“Hang on,” he said. She could hear him clearly now that the wind was no longer blowing a hurricane through her helmet.

“Bumps.” There were bumps, but the Harley rode them easily, turning them into mere swells. Five minutes later they pulled into a small dirt parking area. Beyond it were picnic tables and stone barbecue pits spotted on a wide, shady expanse of green grass which dropped gradually down to a rocky shingle which could not quite be termed a beach. Small waves came in, running up the shingle in polite, orderly procession. Beyond them, the lake opened out all the way to the horizon, where any line marking the point where the sky and the water met was lost in a blue haze. Shoreland was entirely deserted except for them, and when Bill switched the Harley off, the silence took her breath away. Over the water, gulls turned and turned, crying toward the shore in their high-pitched, frantic voices. Somewhere far to the west there was the sound of a motor, so dim it was impossible to tell if it was a truck or a tractor. That was all. He scraped a flat rock toward the side of the bike with the toe of his boot, then dropped the kickstand so the foot would rest on the rock. He got off and turned toward her, smiling. When he saw her face, the smile turned to an expression of concern.

“Rosie? Are you all right?” She looked at him, surprised.

“Yes, why?”

“You’ve got the funniest look-” I’ll bet, she thought. I’ll just bet.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“I feel a little bit like all of this is a dream, that’s all. I keep wondering how I got here.” She laughed nervously.

“But you’re not going to faint, or anything?” Rosie laughed more naturally this time.

“No, I’m fine, really.”

“And you liked it?”

“Loved it.” She was fumbling at the place where the strap wove through the helmet’s locking rings, but without much success…

“Those’re hard the first time. Let me help you.” He leaned close to slip the strap free, kissing distance again, only this time he didn’t draw away. He used the palms of his hands to lift the helmet off her head and then kissed her mouth, letting the helmet dangle by its straps from the first two fingers of his left hand while he put his right against the small of her back, and for Rosie the kiss made everything all right, the feel of his mouth and the pressure of his palm was like coming home. She felt herself starting to cry a little, but that was all right. These tears didn’t hurt. He pulled back from her a little, his hand still on the small of her back, the helmet still bumping softly against her knee in little pendulum strokes, and looked into her face.

“All right?” Yes, she tried to say, but her voice had deserted her. She nodded instead.

“Great,” he said, and then, gravely, like a man doing a job, he kissed her cool wet cheeks high up and in toward her nose-first under her right eye and then under her left. His kisses were as soft as fluttering eyelashes. She had never felt anything like them, and she suddenly put her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely, with her face against the shoulder of his jacket and her eyes, still trickling tears, shut tight. He held her, the hand which had been pressed against her back now stroking the plait of her hair. After awhile she pulled back from him and rubbed her arm across her eyes and tried to smile.

“I don’t always cry,” she said.

“You probably don’t believe that, but it’s true.”

“I believe it,” he said, and took off his own helmet.

“Come on, give me a hand with this cooler.” She helped him unsnap the elastic cords which held it, and they carried it down to one of the picnic tables. Then she stood looking down at the water.

“This must be the most beautiful place in the world,” she said.

“I can’t believe there’s nobody here but us.”

“Well, Highway 27’s a little off the regular tourist-track. I first came here with my folks, when I was just a little kid. My dad said he found it almost by accident, rambling on his bike. Even in August there aren’t many people here, when the rest of the lakeside picnic areas are jammed.” She gave him a quick glance.

“Have you brought other women here?”

“Nope,” he said.

“Would you like to take a walk? We could work up an appetite for lunch, and there’s something I could show you.”

“What?”

“It might be better to just show you,” he said.

“All right.” He led her down by the water, where they sat side by side on a big rock and took off their footgear. She was amused by the fluffy white athletic socks he had on under the motorcycle boots; they were the kind she associated with junior high school.

“Leave them or take them?” she asked, holding up her sneakers. He thought about it.

“You take yours, I’ll leave mine. Damn boots are almost impossible to put back on even when your feet are dry. If they’re wet, you can forget it.” He stripped off the white socks and laid them neatly across the blocky toes of the boots. Something in the way he did it and the prim way they looked made her smile.

“What?” She shook her head.

“Nothing. Come on, show me your surprise.” They walked north along the shore, Rosie with her sneakers in her left hand, Bill leading the way. The first touch of the water was so cold it made her gasp, but after a minute or two it felt good. She could see her feet down there like pale shimmering fish, slightly separated from the rest of her body at the ankles by refraction. The bottom felt pebbly but not actually painful. You could be cutting them to pieces and not know, she thought. You’re numb, sweetheart. But she wasn’t cutting them. She felt he would not let her cut them. The idea was ridiculous but powerful. About forty yards along the shore they came to an overgrown path winding up the embankment, grainy white sand amid low, tough juniper bushes, and she felt a small shiver of deja vu, as if she had seen this path in a barely remembered dream. He pointed to the top of the rise and spoke in a low voice.

“We’re going up there. Be as quiet as you can.” He waited for her to slip into her sneakers and then led the way. He stopped and waited for her at the top, and when she joined him and started to speak, he first put a finger on her lips and then pointed with it. They were at the edge of a small brushy clearing, a kind of overlook fifty feet or so above the lake. In the center was a fallen tree. Beneath the tangle of the soil-encrusted roots lay a trim red fox, giving suck to three cubs. Nearby a fourth was busily chasing his own tail in a patch of sunlight. Rosie stared at them, entranced. He leaned close to her, his whisper tickling her ear and making her feel shivery.

“I came down day before yesterday to see if the picnic area was still here, and still nice. I hadn’t been here in five years, so I couldn’t be sure. I was walking around and found these guys. Vulpes fulva-the red fox. The little ones are maybe six weeks old.”

“How do you know so much about them?” Bill shrugged.

“I like animals, that’s all,” he said.

“I read about them, and try to see them in the wild when I can.” “do you hunt?”

“God, no. I don’t even take pictures. I just look.” The vixen had seen them now. Without moving she grew even more still within her skin, her eyes bright and watchful. Don’t you look straight at her, Rosie thought suddenly. She had no idea of what this thought meant; she only knew it wasn’t her voice she was hearing in her head. Don’t you look straight at her, that’s not for the likes of you.

“They’re beautiful,” Rosie breathed. She reached out for his hand and enfolded it in both of hers.

“Yes, they are,” he said. The vixen turned her head to the fourth cub, who had given up on his tail and was now pouncing at his own shadow. She uttered a single high-pitched bark. The cub turned, looked impudently at the newcomers standing at the head of the path, then trotted to his mother and lay down beside her. She licked the side of his head, grooming him quickly and competently, but her eyes never left Rosie and Bill. “does she have a mate?” Rosie whispered.