Lady of the Island

Jarl popped the lid on his beer, shifted his shoulders until they found a comfortable spot in the chaise longue and put on his sunglasses.Laziness was a neglected art form. He was fussy on the subject. The Detroit Tigers cap -- from the year they'd won the pennant -- was essential to a good lazy mood. So were fifteen-year-old cutoffs, bare feet and adjusting one's body to get a precise, perfect angle of the sun.He tipped his cap to shade his eyes, lifted the beer to his lips and surveyed the king's domain in front of him. The fif-teen acres surrounding the petal-shaped cove were his. Most Michigan inland lakes were heavily populated by summer vacationers, but not Clover.Jarl could taste the privacy, and he could smell the clipped grass and deep green woods behind his cottage. Water liplapped at the shore like a sleepy man's surf, and the sun was hot -- July hot. A few white frosting clouds danced across the sky. The water was a clear, clean blue and cold enough for trout potential.Diverting his attention -- as it always did -- was the egg-shaped island in the middle of the lake. His curiosity about the deserted island had mildly nagged at him since he'd bought his property. He could see that its shores were a weed-tangled mess of scrub trees and sumac. He could glimpse a rooftop of a fairly large building on the east end. A falling-down peach orchard dominated the west side. Max, at the bait shop, had told him once that the property used to be a Boy Scout camp years before and also that the property wasn't for sale.Someone had to own it, but Jarl had never seen anyone on or near it. He debated whether he could swim the distance -- it couldn't be more than a mile -- but the lake was chopped-ice cold and posed cramp potential for even an experienced swimmer. He could row across to explore, of course, but that involved no challenge at all.Challenges, however, were not supposed to be on his mind. Laziness was. Chugalugging the last of the beer, he closed his eyes, aware that he was bored out of his mind. Other people did this on vacation all the time, didn't they? Sat. Did nothing. Enjoyed solitude and peace and inactivity without a qualm of workaholic-flavored guilt.A bee buzzed by. He had a short staring contest with the fat yellow jacket, which then deserted him for the wild pansies at the edge of the woods.Seven more minutes ticked by, then eight. He'd nearly managed an hour of sitting still when he heard a bird's panicked cry. She cried a second time. Mildly swearing at the interruption -- token swearing, as he'd have paid a fly for an excuse to move -- he lurched out of the lounger. Again he heard the bird's mournful, desperate cry, but it took him a moment to spot the peek of velvet gray in the choked green bush.Greene, Jennifer is the author of 'Lady of the Island', published 2006 under ISBN 9780373470754 and ISBN 0373470754.