They had a wonderful dinner at a lovely candlelit table by a picture window that afforded a sweeping view of the lake.
“What a beautiful spot,” Peggy said dreamily as twilight fell, and lights in the little cottages dotting the shore twinkled on like a fringe of decoration. “Why haven’t we been here before?”
“We can come again during the last week of the season,” Michael said. “I’ll bring everybody over sometime.”
“Michael, isn’t it getting awfully dark?” Mary interrupted, watching the sky that had changed from sunset violet to a deep, heavy gray.
Michael looked at the sky and smiled. “Sure, it’ll be dark before we get back. You’re not worried about going back at night, are you?”
“Well,”—Mary hesitated—“do you know how to find your way back at night?”
Michael laughed. “Mary Hopkins! And you’ve lived at Lake Kenabeek for sixteen years!”
“How do you find your way back?” Peggy asked.
“By my landing light.” Michael was still laughing at Mary. “I take a straight course from here, across the lake, home. It’s impossible to miss it. Where have you been all these years, Mary?”
“Well,” she said with a shy smile, “I guess I just never thought of it before.”