Summer Cool

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Paine ignored the ringing phone.

The chilled frost on his iced tea glass hadn't had time to melt and put a water stain on the redwood bench on which it rested. His web-backed lounger was finally at the right position for reading the fat political novel that lay unopened next to the iced tea. If he wished, he could put on the sunglasses that rested on top of the book, and gaze out from the shade of his tree through the early afternoon glare across the small lake to see if any largemouth bass were jumping at flies from under their lily pads. His fishing pole lay within reach, fixed with the Jitterbug lure that had netted him nine fish in two days-eight of them the previous evening alone as the sun settled leisurely into the coolness of the trees, and the bass, warmed after a day of ninety-degree heat, had decided to jump at anything that moved on the water.

Behind him, the tape deck had auto-reversed, and the second side of the Keith Jarrett recording was beginning, carrying Paine back into the improvisational piano fugue the first side had begun.

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