He had lost control completely. Should he jump overboard and swim for shore and let the canoe go? He was not a competent swimmer, and he remembered the reputation of the icy lake. There was no time to lose. Every second took him farther from shore. He was on the verge of panic.

"Back-paddle!" came a voice riding on the wind. "Back-paddle… back-paddle!" Yes! Of course! That was the trick. He reversed his stroke, and while the bow still pointed north the canoe made gradual progress toward shore. Once in the lee of the land, he was able to turn the canoe and head for the beach.

A man and a woman were standing on the sand watching him, the man holding a bullhorn.

They shouted encouragement, and he beached the canoe at their feet.

"We were really worried about you," the woman said. "I was about to call the helicopter." She laughed nervously.

The man said: "You need a little more practice before you try for the Olympics." Qwilleran was breathing heavily, but he managed to thank them.

"You must be Mr. Qwilleran," the woman said. She was middle-aged, buxom, and dressed in fashionable resortwear. "I'm Mildred Hanstable, Roger's mother-in-law, and this is our next-door neighbor, Buford Dunfield." "Call me Buck," said the neighbor.

"Call me Qwill." They shook hands. "You need a drink," Buck said. "Come on up to the house. Mildred, how about you?" "Thanks, Buck, but I've got a meat loaf in the oven. Stanley is coming to dinner tonight." "I want to thank you for the turkey," Qwilleran said. "It made great sandwiches. A sandwich is about the extent of my culinary expertise." Mildred laughed heartily at that and then said: "I don't suppose you found a bracelet at your cabin — a gold chain bracelet?" "No, but I'll look for it." "Otherwise it could have dropped off when I was walking on the beach." "In that case," Buck said, "it's gone forever." Mildred gave a hollow laugh. "If the waves don't get it, those girls will." The two men climbed the dune to the cottage. Buck was a well-built man with plentiful gray hair and an authoritative manner. He spoke in a powerful voice that went well with a bullhorn. "I'm sure glad to see that fog let up," he said. "How long are you going to be up here?" "All summer. Do you get fog very often?" "A bad one? Three or four times a season. We go to Texas in the winter." The cottage was a modern redwood with a deck overlooking the lake and glass doors leading into a littered living room.

"Excuse the mess," the host said. "My wife went to Canada with my sister to see some plays about dead kings. The gals go for that kind of stuff… What'll you have? I drink rye, but I've got Scotch and bourbon. Or maybe you'd like a gin and tonic?" "Just tonic water or ginger ale," Qwilleran said. "I'm off the hard stuff." "Not a bad idea. I should cut down. Planning on doing any fishing?" "My fishing is on a par with my canoeing. My chief reason for being here is to find time to write a book." "Man, if I could write I'd write a best-seller," Buck said. "The things I've seen! I spent twenty-five years in law enforcement Down Below. Took early retirement with a good pension, but I got restless — you know how it is — and took a job in Pickax. Chief of police in a small town! Some experience!" He shook his head. "The respectable citizens were more trouble than the lawbreakers, so I quit, I'm satisfied to take it easy now. I do a little woodworking. See that row of candlesticks? I turn them on my lathe, and Mildred sells them to raise money for the hospital." "I like the big ones," Qwilleran said. "They look like cathedral candlesticks." They were sitting at the bar. Buck poured refills and then lighted a pipe, going through the ritual that Qwilleran knew so well. "I've made bigger sticks than that," he said between puffs. "Come on downstairs and see my workshop." He led the way to a room dominated by machinery and sawdust. "I start with one of these four-by-fours and turn it on the lathe. Simple, but the tourists like 'em, and it's for a good cause. Mildred finished one pair in gold and made them look antique. She's a clever woman." "She does a lot for the hospital, I hear." "Yeah, she's got crazy ideas for fund-raising, That's all right. It keeps her mind off her troubles." The pipe smoke was reaching Qwilleran's nostrils, and he remarked: "You get your tobacco from Scotland." "How did you know? I order it from Down Below." "I used to smoke the same blend, Groat and Boddle Number Five." "Exactly! I smoked Auld Clootie Number Three for a long time, but I switched last year." "I used to alternate between Groat and Boddle and Auld Barleyfumble." Buck swept the sawdust from the seat of a captain's chair and pushed it toward his guest. "Put it there, my friend." Qwilleran slid into the chair and enjoyed the wholesome smell of sawdust mixed with his favorite tobacco.

"Tell me, Buck. How long did it take you to adjust to living up here?" "Oh, four or five years." "Do you lock your doors?" "We did at first, but after a while we didn't bother." "It's a lot different from Down Below. The surroundings, the activities, the weather, the customs, the pace, the attitude. I never realized it would be such a drastic change.

My chief idea was to get away from pollution and congestion and crime for a while." "Don't be too sure about that last one," Buck said in a confidential tone.

"What makes you say that?" "I've made a few observations." The retired policeman threw his guest a meaningful glance.

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "Why don't you drop in for a drink this weekend? I'm staying at the Klingenschoen cabin. Ever been there?" Buck was relighting his pipe. He puffed, shook his head, and puffed again.

"It's on the dune, about a half mile west of here. And I've got a bottle of rye with your name on it." When Qwilleran paddled the canoe home through shallow water, he was thinking about the man who had saved his life with a bullhorn. Buck had denied ever being at the Klingenschoen cabin, and yet… On the evening when Mildred left her gift of turkey, two figures had disappeared into the fog, headed for the beach, and one of them had been smoking Groat and Boddle Number Five.

The muffled bell of the telephone rang several times before Qwilleran roused enough to answer it. The instrument was now housed in a kitchen cupboard, and Koko had not yet devised a means of unlatching the cupboard door.

Qwilleran was not ready for a dose of directives from Madame President before his morning coffee, and he shuffled to the phone reluctantly.

A gentle voice said: "Hello, Qwill dearest. Did I get you out of bed? Guess what! I can drive up to see you if you still want me?" "Want you! I'm pining away, Rosemary. When can you come? How long can you stay?" "I should be able to leave the store after lunch today and arrive sometime tomorrow, and I can stay a week unless someone makes a firm offer for Helthy-Welthy. I'm being very nice to Max Sorrell, hoping he'll offer cash." Qwilleran's response was a disapproving grunt.

There was a pause. "Are you there, dearest? Can you hear me?" "I'm speechless with joy, Rosemary. I sent you the directions to the cabin, didn't I?" "Yes, I have them." "Drive carefully." "I can hardly wait." "I need you." He missed Rosemary in more ways than one. He needed a friend who would share his pleasures and problems. He was surrounded by friendly people, yet he was lonely.

He kept saying to the cats: "Wait till she sees the cabin! Wait till she sees the lake! Wait till she meets Aunt Fanny!" His only regret was the fishy odor wafting up from he beach. During the night the lake had deposited a bushel or more of silvery souvenirs, which began to reek in the morning sun.

When he drove into town for breakfast he waved breezy greetings to every passing motorist. Then, fortified by buckwheat flapjacks and lumbercamp syrup, he went in search of the candle shop at Cannery Mall. He detected the thirty-seven different scents even before he saw the sign: Night's Candles.