Cause for deep sighs: a swimming pool closed for the season.

Fortunately, I’m a natural optimist and a native Midwesterner, so I know how to appreciate change, including the shift from glorious summer to frosty fall. That doesn’t mean transitions come easily for me, but I’ve learned to find payoffs in the inevitable. Crisp morning walks and indoor swims will take the place of sunny days at the pool and beach. I’m not yet ready to contemplate the next step, winter. One shift at a time, please.

Although Whiskey Mattimoe and I are both strong swimmers, she would beat me in competition. Nonetheless, I have saved my own life in deep water more than once. My close calls didn’t involve solving murders, and they took place in Lake Erie as opposed to Lake Michigan. But I draw on those experiences whenever I toss Whiskey into the waves, as I did in Whiskey and Water, the fourth book in the series, due out just before next swim season.

The real reason a closed pool makes us sad is that it signals the passing of time: one less summer left in this life of oh so finite summers. On the sunny side—and I’m looking for payoffs here—my desk is more inviting in October and November than it is in June and July. Shorter, colder days spell fewer external distractions. When the furnace is running, my fiction engine kicks into high gear.

The pool may be closed, but for me, new doors are opening. I spent Summer ’07 moving, recovering from an injury, and falling in love. Yes! Last spring I met a man who changed the way I thought about my future. Lo and behold, I changed his outlook, too. When summer ended, and it was time to close the pool, we realized that our connection was far more enduring than swim season and way more fun.