A Home Of His Own. Judith Bowen

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      He grinned. He’d shocked her, after all, right out of her creamy smooth, Phoebe Longquist, algae-specialist self by stripping off his T-shirt and tossing it to her. She caught it by reflex. He kicked off his sneakers. He’d buy a new pair.

      “Sorry, Phoebe, Professor Paterson,” he said, stepping up to the railing. The professor had returned with two full glasses and was regarding the crumpled white material in Phoebe’s hands with an expression of horror that might ordinarily be reserved for, say, a rattlesnake. “Sorry, folks, can’t stay. I’ve got other plans.”

      And with that he dived smoothly into the North Saskatchewan River. When he surfaced, he laughed and waved at the boat. Dozens of screaming spectators leaned over the side and the boat’s steam whistle shrilled. He saw Phoebe in the background, waving back. He’d swear she was giggling.

      Lewis sputtered. It was tough to swim and laugh at the same time. Then, with steady, powerful strokes, he set off for shore.

      As he’d told her, he had other plans.