Skinny Dipping Season by Cynthia Tennent Page B

Then I noticed where I had drifted. Behind him was the A-frame house. A path from the deck to the lake led to where he stood.
    â€œTell me you don’t live here.”
    â€œI could tell you that, but it wouldn’t be true. What’s the matter? Is it so strange to consider that I actually have a life outside of the Sheriff’s Department?”
    I pulled the baseball cap low on my head. My mood could now officially be described as grumpy. “No. It’s just that I thought you lived in a coffin and only came out when the sun set.”
    â€œFunny. Remind me to keep you away from wooden stakes.”
    â€œSomething tells me you would require both wooden stakes and a silver bullet.” I grabbed the oars and muttered under my breath, “Of all the dumb luck.”
    I pulled the oars, trying to turn the boat around to face the open water. The sooner I got away from Officer Hardy, the sooner I could go back to daydreams and puffy “man clouds.” Unfortunately, the boat didn’t move. Readjusting my position on the seat, I dug the oars deeper in the muddy water and attempted it again. Nothing. When you live through Ohio winters you learn to rock your car between drive and reverse when you are caught in snowdrifts. I figured a boat was similar. So I tried to rock the boat with my weight, leaning forward and backward as I pulled with all my strength on the oars. I’m sure I looked like a moron. All I managed to do was stir up the muck around me and kill a few lily pads and reeds in the process.
    J. D. was back to his annoying position against the tree. He started to whistle “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Very funny. My hands were getting sweaty and my shoulder muscles burned.
    â€œWould you mind shutting up?” I could feel dampness developing in my armpits.
    â€œWhat? I thought you liked songs. You were having so much fun with them a few weeks ago in your empty living room.”
    â€œYou’re hilarious! Why don’t you go get some starch from your uniform and chew on it for a while?”
    My efforts weren’t working. I was only miring the boat deeper in the muck.
    Eventually, I gave up and turned my back on him. I picked up the line at the bow that had been used to tie the boat to the dock. But it was too short to be of any help. I could step out and take the risk of getting sucked into the endless muck. Or I could phone for help. But the most obvious person who could assist was standing on the shore. His whistling had stopped and I peeked over my shoulder to see what he was doing.
    He still watched me. His eyes traveled over my faded cutoff jean shorts and pink Life is Good T-shirt and a shiver ran up me, as if he had caressed me with his hand. But that must have been the wind.
    â€œI don’t suppose you could actually be of any assistance, Officer Hardy?”
    â€œNow, why would I do that? Every time I find myself doing my job around you, I get myself in trouble.”
    Stubbornness was obviously a major personality flaw for J. D. Hardy. But I was learning to be equally hardheaded. I grasped the oars again and made several more futile attempts to remove myself from the reeds.
    He switched tunes and whistled an old Rolling Stones ballad about satisfaction.
    â€œYour whistling is good, but I wouldn’t quit your day job if I were you,” I couldn’t help mimicking what he had once said to me.
    â€œThat attitude isn’t going to get you very far, Miss Lively.” He continued where he left off. He had just reached the second verse when I gave up and stopped rowing. I had two options: the muck or a lowering, pride-sucking request for assistance.
    â€œOkay. What will it take to get your help?” I asked politely as if he were nothing more than a stranger in the grocery store.
    He put his finger to his lip and seemed to contemplate the issue. “Hmm . . . Well, how about an apology to start with. You could say something like,