Cameo Lake Read Online Free PDF Page A

“I think it'll fit inside. This car is so big I think you could slip a full-sized motorcycle in without trouble.”
    I pulled a little farther off the narrow road, aware suddenly of the danger from cars just like this one speeding past. Bike settled, my neighbor climbed in. “I'm Benson Turner.” For a moment, it almost seemed as if he expected me to react.
    “Cleo Grayson.” He took my hand in the briefest of greetings, but long enough for me to get a sense of warmth and long fingers, a little callused.
    “I live on one of the islands, so you can drop me at the road to the boat ramp. I'll be fine from there. It'll be less out of your way.”
    “It's not out of my way. I live across from you in Grace Chichetti's cabin.”
    “Oh.” Ben pressed the palms of both hands against his knees. “I didn't realize that was you. I've seen you running.” He seemed a little uncomfortable with that admission, but I couldn't make myself leaven the tension with an admission of my own voyeurism in watching him chop wood. However, as nominal hostess in this situation, I felt compelled to find small talk. The mile to the access road loomed interminably. “I hope you didn't break any eggs.”
    “Eggs? Oh, no. Fortunately I didn't fall off. I hit a broken beer bottle. I wasn't looking where I was going. Lost in thought as usual. A failing of mine.” I had my eyes on the road so I couldn't see if he was smiling in self-deprecation or not.
    “Should we drop the bike off somewhere?”
    “No. No, this is good. I'll take care of it. I usually fix them myself.” Another tenth of a mile. Then two more silent tenths. I was about to fall back on the traditional weather gambit when Ben spoke. “So, how do you like the lake?”
    “Oh, I love it. So peaceful.”
    “Won't be in another week. Once July hits, the lake gets pretty busy.”
    “Grace told me there's a pretty active social circuit here.”
    “I suppose there is. I pretty much keep away from it.”
    Grace had called him a loner. “Well, I imagine that I will, too. I came up here to get away from those kinds of distractions. Besides”— and at this point I arrived at the access road—“I don't know anybody here to socialize with.”
    I drove him down to the boat ramp, where he had a canoe tied up. Ben climbed out of the SUV and fetched his bike and groceries from the back. “Thanks for the rescue, Mrs. Grayson.”
    “Please. Call me Cleo. Mrs. Grayson was my mother.”
    He smiled, “Well, Cleo, now you do know someone. Even if it is just me.” He held out a hand and once again I looked into those mild brown eyes. “By the way, you know that you can use the raft?”
    “I will.”
    When I looked out the picture window of Grace's cabin, I could see Ben paddling a green Old Town canoe from the direction of the boat ramp. Lashed across the bow was the bicycle. The only moving object on the still lake, the canoe left a mild etching of wake behind as the sharp prow neatly pushed through the dark water.
    He paddled with slow strokes, coaxing the canoe, not forcing it, across the expanse of lake toward his landing. I watched until he made landfall, stepping neatly from boat to beach, pulling the canoe, with the bike still athwart, securely onto the shore. The screek of his screen door pierced the quiet dusk.
    A self-described shy person, I am quick to recognize that characteristic in others. Sometimes our reserve as shy people comes across as snobbery, sometimes as being quiet, or standoffish people. Sometimes our shyness is inbred, sometimes it's learned. My mother used to say of me, “Still waters run deep.” I suppose to explain to her friends why I wasn't talkative in their company, to excuse my failing to be witty in their midst.
    Benson Turner seemed to be a shy person. Not shy as if he had been born that way, but shy as if he'd become that way. As if he was recovering from an illness and needed all of his strength to get well.

Three

    T he next day was unnaturally