apologized for what I did to you. I handled everything the wrong way. I’m so sorry for that. I’m—” He closed his mouth and set his jaw, but a muscle in his cheek twitched like an overstretched rubber band.

Carefully Zoë brought the pot of water to the coffee machine and poured it in. “But you did,” she said. “You apologized more than once. And maybe you could have handled it better, but I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for you. I was so focused on my own hurt feelings that I didn’t think about how scary it would be for you to come out. How tough it would be to face everyone’s reactions. I forgave you a long time ago, Chris.”

“I haven’t forgiven myself,” Chris said, clearing his throat roughly. “I didn’t take responsibility. I told you it wasn’t my fault. I didn’t want to think about what I was putting you through. For a while I sort of became a teenager again, going through all the phases I missed during adolescence. I’m so sorry, Zoë.”

At a loss for words, Zoë started the coffeemaker and turned to face him. Her hands smoothed repeatedly over the bib front of her white chef’s apron. “It’s okay,” she eventually said. “It’s
really
okay. I’m fine. But I’m worried about you. Why do you seem so unhappy? Won’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“He left me for someone else,” Chris said, with a ragged laugh. “Fitting justice, right?”

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “How long ago?”

“A month. I can’t eat, can’t breathe, can’t sleep. I’ve even lost my sense of smell and taste. I went to a doctor—can you believe there’s a level of depression where you can’t even smell things?” He let out a shaken sigh. “You were the best friend I ever had. You were always the one I wanted to tell first when anything happened.”

“You were my best friend, too.”

“I miss that. Do you think …” He swallowed audibly. “You think we could ever get back to that? Not like when we were married … I mean just the friendship part.”

“I can do that part,” she said readily. “Have a seat and tell me what happened. And while you do that, I’ll make you some breakfast. Just like old times.”

“I’m really not hungry.”

“You don’t have to eat,” she said, turning on the stove to preheat a black steel pan. “But I’m going to make something for you.”

When they were married, it had been like this nearly every night—Chris would sit and talk to Zoë while she cooked. It felt familiar to slip back into this, even after all the time they’d spent apart. Chris explained the issues he and his partner had faced, the initial exhilaration of their romance fading into the everyday routine of living together. “And then the things that didn’t seem to matter before—politics, money, even stupid stuff like whether the toilet paper unwinds from the top or bottom of the roll—all of it became important. We started to argue.” He paused as he noticed Zoë breaking eggs into a bowl with one hand. One, two, three. “What are you making?”

“An omelet.”

“Remember, no butter.”

“I remember.” Zoë cast a glance over her shoulder and prompted, “You were telling me about the arguments.”

“Yes. He’s a different guy when we fight. He’s willing to use any weapon, anything you confide in private. Win at all cost—” He paused as Zoë drizzled some clarified butter into a small saucepan. “Hey—”

“It’s a French omelet,” she said reasonably. “I have to do it this way. Just look the other way and keep talking.”

Chris sighed in resignation and resumed. “I wanted his approval too much. Couldn’t stand up to him. But he was the first man I ever …” He fell silent.

Zoë chopped some fresh herbs—parsley, tarragon, basil—and whisked them into the eggs. She understood the process Chris was going through. She knew how many ways you could find to blame yourself after a breakup, how you recounted a hundred conversations to figure out what you should or shouldn’t have said. How you constantly wanted sleep even when you’d already been sleeping too much, and you couldn’t eat even though your body was famished.

And how inexplicably foolish you felt when someone else had failed at loving you.

“There’s no way of knowing how a relationship will turn out,” Zoë said. “You gave it a try.”

“Did I ever,” Chris said bitterly, still not looking at her. “But I have no more luck being gay than I did being straight.”

“Chris … hardly anyone ends up with the first person they love.”

“Some people don’t end up with anyone at all. I don’t want to be one of those.”

“Justine says if you never find Mr. Right, you should have as much fun as possible with a lot of Mr. Wrongs.”

He let out a bleak laugh. “That sounds like Justine.”

“And she says you learn something from every relationship.”

“What have I learned?” he asked glumly.

