Chapter 4: The Calm before the Storms
"Whew," he gulped, pulling into the driveway. "I need a change of scene." Entering the house, he threw his keys on the kitchen table, next to a pile of unopened bills, and called out to Laura. He found her in the den, watching TV and painting her toenails.
"Hey, baby, you ready to go?" he asked.
"Will be in a minute," she answered. Her chin was resting on her knee and she was concentrating on the nail painting.
"Where's Barb and Bonnie?" he asked, looking around the den and seeing no evidence of the presence of the twins who were supposed to accompany them to the lake.
"Oh, they're not coming. Something came up with their mom, and they had to cancel," Laura answered without looking up.
"Darn," he replied. Disappointment was evident in his voice. "That's a shame. You want to cancel too, then, I guess? Won't be near as much fun with just ole dad to hang with."
"Heck no, I don't want to cancel. I've been looking forward to spending the weekend with you; I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said emphatically like she had expected something of the sort and had already ruled it out.
He grinned in mild relief, recalling that the trip had actually been her idea; something she had cooked up for them to do together after Miriam announced that she was going to the convention alone.
"You sure you won't be bored to death with just me out there? Maybe they'll be free tomorrow; we can wait and go then, if you want."
"It's OK, Dad," she reassured him. "They're tied up all weekend. And besides, you're plenty of fun by yourself and those two are totally psycho. All they do is talk about boys and plot about how to hookup with each other's boyfriend. They're really sketchy, Dad. I'm actually relieved they aren't going."
"Hey, that's great; I mean that you still want to go with me, but I didn't know that about them; I always thought you were really tight with Heckle and Jeckle," he replied, smiling at the memory of how the twins' manner of turning their heads to jabber at each other earned them their nicknames. Well, that, plus their coal black hair and dark eyes, too.
"We're tight enough, I just won't miss them this weekend. You and I will just have to find something to keep each other entertained, I guess," she smiled at him evenly. "Well, all right," he exclaimed happily. "I’ll accept that challenge. Let's get outa here and get there early, so we don't lose our favorite spot.”
"Sure, Dad. I'm packed already; won't take me a second to get ready.”
"By the way, are you and Lance speaking these days?" he inquired cautiously. Sibling rivalry had been taking a toll on what remained of the family’s tranquility, and he had frequently noticed her pointedly ignoring her brother.
"Kinda. Why?" She asked warily.
"Just wondered if you talked to him about coming with us, like I suggested?" he answered trying to sound casual about it.
"I left him a note Monday. I told him we were going, and he was welcome to come along, if he wanted."
"Bet he was thrilled at that," he replied sardonically. "What'd he say?"
"He can't go; has rugby practice every day this weekend and he’s going backpacking next week. Said he probably won't be back till about the time mom's due back from Chicago."
"Probably just an excuse. You tell him Heckle and Jeckle might be there?" he asked, remembering how attractive the twins were.
"Nope, last thing I need is to be stuck with them on a boat so far back in the middle of nowhere the phones don’t work and them "Oohing" and "Aahing" all over Lance for three days. I'd sooner stay home myself as to go through that crap."
"Well, I guess I can see what you mean," he replied softly, trying not to rile her further. "Did you believe the bit about rugby practice and backpacking?"
"I dunno. With Lance you never can be sure what he's really up to, but his backpack and sleeping bag aren't in his closet. You can go check for yourself, if you want."
"His closet? I don't think so. You know how your mother is about allowing you guys to have your privacy and your space."
"Oh, yeah, Dad, I know all about Mom," she replied with a hint of exasperation. "But, if you ask me, if you and mom give Lance much more space, he's gonna take over the place."
"Come on, baby, don't be so judgmental," he urged gently. He was cognizant of the burdens that birth order places on the last born. "He's just having a little difficulty finding himself; you know, growing up."
"It could be, Dad, he's a lot more grown up than you know," she answered sharply.
"Well, I hope so for his sake," he replied pensively, recollecting the escapades of the boy’s younger years. Rugby and backpacking sure are preferable to his former activities. Turned seventeen and wanted to pose for Playgirl. Miriam squelched that; not that he didn't have the body and the looks for it. Had looks like Michelangelo chiseled him from solid stone himself. Tall, proportioned, strong as an ox and fast as lightning. Played tailback till he dislocated his shoulder in a rappelling accident. Turned eighteen and wanted to leave home with a couple of friends and try out for the Chippendales.
Miriam squelched that one too, but Don had figured he might as well get paid for what he was gonna do anyway. Had so many girls after him they were driving all the rest of the household nuts. What was going on in his room behind the closed door, he didn't even want to know. Anyway, it did seem that, since he turned twenty, ole Lance had grown up a lot. Shoot, he wasn't even dating very often anymore, and he'd even been working with Miriam some. She'd started taking him along on her open houses quite a bit of late, and he'd been a huge success with all her clients. Well, it's a good thing he's growing up, Don thought guiltily, because he's sure going to have a lot to handle in a few days, when the cops show up looking for his daddy. Doesn't much look like I'll get the chance to talk to him and invite him to come along, but I really didn't have any illusions that he would want to. Nope, ole Lance’s become just a little too independent to want to tag along with a Dad on the lam from the law.
