The Lake - Richard Laymon

And maybe watching.

Her fingers trembled as she opened the buttons of her blouse. She pulled the damp blouse off, dropped it across her knees, and struggled out of her cutoff jeans.

She was wearing her white bikini, not the one-piece suit that Mom had bought her at Macy’s. The sun felt hot on her bare skin, but there was a mild breeze that felt very good.

She took a deep, shaky breath, bent forward, and slipped a squeeze bottle of suntan oil out of her rolled towel. She forced herself not to look toward shore as she spread the oil over her shoulders and arms, over her chest and the exposed tops of her breasts.

She felt her nipples harden, a low tremor, and moving, liquid heat.

Suddenly, she understood.

Those restless feelings. That sense of expectation.

What she was expecting was to meet a guy while she was out here alone in the canoe.

A guy on vacation, most likely staying at Carson’s Camp. Someone lean and tanned and handsome to spend her time with. Someone who would fall for her. The lake and woods were so romantic, especially at night. She needed a boyfriend, a lover, to make it all perfect.

So where are you? she wondered, looking toward shore.

How come you’re not swimming out to meet me?

Here I performed this nifty striptease for your benefit.

You’ve got to be there. Right? So where are you?

She saw only kids, a few older guys who no doubt had wives and kids in tow. She didn’t want an older guy. That would be scary. And wrong. She wanted someone her own age, or close to it.

Leigh picked up the paddle, dipped its blade into the water, and sent the canoe sliding forward.

Maybe he was watching her right now, wondering about her, wanting to meet her.

She couldn’t expect a total stranger to come swimming out like Tarzan or something. Though that, she supposed, was exactly the type of adventure she’d been anticipating all along, even if she hadn’t realized it until now.

More likely, he would arrange an “accidental” meeting. Position himself out here in a boat, tomorrow, pretending to fish while he waited for her to come along.

Dream on, she thought. This is Boondocks U.S.A., and the chances of running into Frankie Avalon out here are about zip.

Frankie Avalon isn’t such a…Troy Donohue, he’d be more like it. Since you’re dreaming, dream big.

She smiled and shook her head at the irony of it. Hey Mom, hey Dad, get a load of your reactionary kid paddling around a lake with visions of Troy Donohue dancing in her head.

Nearing the southern shore, she turned the canoe around and started back. How come I’ve suddenly got boys on the brain? she wondered. It wasn’t that way at all, back in Marin. She hadn’t gone regularly with a guy since Steve when she was a sophomore, and that hadn’t been any great romance.

She would still be a virgin if it weren’t for that time she got high with Larry Bills last November. They shared a joint in his station wagon after leaving the Charles Van Damm. She hardly even liked Larry Bills. But that night, she was feeling lonely and horny, and the grass made her very horny, and it just happened. It wasn’t too bad, either. But she’d made up her mind, after that, not to get it on with anyone unless she really liked him. A lot. She found plenty of guys she liked, and scads of them who obviously wanted to make it with her, some calling her uptight when she refused, but she’d found no one special enough. Which had suited her fine. The need just wasn’t there.

So why is it here? she wondered. How come I’m suddenly hot and bothered, and scouting the shores for a handsome prince?

The fresh air. The heat. The woods. The lake. The balmy nights. The moonlight on the water. It’s this place. Must be.

I’d better get myself under control, is what I’d better do.

Blinking sweat out of her eyes, she stopped paddling. As the canoe glided along, turning slowly with the current, she scooped up water with her hands and splashed her face. It felt icy on her heated skin. She flung water onto her shoulders, squirming as it streamed down her back and chest.

She was across from Carson’s Camp. Of course.

Anybody watching?

Where are you, pal?

She arched her back, stretched her tightening muscles, then lifted the paddle and continued along her way.

She didn’t turn in at Mike and Jenny’s place. Instead, she continued northward past the neighboring homes. A woman in a red halter waved at her from a pier. She waved back. A motorboat with a couple of middle-aged fishermen crossed her path. She waved at them, too, and wished she had her blouse on. Her canoe bobbed as the wake washed beneath it.

