As the canoe creaked and moaned through the water toward him, Harpo was lying on his back, singing “Sweet Adeline.” He stopped, but not until the little boat actually hit the dock, and he felt the bump and knew this one was real. A woman crawled up onto the dock. He’d been expecting the ghost, his brothers.
Harpo sat up.
She had dark hair and red cheeks, this strange woman, and shadowy deep-set eyes, and now he recognized her from the portrait on the registration desk. It was the lodge owner’s beautiful wife. Ayala. She was wearing a long white nightgown. It was sleek. It looked soft. She was breathtaking. He couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to.
“Good evening,” she said, struggling with something in the darkness, maybe to secure the canoe.
“How did you know to come?” Harpo croaked.
