Chapter 2

Ni stood at five-two, plump, and had short gray hair. The neighbor tilted his head upwards and stared at Bay’s six-one frame, studying Bay’s thick head of blond hair, blue eyes, thinly sloped nose, and perfectly pink complexion.

“You need brandy again?” Ni asked.

“Not this time,” Bay said, remembering an afternoon some two months before when he was trying to attempt his hand at creating butter, brandy, and cinnamon tarts.

He’d asked Ni for a cup of brandy instead of driving the two miles into downtown Channing and purchasing a bottle of brandy at Spirits, a local liquor emporium.

“What you need?” Ni asked, checking Bay out from head to toe, studying him as if he were a giant invading his territory.

Bay knew Ni was a straightforward neighbor without drama and didn’t want to cause the man any problems. Politely, he said, “I saw that my garden gate was left open this morning. Did you, by any chance, fetch some vegetables again?”

Ni shook his head. “No vegetables. No fetching. I always close when done getting vegetables.” Ni nodded. “Keep nice with you. Good neighbors. No problems.”

“Yes,” Bay agreed. “We are good neighbors.”

“You…you using my pool,” Ni said, pointing a finger at Bay, poking it in his direction.

Bay shook his head. “I’m not using your pool.”

“Towels wet in morning when I get up. Footprints your size on cement around pool. You definitely using pool. You swim at night why I sleep.”

Persistent, Bay continued to shake his head. “Mr. Ni, I haven’t been using your pool.”

“You only person around. Good neighbor. No problems. But you use my pool. It okay. You just need to bring your own towel. No use mine. No more wet towels. No more.”

Bay thought it best to nod and agree with the man, although he hadn’t used the man’s pool in over a year, let alone one of his swimming towels that hung over lawn chairs next to the pool.

“Yes. Sure. No problem.” He left Ni’s property in confusion, just as quickly as he arrived, scratching the side of his head in a state of wonderment.

IfNi wasn’t in my garden, and I wasn’t in his pool, who was?

* * * *

June 28

Bay sat at his computer, working. The windows in his office were open, and a tender, lakeside wind blew inside, caressing his forehead and cheeks. He smelled lilies for some strange reason, but none were planted on the property. The sun had just started to set, and blistering red, orange, and purple hues covered the horizon, creating a picture-perfect postcard, painting, or photograph to hang on one of the office’s walls.

Fireflies fluttered outside his office window, flashing on and off, on and off, on and off. Although their presence wasn’t peculiar, it did seem odd that a single firefly flew particularly close to one of the window’s screens. It hung there, loitering about and peering inside, just as Bay himself would sometimes peer outside the screen.

Bay knew next to nothing about fireflies, but loved them nonetheless. As a boy, trapped along the lake at his grandparents’ A-frame, he and his younger sister, Tess, would attempt to catch the flying beetles, sometimes innocently keeping them in jars overnight and releasing them in the morning. Fireflies were simply known as lightning bugs from the Lampyridae family and produced “cold light” in their abdominal areas to attract mates or to detract predators. Bay also knew synchronized lighting by the insects acted as social interaction.

Taking a break from his work of compiling a vegetarian cookbook called Carrots Love Beets by Macy Anne Snipple, he decided to turn off his flat-screen monitor and the office’s single light that sat on his maple desk. Then he stood, walked to the window, and opened the screen, sliding it upwards.

“Come in, buddy. Take a look around,” he whispered to the firefly, which still blinked on and off, on and off, on and off outside the window.

The firefly hung in midair for a few seconds as if it were investigating the new passageway and space. Taking heed, it eventually fluttered inside.

Bay watched it zoom left to right, looping around. It continued to flash on and off a number of times. He felt one of its wings brush the tip of his nose, a cheek, and he watched its shadow spin away, heading towards his desk. The firefly danced over a few pages of notes on the desk and returned to Bay’s face. In flight, it hung just a few inches away from his stare.

“You’re a busy body, aren’t you, little guy?” he whispered to the insect. He held up a hand and extended a finger.