Cameo Lake (13 page)

Seventeen

G
race and Joanie had sent not one but four postcards from Tuscany, which I picked up at the Cameo Lake post office's general-delivery window. The three were to be read in order, and duly numbered. Like a comic book narrative, the cards spelled out Grace and Joanie's adventures.

“Eat” said the first. “Drink,” said the second. “Making lots of Merry,” said the third. A fourth, real message, joined the trio: “Having a wonderful time, glad you are where you are. We will regale you with lots of stories when we get back. In the meantime, we are thinking of you on your sabbatical and expecting to read something brilliant when we get back. Okay? Still enjoying your solitude? Love and kisses from the girls.”

Solitude. I could only imagine what Grace's reaction would be when she found out exactly what had become of my solitude. I climbed back into the car and pointed it toward the camp.

I hadn't gone out to the raft at noon. I told myself I was finally in the groove, but the truth was, I wasn't sure I could face Ben today. I was trying not to be troubled by the harsh criticisms of my morning's companions, but it wasn't easy. It was clear that at least some residents of the lakeside community held Ben responsible for his wife's accident. The overtone of domestic violence was hard to miss. But I knew
that whatever had happened, it could not have been deliberate. I just knew that. It occurred to me that maybe he'd rejected their sympathy in some way and that was what made them so bitter. No one likes their compassion turned away and Ben was so private, it might be construed as hostility.

I saw Ben climb aboard the raft. I was still in my suit, thoroughly dry by now. I sighed and bent back over my keyboard. When I looked back up, he was gone.

I wouldn't let the kids talk me into pizza for a second night. I'd bought pork chops and had a craving for a normal Tuesday-night dinner. Chops and rice and green beans. The Big G had a sale on frozen pies, so I bought a blueberry one.

“Can we invite Ben?”

“Lily, we can't do that every night. It's a little too much. Besides, I only bought three chops.”

“But we like him and he likes us.”

“Sweetie, just because you like someone doesn't mean you have to invite them to dinner every night. Too much of a good thing spoils it.”

“Tomorrow?”

“We'll see.”

“We need to bring our sleeping bags on Thursday.” Tim was very excited about the prospect of a camp-out. We'd done some camping as a family, and he'd slept out in the backyard any number of times, so this wasn't his first experience of sleeping outdoors. But it was the first time he'd do it without the option of climbing into Mom and Dad's double bag when the noises got loud or the air too cold.

Lily was more ho-hum about the idea. She'd made several girlfriends and viewed the camp-out as more of an outdoor sleep-over. I saw her slip several bottles of half-used nail polish in her backpack Wednesday morning, afraid of forgetting to bring them on Thursday, I supposed.

I was oddly uncomfortable with the idea of being alone in the
cabin. I was quite used to their being there with me at night now. We were in an established and happy routine. I toyed with the idea of inviting Ben over and then backed away from it. It seemed just a little too inappropriate without the chaperonage of the kids. It was possible that it might even be construed as more than a simple dinner invitation. It would be hard to be alone with Ben in a different context than the raft, the borders would somehow be widened and less clear. If we were in different circumstances, if we were equally unattached, it would be a natural outgrowth of what we had begun in neighborly acquaintance: a hike, a ride, a shared family meal. But I wasn't unattached, and neither was Ben.

By Wednesday morning the discomfort of Glenda and Carol's comments had dissipated, leaving only a slightly bad taste in my mouth. I got the kids off to camp and headed back without stopping anywhere. I had already taken my run in the half-hour before the kids had to be up. The early morning was my time alone on the lake, uncluttered by catty women and plastic beach toys.

This morning the only other person awake at six was Ben Turner, bent from the waist and tossing bread crumbs to the ducks. He was intermittently visible through the screen of undergrowth outlining the trail as I jogged along. Ben saw me as I broke through the brush and sprinted along the last twenty yards of lakefront. He stretched upright and waved. I waved back, slowed to my cooling out walk, and waved again as he continued to watch.

“Hey, Grayson, nice form!” Ben cupped his hands over his mouth.

“Thanks, Turner. Alert the Olympics for me!” I couldn't help but grin at the mischievous flattery.

“You look gold-medal-qualifying to me!” Ben waved again and headed indoors.

I continued walking; my shoes off, I put my feet in the cool morning-water. I was still grinning. A little flirting felt kind of nice right now. Beyond that, I was glad to have the equilibrium between Ben and me restored, even if the off-balance was only in my own head.

* * *

It had gotten hot again. More overheated than hungry at lunchtime, I changed into my suit and headed to the lakefront without stopping for lunch. My usual black maillot was smelling pretty nasty from repeated dunkings in the lake and being left to dry over the back of a chair. I found my other suit, the dark blue one I had bought when Sean and I went to Barbados a couple of years back. It was more abbreviated that my other one, thin strings held up the plunging front and the back scooped down to just above my derriere. I remembered Sean's wolf whistle at the first sight of it. I remembered him untying the strings. I had a moment of carnal anticipation of Sean's Friday-night arrival.

