“I don’t know why you’re being so grouchy. You like to swim.”

“Not when I’m wearing a Rolex!”

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Yeah, right. The point is, I didn’t want to come canoeing today. I had work to do. But all weekend, whenever I tried to get something done, you’d decide a burglar was trying to break into the cottage, or you couldn’t concentrate on cooking unless you went cliff diving. This morning you nagged me into playing catch with your poodle!”

“Roo needs exercise.” And Kevin needed someone to play with.

He hadn’t been able to sit still all weekend. Instead of giving in to the spell of Wind Lake and reconnecting with his heritage, he was working out or trying to pound away his restlessness with hammer and nails. Any moment she expected him to hop into his car and drive off forever.

Just the thought of it depressed her. She couldn’t leave here, not yet. There was something magical about the campground. Possibilities seemed to shimmer in the air. It felt almost enchanted.

Now he swam toward the stern of the capsized canoe. “What are we supposed to do with this thing now?”

“Can you touch bottom?”

“We’re in the middle of a frickin’ lake! Of course I can’t touch bottom.”

She ignored his surliness. “Well, our instructor once taught us a technique to turn over a canoe. It’s called the Capistrano Flip, but—”

“How do you do it?”

“I was fourteen. I can’t remember.”

“Then why did you mention it?”

“I was thinking out loud. Come on, I’m sure we can manage.”

They finally righted the canoe, but their technique, which was based mostly on Kevin’s brute strength, left the hull full of water and partially submerged. With nothing to use as a bailer, they were forced to paddle back that way, and Molly was gasping for breath by the time she’d finished helping him haul it up onto the beach. She’d never been a quitter, though.

“Look over to the right, Kevin! Mr. Morgan’s here!” She hooked a lock of wet hair behind her ear and gestured toward the slightly built, bespectacled accountant setting up a chair in the sand.

“Not this again.”

“Really, I think you should follow him—”

“I don’t care what you say. He does not look like a serial killer!” He yanked off his sodden T-shirt.

“I’m very intuitive, and he has shifty eyes.”

“I think you’ve lost your mind,” he muttered. “I really do. And I have no idea how I’m going to explain that to your sister—a woman who happens to be my boss.”

“You worry too much.”

He spun on her. She saw fire in those green eyes and knew she’d pushed him too far.