After passing the boathouse that marked the end of the populated western shore, she did put on her blouse. With a feeling of disappointment, she headed home.

That evening, after supper, she took a walk along the dirt road behind the cabin. It led through the woods along the rear of Carson’s Camp. A family with three small kids was having a barbecue beside one of the cabins. The smoke and grilling hamburgers smelled wonderful. Leigh walked by, smiling at the wife, who looked up from setting a picnic table.

She felt good, but a little jittery. She had bathed and shampooed her hair before supper. She wore the orange blouse from Macy’s and her legs looked sleek and tawny between the white of her new shorts and the white of her socks. Her skin glowed with the heat of a mild sunburn.

She had considered using makeup, but her reflection in the bathroom mirror had convinced her to leave it alone. A couple of dabs of cologne, and she’d been ready.

Ready for her big night out.

Ready to venture to the source.

If this fails, she thought as she strolled past another cabin, I’m out of luck. Well, maybe not. Most people probably only spent a week or two at Carson’s Camp before heading home. Then new vacationers would arrive. She could take some consolation in the steady turnover.

Leaving the dirt road, she took a footpath toward the lodge. The trees opened up. She gazed out at the lake. Though she was in shadow, the early-evening sun still fell on the water, and trees on the nearest island looked dusted with gold. A few boats were out, people fishing in the calm. The peaceful beauty of it all made Leigh stop. She stood there, saddened, wanting somehow to be part of it, not just a spectator.

Well, she thought, go for it.

She turned away, walked the final distance to the lodge, and opened one of its heavy doors. The lobby was deserted except for a lone boy in a wicker chair. He glanced at Leigh, then returned his gaze to the television. She followed the sounds of conversation and clinking silverware to the dining-room entryway.

Only about half the tables were occupied, mostly those near the windows, the ones with the best view of the lake. Her eyes wandered from group to group, starting with the closest table and moving down the room until she had seen everyone.

Maybe she’d missed him.

She had missed no one.

So damn much for summer romance.

Lower lip clamped between her teeth, she turned away and hurried outside.

It was too much to hope for. She was being silly.

But it hurt.

Hell, who wants to get involved anyway? If you did meet a guy, it’d all be over in about three weeks and you’d probably never see him again. Who needs that?

The next day, she met Charlie.

THIRTEEN

Quiet knocking aroused Leigh from her sleep. She raised her head as Jenny called through the door. “Time to rise and shine, if you want to go after the big ones.”

“I don’t know,” Leigh told her. “I didn’t sleep very well.”

“That’s fine if you’d rather catch some extra z’s. If you change your mind, though, we won’t be leaving for fifteen or twenty minutes. Either way’s fine.”

“Thanks,” she said, and lowered her face into the pillow.

She felt bad about lying to Jenny. She had slept well. She just didn’t want to go out with them. Not this morning. She didn’t want to do anything.

I should go along, she thought. What’s wrong with me? It’ll be great out on the boat. I don’t really want to stay behind. Once they’ve gone, I’ll probably wish I was with them.

You’d better get a move on, then.

What for? I’m not going.

She rolled onto her back. The window was open, the gauzy curtains billowing inward and flapping. The breeze brought a mild scent that reminded her of Christmas trees. From the feel of it, she guessed the sun hadn’t been out for long. Drawing the sheet aside, she felt it stir over her nightgown and bare skin.

She heard quiet voices beyond her door. Through the open window came birdsongs, the soft sounds of leaves rustling in the breeze, the sputtery hum of a motorboat like a power lawn mower far away. After a while, she heard the screen door of the porch slap shut. Climbing from the bed, she stepped to the window. Mike and Jenny, loaded with fishing gear, were heading down the wooded slope. She watched them walk onto the pier. Mike stepped into the Cris Craft and set down his gear. Jenny handed her rod and tackle box to him, then untied the mooring lines while Mike started the twin engines. She hopped aboard. Mike, standing in the cockpit, backed the boat around the arm of the L-shaped pier. The pitch of the engines rose. The bow tipped upward and the boat headed out, churning a frothy wake.

