Rosalind Seivers waded out into the lake, pushing the pedal boat ahead of her. The water on her feet was delightfully cool, not quite 80 degrees but comfortable above 75. She took three more steps and then swung her legs over the side of the boat. Her feet engaged the pedals and in no time she was beyond the dock and heading for deeper water. The beds in the cottage were unmade, the breakfast dishes still in the sink, and she had yet to give any thought to lunch. But the spectacular weather virtually demanded that she forget her chores and have some fun. What is more, she had the morning to herself. Len had taken the twins to a miniature golf course, and it was doubtful that they would be back until noon. On a beautiful day like this, she would inevitably be sharing the lake with others. She could see a Sunfish over near the bluff, and two water skiers were also in sight, one a veritable whirling dervish, the other a novice straining to remain upright. But for the moment they were far enough away that she thought it safe to remove the top of her bathing suit and pretend that she had the lake to herself. Len would tell her to cover up, but he was twenty miles and more than half an hour away. She dropped the small green and gold bra on the bench beside her, enjoying the thrill that came with this impulsive act of vacation bravado. It was the third summer in a row that they had rented the old fishing cottage on Rainbow Point, and the first of the three that had rewarded them with near perfect weather. The last two unseasonably chilly and rainy Julys had almost persuaded them to try someplace else, nut they had convinced themselves that the law of averages would prevail. And it had. Rosalind stopped pedaling and leaned back, her eyes studying a row of cumulus clouds which seemed to be marching across the bluff in an otherwise clear blue sky. The sound of an engine caught her attention and she looked around to see if a powerboat was approaching her from the direction of West Branch. There was no one anywhere near the pedal boat, and it was quickly apparent that the sound she was hearing was coming from the sky, not the water. The seaplane was still over a mile away, but it was heading down the lake in her direction and flying at no more than five hundred feet above the lake surface. Probably a small charter that took people fora ride around the lake. Rosalind watched it approach, imagining what a wonderful view of the lake and the surrounding fields and vineyards she would have if she were its passenger. There came a moment when it occurred to her that she would also be among the attractions visible to anyone on the plane. She picked up her bathing suit top and busied herself covering her breasts. The small plane was on a path that would take it almost directly over her. It was at almost the exact second that she succeeded in fastening the hook on her bra that she realized that the plane was heading for a landing on the water. She stopped pedaling, worried that the pilot may not have seen her. The plane roared past her, now in what looked like a steep dive. And then it happened, so suddenly and so close to the pedal boat that Rosalind was frozen in disbelieving shock. The plane struck the water and appeared to flip over, its pontoons stripped off by the force of the impact. It took her some time to snap out of it, to process the information that she had been terribly lucky, and that somebody else, perhaps more than one somebody else, would no longer be enjoying the beautiful summer day.
|