Blue Moon Bride. Renee Roszel

of his business, but the conversation between the two women nagged.

      He thought of Joan as a nice, if eccentric woman, and though he tried to numb his emotions, especially soft ones like pity, empathy or love, he felt sorry for her. He even experienced an urge to help. He sensed she would be too proud to accept charity. She couldn’t even accept that she had financial trouble. So, how might he be of assistance?

      He stood, lifted his mug from the doilied end table, ambled aimlessly into the lobby and out the front door onto the wide porch. After a few minutes, he found himself on the lakeside of the inn, strolling along a gravel path through towering walnut, oak and pecan trees on his way toward the shoreline. He recalled so well, as a child, times he had dashed, barefoot, to the water’s edge. On the run, he’d thrown himself into a racing dive, skimming the shallows to gain deeper water beyond the cove. Today Grand Lake teamed with speedboats, large and small, plus sailboats and little wave-runners, buzzing all over the lake like water-bound motorcycles. The cove wasn’t buoyed to warn boaters away. Swimmers venturing too far out onto the lake these days would be foolhardy.

      Yet, with the buffering cove, a sense of privacy and sanctuary endured, just as it had in his boyhood. Around the bend, Roth knew where the water deepened enough for docks. His family never owned a motorboat, just a rowboat. So they had no use for a fancy dock. Wondering if anyone had put in a dock, he veered off the lawn into the woods, deciding to see for himself. He had a feeling no one had, or there would be a clearing through the heavy underbrush.

      When he reached the spot and came out of the trees, he picked his way down a rocky slope toward the lake. The sunshine felt good; the air smelled fresh with the cool breeze coming off the water. He experienced a spark of exhilaration, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

      “What if…” He reached a rocky ledge and leaned against a huge old oak. He remembered this tree, and this ledge. As a youth he had dived into the deep water a thousand times from this very spot. He smiled at the recollection. After a time of quiet contemplation, his mind began to teem with hints, sketches of the potential for what might be a promising adventure. An adventure that would not only benefit him, but would put Joan Peterson’s financial troubles to rest for good and all.

      His enthusiasm grew as his vision became more and more solid in his mind. This was exactly what he needed, the creative redemption of his soul. The very reason he came back to his childhood home.

      He caught sight of a crane, its snowy wings spread wide as it circled above the calm, blue water. With a laugh, he shouted out, “Who says you can’t go home again?”