A snapping turtle broke the surface a few feet away, then ducked back under the water with barely a ripple.
Today, the air was soft, the sky gray and gentle. It had been chilly at first, but now that we’d been at it a while, we were warmer. The lake was spring-fed and so clear I could see to the bottom, which was lined with the rocks that gave the lake its name. Surrounding us was a nearly unbroken wall of green—pines and hemlocks, maples and oaks. Overnight, the leaves would start to turn … the few tinges of yellow and red that had been flirting with us since August would suddenly engulf the foliage in fiery, heart-stopping color that would light up our countryside, a shock of beauty so intense it dazzled the eyes and made you wonder how you’d last another year without it.
“So how are your parents?” Annie asked.
“Um … hmm,” I said, taking yet another opportunity to stop paddling and turn to talk to my friend. “How to answer that. Let’s see. The Tour of Whores made its second stop, apparently. I wasn’t there this time—thank you, Jesus—but according to Hester, this particular home wrecker was blind, and when Mom saw the white cane and guide dog, she just lost heart. Left the table and had Dad buy the woman a drink.”
“Figured she’d been punished enough? God struck her blind, that sort of thing?” Annie asked.
“Well, apparently she’s always been blind,” I said. “Which makes me wonder a little.”
“About what?”
“Well, the first woman was a widow. This one was blind. What’s the next one gonna be? A refugee from a war-torn country? Maybe my dad was—”
“Don’t say it,” Annie warned.
“Say what? How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“Because we’ve been friends for a thousand years, and you’re always Polly Sunshine when it comes to people—”
“A positive quality, some would say,” I interrupted.
“—especially when it comes to men, and especially, especially when it comes to your father, and you were about to say something along the lines of ‘My dad was performing a public service,’ am I right?”
“No! I’m well aware that he broke my mother’s heart. But, Annie, you have to admit …”
“I should slap you.”
“You and Michelle Obama,” I muttered, then, in a normal voice, said, “The thing is, Mom’s just torturing him. She’s like a shark who just … I don’t know … just ate a walrus, sees a baby seal and eats that, too. Not because she’s hungry … just because she can.”
“She has a right to be mad, Callie.”
“Twenty-two years of being mad?”
“I don’t know,” Annie said, huffing away behind me. “If Jack even thought of cheating on me, I’d slice him up good.”
I grinned. “I love when you talk all tough like that, you gangsta, you.”
“Get paddling,” she retorted. “Or I’ll slice you up, too.”
I turned back around and obeyed. A thumb-size mosquito whined near my face, taunting me before coming in for the pint or so of blood it would take. The water sluiced gently against the bow of my kayak. Our speed was pretty good … certainly much better than when Bowie and I went out, since the stubborn beast refused to help.
“Oh, look!” Annie said, nudging me with her paddle. “A man!” She pointed into the distance. Sure enough, a human figure was visible on a dock about a hundred yards away.
“Let’s kidnap him and force him to marry me,” I suggested.
“Okay!” Annie laughed. “Ooh. I think he’s drawing! That’s so hot, don’t you think?”
“Only if I’m naked and wearing the Heart of the Ocean and Jack Dawson is intently sketching me mere hours before his hypothermic death in the North Atlantic,” I said with a happy sigh.
“You’ve got to stop watching those sappy movies.”
“I will not! And don’t get sanctimonious on me, young lady! Didn’t your own husband use the phrase You complete me during his marriage proposal? Hmm?”
“I still regret telling you that,” she murmured. “Let’s go check him out.”
As we drew near, we could see the figure more clearly. It was indeed a man. And not just any man. It was Ian, sitting cross-legged on an old wooden dock, Angie at his side. And yes, he was drawing, a sketchpad on his lap. He looked up as we approached.
“Hi!” Annie chirped.
“Hi, Ian,” I seconded.
“Hello.” He watched as we pulled up to the dock, our intentions clear—to interrupt his lovely morning.
“Ian, this is my friend, Annie Doyle. Annie, the new vet, Ian McFarland.”
“Hi there,” she said, making me blush furiously, because Annie had this voice, you know? The voice she used when a particularly good meal was served … that oh, God, yes, yes, come to me, fettuccine Alfredo type of voice. “It’s … really nice to meet you.” I considered smacking her with my paddle.
“Are you drawing, Ian?” I asked.
Ian glanced down at his pad, the pencil that he held in his hand, then back at me. Wow. Those are some powers of deduction. “Yes.” Angie’s tail wagged.
“Can we dock here for a sec? I could really use a good stretch,” Annie said, subtle as a charging wildebeest.
Ian hesitated a second. “Sure.”
We paddled up to the dock. Ian came down to steady the kayak as we twisted and lunged our way out.
“So!” Annie said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Do you live around here, Ian?”
“Yes. Over there.”
He pointed to the woods. A little path twisted through the pines and over the granite rocks. I could make out a clearing, but not a house. “Is this your dock?” Annie asked. It would probably be easier if she just asked for a financial statement. Knowing her, that would be next.
“Yes. It’s mine.” Ian’s eyes flicked over to me.
“So Callie tells me she’s doing a little work for you, Ian,” Annie said, nodding approvingly. “She’s the best. So talented. You’re very lucky to have her. She’s great.”
“That’s enough, Annie,” I said. “I didn’t know you drew, Ian.” I could’ve put that on the Web site. Hobbies include painting, drawing and being too polite to get rid of intrusive visitors. “That painting in your office … your work?”
He looked at me, mildly surprised that I guessed. “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“I love that picture,” I said.
