Long Summer Nights by Kathleen O'Reilly Page B

but there was a certain wisdom in planning for a rainy day. Since they were talking about someone other than herself, she felt especially curious.
    The north shore of the lake was far away from the tiny campground with its rustic amenities. Here where theywalked, a line of stately houses, built in a time long past, watched over the water. It was easy to walk here and dream.
    “Would you do something else?” he said, shooting many holes through her shining moment of sounding responsible, and he didn’t even look sad about it.
    “I’m not ready to abandon my ship yet. But I have memorized too many of my parents’ lectures not to think about the problems of an unreliable career path.”
    “You’ll be fine,” he assured her, which both surprised and pleased her, the best of both worlds, in Jenn’s opinion.
    “Why?” she asked, shamelessly fishing for compliments.
    “Because being a journalist is who you are. You might end up waiting tables in a restaurant, or you might end up driving a cab, but you’ll be back writing articles and sniffing into other people’s lives and tempting them to tell you all sorts of things that they don’t want to tell you, and shouldn’t tell you if they were smart. But you’ll end up there because it’s you.”
    She envied his calm acceptance of the world. No, it wasn’t idealistic or happy, but it didn’t worry him. Jenn felt permanently unsettled, and she’d never really thought of how much she yearned to be calm.
    There was a row of dandelions along the dirt path, and she plucked one, puffing away at the tiny fluff, watching how it fell apart and scattered to unchartered lands.
    “I do love your cheerful take on life,” she told him, possibly sarcastically, but he seemed to understand that best.
    “And thus, my literary success to date.”
    There was a certain forbidden magic in the night. A certain weight of anticipation in the air, the coming storm. In the distance, thunder rumbled, low and quiet. The lakewater lapped against the shore, slow and steady, matching the drumming in Jennifer’s blood.
    “There’s the house where Willoughby was murdered,” he told her, pointing to a narrow Victorian with the lights on in the upstairs.
    “Stewart said it wasn’t haunted.”
    “It’s not. I thought you might want to see it.”
    “Why are you doing this?” she asked, not so sarcastic this time. “Doing what?”
    “Being here. With me.”
    “Am I with you?” he asked, more of those diversionary questions designed to give nothing away. Tired of the games, Jenn headed for people of a less difficult persuasion. But before she could move away, he stopped her with a persevering hand to her arm. “Jennifer. Don’t. I’m sorry. You want to know why I like you?”
    “Yes.”
    “I have a typewriter, a one-eyed cat with a personality disorder and a window that looks out over the dark side of the lake. The rest of my life exists inside my head. For a long time, I was in love with that life, but not so much anymore. I don’t know if I got older, lonelier or wiser, but something is different. Most people I still don’t like. You, I like.”
    Such simple words to cause such a nonsimple thrill.
    “Why?”
    “Are you going to make me spout poetry?”
    “Do you spout poetry?”
    “Not when sober.”
    “Then, no, I’m not going to make you spout poetry. Why do you like me?”
    He stopped walking, looked at her sideways.
    “Besides your ass?”
    “Now you’re teasing me.”
    “No. I actually do like your ass. It’s very curvy.”
    Mostly due to an unhealthy dependency on sugar, but she chose not to tell him that. “Besides that.”
    “Your luscious breasts. Very soft and touchable.”
    “Besides that.”
    “I like your mouth,” he said, stroking a finger over her lips, which shuddered. She closed her eyes, craving this one gentle touch more than she wanted anything before.
    “It’s soft and touchable, too,” he continued. “But not sweet. Sharp. Tangy.”
    She