Zoë held her hand over the pan, testing the heat as it rose against her palm. When it felt right, she poured the eggs into the pan and began to work them with a fork. “You’ve learned more about who you are,” she said eventually. “And what kind of love you want.”

She broke the rich curdles of the egg as they formed, and shook the pan with deft flicks of her wrist, working with the eggs, swirling until the mixture set firmly. Turning the flame on high, she gave the omelet a last caress of high heat, imparting a faint toasted finish to the delicate surface. Tipping the pan over a plate, she let the omelet roll out into a pristine sun-colored cylinder.

She garnished the plate with orange slices and fresh lavender petals, and set the plate in front of Chris.

“That looks amazing,” Chris said, “but I don’t think I can eat anything.”

“Try just a bite or two.”

Looking resigned, Chris sectioned a bite of the omelet and put it into his mouth. His teeth closed on the combination of textures—tender eggs, the subtle pungency of the herbs, the kiss of sea salt, and a smoky pinch of ground black pepper. Without a word, he took another bite, and another. A slight flush rose in his cheeks as he ate with focused pleasure.

“If I were straight,” he said after a moment, “I’d marry you again.”

Zoë smiled and poured more coffee into his cup.

While Chris ate, Zoë made apricot lemon teacakes for the afternoon tea that was set out daily for the guests. She mixed the ingredients and poured the batter into a minimuffin pan. As she worked, she told Chris about her grandmother’s deteriorating health. He listened with quiet sympathy.

“It’s going to be tough on you,” he said. “I’ve known some people who’ve taken care of relatives with dementia.”

“I’ll handle it,” she said.

“How can you be sure?”

“There’s no other choice. My plan is to rise to the occasion, whatever the occasion turns out to be.”

“Have you talked to your dad about your decision?”

A wry smile crossed Zoë’s lips as she sat at the table. “He and I don’t talk. We e-mail. He says he’s going to visit us once I get Emma settled at the lakeside cottage.”

“Oh, joy.” Chris had met Zoë’s father, James, on a handful of occasions, and the only thing they’d had in common was that, as males, they both possessed the XY chromosome. After the wedding, Chris had quipped that Zoë’s father had walked her down the aisle with all the tenderness of a man mailing a package at the UPS store.

“I don’t think Emma will look forward to it any more than I do,” Zoë admitted. “They haven’t communicated at all since the divorce.”

“
Our
divorce?” Chris asked incredulously. “Why?”

“He’s against divorce for any reason.”

“But he had one.”

“He didn’t, actually. My mother abandoned us, but there was never a divorce.” Zoë smiled as she added ruefully, “He told me I should have tried to be a better wife, and taken you to counseling, and then you wouldn’t have turned gay.”

“I didn’t turn gay, I
was
gay. Am.” Chris shook his head with a perturbed laugh. ”Counseling wouldn’t have changed that any more than it could have changed the shape of my nose or the color of my eyes. Look, do you want me to talk to him about this? I never dreamed that he would have blamed you for something like—”

“No. That’s incredibly sweet of you, but it’s not necessary. I don’t think my father really blamed me, in his heart. He just takes every chance he gets to be critical. He can’t help it. Because blaming other people is easier than thinking about what he might have to blame himself for.” She reached over and put her hand on his. “But thank you.”

Chris turned his hand palm up and squeezed hers before letting go. “What else is going on in your life?” he asked after a moment. “Is there a Mr. Right in the picture? Or a Mr. Wrong?”

Zoë shook her head. “No time for a love life. My work keeps me busy. And on top of that I’m getting the house ready for my grandmother.”

Chris stood to take his plate to the sink. “You’ll let me know if you need help, I hope.”

“Yes.” Zoë stood as well. She felt relieved, as if their relationship had finally become what it was ultimately supposed to be. Friendship … nothing more, nothing less.

“Thank you,” Chris said simply. “You’re a beautiful woman, Zoë, and I’m not just talking about the outside. I hope to God you find the right guy someday. I’m sorry I got in the way of that.” He reached out for her, and she went into his arms and hugged him. “I needed to find out if you still hated me,” Chris said above her head. “I’m so glad you don’t.”

“I could never hate you,” she protested.