<br><br><center>*Man is not what he thinks he is; he is what he hides.*
― André Malraux</center>



<br><br><center>![147.png](https://images.hive.blog/DQmboWsu38vMcVRpBsjk4biSqyCtSsW7s2AgEnwmosoZSGg/147.png)</center>





<br><br> My invitation to high tea at Sylvia's was a kind of watershed experience for me. 

It allowed me to see that West harbour wasn't just a sleepy lakeside community, sparkling and glinting in the mid-May sunlight, but on closer examination, its outwardly calm waters had murky depths with dark shadows gliding beneath the surface.

One of those shadowy forms was Arthur Reid, my family's lawyer who had been secretly channeling information about me to the Lightbourne's.

 The other stygian and ill-defined figure was Ray Hull, the marina owner, whom I was about to meet again because it was a balmy spring day and I intended to go sailing.

<br><br> All these thoughts were going through my mind as I walked down to the marina carrying a wicker picnic basket and a change of clothes in case I perspired too much out on the lake, or, if I'm being totally frank, my real concern was I might unfurl the sail, tip the boat and end up overboard.

I didn't want to endure the long walk home in soaked clothing advertising my incompetence.

<br><br> I know, I seem to have major issues with insecurity, but I put that down to huge gaps in my memory that make me unsure of just about everything I tackle.

Forgive me that latter pun, but I have to keep my gear in line not simply to avoid turtling a boat, but to be schooled enough to recognize locals' fishing expeditions and not be too distracted by bright shiny lures.

Of course, that implies I'm not fully trusting Sylvia, despite her beauty and charm, because I cling to the truism that bright things can quickly come to confusion, as evinced by my current state of mind resulting from my visit.

<br><br> But to be fair, I don't actually attribute any sinister motives to Sylvia. Still, she wants something from me  I'm not sure I want to give, let alone even know what it is.

Besides, there's the matter of being disadvantaged and I hate not having any control of my dreams let alone my life and that leads me to the photo of Clare. 

What do I do with that? I mean, she's the girl in my dreams but also the ghost at the foot of my bed, and it turns out she's not even dead.

What do I do with any of these secrets? 

Maybe I simply do what Hamlet suggests: *lurk, lurk.* At the moment, I have no other plan.


<br><br><center>To be continued…</center>

<br><center>© 2020, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>

<br><center>[ Photo by countrygirl]( https://steemit.com/@countrygirl)</center>

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