Leigh stood at the window long after the boat was out of sight. She wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She should have gone with them.

Her eyes lingered on the lounge chairs and table at the end of the pier. A couple of evenings, she had sat out there with Mike and Jenny after supper. It was pleasant then. It would be nice now, while the sun was still low.

At the bureau, she took off her nightgown and opened the drawer where she kept her white bikini. In a corner of the drawer was her necklace, the leather thong with its sea-thing ornament. Her good-luck necklace.

Leigh could use some good luck.

She knotted the rawhide behind her neck. The bonelike ornament felt smooth and cool between her breasts. She hadn’t worn it since the day of her arrival.

The man at Jody’s.

So what makes you think it’s a good-luck charm?

The jet didn’t crash, did it?

The guy didn’t grab me.

Don’t start thinking about him.

His overalls sticking out, his hand inside.

Mary Jo. Maybe he closed up as soon as we left, and…No. She’s only a kid, probably his daughter. In spite of what Mike said.

Stop this.

She put on her bikini.

The girl had walked right in. She must have seen what that guy was doing.

Leigh’s stomach hurt. “There is a house—in New Orleans,” she started to sing. She picked up her sunglasses and a paperback and left the room, still singing to block out the thoughts.

She smelled coffee. She spent a few minutes in the bathroom. With her hair in a ponytail, she pulled her beach towel down from its rod, rolled her suntan oil inside, and went into the kitchen. She poured herself a mug of coffee.

Then she walked down the slope to the pier.

The boat was out of sight, either hidden from view by an island or in one of the many coves around the borders of the lake. The painted slats of the pier felt cool under her bare feet. They creaked as she walked out. The warm breeze felt wonderful on her skin. She set her coffee mug, book, and suntan oil on the wicker table, then spread her towel over one of the lounge chairs.

Turning, she scanned the shore. To the right, three piers up, someone was swimming with slow, balletlike strokes. It had to be a woman. Far beyond the swimmer, a motorboat was chugging out, trailed by wisps of bluish smoke. She guessed that the two men were the same who had passed her yesterday afternoon. To the left, a kid was sitting at the end of the nearest pier, fishing with a cane pole. Beyond him, at Carson’s Camp, a family was loading one of the dozen motorboats available to the guests.

At the pier’s end, a boy and girl, side by side, dove at the same instant. Leigh heard their splashes. They raced out to the diving raft that floated on metal drums about thirty yards beyond the pier. Leigh waited to see who won. The girl did. “That-a-way,” she whispered.

Then she straddled the lounge chair, sat down, and leaned back. Drinking coffee in this position, she realized, would be a neat trick. So she sat up straight and folded her legs. She picked up the mug. Steam still drifted off the coffee. The breeze caught it and twisted it away. She took a sip. The coffee tasted rich and good.

The swimming woman was far out and turning back toward shore. The motorboat with the two fishermen was moving past the point of the nearest island. Far off, near the northern shore, was a rowboat—someone getting his or her morning exercise. Leigh couldn’t tell, at this distance, whether the rower was male or female.

Nearby, a motor sputtered to life. She didn’t bother turning to look. It had to be from the boat of the family at Carson’s Camp.

She took another drink, set the mug on the table, and reached for the plastic bottle of suntan oil. Before touching it, however, she stopped. The stuff was messy. It would cling to her hands no matter how hard she might try rubbing it off, and end up on the pages of her book. So she left the oil alone and picked up the paperback.

It was Boys and Girls Together, a book she’d bought at the City Lights. William Goldman was the author. She’d bought two books by him that day, because she remembered how she’d loved his first one, The Temple of Gold.

Boys and girls together.

Don’t you wish.

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.