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times, then dives in. She emerges a moment later and straps in, readies herself behind the boat at the end of the line.
    “Hmm. Poor swimmer, huh?” I mumble to myself, and my father laughs. He took her seriously as I did on being a weak swimmer. He glances my way, a rare smile across his face. He’s in his element and glad, for the moment, that the underage eye candy is in the water and out of sight.
    Natalie water-skis for what feels like a short time, as I savor every moment from the back of the boat with a cold drink in my hands. My father gets on the skis, and Natalie and I get to talk, just us. We agree the lake is perfect, that the new boat is amazing and there couldn’t be a better way to spend the holiday.
    I take a turn on the skis and surprise myself at the decency of my efforts—Christel coaches me on how to balance, making the difference. Natalie applauds me for trying and my father affirms, in thought, that Natalie did much better than me. We decide to anchor and grab lunch at the marina, which is wonderful. Stuffed, we return to the boat and I drive us for a scenic tour. My father falls asleep at the bow, stretched out with his feet resting on the rail.
    Natalie and I are physically drained from the day and happy to relax, take in the surroundings. The party that is the lake on the holiday is in full swing, with boats crowding in all areas, no signs of weariness. We catch the wake of two cigarette boats blasting by and the ride gets bumpy. Natalie grabs the rail and screams like she’s on a roller coaster, a strain to keep in the seat. The wake passes, and I hit the throttle. Smooth and fast, we make for the other side of the lake. Once we get close, I kill the engine and drift awhile, and then drop the anchor in a little cove that is well populated, but not impossible to maneuver. With my father asleep at the front and Natalie alone at the back, I hardly need to think about what to do next.
    We take a swim. Float awhile. Engage in a splash fight, which is decisively childish fun. We check on my father, asleep on the deck. Natalie insists we put up an umbrella, so he doesn’t burn, lying there in the sun. Of course, we have one.
    Sitting at the back together, Natalie’s legs are bent at the knees and her feet find a cozy spot on my lap. She loves to have her feet rubbed and I take well to giving foot massages, rubbing each painted toe. She smiles at me when it tickles and even when it doesn’t.
    “You did well on the skis,” I say.
    “So did you,” she says, laughing a little, because she thinks I looked like a fish out of water.
    “Glad to know I was funny.”
    “You’re tickling me. I wasn’t laughing at you. I won’t do that.”
    I continue to rub and we enjoy each other’s company in silence a few moments. The waves slap against the anchored boat and rock us side to side. The wind is gentle at this time of day and the sun is intense on our shoulders. The lake is crowded with boats as far as the eyes can see, yet it feels like it’s just Natalie and me.
    This can’t get better.
    Fondle her.
    My hands stop moving on her feet and I take in our surroundings, which consist of a large number of boaters, close by, filled with people. The fast-moving boats are a fair distance away, past the large orange buoys, at least three hundred yards. My eyes return to Natalie’s face, watching me with her lips parted; her stare is sweet, but focused. My eyes trickle to her chest as the thought dances to a tempting beat. My eyes return to meet hers, hoping for an answer, a sign—something. She smiles slowly, faintly. She licks her lips and pushes wet hair back, and then shifts her knees. Her eyes are fixed on me, as if she’s reading me. Willing me to say the right thing. Waiting.
    She will love it. She is wearing that for you.
    I feel my face flush a little and nausea hits me, as the movement of the boat bothers me, all of a sudden.
    “You okay?” Natalie says, retracting her feet and leaning toward