by Leigh Duncan
“I won’t let them walk all over me,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes.
He blew air across his lips. The woman could teach mountains a thing or two about immobility. “I’m not saying you have to be available 24/7. Or skip Adam’s birthday party.” He smiled to show that last part was a joke. “But maybe if you set limits—be firm, but be fair—more people will hire you. You did say you’re trying to rebuild your client list, didn’t you?”
Jess didn’t answer. She didn’t bite his head off, either. All things considered, he chalked up her reaction as progress and made another cast.
“Fish on!” he yelled when the line went tight seconds after the colorful lure hit the water. While Jess watched in silence, he coaxed a nice-size snook from beneath the old boat.
“What are you using?” she asked, once he’d released the fish.
He waggled his eyebrows and dangled the streamer he’d tied the night before. “Want one?” he asked. “It’ll cost ya.”
A saucy grin formed on her perfect lips, and Jess eased through the water to his side. She palmed the fly while he held his breath. It was one thing to make a good cast or catch a fish, quite another for one of his creations to pass her inspection.
“Sweet,” she pronounced. “You’re a world-class fly tier. If you ever want to change professions, I could put you to work.”
One thing about Jess, she could say the right thing, make him feel prouder, more deserving. There might be times when the boulder-size chip on her shoulder caused problems, but he was willing to whittle away at it. Neither of them was perfect, after all. He bent and brushed his lips over hers.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “Already got a job. Which I have to get to in another twenty minutes.”
She glided through the water, back to where she’d been standing, while he sent another cast flying toward a white shape that hovered in the wreck’s shadows. Jess tucked her rod under her arm and the pout she’d worn earlier turned into a full-fledged frown when a second snook hit his line.
“You are so giving me that fly,” she said with a smile that warmed his heart.
Jess mustered her most congenial expression and looked up from the display of line nippers she was restocking when the door to On The Fly opened. The edges of her smile turned brittle as she waited for a rotund figure to make his way across the polished oak floor. She’d hoped for an easy start to her campaign to raise money for Connections House, but George Thompson would be anything but easy. On a good day, the man could be pricklier than she was. But she had to take the chance. If she was going to help Dan—and have any hope of a relationship with him—she’d need a lot more than a fundraising label taped to a Mason jar beside the cash register.
She needed the support of the real movers and shakers in the county. The money men. Most of whom, at one time or another, dropped a wad of cash on supplies at On The Fly. Since George definitely fit the bill, Jess brightened her smile and forced her shoulders square.
“Afternoon, George,” she said.
“Sam around?” The retired CEO swiveled a shiny bald head to survey the shop.
“Not today. Can I help you?”
“Nah,” George said. “Tell him I stopped by, will you?”
When George remained where he was, she stepped from behind the counter. Unless he’d walked through the shop’s doors by mistake, the man wanted something. Fly-tying materials lined the back wall, and she narrowed in on the section that held George’s interest. “Are you planning to fish some freshwater?”
With a look that was just shy of a grimace, George nodded. “Yeah. I guess.” He lifted his chin and pointed. “Sam told me I needed cork to make some poppers. You know where it is?”
“Sure.” She led the way to the section he wanted. “We have plenty in stock. What color did you have in mind?”
“Red, I think.” He grabbed a small bag of painted cork bodies.
Yellow was Dan’s go-to color. She rubbed a finger over lips he had kissed every time he caught a fish and tapped a package of marigold pieces. “I had good luck with this the other day.”
George hesitated only a second before slipping the bag from the rack, and Jess widened her stance to keep herself upright. The last time the man had followed her advice, the granddaddy of all trout had been a small fry. Refusing to let her surprise show, she asked, “Are you planning to paint the eyes or glue them on? How ’bout some rubber legs?”
“Yeah, I need all that stuff,” George admitted. “Maybe I should get a basket.”
She picked one up from a strategically placed stack. “So, what are you making these for? A special fishing trip?” She could scarcely believe the grin that split George’s face as they moved on to a selection of feathers.
