Skinny Dipping (37 page)

August

Mignonette Charbonneau Olson was immersed in blue: the cobalt of evening sky up above, the silky indigo of the water beneath, the skeletal navy of the burnt trees abruptly turning to the blue-green smudges of darkness of living trees where the fire had been stopped. It was a perfect evening: the air warm, the bright chirrup of peepers a counterpoint to the sonorous lap of water against her float.

Lazily, Mimi studied the beach, where a huge bonfire was in the process of burning itself out. Scrawny backlit silhouettes, mostly adolescent Olson males, capered and gibbered about, joined by three similarly leaping canine shapes. The kids darted in and out of the light, poking the fire with sticks, and then jumping back when showers of embers erupted. The dogs barked wildly, except for the smallest one, who was making the rounds of the nearby tents, scavenging for s’mores.

Behind the bonfire glowed a cluster of tents and pop-up trailers, lit from within by Coleman lanterns and bobbing flashlights. At the near end of the beach, where the Big House had once stood, a battered old Aerodyne glinted silver in the moonlight, and next to it, a semi-new RV, dark except for the flicker of the television inside.

The only things left of Chez Ducky were the low log sauna squatting at the water’s edge and the rusted old schoolyard slide, looking somehow smug to Mimi, as if it had escaped the fire by fleeing into the water. Good for it.

That was the beauty of Chez Ducky; it changed, adapted. Time went forward and it moved with it. It survived.

As of now, there were no plans to rebuild Chez Ducky or any of the cabins, all of which had been lost in the fire. Hell, thought Mimi with a smile, there was no insurance money to rebuild anyway. Even if they’d wanted to, there was some doubt whether they could. The heirs to Ardis’s estate had deeded the Chez Ducky property over to something called the Minnesota Land Trust in a conservation easement. It was a relatively new concept, the idea being that even though the land remained the Olsons’, there could be no building or development of the property, thus ensuring that the native species and plant life and geographic features remained natural. All things considered, it was as close to a perfect arrangement as possible, and the financial benefits were pretty nice, too.

Of course, the next generation of Olsons could decide to just give the property outright to the trust or even the state. Frank and Carl were already displaying frightening tendencies toward having social consciences.

Mimi’s gaze traveled the beach to Prescott’s place.

He
had
rebuilt.

It wasn’t the mega-monstrosity of his former digs, but Prescott’s fascination with older architecture hadn’t died in the fire. This was a replica Scandinavian farmhouse, a simple rectangular log construction with a steeply pitched gable roof, symmetrical lines of nine-paned, leaded glass windows across the back and side facades, a plain front, and a shed. After the fire, Prescott had approached the Sbodas and offered to buy their lot. He’d been more than generous.

Then he’d gone after the lot on the Sbodas’ other side.

Mimi had the idea he was systematically planning on buying up everything he could. She had no illusions that he’d end up owning the whole lake, but still she missed no opportunity to say, “Thatta boy!” It wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford it. If what he assumed was true, and Mimi saw no reason to doubt him, he’d eventually be tripling or quadrupling his wealth with the software he’d developed in the process of helping her with her digital album. She was still a little surprised to find herself his partner. And not—possibly to Prescott’s regret—a silent partner, either. She had ideas.

Besides, Prescott needed a partner, so he’d have time to devote to Jessica and their mutual online stalking. Jess and Prescott hadn’t met yet. But Mimi saw the way things were heading. She wondered what Jess looked like…

Thoughtfully, she lowered one leg farther into the water and sent the inner tube on which she floated slowly spinning. Her feet drifted through wild celery and the soft, silky mass of algae floating just beneath Fowl Lake’s surface and collided with another set of legs.

“Oops,” she said. “Sorry, Mom.”

Solange, whose butt had been dipping lower and lower in her own inner tube as she’d drifted to sleep, jerked back to wakefulness. “Huh?” She lifted her head and looked around.

Mimi followed her gaze. They’d drifted some distance from the raft, where Birgie, Johanna, Vida, and Naomi were lounging, having fallen silent some minutes ago as they scanned the night sky for the aurora borealis. They were also, Mimi suspected, waiting for Solange to leave so they could go skinny-dipping. They weren’t quite comfortable enough to ask her to join them yet, but before Labor Day, Mimi expected Solange would be leading the cannonballs off the raft. They had time.

“For heaven’s sake, Mignonette. Why didn’t you wake me? It’s night,” Solange said.

“So?”

Solange made an exasperated sound. “I need to read Baby Solie her bedtime story. I hope Sarah hasn’t put her to sleep yet.”

