I climb the wooden staircase, solar pathway lights tracing my route and exposing the sloping garden and walkway up to the house as I trek, unable to think of anything but Rory. My mind swirls in the heat of that kiss—but then chills as I remember Tim, or whatever his name is, watching from the house across the lake.
Was he even watching us?
I quicken my pace up the balcony steps and slide my key into the lock.
When I walk into the lit house, I hear, “Lakefront door open,” chirping from the entryway’s speaker, and I jump. My mind rushes back to last night, another chill shivering up my spine.
“Amelia?” I call.
No response. She must not be home yet.
The house is cold. I hurry to my bedroom, flipping the big light on and undressing. I move toward the window, shedding my bra and barely noticing the blinds are open. But I don’t care, as the only way anyone could see me would be through binoculars.
Or a telescope.
Next to the window, a sofa chair holds my open bag, clothes spilling out. I’m digging for black sweats and a cashmere sweater when my eye catches movement down in the yard.
Still topless, I peer down at the English knot garden on our slanted hill. Rory stands on the stone path, holding my cardigan. The one soaked in wine from the boat. I must have left it behind.
Our eyes lock. I watch his gaze travel over me, lingering on what’s exposed: my breasts to my belly button. My body hums with desire, aching to be touched by him. In a sudden decision, I wiggle my index finger to say:Come here.
Rory moves with calm confidence, disappearing toward the balcony stairs. And I hear a door open.
“Front door open,” Robot Woman says.
“It’s me!” Amelia calls.
Fuck.
She doesn’t even know she’s destroying my movie moment.
“Hey!” I shout back, throwing on clothes as fast as possible. I run to the living room as Amelia drops her purse on the kitchen counter.
“You okay?” she asks, hurriedly crossing the room toward me. “I was worried about you being alone.”
I look at the balcony to find it empty. No Rory.
After a pause, I stutter, “U-uh, yeah, all good. I just got home.”
Amelia passes me and speed-walks toward the hallway. “From where?” she asks enthusiastically. “Actually, hold that thought. I have to pee so bad,” she adds, running now.
As I move to the balcony, Rory appears behind the glass door.
“Hey,” I say, opening it. I scrunch my nose. “So… my sister just got home. Just now.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding slowly. “I understand.” He holds out my damp cardigan.
“To be continued?” I tease, gazing up at him.
“I hope so,” Rory says mischievously, before stepping across the balcony and down toward the dock.
11
Through the window, he watched her, his beloved Imogen, her evening unfolding like a private performance meant solely for him. He had followed the rhythm of her day, studied the minutiae of her solitude as she carefully packed boxes. He watched in admiration as Imogen Bly took a stroll, fitted in dark pants and a sweater showcasing her midriff. The authority in her gait thrilled and consumed him; the soft curl in her long hair, flowing behind her with the subtle blow of wind.
When she descended the Holloways’ lakefront staircase, clopping down the worn wooden steps, the man momentarily departed his post at the window to breathe the same air she did—cold, pine-needled—as he concealed himself behind the trunk of a western hemlock, standing on jagged rocks to gain full access to the scene.
Who was with her? Who had dared to accompany her?
