Cameo Lake Read Online Free PDF

hot. When I woke up it was already stifling in the cabin, the night air had given no hint of this surprise-change in the heretofore temperate June weather. I opened all the windows and, fighting a little with the expandable screen inserts, no matter how I pushed or pulled, there remained a mosquito-wide gap between the top of the screen and the bottom of the window.
    The breeze off the water kept the shaded screen porch cool enough that I was fooled into thinking it would be perfect for taking my noontime run. Even before I had gotten up the initial slope of my track, I was drenched in sweat. The air was dense but I kept going, enjoying the sense of a hard workout without the hard work. The heat loosened my muscles and eventually I reached that silken flow of stride and breath which keeps runners running. The rhythmic pum pum pum of my feet against the humus in time with the music on my Discman, a steady quarter-note motif. All the way around I held the cool thought of plunging into the lake at the end of my run. I made the turn for home and sprinted for about a hundred yards. Halfway back I began to downshift until I came to a pulse-slowing jog for the last thirty yards. I might be eager for my swim, but not for a heart attack—the water was still ice cold. At the water's edge I balanced on first one foot and then the other to pull off my running shoes and socks, dropping them next to the Discman.
    I yelped as I hit the water. The shock was mildly pleasant in a masochistic sort of way. I stood up in the waist-deep water, then plunged again, striking out for the raft anchored halfway between my shore and Ben's. The redwood surface of the raft was lasciviously warm in the afternoon sun. I lay my chilled, exhausted body flat against the wood, luxuriating in the palpable waves of heat already drying my nylon tank top and running shorts.
    Lulled half asleep as the noon sun sucked the chill out of my wet clothes and the raft rocked ever so slightly, I was slow to become aware of piano music until it stopped. And then started, and then stopped again, each time the same few notes, varying a little in rhythm. I listened casually, without lifting my head, letting the tinkering drift in and out of my consciousness. Then the notes began to coalesce into a recognizable new theme, new chords embroidering it until what drifted to the raft from Ben's cabin really was music. Music which stopped abruptly with an irreverent “shave and a haircut, two bits.”
    I rolled over to bake my still damp nether end. In the distance I heard a screen door slam and a soft splash accompanied by mild swearing in acknowledgment of the lake's chill. Just as I flipped onto my back, Ben's head crested the edge of the raft. The startled look in his eyes was clear evidence he had no idea I was out there. His surprise forced us both into quick, unnecessary apologies and laughter at ourselves.
    “I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here.”
    “Hey, there's plenty of room for both of us.” To demonstrate, I slid over another board-width.
    Ben hauled himself up without using the ladder, arriving aboard with a cascade of lake water. “Forgot your bathing suit?” He gestured at my odd swimming attire.
    “Running.”
    Ben thumped the raft to scare away a big water spider.
    “Was that you? Playing just now?”
    Ben nodded without looking at me.
    “It was lovely. Except perhaps for the bit at the end. A little trite, don't you think?”
    Ben laughed, a nice amused chuckle. “You've just been treated to the new theme for some car coming out in the fall. I forget which one. Luxury sport utility. Oxymoronic, if you ask me.”
    “So, then. You're a composer.”
    Ben laughed again, but this time the amusement was derisive. “Sort of. I write commercial music. You know, advertising jingles.”
    “Would I know any?”
    He named a potato chip and an adult dietary supplement. I recalled both products and their TV commercials, but no music came to mind.
    “It's