Ready for her big night out.
Ready to venture to the source.
If this fails, she thought as she strolled past another cabin, I’m out of luck. Well, maybe not. Most people probably only spent a week or two at Carson’s Camp before heading home. Then new vacationers would arrive. She could take some consolation in the steady turnover.
Leaving the dirt road, she took a footpath toward the lodge. The trees opened up. She gazed out at the lake. Though she was in shadow, the early-evening sun still fell on the water, and trees on the nearest island looked dusted with gold. A few boats were out, people fishing in the calm. The peaceful beauty of it all made Leigh stop. She stood there, saddened, wanting somehow to be part of it, not just a spectator.
Well, she thought, go for it.
She turned away, walked the final distance to the lodge, and opened one of its heavy doors. The lobby was deserted except for a lone boy in a wicker chair. He glanced at Leigh, then returned his gaze to the television. She followed the sounds of conversation and clinking silverware to the dining-room entryway.
Only about half the tables were occupied, mostly those near the windows, the ones with the best view of the lake. Her eyes wandered from group to group, starting with the closest table and moving down the room until she had seen everyone.
Maybe she’d missed him.
She had missed no one.
So damn much for summer romance.
Lower lip clamped between her teeth, she turned away and hurried outside.
It was too much to hope for. She was being silly.
But it hurt.
Hell, who wants to get involved anyway? If you did meet a guy, it’d all be over in about three weeks and you’d probably never see him again. Who needs that?
The next day, she met Charlie.
THIRTEEN
Quiet knocking aroused Leigh from her sleep. She raised her head as Jenny called through the door. “Time to rise and shine, if you want to go after the big ones.”
“I don’t know,” Leigh told her. “I didn’t sleep very well.”
“That’s fine if you’d rather catch some extra z’s. If you change your mind, though, we won’t be leaving for fifteen or twenty minutes. Either way’s fine.”
“Thanks,” she said, and lowered her face into the pillow.
She felt bad about lying to Jenny. She had slept well. She just didn’t want to go out with them. Not this morning. She didn’t want to do anything.
I should go along, she thought. What’s wrong with me? It’ll be great out on the boat. I don’t really want to stay behind. Once they’ve gone, I’ll probably wish I was with them.
You’d better get a move on, then.
What for? I’m not going.
She rolled onto her back. The window was open, the gauzy curtains billowing inward and flapping. The breeze brought a mild scent that reminded her of Christmas trees. From the feel of it, she guessed the sun hadn’t been out for long. Drawing the sheet aside, she felt it stir over her nightgown and bare skin.
She heard quiet voices beyond her door. Through the open window came birdsongs, the soft sounds of leaves rustling in the breeze, the sputtery hum of a motorboat like a power lawn mower far away. After a while, she heard the screen door of the porch slap shut. Climbing from the bed, she stepped to the window. Mike and Jenny, loaded with fishing gear, were heading down the wooded slope. She watched them walk onto the pier. Mike stepped into the Cris Craft and set down his gear. Jenny handed her rod and tackle box to him, then untied the mooring lines while Mike started the twin engines. She hopped aboard. Mike, standing in the cockpit, backed the boat around the arm of the L-shaped pier. The pitch of the engines rose. The bow tipped upward and the boat headed out, churning a frothy wake.
Leigh stood at the window long after the boat was out of sight. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She should have gone with them.
Her eyes lingered on the lounge chairs and table at the end of the pier. A couple of evenings, she had sat out there with Mike and Jenny after supper. It was pleasant then. It would be nice now, while the sun was still low.
At the bureau, she took off her nightgown and opened the drawer where she kept her white bikini. In a corner of the drawer was her necklace, the leather thong with its sea-thing ornament. Her good-luck necklace.
Leigh could use some good luck.
She knotted the rawhide behind her neck. The bonelike ornament felt smooth and cool between her breasts. She hadn’t worn it since the day of her arrival.
The man at Jody’s.
So what makes you think it’s a good-luck charm?
The jet didn’t crash, did it?
The guy didn’t grab me.
Don’t start thinking about him.
His overalls sticking out, his hand inside.
Mary Jo. Maybe he closed up as soon as we left, and… No. She’s only a kid, probably his daughter. In spite of what Mike said.
Stop this.
She put on her bikini.
The girl had walked right in. She must have seen what that guy was doing.
Leigh’s stomach hurt. “There is a house—in New Orleans,” she started to sing. She picked up her sunglasses and a paperback and left the room, still singing to block out the thoughts.
She smelled coffee. She spent a few minutes in the bathroom. With her hair in a ponytail, she pulled her beach towel down from its rod, rolled her suntan oil inside, and went into the kitchen. She poured herself a mug of coffee.
Then she walked down the slope to the pier.
The boat was out of sight, either hidden from view by an island or in one of the many coves around the borders of the lake. The painted slats of the pier felt cool under her bare feet. They creaked as she walked out. The warm breeze felt wonderful on her skin. She set her coffee mug, book, and suntan oil on the wicker table, then spread her towel over one of the lounge chairs.
Turning, she scanned the shore. To the right, three piers up, someone was swimming with slow, balletlike strokes. It had to be a woman. Far beyond the swimmer, a motorboat was chugging out, trailed by wisps of bluish smoke. She guessed that the two men were the same who had passed her yesterday afternoon. To the left, a kid was sitting at the end of the nearest pier, fishing with a cane pole. Beyond him, at Carson’s Camp, a family was loading one of the dozen motorboats available to the guests.
At the pier’s end, a boy and girl, side by side, dove at the same instant. Leigh heard their splashes. They raced out to the diving raft that floated on metal drums about thirty yards beyond the pier. Leigh waited to see who won. The girl did. “That-a-way,” she whispered.
Then she straddled the lounge chair, sat down, and leaned back. Drinking coffee in this position, she realized, would be a neat trick. So she sat up straight and folded her legs. She picked up the mug. Steam still drifted off the coffee. The breeze caught it and twisted it away. She took a sip. The coffee tasted rich and good.
The swimming woman was far out and turning back toward shore. The motorboat with the two fishermen was moving past the point of the nearest island. Far off, near the northern shore, was a rowboat—someone getting his or her morning exercise. Leigh couldn’t tell, at this distance, whether the rower was male or female.
Nearby, a motor sputtered to life. She didn’t bother turning to look. It had to be from the boat of the family at
