From his vantage point of a lounge chair on the beach, he watched her play knee-deep in the lake with her little niece. She was not quite the same girl from two summers past. Her face still had the same features, but her green eyes sparkled where they used to be hazy and her mouth was free from the pressure of restraint. Her body had been closed off those past years; it was now as open in gesture and movement as it had ever been, and her posture bespoke self-confidence that she once had possessed and apparently had repossessed. She carried herself as though the weight she had once carried on her shoulders was real and physical and had been freshly dropped along her way, leaving her almost floating. Even her laughter was lighter, bubbly now instead of suppressed.

        She knew full well that he was watching; she even looked up at him once, catching his gaze, and smiled. She also knew full well that she had changed and that her change "works for ya," as her friend back at school termed it. For over two years, she had shut herself away from so much of the world, refusing to accept repeated offers to re-open her mind. She now considered that time in her life a lesson well learned--too well. Even though it was all more than half a year behind her, she still lived her life as though reaching for every new opportunity that she would have once let pass by. She still lived to not live like she had.

        Everyone around her who had even had the slightest concern for her well-being before was now enjoying a bit of warmth from her healthy glow. She wondered sometimes how she could have possibly pushed away so many people who loved her for the love of one. The tingle of the sun on her skin (most of which was bared), the cool water to balance that, the whining jet-ski motors, groups of voices speaking softly or calling across the beach--all of these things she had missed in those years, things that really were the heartbeat of her summer. Her niece reminded her with a cold splash to play; company was much better than solitude, but it was too easy for her mind to wander when she was playing.

        He watched her play cease; she kissed the top of the little girl's head and skipped over the hot sand to join his space on the beach. She did not bother with the drops of water on her legs, leaving them to be dried by the breeze. She put on her sunglasses, made a ball of her cover-up shirt for a pillow, and settled herself on her towel into the warm beach, the sand forming itself around her curves. They were close, but comfortably silent; almost a decade of summers had made them comfortable enough with each other to pass time in silence. This summer, silence between them was unusual; they both felt like they needed to make up for lost time and catch up with each other's lives. They were soon talking.

        "How's the water today?" he asked.

        "Pretty chilly still. The rain yesterday must have really cooled it down." In mid-July, the water on their lake was still rather cold compared to the smaller lakes around it. "Are we having a bonfire tonight?" Another thing that she had missed, summer days were best completed by night hours around the firepit.

        "Of course!" He remembered back, far back, to nights of the past, and relapsed into silence. There had been so many nights--long ago, when a bonfire meant ghost stories and Bloody Murder, and recently, when they had grown into lengthy conversations and background music.

        "Where at?" she asked. "My house, your house, my beach, your beach . . .?" Her voice trailed off. He got the point. Always the possibilities.

        "Oh, I don't know. Doesn't matter, really. If we have it at the beach, we won't bug anyone else."

        "Good point." She closed her eyes, allowing her other senses to more fully enjoy the day. She absorbed the rhythmic sound of the wash of waves, the fresh scent of clean Northern Michigan air, the warm sand beneath her and the hot sun upon her tempered by a cooling breeze. He stayed alert, observing. Twice, he witnessed her become an object of admiration of passing males. He felt just a little pride in being associated with her, as he surely was by sitting next to her. Hey, what they didn't know . . .

        She drifted into a sun-blanketed snooze, lulled by the rhythm of the beach. He remained awake but relaxed, in his element just as she was in hers. Without turning to face her, he asked, "How do we make it through winters without this?" When she didn't answer, he looked over at her gently closed eyes and unflinching figure. Asleep. He smiled down at her just a little, then covered her burning face lightly with his T-shirt, shading and protecting her. His muscles tensed with the fleeting urge to pick her up and cradle her. He sat back and closed his eyes, relaxed but not sleeping, hearing, almost feeling, the slow meter of her breathing.

        A calm hour had passed before their mothers returned to the beach to collect their glowing families for dinner. She woke on her own, the rhythmic pattern of the waves and the voices disturbed by the sounds of cleaning up. She pulled the shirt from her face, letting it fall on her lap as she rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?" she asked sleepily.

