While I’d been standing on line for the boat rental, Gail had gone to a sandwich shop so that we could have a shipboard brunch before I returned to the hotel. Now she produced from a brown paper bag two expertly folded wax-paper packages and two pop bottles. She was able to figure out a way to open the bottles using a fixture on the side of the boat that may or may not have been designed for that purpose. We split our sandwiches fifty-fifty, Neufchâtel with olives and a deviled ham, both of which inexplicably and for the first time in my life tasted wonderful to me. The radio station played a string of great recordings until suddenly Vera Driscoll’s voice came over the speaker crooning “Believe You Me.” I was uncomfortable listening to Vera while I was with Gail, and particularly restless with the sound of my noodling on the clarinet during the song’s intro.

I snapped off the radio, and Gail protested, “Why’d you do that? I love that arrangement of yours.” Here on the glazed lake under a smooth blue sky, the song suddenly evoked smoky ballrooms, shrill laughter from intoxicated couples, and lonely hotel rooms. It was like stepping inside on a flawless afternoon so as to catch a breath of stale air. I mumbled something about liking the moment we were living right now better than a playback of my recorded past, and it surprised me to realize I meant it.

I noticed the same dual flashes of light aimed in our direction as before. They were much brighter now, because we were on the southwest side of the lake, closer to whoever was watching us.

It was such a strange sensation, being in a huge body of water, miles wide, yet in the center of a city, walled in at all compass points. I felt confined yet also exposed.

I was becoming extremely interested that the person with the binoculars continued to be extremely interested in us. The reflection from his paired lenses danced around our little motorboat with the persistence of two bumblebees who refused to be waved away.

Whoever was so intrigued was certainly not a trained detective, for no professional would do such a clumsy job of allowing me to note his curiosity. Unless, of course, he wanted me to know we were being watched.

I said nothing to Gail about this, because there was every possibility that our onlooker was not a he at all but her mother, shadowing me to make sure I hadn’t violated her edict.

I was surprised how quickly the sky went dark at the thought of Martha Prentice. Several brown clouds had intervened between the sun and the lake.