Summer People (5 page)

“I’ll let you get back to your unpacking. I’ve got to meet someone for tennis. Can we get together tomorrow?”

“How about dinner?”

“Is this a date?” she asked in a playful tone.

“Date—I don’t know how to date. Let’s just have dinner.”

“You’re on,” she laughed. “Oh, almost forgot. Ray Elkins came by a few days ago. He was looking for my mother. He asked if I knew when you were going to get here. You won’t recognize your old friend.”

“He was here this morning. He caught me sleeping in.”

“Did you notice the ‘new’ Ray?”

“I was surprised to see that he has stopped smoking.”

“He’s working hard at developing a new image. Not only has he stopped smoking, he shaves daily, wears a tie most of the time, and sometimes his uniform is pressed. And he’s even getting his patrol car washed. All the things that he took pleasure in shedding when he left his college job and moved back up here.”

“Why the sudden change?”

“He’s got some real competition in the election this time. He wants me to be his media advisor for the campaign.” She looked at her watch. “I’m going to be late. I’ll tell you more about it when I see you tomorrow. I’ll pick you up. When should I come by?”

“Is six okay?”

“That will be wonderful. See you then.”

Marc watched her go. He leaned back against an overstuffed couch and drank the last swallow of warm beer from the bottle. He liked the old summer house, the smell of the forest coming in through the open windows, the sound of the wind moving in the trees, the sound of the waves on the beach, the smell of sun tan oil on a pretty woman—the memory of an old summer feeling came back briefly.

Lisa gave Marc a teasing smile. “Do you want me to drop you off in front of the restaurant?”

“No, I think that I can hobble in from the parking lot. But I am thankful that you drove, good eyesight, solid reflexes and all. You kids have it all over us old guys. Doubt if we’d have made it otherwise.”

“You’re just not used to being picked up for a date.” “I can’t imagine being on a date, picked-up or otherwise. And this isn’t a date,” grumbled Marc as he tried to mask his obvious enjoyment of their sparring.

“If it isn’t a date, what is it?”

“Two summer people—old family friends—from different generations going out to dinner.” He glanced at her quickly. “What would your mother say if she thought we were going out on a date?”

“Well,” said Lisa. “First, she would tell me what a cute little boy you were. Then she would tell me to be careful with recently divorced men because they don’t know where they are for a year or two. And then she’d wish me good luck. She is a real romantic.”

“Doesn’t sound like her.”

“Doesn’t it?” Lisa looked across at him with a mischievous grin. “Well, she called this morning. That’s what she said when I told her we were going to dinner. She sends her love.” She reached for the door handle and paused. “Let’s walk a few minutes before we go in,” she said as she slid out of the car.

“Should you put the top up?”

“No, it’s not supposed to rain until late tonight.”

They walked to the pier, and out on the breakwater, an armlike structure of huge, limestone boulders that reached into the lake to protect the harbor. They stood and looked out onto the lake. The sun was still high on the horizon; its path reflected in the waves. Its glare made them squint as they looked west to the Manitou Islands. Below the sun they could see the outlines of darkgray thunderheads moving across the water from the Wisconsin shore. They turned and looked toward the village. Boats jammed the harbor, every slip in the marina was filled, and several large boats were tied up in the deep channel along the sea wall.

“I can’t believe how much this place has changed,” said Marc. “When I was a kid this was a real fishing village with five or six trawlers anchored in the river, smoke houses, nets on drying racks. The sea wall only protected the opening of the river. There wasn’t a marina, just a ramp where you could launch a boat. And there was an old World War II landing craft you could take if you wanted to go out to the islands. Now look at the place.”

Lisa offered, “The buildings are still picturesque, and from out here they don’t look too different. And they do look better than your average boutiques and fudge shops.”

“But that was real. This is all so damn phony: overpriced and sentimental watercolors and oils with nautical themes, Indian jewelry made in Taiwan, beaded belts from Hong Kong, even the Mexican jumping beans are probably from Paraguay, or Peru.”