        "Past five," he answered, judging not by a watch but by the length of shade over the dock. "It's dinnertime."

        She nodded and brought her knees to her chest, hugging them to her and burying her face in them as she adjusted to alert waking life. She began to rise, holding on to his T-shirt for a moment before reaching comprehension. She handed it back to him with a soft smile. "Thanks," she said.

        He nodded. "You were burning," he explained.

        "I feel like a troll," she quipped. "I haven't spent so much time in the sun in ages."

        "It's good for you," he replied, watching her pick her things up from the beach. They walked together for the short distance to his cottage. Dinner was a typical outdoors summer weekend meal: hot dogs and hamburgers, three-bean salad, fresh vegetables and dip, chips, and sliced watermelon for dessert. Only three options were given for drink: sun tea, lemonade, or water, all icy cold. No meal was complete without a seed spitting contest/battle, starting for distance and ending with squealing and vengeance.

        After an appropriate break to digest, the fathers and now adult children took advantage of calm evening waters to ski. She had lost some of her skill in the years away, but it was coming back to her with every run she took. She was for a short time split between coddling her burning skin with an easy run and pushing her boundaries with quick cuts. She chose to push herself, not ready to slow down her pace of experiencing.

        The power of the boat?s engine surged through her arms as the machine tried with all its might to wrestle the handle from her grip. She allowed the power to raise her easily from the water; she was up on the first try, without even getting her hair wet. After just a few yards to get her balance on the slalom ski, she cut hard to the left, leaving a rooster?s tail behind her as she made her way back to the wake. Her cuts were smooth and even, bringing up rainbows of water from the glassy surface. Only after several passes was she ready to relinquish the power-she gracefully let go of the rope and freed the machine, sinking slowly into the water. She had her best run yet.

        "Not bad," he smiled, reaching out his hand for support as she climbed back aboard the boat. He was geared up for his run, diving in as soon as she was in the boat. She took her turn in the spotter's chair; being the lightest, she was often there. Except for one gymnastic wipeout, he also had quite a showy run. When he had finished, she leaned over the edge of the boat to collect his O'Brien ski and lent her hand to help him balance as he climbed on deck. She gave his gloved hand a squeeze and smiled up at him.

        "Sweet run!" she complimented. "9.8 on the double reverse pike." She winked and took a seat to ride back to shore for a switch of skiers. He gave her a playful push and squeezed onto the seat next to her. Her family's ski boat was not made for comfortably seating very many passengers. His father, at the throttle, gave him an elbow to the ribs, which she saw but refused to interpret. They left their gear in the boat for his sister and her brother to use, jumping out into head-level water at the raft anchored at the drop-off. For a short time, they dove in and climbed up and cannonballed at each other, but they were in place on the raft to watch the next set of skiers. The families skied until near sunset; then each member took his place to clean up. The fathers tossed the equipment out of the boat; the guys grabbed the heavy skis, leaving the life vests, ski gloves, and towels for the girls. The "kids" walked up to her house to stow the equipment while the fathers covered and hoisted the boat.

        When everything was put away, she changed into summer evening clothes--shorts, T-shirt, and sandals. Usually, she took a sweatshirt as well, but her skin felt hot enough to ignite their bonfire and she skipped this step. She massaged Skin-So-Soft into her body, both to cool her and to repel the mosquitos. They gathered a towel, a radio, a bag of marshmallows, and a bundle of newspapers, then walked to his cottage down the road. He changed, including the sweatshirt and also his own touch--a weathered baseball cap with a University of Michigan logo that she had first seen him wear five years prior. He slipped a pack of matches into his pocket, removed two Cokes from the refrigerator, took most of the load from her, and together they walked down to "his" beach--a little more private than hers and less likely to gather children around the bonfire like moths around a porch light. She laid the towel across the splintered bench and set the radio and marshmallows at the uncovered end. He set about gathering small sticks first, including two clean skewer-length sticks, and then logs from the stack, while she built up an experienced Boy Scout fire. She lit the newspaper balls beneath the sticks, then made a teepee of logs when the sticks were flaming without paper. He admired the hot orange glow throwing highlights and shadows on her curves as she knelt beside the pit. He switched on the radio, still set to the same soft music station as always.