“My daughter’s coming in for a week.” His chest puffed out. “Grampa gets to take the grandkids on their first fishing trip. ’Course, we’re not going out on the boat,” he frowned. “I think I could handle them, but my wife says the three little munchkins would be too much, even for me.”
Wise woman.
“There’s nothing like your first fish,” she said agreeably. “You’ll have a blast. And so will the kids.” Her smile warmed as she recalled the latest addition to the photo array in her office and Dan’s silly grin. “I took a client to the ponds off Pluckebaum the other day. You know that area on the west side of Rockledge? Lots of shallow water makes it a great place for children.”
She tried not to laugh when George looked at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. True, she normally kept her best fishing holes a closely guarded secret, but a grandfather who spent time with his grandchildren deserved to shine. She waited for the man’s gaping mouth to close before she continued.
“We had good luck there. Caught some bream, even a couple of small bass. ’Course their mouths were larger than their bodies, but kids would get a kick out of that.”
“Thanks, Jess,” George murmured. Something that looked a whole lot like gratitude shone in the man’s blue eyes. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
They spent the next half hour tossing supplies into his basket before a contented George stood opposite her at the cash register. Looking for an opening, she realized the man was about to leave and she hadn’t even broached the most important topic of the day. She stalled for time by asking, “Do you have pictures?”
George’s smile brightened. “Do I?” He quickly pulled photos from his wallet and slapped them on the counter. Three tiny faces—one Asian, one Hispanic, one African-American—smiled up at Jess.
“They’re beautiful, George. How old are they?”
George pointed a stubby finger at the oldest. “An,” he said, rhyming the name with yawn, “is six.” Four-year-old Mateo was next in line, followed by the baby of the family, three-year-old Taj who, according to the man on the other side of the counter, did his best to live up to his Urdu name for “exalted one.”
“You must be very proud,” she said as she watched her customer’s reaction closely. “Of your daughter and son-in-law, and their children.”
“I sure am.” If possible, George’s chest puffed out a little further.
“The need is tremendous. Everywhere.” She gestured to the four walls. “You ever consider doing something about it right here? On Merritt Island?”
“I’m too old to be a dad again,” George guffawed. “Other than giving to my church, I’m not sure I could be of much help.”
“I might know a way,” she said and somehow managed to sound as though she wasn’t personally invested in the outcome of the conversation. “A friend of mine, a local doctor, plans to build a housing complex for teens who grew up in the foster care system. As usual, money’s a problem, but I think you’d be impressed with his ideas.”
When George’s eyes didn’t glaze over, she kept going, filling him in on the plans and letting her own enthusiasm for the project show. Twenty minutes and several questions later, she finished up with, “I’d really like you to meet him.”
George
searched her face. “You say he’s from around here?”
“Yup. Dan Hamilton. Thoracic surgeon. He was a foster kid himself, so he understands the scope of the problem.” When George seemed to waver, she added, “Sam likes him.”
The recommendation tipped the scales in the direction she’d hoped they would go.
“Let me run it by the gang at Jimmies,” George said. The county’s most influential people sat down for breakfast at the family diner every Thursday. “If I can get some others interested, I’ll get in touch to set up a meeting with your doctor friend.”
After a few more minutes of chitchat, George headed out the door, leaving Jess to stare after him. She shook her head. Who would have guessed that underneath the man’s pompous exterior lay the tender heart of a grandfather and philanthropist? She returned to the box of nippers she’d been sorting, but her hand stilled.
She’d always assumed George was just a grouchy old man, but what if the problem was really in the way she looked at people? Was that what Sam had been trying to tell her? And hadn’t Dan said practically the same thing? Maybe George wasn’t the only customer she’d misjudged. She’d been so cold to Dan when they first met, it was a wonder the man didn’t have freezer burn.