“You’re really doing your best to sound like an old curmudgeon. Enough of this talk about what was. I’m hungry, and I get cranky when I’m not fed on time.” She took Marc’s arm and led him back off the sea wall, across the pier, and past the shops to the restaurant. Although he protested a bit in the process, he was enjoying the playful way she was pulling him along. Their table, as Marc had specified when he made the reservation, was next to a large window overlooking the harbor. A waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne as soon as they were seated. The waiter showed Marc the label, opened the bottle, and poured a partial glass for his approval. The waiter then filled both their glasses.

After he left the table, Lisa lifted the bottle from the ice. “How did you know?”

“Your mother told me—I guess I forgot to tell you. She called this morning. Must’ve called me after she called you. She’s worried about you being up here all alone. Asked if I’d look in on you occasionally.”

“And she just happened to mention which brand of champagne I prefer?”

“As a matter of fact, she said you told her we were going to dinner this evening, and I asked what you liked to drink…”

“Did you talk very long?” she interrupted.

“We had a lot of catching up to do, and she was in a talkative mood. I think she’s a bit homesick.”

“Yes,” said Lisa, “I sensed the same thing. This place is special. It’s hard not to be here in the summer.”

Marc lifted his glass and said, “Let’s hope our memories of this summer are as rich as those that brought us back.”

Lisa brought her glass to his. Their eyes met. Marc looked a bit embarrassed. He launched into a conversation. “Ray called this afternoon. He was intent on reaching you and got no answer at your place.”

“He caught up with me just before I left to pick you up,” said Lisa. “He wants me to watch his interviews on the news. He thinks that with my background in advertising and public relations I can help him make better use of the media, especially now with this murder investigation getting him some TV exposure.”

“I’ve seen many strange things in my life, but I never thought I would see someone helping package Ray. I can’t imagine he would have trouble winning an election.”

“Well, it is the first time he has really been challenged, and by one of his former deputies—someone he fired for incompetence. The guy’s name is Hammer, Todd Hammer. He’s running a tough campaign and getting a lot of support from the gun lobby because Ray’s been leading a group of police organizations that are trying to get the legislature to ban the sale of assault rifles.”

“But Ray has been sheriff for years, seems like he knows most of the natives and lots of the summer people.”

“I don’t think there’s a chance that he will lose the election,” said Lisa. “But Hammer has really got under his skin. Ray told me he had a difficult time firing him—I guess it was quite ugly. But the thing that burns Ray is that Hammer spends his evenings making the rounds of the local bars, telling the patrons that Ray is soft on crime and wants to take their guns away. And he gives out bumper stickers that say Sack the Wimp, Hire a Hammer.

“Does he get any takers?”

“I guess he gets some; I have seen a few of the stickers on old pickups. Ray says there are a lot of rednecks around here who are terrified that they might lose their guns. The really popular bumper sticker with this group is My wife, yes; my dog, maybe; but my gun, never. I can’t imagine why any woman would ride in a car with that sticker on it.” She paused and looked at the menu. “Enough politics, what are you going to have?”

“What’s good?” asked Marc.

“The white fish is wonderful. And they have steaks, chops, the usual stuff, but you should be watching your cholesterol— given your age and all.” She smiled mischievously.

“My God, you sound like a….” He didn’t complete the sentence “Besides, my cholesterol is extremely low.”

Lisa parked next to Marc’s cottage and switched off the engine. “Want me to walk you to the door?”

“I expect it. Remember, I’m old fashioned.”

When they got to the door Marc turned and asked, “Do you want to come in for a nightcap?”

“Sure,” said Lisa.

Marc opened the door and switched on the kitchen light. Grendel, lying in front of the stove, raised his head slightly and thumped his tail against the floor.

“Come on old man, time to go outside.”

“How old is Grendel?”

“Fifteen. He has really started to show his age. Watch. He’ll be back at the door in two minutes. In the old days he would stay out and explore all night if he could. Now his only joys seem to be sleeping and eating. What would you like?”

“What are my choices?”

“Let me check,” Marc started going through a collection of bottles in a cupboard. “There’s half a bottle of tolerably good cognac, some Armagnac, a Portuguese brandy that looks like its been here for years, some anisette and a few things of uncertain origin.”

