Adjusting the cap on his blonde head, he looked skyward. The full moon hung suspended in the clear evening sky and bounced its luminous beams across the lake. The craft teetered with the waves as Myles stood staring at the bow and could almost see his older sister, Lynn, and his teenage aunt and uncle sitting there with their fishing poles.

As a child, Myles and his family spent their summers on Lake Murray , South Carolina with his grandmother. Grandpa Earl had died, leaving Grandma Callie with a generous Postal Service pension from Grandpa’s prosperous career as one of the creators of the zip code. Grandma lived on her own little lake peninsula, and it was a perfect place to spend one’s summers – water skiing and swimming by day and fishing by night.

Occasionally, the whole family, along with an assortment of cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents would drive into Columbia to shop at the large mall. Sometimes Myles’ parents would take them to the local theatre for a midnight movie. But the most memorable thing about those summers was night fishing and Grandma’s cooking. She’d fry up all the fish they caught, make pots full of corn-on-the-cob, cold slaw and baked beans. Every relative in South Carolina, Tennessee and Georgia would converge on Grandma’s peninsula for a fourth of July feast topped off with homemade ice cream and ice cold watermelon.

For the holiday evening, Myles’ father, Ed, would set off several hundred dollars’ worth of fireworks on the end of the dock as everyone gathered around in lawn chairs or stretched out on blankets on the freshly mowed grass to observe the spectacle. Myles’ mind could still see the falling specks of fire drift downward, reflecting off the water and disappear into the waves.

Myles chuckled to himself, remembering the year his uncle Tad used a firecracker to blow up a frog that he’d captured in a sand castle. Ah, those were the days! A smile twinkled in Myles’ blue eyes as he cast his baited line overboard and sat back in his captain’s chair to wait for a nibble from some unsuspecting bass or catfish.

Life was carefree on the lake and the three weeks his family spent there each summer passed all too quickly. Soon they were back for another year of school. Looking back on it nearly twenty years later as a full grown man of twenty-seven, his youth felt more like a sweet dream than anything tangible.

Yet, the sights, sounds, and smells of night fishing that evening brought back vivid memories so thick he could almost brush them away from his face like the mosquito that had just landed on his cheek. Myles propped his pole against the side of the boat and pushed the start button on his portable CD player. The familiar haunting melody of Journey’s “Who’s Crying Now” broke the still night air as it had all those summers before when his uncle Tad, then only a teenager, had brought along his boom box to listen to the music echo across the waters as they night fished.

Myles’ dad always warned that the music would drive the fish away, but it wasn’t about the fish they caught. It was about spending time with family in the still, cool night air with nothing but the gentle breeze on your face and the whine of electric guitars and drums wafting across the waters.

By the time Myles turned fourteen, Grandma sold the house on the lake and moved next door to Myles’ family in Tennessee. That was the end of night fishing on Lake Murray. The fact that he was there this particular evening was really something of a miracle in and of itself.

Grandma, knowing how much Myles loved the lake, left him at her passing a parcel of land on Lake Murray, complete with a three bedroom cabin, his own dock and a shiny new navy blue motorboat. When he arrived that evening at sunset, he parked his truck in the gravel driveway. Without even bothering to go into the cabin, the boat tied to the dock led him like a siren’s call straight to the water. Carrying the cardboard box of bait he’d picked up at a little shop down the road, his fishing pole and his CD player he stepped into the boat and untied it from the dock.

Fumbling with his key ring, he searched for the boat key the lawyer had given him two days prior. Finding it, he started the engine and launched out into the water. Myles fished until midnight, drove the boat back to the dock, tied it in place and then lifted the wire basket containing two descent size bass and one catfish.

The full moon was the only thing illuminating his path back to the cabin, and it took him a few minutes to find the right key to open the door. Luckily, the lawyer had already arranged for power to be hooked up to the cabin. Myles reached for the switch, grateful to see that the power company had done their job. Quickly, he crossed the kitchen floor dripping fishy lake water the whole way. Setting the basket in the sink, the fish gasped and wiggled faintly still struggling to hang onto life.

Never wanting to see any living thing suffer, Myles, quickly put the fish out of their misery with a pocket knife. Cleaning and filleting the fish, he found a bowl in a cabinet and put the fillets in the refrigerator. Remembering he’d picked up a few things at the store, he went out to his truck and made several trips to carry in bag of groceries, his suitcases and his guitar.