The question was, why? She hadn’t always been this way. In On The Fly’s early years, she’d recognized the occasional urge to snap at a customer and stifled it. All that had changed with Tom’s death. She’d grown bitter, and she hadn’t tried to hide it. Tears stung her eyes as she realized that resentment had been a way of holding on to her anger over the way her husband had died.
The time had come to let go of the past and move forward. Yes, preserving Phelps Cove was as important as it had always been. That was one dream she refused to give up. Not because it was Tom’s legacy, but because it was Henry’s, and because the habitat was too important to lose.
But there were other ways her life could change and she had a pretty good idea of the direction she wanted one of them to take.
Chris was on his feet almost before Dan finished chewing his last bite of chicken. The boy’s head brushed against moss that dripped from a low-hanging scrub oak.
He batted the coarse gray strands away from his face.
“C’mon,” said the teen. “Let’s catch us some fish. I’m ready to try out those new flies.”
On the other side of a blanket spread across white sand, Sean gave his mouth a rough wipe and balled his napkin. He arced it neatly into a nearby patch of sandspurs.
“Two points.” The third voice belonged to Paul who, as the newest member of the group, usually competed with Chris for bragging rights. “Bet I can catch the first fish.”
“Hold on.” The big guy remained where he was. “Didn’t I hear something about brownies?”
Regina elbowed her brother’s ribs. “It’s always about the food with you, isn’t it?”
“Food and basketball, little sis. Food and basketball.” Sean wadded up another napkin and sent it flying.
Elbows on cross-legged knees, Regina hunched over, making herself smaller. The tiny lines that bracketed the girl’s mouth deepened. “You don’t like fishing?” she worried.
Sean draped one long arm around her shoulders while he helped himself to a handful of chocolate from the box being passed around. “Relax.” He gave her a gentle shake. “I’m here, ain’t I?”
Dan swept a look at the leftovers from lunch. The cove made the perfect spot to take a crew whose weekly lessons had progressed to fishing from the shore. Plus, he thought the teens might like to see the future site of The Aegean. Not that he’d gotten around to discussing the latter. So far, the day had been all about food. Store-bought potato salad and baked beans had disappeared nearly as fast as Maddy’s home-fried chicken, but plastic containers and paper plates littered the picnic area. Dan cleared his throat. “Nobody fishes till we clean up all this mess.”
Around him, five faces registered confusion.
“What for, Doc? In case you didn’t notice, we be outside,” Chris objected.
“We are outside,” Dan corrected. “Sitting here on this nice beach.” His nod took in the river scant yards away. He pointed to scruffy-looking oaks and the stand of waxy mangroves beyond. “Trees all around. Not a speck of trash in sight. That is, not counting Sean’s contribution. You want to get those, son.” He aimed a no-nonsense look at the teen who served as role model for all the others. “My fly fishing instructor, Jess, says it’s important to leave the area as clean as you find it. Maybe even cleaner. We don’t want anyone to know we’ve been here.”
The time Paul had spent on the streets showed in the searching look he whipped behind him. When no one stepped from behind the nearest tree and began questioning his right to be where he was, he swung back to face Dan. “You said it was okay to be here, right?”
“It’s fine, but that’s not the point. Jess says we should take care of the outdoors like it was our own backyard.” He sent another nod Sean’s way.
“If you say so,” the teen agreed with a resigned sigh. He unfolded his muscular legs and headed for the paper wads among the weeds.
“Damn.” He stuck one finger in his mouth. “They’s thorns.” A little more cautiously, he plucked the napkins from between needle-sharp prickers using his other hand.
Jose grabbed a couple of paper plates. Consternation puckered his brow. “Where’s the trash can?”
“I brought trash bags,” Dan answered. “We’ll toss ’em in the garbage back at the house.”
“Good plan, Doc,” Jose agreed.
With everyone pitching in, the cleanup tasks were completed in practically no time. Dan gave the area a final once-over, deciding it would meet Jess’s high standards, before he let Regina and the boys grab fly rods and assorted equipment from the trunk of his car.