“Not a bad stock considering you just moved in.”

“This stuff has been here for years—aged in woods. What will it be?”

“The cognac.”

He poured the liquor into two snifters, let the dog in, and led Lisa into the living room. “Would you rather sit on the porch?”

“I think it’s getting too cool. Besides I’ve always liked this room.” Lisa settled into a large, overstuffed sofa. “Are you going to redecorate?”

“I guess I should,” he replied handing her a snifter and sitting down on the sofa near her. “Most of this stuff goes back to the thirties and forties. Some of it dates from the time my grandparents built the place. But I really like it this way. But Elaine would tell you, I know nothing about decorating.”

Lisa lifted her glass, took a small sip and said, “That almost sounded like hurt, like you still care about what she might think.”

“I don’t. It was always a sore point with us. One of the reasons she gave for hating to come up here was that she found the decor, to use her phrase, ‘so distasteful.’ She referred to it as Roy Rogers Rustic.”

“Are you really through the divorce, or are you still hurting?”

“As I told you yesterday, the marriage had been over for years. And I’m glad she forced the issue by getting involved with her shrink. But in a funny way I think I was a bit hurt. No one wants to be the one who is left, regardless of how bad the situation. Maybe my pride was hurt. Perhaps I felt bad because someone else could make her happy when I couldn’t. It’s all pretty irrational stuff.”

“You can’t work through these things in a rational way,” agreed Lisa. “I was the one who asked for the divorce, and I was elated when it was final. But then, six months later when I heard he had remarried, I was absolutely crushed. For some absurd reason I felt our marriage should have been important enough that he would have remained in mourning for a suitable time. Have you dated—excuse me, you don’t date—have you seen other women since the divorce?”

“I had dinner a few times with people from the office. And some of my colleagues—female colleagues—tried to fix me up or invited me to those embarrassing dinner parties where you figure out immediately who you’re being paired with. Nothing serious, I didn’t leave anyone behind. And you?”

“Right after the divorce I dated a lot of different men. But I never found anyone I wanted to be serious about.”

“Want some more cognac?” Marc picked up the bottle.

Lisa shook her head. “What I really would like to do is take you to bed.” She pulled his face to hers and kissed him. She slowly ran her tongue back and forth across his lips. “And I promise I’ll still respect you in the morning,” she said with a playful laugh.

“What would your mother think?”

“Your baby sitter would approve.”

The storm woke Marc about 2:00 a. m. He got up and closed the windows and went back to a warm bed.

Soon after the Coast Guard issued a small craft advisory, the little harbor was jammed with boats seeking shelter from the storm. The cold front, sweeping down from Canada and across Lake Michigan, moved faster than expected, reaching the eastern shore just after dark. At its leading edge was a sharp squall line with high, gusty winds. This was followed by hours of heavy rain, lightning and thunder.

Boaters, many coming out of the storm in yellow, foul weather gear, filled the restaurants and bars in the harbor. The ferocity of the storm added to the intensity of the partying. Sometime after 2:00 a.m., the merrymakers were pushed out into the raging storm.

The rain, falling in sheets, pounded the parking lots and marina; whitecaps crashed over the sea wall. Lightning flashed in the greengray sky; the earth shook as the thunder reached the ground. Just after 3:00, south of the village, a transformer was hit by lightning. It crashed to the ground in a pool of burning oil. The village, marina, and surrounding countryside sank into darkness, darkness occasionally shattered by flashes of lightning.

A shadowy form moved along the docks. Gasoline spilled across the deck of a large sailboat.

A sharp explosion rocked the harbor. A massive bolt of lightning, attracted by a tall shaft of aluminum, shot to earth. The charge ran along the mast and guide wires, over deck, and into the water. A wave of flames exploded across the boat; burning fuel covered the water. Several explosions followed the first as the fire spread across the water and along the docks.

Ray had fallen into bed after 11:00. Before retiring, he had opened the curtains so he could watch the lightning, but he quickly fell asleep, a sleep not disturbed by the romp of wind, rain, lightning, and thunder. The metallic ring of the phone, however, jarred him back to consciousness.