“Well, that was a waste,” he muttered to himself as he drained a new half gallon container of milk down the kitchen sink. He’d totally forgotten about it, but it certainly wouldn’t be any good now after setting out in his hot car all night. The rest of his groceries were canned goods, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter. He’d just have to go for more milk in the morning.

Myles looked around the kitchen, opening cabinets and found that it had been stocked with dishes, pots, pans and an assortment of cooking utensils.

“Grandma always thought of everything,” he shook his head, marveling at the detail to which his grandmother had left her instructions regarding her grandson’s inheritance. The entire place was completely furnished in a masculine rustic motif, complete with a shiny black baby grand piano setting in the middle of a glassed-in sunroom facing the lake. Myles approached the instrument reverently and gently traced his fingers along the satiny finish.

He brushed the moisture from his eye and sat down on the bench before his grandmother’s prize instrument. Lifting the lid, he placed his hands on the ivory keys, closed his eyes, and a lovely melody of Myles’ own creation poured effortlessly from the baby grand and echoed across the lake.  

~*~

 Gabrielle Clay-Masterson lay in her bed, unable to sleep. The air conditioner had broken earlier in the afternoon and unable to get a repairman out to fix it, she’d resorted to opening her bedroom window in hopes of a gentle lakefront breeze to offer a bit of relief from the oppressive heat. While one existed, it wasn’t consistent enough to keep the perspiration from forming on Gabrielle’s brow.

She’d kicked the covers off her body, except for her feet. There was something about having her feet exposed as she slept that made Gabrielle feel vulnerable. As long as a sheet or blanket covered her feet, she was safe. And so, even in the heat of this sultry June evening, Gabrielle kept her toes tucked safely under the sheets at the bottom of her bed.

Her husband, who snored noisily beside her, evidently held no fears of exposed toes. He lay sprawled out on his stomach in nothing but his boxer shorts and not a stitch of covering to protect him from the dreaded toe-eating monsters or whatever unknown boogie man, bugs or critters twenty-four-year-old Gabrielle feared would attack her exposed appendages.

Gabrielle debated on getting up and taking a sleeping pill, but she’d been trying to quit using them. They were too addictive. But this heat was so oppressive! Just as she had almost decided to give in to her weakness, she heard something. Gabrielle strained to hear what she thought was music, then shoved the man lying next to her to stop his snoring which drowned out the faint piano. He snorted, rolled over on his side, and stopped his nasal drone long enough for Gabrielle to hear the beautiful melody floating through her bedroom window.

Gently, Gabrielle rose from her bed, and stepped onto the deck. Where is that coming from? Looking to her left, she noted that the lights were on in the cabin at an angle from hers. She could faintly discern the figure of a man sitting at a piano. Gabrielle leaned her elbows on the railing, her long auburn locks falling forward as she listened intently until finally Myles closed the lid on the instrument and turned out the light.  

~*~  

“Where’s my breakfast?” the gruff voice demanded as its owner shoved Gabrielle forcefully, jerking her shoulder hard enough that she rolled from her side onto her back and a grimace scrunched her otherwise lovely face.

“Hmmm?” she moaned groggily. She’d finally gotten to sleep around three in the morning and the last thing she wanted to do was get up at five-thirty to make Eric breakfast.

“Get up and make my eggs and bacon,” he demanded.

“Can’t you just eat some cereal?” she muttered. “I hardly got any sleep in this heat.”

He pulled her arm forcefully, “Get up off your lazy rear end and make my breakfast!”

Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she reluctantly sat up and put her feet on the carpet. Every morning for the last year, she cursed the day she married Eric Masterson. Sure, he was handsome and affluent, but he was also spoiled rotten and demanding.

Never mind that she spent her very busy days at her real estate office or out showing property to clients, she had to be up at the crack of dawn to make Eric breakfast exactly the way he wanted it so he could go to the gym before arriving at his office before anyone else. Dinner had to be on the table the minute he got home and the house simply must remain immaculate to suit him. On more than one occasion she’d suggested that they hire a maid or maybe one of those personal chefs who come in and cook for busy two-career households, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Instead he’d slap the weekly menu he’d created to the refrigerator with a Clay Realty magnet as a reminder of the meals he wanted served for the week.

“My mom managed to keep the house clean and have food on the table for my dad and all us kids, I don’t see why you can’t handle it,” he barked.

