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little steam to open.
    “You just sounded a little sad.”
    “You have a very good ear.”
    I let it drop then, as I would with Tim. In his own time, I thought, and then wondered why I had such curiosity. I really didn't know him well enough to be so invested in caring. Except that every night I could hear his music, not the jingle stuff, real music, float toward me across the expanse of the lake. Music so evocative it made me think I knew him.
    We lay down, not talking, just enjoying the subtle rock of the ten-by-ten raft in the slightly choppy lake.
    “Cleo, assuming the electricity stays out for a long time, would you like to take a hike?”
    “Are you telling me to take a hike, mister?”
    Ben rolled over and propped his head on his hand, “No, a hike up that hill,” and he pointed north. I would probably call what he pointed to a mountain, but I know that in New Hampshire they have different standards than we Rhode Islanders do about elevation.
    “Love to.”
    “It's a good day's hike.”
    “It's a good day for it.”
    It was only about nine-thirty when we met on the raft, so we planned to meet at the boat ramp at ten. I put together a knapsack of clean socks, bottled water, and Band-Aids. We'd agreed to buy sandwiches on the drive there, so the trip began to look like a picnic. I was unaccountably excited. I thought maybe because it felt kind of like a snow day. But there was a different tang to the excitement than just that. I was excited about being friends with Ben. Pals. Sean and I had a lot of couple friends, and I was blessed with terrific girlfriends in my sisters-in-law. And Grace, queen of best friends. But I'd seldom been friends with boys. Girls' schools, a girl-filled neighborhood, no cousins. I guess that Sean was my first boy friend, and, soon after, boyfriend. I remembered so clearly that first flush of excitement at making that friend, of hanging out together and the slow evolution to love. Of course, that wasn't what was happening now. With Benson Turner I'd just have the first part of that journey. The fun part.
    I was actually surprised to see the number of cars in the trailhead parking lot, somehow it had seemed like a unique idea to spend a June Wednesday climbing a hill. We got out of my car and shouldered our packs, my schoolgirlish Eastpak a poor cousin to the big L.L. Bean on Ben's back. “I thought this was a day trip, Ben.”
    “My scoutmaster instilled the rules of ‘be prepared’ in me a long time ago.” I caught the little glint of mischief in the corners of his mouth.
    “Somehow I think you're telling me the truth.”
    “Always truthful. After you, ma'am.”
    “That would be the ‘courteous’ rule, right?”
    “No, the self-protective rule. There's bears up there, lady. You go first.”
    The banter was so easy, so comfortable and natural, it seemed as though we knew each other from long association. I kept getting the feeling that we were like passengers on a commuter bus, habitually sharing a seat, sharing a little banter, but knowing very little about each other. I couldn't express what that bus was or where it was going, but I latched on to the sensation and gave over to it. I'd find out where we were going soon enough, and whether we had more than a bus seat in common.
    Initially, the trek was pretty easy, a slow graduation in elevation, easy on the thighs, comfortable on calves. We chatted along the way, our pace fast enough to pass other hikers taking more leisurely walks. I don't think our quick pace was intentional, more a result of Ben's long stride and my natural tendency to move quickly. We winded ourselves pretty soon, just as the trail narrowed and we were forced to climb up a series of natural steps created out of roots and rocks. The mosquitoes and the deer flies began to torment us as we began to sweat.
    “Hold up for a minute, Cleo. Reach into my pack and find the bug spray.”
    He squatted a little so that I could reach deep into the outside pocket of