“She’s only five months old, Mom.”

“Genius does not occur spontaneously, Mignonette. It must be teased from hiding.”

“Or pried,” Mimi muttered; then, “But as the howls of Baby Fury have not yet echoed along the lakeshore, I think it’s safe to assume she’s still up.”

Solange laughed. “True.” She rolled off the inner tube, her top-heavy body in its shiny black Lycra skin reminding Mimi of a harp seal vacating an iceberg.

“Sarah told me she’s decided to finish her doctorate and start another,” Mimi said. “And she and Solie are going to live with you and Tom.”

“That’s right,” Solange said calmly, head bobbing above the water.

“That’ll be a lot of work.”

Even in the moonlight, Mimi could see Solange’s superior look. “Mignonette. I have raised three children. It’s what I do. I raise geniuses. I shall have plenty of help, too. Tom and Mary and all those Olsons. Plus there’s you and Prescott and Joe to help raise her, too.”

Mimi had even less to argue with this. She
liked
being Aunt Mimi. So far. And when she didn’t like it, which simple common sense told her would be often because Baby Solie had already demonstrated the bullheaded Charbonneau personality, she’d focus on the good and anticipate the even better. Since she was stuck in the relationship for the duration, any other course would be stupid.

“You think Sarah will let me have Solie up here part of the summer?” Mimi asked.

“Us,”
Solange said flatly. “I’ll have to come in order to mitigate any untoward influences. I made a mistake in not coming up here after your father died and spending the summers here along with you. I thought it only fair that I let John’s family have you to themselves. Just look at how long it has taken to undo that. And the Olsons look eager to start the same process with little Solange.”

Mimi couldn’t argue, especially about the Olsons’ involvement. Since they’d been there for the birth, they’d declared squatters’ rights to her. That Solie was a baby girl, and no Olson had seen a baby girl since Mimi had held that rank, made her especially popular.

“Where is Joe?” Solange asked. “I thought you said he’d be here.”

“He will,” Mimi said, and now she really did feel stupid, because just the thought of Joe made her smile. “He’s finishing up some work in the cities and driving up in the morning.”

“I have to admit, Mignonette,” Solange said, “when I realized you had a relationship with Joe Tierney, I was concerned. He has an extremely dominant personality. And far too charming.”

“You forgot movie-star handsome,” Mimi added happily.

“That, too. I thought possibly he would influence you too greatly, remake you closer to his own image.”

“You mean like I’d be ironing my bathing suit?”

“Exactly,” Solange declared. “But I’m glad to see you have held your own. In your own environs, you’re still you.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome, Mignonette.” Solange began slowly backstroking away.

“Wait!”

Solange stopped.

“About Solie.”

“Yes?”

“I brought
Goodnight Moon
with me. It’s in the RV.”

There was a short pause while Mimi held her breath, then she heard Solange laughing, a bell choir of honest amusement. Poor Solie. The
Iliad
it looked to be.

“Oh, Mimi,” Solange said, still chuckling. “We read that last week. We’re reading
Moo, Bah, La La La
tonight.”

Well. Things do change.

Mimi watched Solange swim halfway to the shore before slipping off the inner tube and striking out for the raft, where Naomi was already peeling off her suit.

Dear Readers,

Since I was a kid I’ve been spending the odd week at northern Minnesota resorts and cabins and cottages. But the places I knew and know are disappearing, two-room cottages with the tiny screened-in porches perched on an outcrop of rocky ground, damp beach towels flying like pendants from clotheslines. On too many lakes, they are being replaced by five-thousand-square-foot houses with manicured lawns dumping fertilizer into once-clear lakes. The insistent roar of ATVs, wave runners, and stereo speakers has drowned out the subtler melodies of birdsong and wind and water. The night sky is no longer black and fathomless, but murky with yard lights. It’s not the wilderness in the wilderness anymore. We haven’t left the suburbs; we’ve taken them with us, and we have to start tallying up the price we are asking others to pay so we can have our boats and houses and lawns and toys. We have to be accountable for the impact we have on the lives of others. Not only human lives, but all life.

We are so enormously fortunate to have lakes and forests and silence and darkness. I want my children and grandchildren to be just as fortunate. As I am sure you do, too.

Finally, before I was married, I spent a summer weekend at a lake with my husband’s extended family, the McKinleys. That lake provided a blueprint for Chez Ducky. In the years since, the extended family has kept extending and along with it the McKinleys’ decidedly catholic notion of what constitutes a family, and with it the generosity of spirit that invests that singular splotch of shoreline. Long may it reign.

My best,

Connie Brockway