consequences. But perhaps that was all part
of Colin’s plan? Could he have staged the whole episode? I wouldn’t put
emotional blackmail past him.
I went out onto the patio, squinting against the bright
sunlight glinting off the pool and the distant lake. I could just make out a
small fishing vessel bobbing on the horizon. Leo taught me the rudiments of
game fishing years ago from the deck of his yacht. The thought of casting out
pretty baubles to snag a living creature seemed barbarous at the time. I used
to wonder how it must feel to be caught and dragged, frenzied with panic, into
a foreign atmosphere—measured, gawked at, ripped and torn and eventually,
tossed back while strange creatures laughed unconcernedly. I preferred sailing.
With that thought, I went back into the house and up the
stairs to my room. I changed into my swimsuit, pulled on a matching sky blue
cover-up and slipped on a pair of deck shoes.
* * * * *
The boathouse and dock nestled in a small cove to the east
of the main beach. It served as protection for Beacon’s smaller recreational
watercraft. The yacht was berthed in Chicago and was used primarily for
entertaining clients. There was also a company seaplane on call twenty-four
hours a day in case Leo was needed at the main office in Chicago.
I grabbed a set of keys off the hook in the kitchen and
headed for the beach. The sun was warm and I removed my wrap and shoes as I
descended the steps to the beach. The sand burned my feet and I was grateful
for the cooler touch of the pier.
I unlocked the door to the boathouse and pushed it open,
allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness within. There were four boats here—a
sleek black speedboat with red flames painted down the sides, a twenty-two foot
yacht with real teak trimmings, a twin-hulled, fully equipped fishing boat and
a small, two-man catamaran. This last I approached with a half-smile. Most
likely no one had used it since I’d left Beacon but the bright fiberglass hull
still gleamed, even in the relative gloom.
I stepped onto the center platform, unsnapped the canvas
covering the boom and sail and used the paddle to maneuver it out into the
sunlight. I looped its mooring rope over a pylon while I checked that all the
rigging and safety gear were intact. Two gulls screeched overhead and I saw
them reflected in the crystalline waves.
Within minutes I was set. I paddled a short way out before
raising the bright multicolored sail. The gusty breeze caught it immediately
and I was off, skimming across the sparkling waves.
The day was perfect. There were only three small marshmallow
clouds adorning the sky below a plump golden sun, whose pulsing heat shimmered
in the air and beckoned moisture up from the earth. The water was sapphire blue
and I let one hand trail in the frothy wake. Despite the warmth of the days,
the chill of late August nights had settled like a reptile into the vast
freshwater depths.
I leaned back, holding the rope tightly so the sail bloomed
and the boat skipped smoothly over the soft swells. The opposite pontoon lifted
out of the water. Today, the lake was tame but before a storm it could rise up
like a primeval beast ripping viciously at its long-suffering borders. In the
winter, it was even more predatory, writhing with cold-blooded purpose around
the rocks and dunes with frigid, sinewy intent, waiting for prey. Now it was
puckish, playful—as though full-bellied and content but in need of diversion. I
knew the lake too well to fear it but I’d also learned to respect it. I could
translate the first signs of foul weather.
I shaded my eyes and scanned the shoreline. Beacon was
entrancing from this angle. Sandy cliffs rose like sandbox sculptures,
interwoven with green fingers of forest and grassy knolls. Atop the tall rise
stood the house, its windows watching the horizon with vacuous patience, almost
as though it was waiting—waiting for Leo to return. The glass winked silver
while the garden hedgerow
of Colin’s plan? Could he have staged the whole episode? I wouldn’t put
emotional blackmail past him.
I went out onto the patio, squinting against the bright
sunlight glinting off the pool and the distant lake. I could just make out a
small fishing vessel bobbing on the horizon. Leo taught me the rudiments of
game fishing years ago from the deck of his yacht. The thought of casting out
pretty baubles to snag a living creature seemed barbarous at the time. I used
to wonder how it must feel to be caught and dragged, frenzied with panic, into
a foreign atmosphere—measured, gawked at, ripped and torn and eventually,
tossed back while strange creatures laughed unconcernedly. I preferred sailing.
With that thought, I went back into the house and up the
stairs to my room. I changed into my swimsuit, pulled on a matching sky blue
cover-up and slipped on a pair of deck shoes.
* * * * *
The boathouse and dock nestled in a small cove to the east
of the main beach. It served as protection for Beacon’s smaller recreational
watercraft. The yacht was berthed in Chicago and was used primarily for
entertaining clients. There was also a company seaplane on call twenty-four
hours a day in case Leo was needed at the main office in Chicago.
I grabbed a set of keys off the hook in the kitchen and
headed for the beach. The sun was warm and I removed my wrap and shoes as I
descended the steps to the beach. The sand burned my feet and I was grateful
for the cooler touch of the pier.
I unlocked the door to the boathouse and pushed it open,
allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness within. There were four boats here—a
sleek black speedboat with red flames painted down the sides, a twenty-two foot
yacht with real teak trimmings, a twin-hulled, fully equipped fishing boat and
a small, two-man catamaran. This last I approached with a half-smile. Most
likely no one had used it since I’d left Beacon but the bright fiberglass hull
still gleamed, even in the relative gloom.
I stepped onto the center platform, unsnapped the canvas
covering the boom and sail and used the paddle to maneuver it out into the
sunlight. I looped its mooring rope over a pylon while I checked that all the
rigging and safety gear were intact. Two gulls screeched overhead and I saw
them reflected in the crystalline waves.
Within minutes I was set. I paddled a short way out before
raising the bright multicolored sail. The gusty breeze caught it immediately
and I was off, skimming across the sparkling waves.
The day was perfect. There were only three small marshmallow
clouds adorning the sky below a plump golden sun, whose pulsing heat shimmered
in the air and beckoned moisture up from the earth. The water was sapphire blue
and I let one hand trail in the frothy wake. Despite the warmth of the days,
the chill of late August nights had settled like a reptile into the vast
freshwater depths.
I leaned back, holding the rope tightly so the sail bloomed
and the boat skipped smoothly over the soft swells. The opposite pontoon lifted
out of the water. Today, the lake was tame but before a storm it could rise up
like a primeval beast ripping viciously at its long-suffering borders. In the
winter, it was even more predatory, writhing with cold-blooded purpose around
the rocks and dunes with frigid, sinewy intent, waiting for prey. Now it was
puckish, playful—as though full-bellied and content but in need of diversion. I
knew the lake too well to fear it but I’d also learned to respect it. I could
translate the first signs of foul weather.
I shaded my eyes and scanned the shoreline. Beacon was
entrancing from this angle. Sandy cliffs rose like sandbox sculptures,
interwoven with green fingers of forest and grassy knolls. Atop the tall rise
stood the house, its windows watching the horizon with vacuous patience, almost
as though it was waiting—waiting for Leo to return. The glass winked silver
while the garden hedgerow
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