“Your mother didn’t work outside the home,” Gabrielle reasoned, shuffling to the kitchen with her eyes half closed and opened the refrigerator to pull out a carton of eggs and a package of bacon.

“Oh, yes she did. She volunteered at the hospital and kept up with all the family activities we were involved in as kids. We don’t even have any children for you to run after. What are you going to do when the kids start coming? You can’t be this lazy then!”

Gabrielle just rolled her eyes, set the food on the counter and rummaged in search of a frying pan so she could make Prince Eric’s breakfast. I hate him she muttered under her breath when he’d turned the corner into the bedroom. I really do hate him. The thought of having children with him reminded her of one very important daily routine. She reached for her purse, walked toward the bedroom to make sure Eric had shut himself in the bathroom, and took the pill.

"Bull, if I’m having your kids," she muttered. The first chance she got, she’d decided she’d call her lawyer and get out of this mess she’d gotten herself into. She had no desire to be stuck with Eric for the rest of her life, trying to get child support out of him. She didn’t even want alimony. The big client she had an appointment with today was just the deal she needed to free herself from Eric Masterson once and for all. If she could land Harold Everett’s business for his five million dollar office complex and find a buyer, she’d walk out the door and never look back.

Out of habit, Gabrielle timed the eggs, bacon and toast to hit Eric’s plate just as he emerged from the bedroom wearing his suit and tie. He set his briefcase and gym bag on the floor and slipped into a chair at the table. Gabrielle rolled her eyes and headed for the bedroom. She never could understand why he bothered to dress up in his suit before he went to work out. Why didn’t he just wear his sweats to the gym and carry his suit? Probably because the prestigious Eric Masterson couldn’t be seen out of his impeccable Armani in public!

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” he queried as she slipped back into bed.

“No, it’s too early to eat,” she grumbled.

“Don’t you have a big meeting with Harold Everett today? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for that?”

“It’s not until two-thirty.”

“Ah,” Eric nodded his head smugly and smiled. Gabrielle, who had rolled over on her side with her back to Eric, didn’t see the expression, or she would have wondered why he’d be so happy. Normally, he wouldn’t care in the least about her work, much less be happy about any possible success that may lay in her future.

Eric finished his breakfast in silence and then rose from his chair, folded his morning paper, and called back toward the bedroom, “Don’t forget that the repairman’s coming to fix the air conditioner between four-thirty and five today.”

“Yeah, I know!” she called then grumbled under her breath, “How could I forget?” She shuffled her feet inside the sheet and brushed her hair away from her face.

Eric carried his bag and briefcase to the door and stepped out. Then as an afterthought, he poked his head back in the door and called, “And it’s lasagna tonight. I’ll be home around six-thirty.”

“I know,” Gabrielle replied monotonously. The door shut.

Finally, he was out of her hair! She released a sigh and the tension in her body escaped with the expulsion of air. Every morning it was the same routine - up at the crack of dawn to make Eric’s breakfast and then the exultant sigh as he left for the day. How she’d hung on married to him this long, she didn’t know. It was her stubborn pride, she supposed. Not so stubborn and proud that she wanted to make her marriage work, just too stubborn to leave the marriage dependant upon Eric Masterson for her existence. She wanted to stand on her own two feet and cut all ties with Eric – no alimony, no need to ever come in contact with him again. And today’s meeting was the answer to her prayers.

Gabrielle’s mind went to work on what she’d say to Mr. Everett later that afternoon. She’d already had several lunch meetings with him, and she felt certain the older gentleman would sign a contract with her. The do-it-yourself-entrepreneurial type, Harold Everett had tried selling the building himself for six months with no luck. While Eric insisted that Everett would never hire a dinky one-woman show like Gabrielle’s when he could have a high-powered Columbia agency, Gabrielle knew different. She’d done her homework well enough to know that Mr. Everett admired the little guy. He’d give her a shot. She could feel it in her bones. The old man liked her.

Getting the contract with Everett was the first step. Then, once she had a buyer on the line and the deal closed, she’d leave Eric for good. Sure, she’d miss the house on the lake. She’d worked long and hard to find a place like this one. She’d even done some sweet talking with Eric to get him to agree to the house. But if she could have her freedom, she’d sacrifice it. Maybe Eric would put it on the market eventually and she’d reacquire it someday. Unable to sleep, Gabrielle kicked off the sheet and went for a shower.

~*~