        After the fire was satisfactorily lit, she stood, brushed off her knees, and sat down on the bench next to him. She had accidentally grabbed a child-size towel, barely wide enough for them to sit together upon it. His arm rested across the back of the bench, not quite touching her shoulders but nonetheless sending goosebumps down her back. The pleasant goosebumps quickly blended with the chills consuming her body, which was too far from the fire to enjoy its heat. She involuntarily shivered.

        "Cold?" he asked. She nodded. "Should have known better," he admonished. "You're burnt." She nodded again.

        "It's been a while since I've been burnt like this," she reminded him.

        He sighed. "I know," he said slowly, gently squeezing her shoulders, then leaving his arm to linger there. He hadn't seen a lot of her those past two summers to witness her change, but he had heard enough to know the pain that she had felt before that must still haunt her. "Here, take my sweatshirt," he said as he moved to remove it.

        "Oh, that's OK. Then you'll get chilly." She watched him pull the sweatshirt over his head, taking his T-shirt halfway up with it, revealing his bronzed stomach before it fell back down.

        "You'll be chillier than me," he said with a smile. "It's OK. Warm up." She slid the shirt over her head and gently placed her arms in the sleeves to avoid touching her burn as much as possible. She shivered again as soon as the sweatshirt was on. This time, he put his arm firmly around her. She allowed it, settling herself close against his side. His sweatshirt smelled nice--a combination of his detergent, cologne, and pheromones. She inhaled deeply and let out the breath slowly, like a sigh. "What?" he asked.

        "I've missed this," she said softly.

        "Me too."

        "Why? You didn't miss anything."

        "Yeah, I did. You." She turned to him with a puzzled look. "You can't play euchre with three," he joked. Then he turned serious. "Not having you around really changed it around here. Everyone could tell something was missing."

        She was quiet for a moment. "My head is what was missing," she mumbled.

        "That's not true," he argued, his fingertips gently toying with her hair at the nape of her neck. "You were trapped."

        "It sure took me long enough to figure it out." She turned away, staring out at the lake, old memories flooding her. With his other hand, he turned her head back to him, leaving his hand on her cheek.

        "All that matters is that you got away." He returned her gaze fully in the eye. For a moment, she wasn't sure whether her heart was beating so fast as to be beyond her comprehension or whether it had stopped beating altogether. Her nervous eyes danced skyward.

        "The stars are out tonight," she noted breathily. He too looked up, pulling her closer yet as he did. They swayed ever so slightly together to the slow beat of the music. Her mind was running a race with her heart. This boy-turned-man had grown up with her, practically as family. She had never before this summer considered him outside that brotherly context. They had gotten into curfew trouble as kids when their bike rides lasted too long, had been allowed to have sleepovers as teens, had met and rated each other's boyfriends and girlfriends before her last. He knew her weak spots for being tickled, teased, and tormented. He knew her too well and for too long. Yet, she thought, perhaps that history provided a connection to him that she needed.

        He had grown with her, ahead in years and size but never in any other way. He had experienced moments in the past, just moments, when she had caught him into admiration--her fluid body playing inept miniature golf, or a witty comeback leaving him speechless. Never until now had it lasted beyond that moment. She was close to him--until recent years, she had known him better than anybody. Still, when he looked her in the eyes, he felt like she was seeing directly into the core of his being. Her soft hot skin was closer than ever to him, her natural scent weakening him; he could finally feel her breathing. He liked the way she felt against him, her curves fitting his hollows like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

        She wanted to say something to him but she couldn't find words to fit the moment. She turned to him, her tongue still not forming words but her eyes writing poetry. His lips did not speak back to her; they did not need to--his eyes answered every question that hers posed. His hand again reached for her cheek, tilting her face into a kiss gentle, sweet, and long. When their lips parted, their eyes reunited.

        "I'm glad you came back to us," he said simply. She nodded, pressing his hand against her face with one of her hands while the other gripped his upper arm, and smiled up at him.

        "This is where I belong."

Barbara E. Prater