As they had the week before when he’d taken the group fishing at a small pond, they spread out along the water’s edge, each far enough from their neighbor that no one had to worry about being hooked by, or hooking, a buddy. Regina chose the spot closest to her brother, where she made several flawless casts that were the envy of all the boys. Sean, Chris and Jose managed to get their lines wet soon after, but Paul struggled, and Dan stopped to help his least experienced pupil.
“You’re trying too hard.” He grasped the young man’s elbow and walked him through the motions for making a cast the same way Jess had taught him. The boy caught on quickly and soon placed the fly twenty yards out.
Paul’s proud grin made giving up another Sunday afternoon to work with the boys and Regina worthwhile.
Dan made his way down the line, offering correction and advice where necessary. He kept a wary eye on Regina who turned away from the water and stepped to a jumble of fallen rocks and tree limbs while he gave Sean a few pointers. When something rustled in the bushes at the top of the rise, Dan left off in midsentence and moved quickly, his footsteps slowing only as he recognized the raspy calls of several sandhill cranes.
“Regina, you don’t want to feed those birds.” Careful not to startle the cranes or the girl, he looked pointedly at a small mound of brown crumbs that trailed from the foot of the hill.
“Why not?” Regina kicked sand to hide the evidence. “They sound hungry.”
“Maybe they are, but we don’t know what to feed them.”
“Everybody likes brownies.” The girl smiled broadly and held out her hand. A good-size chunk of the treat she’d saved from lunch filled her palm.
“You should eat that yourself. Or save it for later. It might make the birds sick.” When Regina gave him a questioning look, he added, “Jess says that if wild animals get used to eating our food and stop looking for their own, they’ll get fat and lazy. Then, what happens if no one comes out here to feed them?”
“I could take them home with me,” she said, hopeful.
“I’m pretty sure the birds need to stay here. They probably have a nest close by, and they’d miss their friends if they had to move.” His argume
nt struck a little too close to home for both of them. He fumbled for another answer. Large, squawking birds gave him an idea. “I’m sure Mrs. Shea wouldn’t want such noisy pets.”
“You’re probably right, but I like ’em,” Regina mumbled. She tamped the crumbs deeper into the sand. “They sound like those dumb instruments we used in elementary school. The wooden tube with the stick.”
“Tone blocks,” he said, smiling at the memory. “And you’re right.”
Finished with the birds, Regina’s attention shifted elsewhere. “Is Jess your girlfriend?” she asked as she prepared to cast.
“My—” Where had that come from? “No, she’s teaching me how to use a fly rod. The same way I’m teaching you.” He studied the river, hoping for fish, or even a stingray, anything to distract the girl.
“You sure talk about her an awful lot,” she insisted. The fly at the end of her line sailed over the water.
He absorbed the comment while he watched Regina strip line and make another cast. She was right about one thing—the words he’d used today had been his own, but it was Jess’s voice he’d heard in his head when he’d said them. It seemed as though he’d picked up more than a new skill during his lessons with the feisty fly fisher. He tipped his head back, letting his gaze travel from the clear river up the sandy bluff and over the tangle of bushes and trees beyond.
He closed his eyes, envisioning the land as Jess predicted it would look once The Aegean took over. The river bottom, muddied from dredging. The water, slicked with oil and gasoline from visiting yachts. Trash strewn along the shoreline. Trees and brush clear-cut to make way for the clinic and housing. A parking lot instead of an orange grove.
On the hill above him, the cranes moved away from the edge, their deep, stuttering caws fading.
When construction demolished their nests, what would happen to the sandhills? Or all the other animals that lived in the hundred-acre parcel? As Bryce had pointed out, this was the last undeveloped acreage on Merritt Island—where else could they go? Dan shook his head to clear his thoughts. Backing out of the development would jeopardize everything. Not only Connections House, but his standing among his peers. A standing that guaranteed the security he’d always wanted.