The Lake

At least you’ll be able to read about it.

A fly settled on her leg. She waved it away, and noticed some hair curling out from the edge of her bikini shorts. Real cute, she thought. She fingered it out of sight, and decided she had better give herself a trim the next time she was in the bathroom. Or shave it off entirely.

What if you have to go in for a physical before it grows back?

You already had your annual checkup.

What if you got in an accident?

Just explain you didn’t want it sticking out when…Explain? What’s the doctor going to do, tell on you?

She took another drink of coffee.

The rowboat was closer now. The person at the oars didn’t seem to be wearing a shirt. Probably a guy, she thought.

Finishing the coffee, Leigh set the mug aside. She uncrossed her legs, stretched them out, and leaned back. Through her sunglasses, the cloudless sky was a deep blue-green. A mallard flapped by. She opened her book, raised it high enough to block out the sun, and began to read.

Soon, she was caught up in the story. She was in the story, living it with the characters, though part of her mind was aware of herself enjoying the book, aware of how good she felt with the soft cushion beneath her and the sun hot on her skin, the mild breeze roaming her body. She turned the pages. Her arms, muscles still aching from all the canoeing over the past few days, grew heavy from holding the book high enough to shade her eyes.

Maybe go back up to the cabin and get a hat. Get a refill of coffee while you’re at it.

Wait till the end of the chapter.

She kept on reading.

“Baskets!”

The voice made her heart lurch. She lowered the book.

The rowboat was straight ahead, no more than sixty feet off the pier. It was loaded with baskets, some the size of clothes hampers, others that looked like picnic baskets, fishing creels, bread baskets. The young man in the center seat held the boat broadside, barely moving its oars.

“Selling them?” Leigh asked.

“Sure am.”

He wore a black hat with a high, rounded crown, a wide brim, and a red feather on each side of its headband. The feathers stuck up like horns.

“Handmade,” he said. “Can’t buy no better.”

Leigh sat up straight and took off her sunglasses to see him better. His face, shaded by the hat brim, was lean and handsome. He had a slight cleft on his chin. His bare torso was slim and muscled, his sleek skin glossy with sweat. He wore jeans so old and faded they were almost white. Their knees were in shreds.

“I can show ’em to you,” he said.

Leigh nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’ll beach her.”

She watched him turn the bow. He leaned far forward to start rowing. His back muscles rippled, gleaming. His jeans were low. She glanced at the shadowy crevice between his buttocks and wondered if he wore underpants.

Come off it, she warned herself.

Her heart continued to pound fast as she watched him bring the boat closer. Her mouth was parched. Standing up, she put her book and sunglasses on the table. She plucked the sweaty seat of her bikini away from her skin. Looked down at herself. Fine. Nothing showing that shouldn’t be.

With glances over his shoulder, the young man guided the boat around the end of the pier. He headed for the beach area where Leigh kept the canoe.

She forced her eyes away from him as she walked down the pier. She didn’t hurry. She strolled along, head up, back arched, keeping her belly muscles tight though she knew she was too slim to bother with that.

For godsake, she thought, calm down.

He’s gorgeous.

He’s a local.

So what?

So plenty. Maybe.

Stepping from the pier onto the sand, she watched him ship the oars. As the boat glided silently toward the beach, he hopped out. He grabbed a gunnel and waded, towing the boat beside him. He dragged it onto the sand. Let go. Straightened up. Turned to face Leigh.

She tried not to let it show. Her shock.

He had three nipples.

She looked quickly to his face and walked closer. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said. Her voice trembled a bit.

“Got real fine baskets,” he told her. “All shapes and sizes. Homemade.” Turning away, he lifted out one of the large ones. He set it down in front of her. It held several smaller baskets. Reaching inside, he took out two of them.

It wasn’t a nipple. Thank God. It was a red, heart-shaped tattoo above and slightly to the right of his left nipple. Scrawled inside the heart design, in small, flowing red letters, was the word Mom.

Leigh took a deep breath. “Did you make these baskets yourself?” she asked, feeling her shock subside.

“I just sell ’em,” he said. “Mom makes ’em.”

“They look very nice.”

He handed her one. “Can’t get something this fine in no store. My family’s been making ’em going back a hundred years. Maybe longer.”