Sunday evening
It wasn’t until the sun was setting—low over the lake, casting gold and orange hues over the landscape as though Midas had taken a long, luxurious walk through the surrounding property and been unable to control his need to affect—that Mason considered moving. Water rippled lazily, the leaves flicked in a breeze that was quickly cooling and the loons mournfully warned of the approach of both mosquito and dusk. His thoughts were on starting the barbeque before either of those things proved true, but it was hard to force himself away from the view. Not of the massive pines or the delicate birch, not even the wildlife poking out of the underbrush for an occasional peek. It was the sprawled and mostly naked form that draped itself over the almost-fully lowered deck chair across