"There, that's done," Laura said, finishing her nails and bouncing up from the couch. He hadn't paid much attention to her attire previously. Whew, he thought, eyeballing her dangerously short cutoffs and skimpy top. It was the top that really caught his attention. It was one of those little bands of flimsy fabric about six inches wide that hangs loosely from the shoulders by a couple of spaghetti straps. It barely covered her breasts and her midriff was bare.
Laura turned to face him, her bronzed, flat tummy and long legs bare; her pert breasts thrust the top out a good four or five inches from her belly. The straps had slipped from her shoulders and hung uselessly down her arms. Gawd, he thought, realizing that the only thing keeping her top from falling off was the fact that it was snagged on her nipples, the points of which protruded prominently just below top seam of the garment. An accident looking for a place to happen, he thought; if she steps off a curb, that thing's gonna wind up around her ankles. She stepped toward him, and he watched her closely. The verges of her nipples, just where the golden tan of her breasts changed to darker brown, peeked out above her top.
"You think maybe you need to change? I've got to stop at the liquor store on the way," he asked with a look that was less disapproving than dubious.
"I'm OK, I'll just wait in the car while you go in," she answered brightly, quickly dismissing his concerns.
"That's what I'm afraid of, baby. You might get abducted looking like that."
"I ain't skeered," she laughed. "I got you to protect me, don't I?"
"You sure do, darlin, but you're expectin a little much of your dad, if you're thinkin I can fight off twenty or thirty of 'em at a time.
"Well, daddy," she said giggling suggestively as she wriggled up the stairs toward her room. "If it comes to that, we'll just have to think of something other than fighting to handle them, won't we?"
It took only a few minutes to load the car and lower the convertible top for the hour drive to the lake. The trip to the liquor store wasn't nearly as eventful as he had feared, though the line did get a little long because the clerk got distracted and kept staring out the window at Laura. The hour-long trip from there to the lake was a breeze, almost no traffic except for an occasional trucker, most of who honked and waved. Heck, they usually honked at Miriam, too. At first, he thought, it must be the convertible, but then he noticed that the wind was causing Laura's top to billow out whenever they passed an eighteen wheeler. It didn't do much from his prospective, but it must be quite a view from eight feet above them. Laura just laughed and waved back as they sped past.
Their houseboat wasn't not bad as houseboats go; about forty-five feet long, with a flying bridge and sundeck on top, a master state room and bath in the bow below and a pilot's station, a kitchen and eating/sitting area amid ship and aft. The seats in the sitting area can be made into beds, so six or so can sleep comfortably.
They loaded the supplies quickly, and Laura untied the mooring lines, while he started the dual inboard diesels.
"You want to drag the ski boat along, daddy?" she called up to him, shouting over the noise of the engines.
Guiltily recalling images from "The Dream," he glanced in the direction of the boat moored along side the houseboat and shook his head. "Naw, we better not since there's just the two of us; that OK with you?"
"Sure," she called back, hopping onto the gently rocking deck of the houseboat. "We can always come back later and get it, if we want."
They had the lake practically to themselves as they motored out to their favorite anchorage. It was located in a deep, narrow cove, which followed the bed of an old stream that had been drowned by the lake. Rocky bluffs rose along the sides of the cove, reaching upward in some places more than seventy feet above the water. The cove ended, after several sharp turns, in a narrow gorge with a softly singing waterfall at the head. The sheer walls of the gorge pressed so closely that there was barely room enough to maneuver the boat. High above and nearly horizontal to the water, on the rim of the gorge, an old oak tree that had been pushed over in a thunderstorm, reached out across the empty space above the cove with leafy arms extended. An old rope, badly frayed and gray from exposure to the elements, dangled from the oak and hung, like a noose from a giblet, almost to the water right in the center of the cove. Ledges and narrow crevices scored the precipitous walls, and provided scant lodgment for a few adventurous scrub trees and bushes. At nightfall, the lights from the boat could only illuminate the lower reaches of the rock faces, and above the light, the rock would soar onward into the darkness like the great walls of an ancient gothic cathedral. A star-filled sky formed a glorious domed ceiling for the chamber that had no rival on the earth, they thought, save, possibly, the dome of the Sistine chapel. At the cove’s head, the waterfall descended from the upper reaches of the wall in a series of uneven, broken steps, before dropping the final fifteen or twenty feet in a frothy curtain some ten feet wide. The sound of cascading water, amplified by the confining rock walls, filled the cove and enhanced the sense of tranquility and peace.
