More Than Words Can Say

by Robert Barclay

  Brandon had placed the beer bottles on the lowest shelf, where Jeeves could reach them. Cocking his head at a sharp angle, Jeeves gripped one of the cozy-protected bottles between his jaws and he removed it. To Chelsea’s added astonishment, Jeeves then used his rump to push against the refrigerator door, shutting it. Proud as proud could be, with his tail wagging high, he strutted back onto the porch and promptly dropped the cold beer onto Brandon’s lap. If it were possible for a dog to grin from ear to ear, Jeeves was doing it.

  Never before in her life had Chelsea been so at a loss for words. For several moments she sat dumbfounded, wondering if what she had just experienced was some sort of hallucination.

  “Are you kidding me?” she fairly shouted. “I’ve heard of dogs fetching slippers and the morning paper—but a beer?”

  “You saw it here first,” Brandon answered as he set the beer on the coffee table. “I’d have never believed it either, if one of the hospital surgeons hadn’t taught his dog to do it. The first time I saw it done was at one of his poker games, and I reacted just like you. Then he showed me how to train Jeeves. But you’ve got to be patient, because it takes months. And you always have to use a beer cozy to protect the dog’s teeth. I taught Jeeves last winter. As you might imagine, when the snow falls in Serendipity, there isn’t much to do.”

  Then he paused and smiled into her eyes. “Gives a whole new meaning to the term man’s best friend . . . ,” he added.

  Chelsea didn’t want to embarrass herself by laughing so hard, but she just couldn’t help it. Never in her life had she ever seen anything so wonderfully preposterous. Moreover, like her father, she had always loved dogs. If she and Brandon could teach Dolly to do it, she would have one-upped her father for all time. At last, she regained control of herself.

  Today has truly been one for the books, she thought. A wonderfully surprising cottage, Gram’s wartime journal, and a beer-fetching dog . . .

  “Do you suppose that you could teach Dolly for me?” she asked Brandon. “If you knew my father, you’d realize that it would forever put me in your debt.”

  “Happy to try,” he answered, “but I can’t promise that we’ll be successful.”

  For a time they again sat there on the porch, saying nothing and looking at each other. As the waves drifted ashore from the darkness beyond, they made a consistent, comforting sound. At last, Brandon stood.

  “Now I really have to go,” he said. “I’ve got an early day tomorrow. Try to keep your bandaged hand out of the water, and I’ll come by tomorrow night to check on it. Oh, and although it isn’t really dangerous around here, you should keep your doors locked at night. And never put your trash outside the cabin. Instead, I’ll help you drive it to the dump every so often.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Bears,” he answered.

  “Bears?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yep,” Brandon answered.

  Chelsea stood to see him out. After opening the porch door and letting Jeeves go, he paused for a moment and looked into her eyes.

  “It’s nice to finally have a neighbor,” he said. Then he smiled a bit, the corners of his eyes wrinkling handsomely. “Especially such a pretty one,” he added quietly.

  Yet again, Chelsea felt something tug at her heart. “Good night,” she said in return. “And thanks again for everything.”

  Chelsea then watched Brandon and Jeeves stroll back down the moonlit beach until they finally disappeared into the darkness. She felt a bit tired, but her curiosity about Brooke’s journal remained high, and she was dying to know more. And so, rather than retire, she took the old journal to the couch, where she settled in with the last of the Fabiennes’ excellent wine.

  On opening the journal to the next entry, she eagerly began to read . . .

  Chapter 9

  Friday, June 5, 1942, 10:00 P.M.

  As I write these words in my journal, Greg has just departed my cottage and gone home. We spent the late afternoon and most of the evening together, both on the lake and here at my place, where we shared dinner. I must say that I’m finding him to be a very charming man. And because of that, I’m still having a difficult time understanding why he isn’t married. He has so much to offer a woman, it seems . . .

  But these are strange times, and they have made for equally odd personal lives. Just the same, I was able to become more acquainted with him today, and I must say that I find his company very appealing. And I must also admit that now, as I sit here alone on my porch, I’m surprised by how much I miss his company . . .

  “Thank you for this!” Greg shouted happily at Brooke, trying to be heard above the roar of the Chris-Craft’s energetic motor. “I haven’t gone fishing in ages!”

  Brooke smiled and then turned the boat’s steering wheel a bit, adjusting their course.

  “Neither have I!” she shouted back. “Since the war started, my dad hasn’t gotten up here much. He’s the one who taught me and who always took me out!” Then she turned toward Greg for a moment and smiled as she watched the wind torment his light-brown hair.

  “And besides,” she added, “although I’ve gone fishing alone once or twice, it’s always better to have someone along! Don’t you agree?”

