The Lakehouse

The scrap of paper inched closer to me with every passing minute.  There was no wind, no breeze, there was no way the paper should be moving on its own.  I wondered if I should be worried, but decided probably not. How could a tiny piece of paper be something to worry about? I had too many other things in my life to worry about than a slip of paper. I turned my attention to the dock on the other side of the lake and wondered when Jasmine would reappear. Even though I had never met Jasmine, I was entranced. Entranced by her beauty, by her long black hair, entranced by how she moved. 

I was an author and spent months at a time at this tiny lake in Arkansas so I could get some of my writing done. There were too many distractions in New York City. There were too many shows, concerts and galleries I could talk myself into visiting when I should be writing. Rural Arkansas forced me to slow down and write. To plan the next novel I would write after I had sent my finished project to my editor. This trip had been different. Jasmine was different. Usually there was a family staying in the cabin across the lake, but for some reason Jasmine was there instead of them. I had snooped in her mailbox the first night she arrived, but the only interesting fact I had found was her name. Jasmine Grant. 

So, for the last two weeks I had been drinking coffee then tea then ended my day with wine, all the while watching for Jasmine. All the while, ignoring my writing and ignoring the emails and phone calls from my agent. I wondered what her story was and why she was here. Was she running from someone? Was she starting over? Had she recently escaped from prison? The possibilities were endless. And I needed to know. Jasmine came out onto the deck just as the slip of paper wrapped itself around my leg. I tried to act like I was engrossed in what the slip said so it wouldn’t be so completely obvious I had been waiting and watching for Jasmine to appear. 

“I know who you are. And why you are here.” I gasped as I read the note and glanced up back at Jasmine’s dock. My heart stopped beating when I saw her flying – actually flying – across the lake straight for me. My muse was now my worst nightmare.