The Cherry Harvest Read Free Page B

halfway across when a splash on the surface stopped her. A dark creature dove under. She froze, anxious for what might attack her from below. But when a beaver surfaced, heading toward an inlet stream, she laughed at her silliness.
    Once she reached Loon Island, Kate ran through the woods, well-worn piney needles soft under her bare feet. When she came to the yard, she hurried past the outbuildings—oil house, icehouse, smokehouse, woodshed, barn, privy, summer kitchen—and finally stopped below Josie’s second-story window. She threw a small stone, their signal. Josie’s face peered out, then disappeared.
    Soon Josie opened the door to the dark hallway between the keeper’s residence and the tower. “C’mon,” she whispered. Her parents would be asleep, but on a night like this, their windows would be open. Holding an oil lamp before her, Josie led the way to the circular brick lighthouse and up cold cast-iron steps—118 of them—spiraling up and up and up.
    At the top, while Josie held up the lamp, Kate pushed open the hatch. They climbed through to the watch room, which was surrounded by thick glass. Josie opened the door to the outside gallery, a gray cast-iron balcony encircling the tower.
    A short wall-mounted ladder led to the lantern room above, where the huge lens turned. Only Josie’s father was allowed up there. The lens illuminated the world around, scene by scene—the watery horizon to the east, the gravelly shore to the south, the woods on the mainland, and the rocky shore leading to the Potawatomi Islands far to the north.
    Sitting next to Josie on the metal lattice floor, Kate pulled her sweater close against the chill night air. Josie offered her a Chesterfield, and Kate leaned in for the light.
    Josie had large features, full lips, dark eyes, and next to Kate’sslim figure, she was all curves. Though Josie was a year older, Kate had skipped a grade, so the friends were both high school seniors. Josephine, the teachers called her. The boys called her sexy.
    â€œLook what I found,” Josie whispered, pulling a magazine from inside her jacket. Kate had encouraged her to read poetry and fiction, but Josie was more interested in magazines, Good Housekeeping, Ladies’ Home Journal . She even kept a scrapbook of favorite articles—“The Good Wife’s Guide,” “How to Keep Your Man Happy,” and other sappy advice.
    At least this magazine looked more interesting than the others. Esquire . Josie opened it to a pen-and-ink drawing of a redheaded woman lying back provocatively, wearing black lingerie that hid nothing, her long legs angled up as if she were lying on an invisible couch, feet pointed in black high-heeled slippers. “One of the Vargas Girls.” Josie said it as if the girl in the illustration was a personal friend. She flipped the page and started reading aloud from an interview with Hugh Hefner.
    â€œHugh who?”
    â€œI don’t know who he is either, but you can learn a lot about what a boy wants by reading these things.”
    â€œOh, Josie. Why do you waste your time on this?”
    â€œHah! You’re the one wasting your time on made-up stories. Where’s that going to get you? I’m more interested in real life.”
    â€œReal life isn’t nearly as interesting.”
    â€œThat’s because you’re not in love.” Josie’s face beamed for a moment in the revolving light, smiling as if she knew more than she would tell. “You just need to meet the right boy.”
    Kate took a long drag on her cigarette.
    Josie nudged her. “My mother got me a subscription to The Bride’s Magazine . I want you to help me pick out a wedding dress that Benny would like.”
    Kate had to control herself to keep from laughing. Ben couldn’t care less about wedding dresses.
    â€œSay, I saw Timothy Peterson watching you in English class.” Josie paused for attention.