canoe down the sandy slope to the beach, but launching it was another matter, involving wet feet and a teetering lunge into a wobbly and uncooperative craft. When he finally seated himself in the stern and glided across the smooth glistening water, he sensed a glorious mix of exhilaration and peace.
He remembered Aunt Fanny's advice and turned the high bow, which rose out of the water considerably, to follow the shore. A moment later a gust of offshore wind caught the bow, and the canoe swiveled around and headed for open water, but its course was quickly corrected when the breeze abated. He paddled past deserted beaches and lonely dunes topped with tall pines. Farther on was the Top o' the Dunes Club, a row of substantial vacation houses. He fancied the occupants watching and envying him. Two of them waved from their porches.
The offshore breeze sprang up again, riffling the water. The bow swung around like a weathervane, and the canoe skimmed in the direction of Canada a hundred miles away.
Qwilleran summoned all his remembered skills, but nothing worked until the wind subsided again.
He was now farther from shore than appeared wise, and he tried to turn back, but he was out of the lee of the land, and the offshore gusts were persistent, swiveling the bow and making the canoe unmanageable. He paddled frantically, digging the paddle in the water without plan or purpose, desperately trying to turn the canoe. It only drifted farther out, all the while spinning crazily in water that was becoming choppy.
He had lost control completely. Should he jump overboard and swim for shore and let the canoe go? He was not a competent swimmer, and he remembered the reputation of the icy lake. There was no time to lose. Every second took him farther from shore. He was on the verge of panic.
"Back-paddle!" came a voice riding on the wind. "Back-paddle. . . back-paddle!"
Yes! Of course! That was the trick. He reversed his stroke, and while the bow still pointed north the canoe made gradual progress toward shore. Once in the lee of the land, he was able to turn the canoe and head for the beach.
A man and a woman were standing on the sand watching him, the man holding a bullhorn.
They shouted encouragement, and he beached the canoe at their feet.
"We were really worried about you," the woman said. "I was about to call the helicopter." She laughed nervously.
The man said: "You need a little more practice before you try for the Olympics."
Qwilleran was breathing heavily, but he managed to thank them.
"You must be Mr. Qwilleran," the woman said. She was middle-aged, buxom, and dressed in fashionable resortwear. "I'm Mildred Hanstable, Roger's mother-in-law, and this is our next-door neighbor, Buford Dunfield."
"Call me Buck," said the neighbor.
"Call me Qwill."
They shook hands. "You need a drink," Buck said. "Come on up to the house. Mildred, how about you?"
"Thanks, Buck, but I've got a meat loaf in the oven. Stanley is coming to dinner tonight."
"I want to thank you for the turkey," Qwilleran said. "It made great sandwiches. A sandwich is about the extent of my culinary expertise."
Mildred laughed heartily at that and then said: "I don't suppose you found a bracelet at your cabin—a gold chain bracelet?"
"No, but I'll look for it."
"Otherwise it could have dropped off when I was walking on the beach."
"In that case," Buck said, "it's gone forever."
Mildred gave a hollow laugh. "If the waves don't get it, those girls will."
The two men climbed the dune to the cottage. Buck was a well-built man with plentiful gray hair and an authoritative manner. He spoke in a powerful voice that went well with a bullhorn. "I'm sure glad to see that fog let up," he said. "How long are you going to be up here?"
"All summer. Do you get fog very often?"
"A bad one? Three or four times a season. We go to Texas in the winter."
The cottage was a modern redwood with a deck overlooking the lake and glass doors leading into a littered living