June came in warm, and the lake gave itself over to summer the way it had given itself over to winter — slowly, completely, without hurry. The water lost the last of its spring grey and held the sky in a deep blue that stayed past sundown. The garden along the south wall was in its full riot: the tomatoes shouldered their cages, the peas climbed to the top of their strings, and the rose opened its first blooms the second week of the month, and Aaron stood at the study window with his coffee every morning, checking the way some men check the weather.
The house had learned summer. Doors stood open all day. The dock was in the water, and the first swim of the year happened on a bright Sunday when Sophie went in before breakfast and came up laughing, and Aaron went in after her, and the lake accepted them both the way it accepted everything — patiently, and completely.