Ben made it to the raft at the same time I did. A cascade of lake water surged from his lanky body as he lifted himself up, bending back down to offer me a courtier's hand up. As he did, I was aware of the view he had down my suit front. I looked up to catch him, but his eyes were averted politely from stealing a peak. A rogue disappointment licked at me. I could use a little validation of my attractiveness right about now.

We flopped down on the raft deck, both on our backs, our arms folded beneath our heads. We were perpendicular, me east-west, Ben north-south. A passing airplane or bird would have seen us T-shaped, my head at Ben's waist.

“Had lunch yet?”

“No, I was too hot to eat.” I rolled over, cheek on arms.

Ben rolled over, “Do you like tuna?”

“Are you offering?”

“Yes. As long as you don't mind a messy environment.”

“Well, we can always eat outside.”

“Ha ha.”

We lay a few more minutes on the raft, just quietly enjoying the soft motion of it, lulling us both until Ben slapped the deck and proclaimed it lunchtime.

My body was superheated by the baking sun and the water as I
plunged into it was shockingly cold. We both charged for the opposite shore, not exactly racing, but it looked like a race nonetheless. Ben's height was the determiner over speed, though, and he climbed out ahead of me.

“If you want to rinse off, the outdoor shower's over there.” He pointed toward the left side of the cottage. “I'll get you a clean towel.”

A pull chain controlled the flow of the cold-water shower. A bottle-of Pert shampoo, slightly gooey with spiderwebs and the detritus of trees, sat on the wooden shelf. It didn't seem like a man's shampoo, and I realized it must be left over from Talia. I squirted a little in my hand and washed my hair, forgetting for a moment I would get it wet again when I went back.

Ben had given me a huge pink bathsheet, which I wrapped around my hips Polynesian style. It actually looked nice with the halter top of the bathing suit. Quite suitable for lunch with a friend. I combed my hair with my fingertips, crunching the waves into shape.

I followed a little path of bluestone flags to the back door. The screen door stuck a little and I banged it with my hand. Ben stood at the sink, looking at me with a faint smile on his face. “Whole wheat okay?”

“Fine.”

Through the archway I could see the main room of the small cottage. At its center a piano, a baby grand. I couldn't imagine how they had gotten it out here. Barge? Piled on the closed cover of the black instrument were tapes, a tape player, headphones, notebooks, a half-empty coffee mug, two kerosene lamps, and a cat.

“Don't go in there without a hard hat.”

I laughed and went in anyway. The piano faced the French doors which overlooked the lake, and, as I could see, Grace's house. Ben had the same view of me as I had of him.

Ben's winterized cottage was quite different from the other cabins. Sheetrocked walls and polished wood floors, fitted screens and the tschotkes of permanent living. An upholstered chair where another cat lounged stood in front of a cold fireplace.

“I always wanted a cat. My husband is allergic.” I squatted down
to scratch the orange tabby's chin. On a side table was a collection of framed photos. An elderly couple, she in blue, he in a dark suit, a formal portrait, perhaps a fiftieth wedding anniversary photo.

“Those are my parents. Last year. No. The year before.” Ben corrected himself as if it mattered.

A second five-by-seven photo was of a band, circa the late sixties. They all wore long hair, one in wire-rim glasses, all in faded T-shirts and tattered jeans.

“Is this you?” I pointed to a thin boy, his rich brown hair falling in waves around his face. A sweet face, but razor sharp.

“Yeah. We were going to be the next Rolling Stones. My first garage band. The Ultimate Indignities. I played with them in high school, all Grateful Dead and Creedence Clearwater Revival, but we broke up after graduation. We all went our separate ways, different schools. Different interests.”

“Where did you go?”

“To the New England Conservatory of Music.”

“What happened to the others?”

“Well, Cliff, the guy with the granny glasses, is a banker. John, the one with the guitar, is a pediatrician in Boston. Stewie, our bassist, died of lung cancer three years ago. Pretty much the national average for garage bands after high school.” Ben had picked up the slightly dusty photo to point out who was who. He dusted it off with his T-shirt and set it down.

“Sean says that you were a member of Interior Angles.” It seemed at last the right moment to ask. “Is he right?”

Ben nodded, a little shy smile lifting one corner of his mouth. “Yeah.”

“The only rock concert I ever went to was one of yours.”

“I wish I'd known. I'd have tossed you a piece of clothing.” He alluded to the band's signature behavior, peeling bits of clothing off and throwing them to the screaming fans.

“I'd still have it if you did. I loved your music. I still do.”

“We weren't bad. I think that if things had turned out differently, we might have evolved with the times and still been around. Like
Santana or Steely Dan. But, you know, the truth is I just wasn't cut out for it. I hated that whole lifestyle.”