Return to Willow Lake. Сьюзен Виггс

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СКАЧАТЬ have a point. What is it with guys and boats?”

      “There are some things that cannot be resisted.” He slipped off his bow tie and opened the collar of his tuxedo shirt, his Adam’s apple rippling as he sighed with relief.

      Good Lord, had he been working out? She didn’t ask, because everyone knew that was just code for “I think you’re hot.”

      And she didn’t. How could she? He was Zach—as familiar as a lifelong friend, yet suddenly…exotic.

      “I shouldn’t have done those Jell-O shots,” she murmured. Pulling her attention elsewhere, she stood on the dock and looked out at the moon-silvered water. The sight of the lake never failed to ignite a rush of memories. She had been here before, many times through the years.

      During her junior high and high school years, when Camp Kioga had been closed down, she and Zach used to sneak onto the premises with their friends on hot summer days, swimming and reliving the glory days of the resort, which dated back to the 1920s. And every once in a while, the two of them would slip into the boathouse and pretend to be smugglers or pirates or stuntmen in the circus. Sometimes, even as youngsters, they would fall so deep into the fantasy that they’d lose track of time. She remembered talking with him for hours, seemingly about nothing, but managing to encompass everything important. When she was with Zach, it never felt strange that she didn’t have a dad, or that she was biracial, or that her mom had to work all the time to make ends meet. When she was with Zach, she just felt…like herself. Maybe that was why their friendship felt so sturdy, even when they almost never saw each other.

      An owl hooted from a secret place in the darkness, startling Sonnet from her thoughts. “It’s getting late,” she said softly. “I’m leaving.”

      He gently closed his hand around her wrist. “Come with me.”

      A shiver coursed through her, and she didn’t resist when he drew her close, slipping his arm around her waist and edging her toward the boat moored at the end of the dock. It was a vintage Chris-Craft runabout, its wooden hull and brass fittings polished to a sheen so bright it seemed to glow in the moonlight. The old boat had been used in the wedding, mostly for a photo shoot but also, and most romantically, to transport the bride and groom to the floatplane dock, where they’d been whisked away to their honeymoon at Mohonk Mountain House. A Just Married sign was tied to the stern.

      “Hang on to me,” Zach whispered. “I don’t want you falling in.”

      “I won’t fall—whoa.” She clung to him as the boat listed beneath her weight. The open cabin smelled of the lake, and the flowers that had been used to decorate it, and the fresh scent made her dizzy. The second wave of champagne was kicking in.

      “Take my jacket,” he said, wrapping it around her shoulders. “Chilly tonight.”

      She took a seat in the cockpit, feeling the peculiar intimacy of his body heat lingering in the folds of the jacket. She reveled in the slickness of the satin lining, which smelled faintly of men’s cologne and sweat. Oh boy, she thought.

      There was an open bottle of champagne in the cubby by her knees, so she grabbed it and took a long, thirsty swig. Why not? she thought. Her official duties for the wedding were done, and it was time to relax.

      Zach untied the boat and shoved off. He turned on the running lights and motor, handling the Chris-Craft with expert smoothness. He’d always been good with his hands, whether handling a vintage motorboat or a complicated video camera. As they motored across the placid water toward the rustic wooden boathouse, Sonnet admitted to herself that although she loved living in New York City, there were things she missed about the remote Catskills area where she’d grown up—the moon on the water, the fresh feeling of the wind in her face, the quiet and the darkness of the wilderness, the familiarity of a friend who knew her so well they didn’t really have to talk.

      She had another drink of champagne, feeling a keen exuberance as she watched loose flower petals fluttering through the night air, into the wake of the boat.

      She offered the bottle to Zach.

      “No thanks,” he said. “Not until I moor the boat.”

      She sat back and enjoyed the short crossing to the boathouse, which was bathed in the soft golden glow of lights along the dock.

      Over the buzz of the engine, he pointed out the constellations. “See that group up there? It’s called Coma Berenices—Berenice’s hair. It was named for an Egyptian queen who cut off all her hair in exchange for some goddess to keep her husband safe in battle. The goddess liked the hair so much, she took it to the heavens and turned it into a cluster of stars.”

      “Talk about a good hair day.” She was beyond pleasantly tipsy now. “I’d never cut off my hair. Took me years to get it this long.”

      “Not even to keep your husband safe in battle?”

      “I don’t have a husband. So I’ll be keeping my fabled locks, thank you very much. Berenice’s hair. I swear, your mind is a lint trap for stuff like this. Where do you learn it?”

      “The internet. Yeah, I like geeking out over trivia on the internet, so sue me.”

      “I’m not going to sue you. Whatever floats your boat, ha ha.”

      “You can find out anything online. Ever watch that video of the Naga fireballs?”

      “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

      “Too busy overachieving?”

      “Since when is that a crime?”

      “Never said it was.” Zach guided the boat inside, cutting the engine to let it nudge its way into the moorage, gently bumping against the rubber fenders.

      “There,” he said, taking the champagne from her, “I’ve done my good deed for the day. Here’s looking at you, kid.”

      “Too dark in here to see,” she pointed out. “Oh, right. That’s a movie reference. I forgot, you’re a walking movie encyclopedia.”

      “And you’re movie illiterate.”

      “No wonder we bicker all the time. We have nothing in common.”

      He handed back the bottle and rummaged around the console of the cockpit. Then a match flared and he lit a couple of votive candles left over from the photo shoot. Taking the bottle again, he said, “Now here’s looking at you.”

      She looked right back at him, unsettled by feelings she didn’t understand, feelings that had nothing to do with the amount of champagne she’d consumed. Like Willow Lake, and the town of Avalon itself, he was both deeply familiar and, at the moment, unaccountably strange. There had been a time, many times, when they had truly been best friends, but after high school, their lives had diverged. These days, they saw each other infrequently and when they did, their visits were rushed, or they were busy, or one of them had a train to catch, or work, or…

      Not tonight, though. Tonight, neither of them had anywhere they had to be, except right here in the moment.

      She fiddled with a dial on the boat’s dashboard. “Is there a radio?”

      “It’s a stereo.” Leaning forward, he hit a switch. Sonnet recognized an old tune from СКАЧАТЬ