mattress. Rose did not allow candy in their rooms, worried about their teeth, but of course they had found a way around that rule, and anyway were dutiful about the tooth-brushing after. Madison cracked it into two and handed half to her sister.
“Look how nice I’m being to you,” she said, lying back against the pillows and taking a giant bite of the chocolate, which crunched satisfactorily in her mouth.
“Only because I’d tell on you if you didn’t,” her twin retorted.
Giggling, the girls sank back against their pillows, then all of a sudden the tall windows overlooking the lake, which had been left open to catch the breeze, shimmered rosy-pink. They jerked upright, staring at this phenomenon as it darkened to coral then to a fiery red. And then came the explosion that rattled the entire house, shattering their windows, sending the cat hissing under the bed and the dog out the door and down the stairs, with the twins, screaming, after it, and their brother Roman not far behind.
7
Evening Lake, 3 A.M. , Diz Osborne
Eleven-year-old Diz Osborne was sitting on the branch of the fig tree that stretched almost all the way to his bedroom window. The tree, he’d decided, must be thirty, maybe fifty years old, broad in the trunk like the prow of an old sailing ship except with sprawling solid branches and enough footholds and grips to accommodate a snoopy little kid like him. It was the end of summer and he couldn’t sleep. TV was forbidden, his iPad confiscated, and there was nothing to do but crawl out on his branch and contemplate the silent night.
Much earlier that evening though, around sevenish, just as dusk was falling, there had been a ruffle of “excitement” when he’d observed through his ever-present binoculars the blond girl from the lake house opposite emerge stealthily from her own window. He’d wondered why she had not used the door, then decided obviously she did not want to be seen. She was holding two large plastic bags, carrying them carefully in front of her.
Diz had watched her run, crouching low, to the narrow strip of shore, climb into the small boat beached there, place the bags in the stern, then row her way across to the island a couple of hundred yards away where he’d observed her get out, take her plastic bags, and disappear into the bushes.
She’d emerged a short time later without the bags and gotten back into the boat. Pushing off, she rowed expertly, with hardly a rustle of water, he’d noticed admiringly, back to the coarse sandy shore where she beached the craft. Diz had watched her walk back to her house, keeping to the cover of the trees, and climb back in through the kitchen window.
At the same time, something else, a movement, had made him glance back at the island. Surprisingly, he’d seen a man there. He couldn’t quite make out who the man was, but now he was carrying the white plastic bags. Diz watched him wade to a waiting dinghy and row slowly out of sight.
At the time, Diz had wondered what the two were up to, what was in the bags, whether they’d had a secret rendezvous. He’d shrugged it off. Girls were a mystery. It probably had something to do with sex. It always did. At least with his sisters it did.
Actually, even though it was now 3 A.M. it wasn’t totally silent. Not many people knew it but there was always something doing at night. No hooty owls and dumb country stuff like that, but a lot of slithering and grunting went on when the rest of the world was safely asleep in their beds. Voles rustled through the grass escaping the talons of the silent, watchful owls; rats scratched in the wooden boathouse, shredding it to bits, his father complained, but then his father was always complaining about something these days. More interestingly, a set of badgers gleamed in the dark like they were headlamps, making Diz wonder how they could not expect to be noticed by other, more predatory creatures.
Just went to show you, he thought, picking another
“Look how nice I’m being to you,” she said, lying back against the pillows and taking a giant bite of the chocolate, which crunched satisfactorily in her mouth.
“Only because I’d tell on you if you didn’t,” her twin retorted.
Giggling, the girls sank back against their pillows, then all of a sudden the tall windows overlooking the lake, which had been left open to catch the breeze, shimmered rosy-pink. They jerked upright, staring at this phenomenon as it darkened to coral then to a fiery red. And then came the explosion that rattled the entire house, shattering their windows, sending the cat hissing under the bed and the dog out the door and down the stairs, with the twins, screaming, after it, and their brother Roman not far behind.
7
Evening Lake, 3 A.M. , Diz Osborne
Eleven-year-old Diz Osborne was sitting on the branch of the fig tree that stretched almost all the way to his bedroom window. The tree, he’d decided, must be thirty, maybe fifty years old, broad in the trunk like the prow of an old sailing ship except with sprawling solid branches and enough footholds and grips to accommodate a snoopy little kid like him. It was the end of summer and he couldn’t sleep. TV was forbidden, his iPad confiscated, and there was nothing to do but crawl out on his branch and contemplate the silent night.
Much earlier that evening though, around sevenish, just as dusk was falling, there had been a ruffle of “excitement” when he’d observed through his ever-present binoculars the blond girl from the lake house opposite emerge stealthily from her own window. He’d wondered why she had not used the door, then decided obviously she did not want to be seen. She was holding two large plastic bags, carrying them carefully in front of her.
Diz had watched her run, crouching low, to the narrow strip of shore, climb into the small boat beached there, place the bags in the stern, then row her way across to the island a couple of hundred yards away where he’d observed her get out, take her plastic bags, and disappear into the bushes.
She’d emerged a short time later without the bags and gotten back into the boat. Pushing off, she rowed expertly, with hardly a rustle of water, he’d noticed admiringly, back to the coarse sandy shore where she beached the craft. Diz had watched her walk back to her house, keeping to the cover of the trees, and climb back in through the kitchen window.
At the same time, something else, a movement, had made him glance back at the island. Surprisingly, he’d seen a man there. He couldn’t quite make out who the man was, but now he was carrying the white plastic bags. Diz watched him wade to a waiting dinghy and row slowly out of sight.
At the time, Diz had wondered what the two were up to, what was in the bags, whether they’d had a secret rendezvous. He’d shrugged it off. Girls were a mystery. It probably had something to do with sex. It always did. At least with his sisters it did.
Actually, even though it was now 3 A.M. it wasn’t totally silent. Not many people knew it but there was always something doing at night. No hooty owls and dumb country stuff like that, but a lot of slithering and grunting went on when the rest of the world was safely asleep in their beds. Voles rustled through the grass escaping the talons of the silent, watchful owls; rats scratched in the wooden boathouse, shredding it to bits, his father complained, but then his father was always complaining about something these days. More interestingly, a set of badgers gleamed in the dark like they were headlamps, making Diz wonder how they could not expect to be noticed by other, more predatory creatures.
Just went to show you, he thought, picking another
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