Free Summer at Forsaken Lake by Michael D. Beil Page B

the paper.
    “Mornin’, champ,” said Nick. “Did you get some breakfast?”
    “In a minute. I, um, wanted to ask you about something.”
    Nick lowered the newspaper. “You saw it, didn’t you? The 2:53—that’s what I call it.”
    Nicholas’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”
    “Heard the screen door bang against the frame and looked over at the clock in my room. When I saw the time, I knew.”
    “So you
do
believe in it?”
    “Well, I believe that you saw a sailboat out your window. However, I believe that there’s a perfectly logical explanation for it. What happened when you got down to the lake?”
    Nicholas shrugged. “It was gone. I thought maybe I dreamt the whole thing.”
    “Do you remember anything about the boat?”
    “It was a little smaller than
Goblin
, I think, but it did have a cabin. Normal-looking, I guess. I only saw it for a few seconds. Then the moon went behind some clouds and that was it.”
    “Sounds about right,” said Nick. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Lillie never saw it again; you probably won’t, either.”
    * * *
    An hour later, as a delightful offshore breeze ruffled the water,
Goblin
paced impatiently at her mooring, like a dog on a leash waiting for its morning walk. But Nicholas and Charlie had turned their attention to
Imp
, which they had carefully lowered from the hayloft with a little help from Charlie’s teammates Zack Cooper and Ryan Crenshaw and the ancient block and tackle that Uncle Nick set up and operated. They were determined to finish the job that Nicholas’s father had started so long ago, even though it meant sacrificing precious sailing time aboard
Goblin
.
    They set the boat upside down on some boards inside the barn and wedged a block of wood under each side to keep it from tipping every time they leaned on it. Uncle Nick supplied them with a shopping bag full of sandpaper and showed them how to sand with the grain of the wood, starting with coarse sandpaper and gradually using finer and finer grit. The wood seemed to come to life with just a few strokes, and the dull gray-brown surface quickly began to show signs of its original color and grain.
    Zack and Ryan were supposed to stick around to help out with the sanding, but bolted when they realized that sanding was actual work.
    “Sorry, Charlie, but I don’t do physical labor,” said Zack. “Helping you move the boat is one thing, butstanding there with sandpaper in my hand and breathing in all that sawdust, which is probably toxic? No way.”

    Nicholas scoffed under his breath, “And you called
me
a city boy.”
    “Uh, have fun, guys,” said Ryan. “See you Saturday, Charlie. Softball game over at the field by my house.”
    “You should come, too, Nicholas,” said Zack. “Don’t worry, you can be on Charlie’s team—that way you don’t have to worry about her striking you out again.”
    “Hilarious,” muttered Nicholas as they hopped on their bikes and rode off.
    “Don’t let Zack get to you. He’s like that to everybody. And if it’s any consolation, he can’t hit my curve, either.”
    * * *
    For the next hour, they sanded and sweated, and sweated and sanded, in the dim light of the barn. Hearing a noise in the back of the barn, Nicholas moved closer to Charlie and whispered, “Don’t turn around. We’re being watched.”
    She grinned at him from across the hull. “I
thought
those little monkeys were being awfully quiet. Where are they?”
    “Behind the tractor. They must have snuck in the side door.”
    “I should, like, kiss you or something. Really give them their money’s worth.”
    Nicholas laughed nervously. “Yeah, that would be … I have a better idea, though. You just stay here; keep sanding.” Then he added, loudly, “I’ll be right back. I need to get something from Uncle Nick,” and walked out of the barn toward the house. Instead of going inside, though, he ran around the barn to the side door, next to Charlie’s painted strike zone. He