Lost Lake House by Elisabeth Grace Foley

get wet. Your dress is thin as paper and you’ve got nothing
on your arms. Want to catch pneumonia?”
    Dorothy accepted the sweater meekly, not
entirely displeased by his solicitousness. Marshall ducked into the
woods, and she heard the snapping of twigs and rustle of branches
as he moved away, and then silence.
    Dorothy put the sweater on, and looked up
from her perch on the stump at the radiant moon above her. The tang
of pine was in the chill air; the silver moon etched the peaked
black tops of the pine trees sharply against the deep-blue sky.
Somewhere at hand, an owl hooted up in the trees; a muted,
surreptitious sound like a secret signal. This, Dorothy thought,
was real adventure…this was living real life.
    She huddled a little closer in the depths of
the sweater, a thick knitted pullover too big for her, with the
faint scents of wood and lake seeming to cling about it, still warm
from being worn by its owner. Dorothy folded her arms again inside
it, almost a little shyly. Her mind drifted back to the warm
feeling of Marshall’s hands holding hers. How different from Sloop
Jackson’s moist white hand that only made her want to pull away.
Marshall was different…he was only an ordinary boy; he didn’t have
the smooth manners or sophistication of Sloop Jackson and his
ilk…and yet somehow she had felt safe with him all that night.
    She heard footsteps in the woods, and a
moment later Marshall was with her again. “All clear,” he said.
“Let’s go.”
    Dorothy got up and he pushed back a heavy
pine branch for her to duck into the trees. There was a narrow
footpath, barely visible in bits of moonlight and perilous with
twisted tree roots, and they pushed their way through this for
several rods. It gave way to a faint dirt track made by automobile
tires, and here an old jalopy was pulled off to one side under the
pine trees. Marshall opened the door for her and Dorothy got
in.
    “You’ll have to tell me where to go once we
get around the lake,” he said as he opened the other door and got
into the driver’s seat.
    “It’s 133 King Street. It’s a brick house,
on a corner; it’s easy to find.”
    Marshall wrestled with the clutch of the
jalopy for a moment, and Dorothy inspected the wet wreck of her
shoes by a beam of moonlight with detached curiosity. This had to
be the most complete ruin of a pair of shoes ever effected, even by
her.
    “Dad’s going to like you,” she remarked.
“Bringing him home his wayward daughter, and a tip on the biggest
speakeasy in the city, all in one night!”
    Marshall, on the verge of achieving victory
with the clutch, let it go and turned to stare at her, in utter
bewilderment. He said, “Who are you?”
    “I told you, Dorothy Perkins. Alderman
Perkins is my father.”
    For a long moment Marshall was without
speech. Then he leaned back against the seat and began to laugh
quietly. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
    “I guess this must be my lucky night,” he
said. He sat up and reached for the ignition—and added, with a
glance at Dorothy, “I hope he does like me.”
    Dorothy considered for a moment what
particular significance this remark held, but could not arrive at
any wholly definite conclusion. So she let it go for the present,
and scrunched down against the burst moth-eaten cushions of the old
jalopy, snuggling comfortably into her borrowed sweater.
    Marshall started the jalopy, which responded
with a valiant choking rattle, and turned it into the bumpy track,
long pine branches sweeping against the doors. The silver-blue
moonlight filtered down through the trees over them, and the cool
night wind came fresh in their faces as they pulled up the winding
dirt road away from the lake.

 
VII

     
    On a mellow evening a week later, Alderman
Perkins stood on the front porch of his house and contemplated a
tranquil street. The front door stood open behind him, admitting
the soft air to the house through a screen door; the street was
streaming with