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turned to the Woods, a delivery truck pulled up in front. The driver jumped out of the cab and walked toward the front porch of the general store. It was Michael Schneiderman, Editor-in-Chief of The Turtleback Gazette. Michael doubled as the delivery man.
    Michael waved.
    “Howdy, Judd!” he called.
    “Howdy, Mike,” answered Judd.
    Then Mike let fly a stack of newspapers tied in twine. They landed with a thud just inches from Judd’s feet.
    Judd looked down. The headline spanned the width of the front page. You’d have thought the Titanic had just sunk again.

    TOWN SAYS NO TO LITTLE GIRL’S TOE

    Beneath the headline was the reporter’s by-line: written and researched by Marc Bozian.
    Judd lifted his right foot and placed it back down on top of the headline.
    “I don’t think you’ve seen Bonds’ yet,” said Judd, shepherding the Woods away from Druckers’ front porch.
    “It’s our local soda fountain,” he explained, as he led the Woods across the street. “They make a milk shake that they call the Awful-Awful – because it’s awfully big and it’s awfully good. You’ve got to try it.”
    Rebecca Woods returned Judd’s smile, but there was something different about it.

Chapter 4
    TURTLEBACK LAKE JUNE 2006
    People in Turtleback Lake didn’t worry about global warming. At least for the time being, it was working in their favor.
    The “season” at Turtleback Lake was longer now. The water along the shoreline – if not in the depths of the unfathomably deep middle – was now warm enough to swim in from Memorial Day till well into September.
    All of which was good for business.
    When the weather was warm, daytrippers paid for passes to the beaches, families rented sailboats and canoes, and fishermen bought bait and tackle. At the restaurants and markets, sales doubled and tripled. And people who kept cabins and cottages as second homes made a pretty penny renting them out by the week, month or season.
    It was one of these little rentals – a cabin on the lake’s western shore – that had brought Deena Goode to Turtleback Lake in the first place.
    It had been back in March or April when Deena spotted a tiny classified ad in the summer rental section of The Bergen Record. The headline, “Piece of Paradise,” caught her eye. The rest of the ad convinced her to call.
    “Rustic log cabin on lakeshore in mountains of North Jersey,” said the ad. “Serene setting. Swim, fish, boat. Reasonable rent. Call owner.”
    “Perfect,” thought Deena. “Absolutely perfect.”
    It was exactly what Deena imagined she needed: a small desk by a window in a cabin overlooking a lake. In two months – three at most – the dissertation she had put off finishing for years would be done.
    Deena dialed the number.
    “You’re the first caller,” said the man on the other end of the line. “It’s yours if you want it.”
    Deena asked him the rent. She could hardly believe her ears.
    “I’ll take it,” she said, afraid that if she hesitated for even a moment someone else would snap it up.
    “Sight unseen?” asked the man.
    “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?” asked Deena.
    The man hesitated. Should he tell her about…
    “Forget it,” said Deena, cutting off the man’s silence. “I’ll take it. When can I move in?”
    They arranged for the lease to begin the second week in June, the day after the private school where Deena worked as a vice-principal let out for the summer.
    Deena’s only regret was that their conversation was so short and sweet. There was something about the man’s voice – its timbre and his diction – that flicked some switch inside her. Then again, maybe it was best she’d gotten off the phone. Over the past twenty years, how many men had flicked that inner switch – and what had become of them?
    This summer was going to be different. This summer there would be no men, no romance, and most of all, no sex. This summer she would allow no distractions.

    *

    Turtleback