  Greg smiled broadly. “Absolutely!” he answered.

  It was late afternoon, two days since they had first met. By now the sun had begun its nightly descent, the sky was clear, and a light wind bothered the surface of the lake. It had been Brooke’s idea to take Greg fishing, partly because she had wanted to go, and partly as a way to thank him for the sugar and coffee he had so graciously given to her. It was her plan to catch a couple of fish today and to serve them to him as tonight’s dinner. Preferably some walleyes, she hoped, because they were the best eating.

  But first, we’ve got to catch them, she thought.

  Greg had enthusiastically accepted her invitation. He loved to fish, he said, and had done a lot of it around here during his youth. But because money was tight, he had yet to purchase a boat and motor. And so just before five o’clock, the two of them had set off across the waves in search of their evening meal.

  Brooke was wearing tan shorts, a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, matching sneakers, a white tennis visor, and sunglasses. Greg was dressed the same way as when Brooke had first met him: a tan work shirt with matching trousers and a pair of no-nonsense work shoes. Today he also sported a pair of aviator sunglasses, which Brooke found appealing.

  As she piloted the boat farther out into the lake, Brooke pursed her lips, thinking. She had to admit that catching some fish for dinner was not her only motive for being out here with Greg, because she could presumably catch the fish without his help. Rather, her reasons had been more complicated. To her own surprise, she had very much wanted to see Greg again. He had been on her mind for the last two days, and because of that, she had felt even more alone than usual. But now that he sat beside her in her father’s speeding runabout, she felt happy again.

  But am I too happy about this? she wondered. After thinking about it for a few moments, she shook her head knowingly. No, she thought. We’re neighbors, after all. And what could be more normal on Lake Evergreen than two neighbors out trying to catch their dinner?

  When they were about one hundred yards offshore, Brooke cut back on the throttle, then she turned and looked at Greg. He seemed so comfortable and happy, sitting there beside her in the front cockpit.

  “So, what do you think?” she asked him. “Are we far enough out?”

  Before answering, Greg lit a cigarette and looked around. “I’d say it’s about right,” he answered. “Did you plan on trolling or jigging?”

  Brooke looked at the sky. It was still clear, with little chance of rain. The sun would be down soon, and the chances of catching something would improve.

  “Trolling, I’d say,” she answered. “Seems the right sort of night for it.”

  “I agree,” Greg answered as he left his seat and went astern.


  Back there on the floor lay all their fishing things: two rods and reels, a tackle box, a net, a worm box, and a wet burlap bag that Greg had brought along. Brooke didn’t understand the need for the bag, but she had yet to ask about it.

  While Greg began preparing the rods and reels, she asked, “So what’s the wet bag for, anyway? That’s a new one on me. Even my father never brought one of those along. And when it comes to fishing, he knows just about everything.”

  “The answer’s simple,” Greg said. “The easiest way to keep fish fresh out here is inside a wet burlap bag. If you rewet the bag with lake water from time to time, you can keep ’em fresh damned near all day.”

  “Really?” Brooke asked. “I’ve got to admit, that’s one I didn’t know.”

  Greg smiled as he took another drag on his Chesterfield. “Well,” he said, “it certainly helps my ego to know that there’s something about fishing I could teach you.”

  Brooke laughed. “There are many such things, I’m sure,” she said.

  Greg looked at her and snorted. “I’m not,” he said laughingly.

  While Greg opened the tackle box, Brooke set the boat on a course that ran parallel with the shoreline. After cutting the throttle back to trolling speed, she watched as Greg baited one line with a worm harness, a pair of lead weights, and two live worms. He then secured an artificial lure called a Canadian Wiggler onto the other rod’s line. Brooke approved of his strategy.

  “You’re doubling our chances, right?” she asked.

  Greg smiled. “Yep,” he answered. “Once we know what they’re biting on, we’ll make both baits the same.” He then handed the worm-baited rod to Brooke. “Bonne chance,” he said.

  Brooke smiled back at him. “I didn’t know that you speak French,” she said.

  Greg winked at her. “Just enough to get by,” he answered. “It comes in handy when trying to procure such things as sugar and coffee beans for the pretty neighbor lady.”

  Understanding his meaning, Brooke laughed a little. Then, as the boat meandered along, she cast her line into the water and let it out slowly, allowing the lead weights to submerge the bait. After letting out enough line, she settled back onto her seat to wait.

  Greg also cast his line. As the boat puttered along, the two of them looked at one another and smiled knowingly.

  There was something quite marvelous about fishing, Brooke had always thought, something that she couldn’t put her finger on. Perhaps it was because there was so much solitude out here on the water. Or maybe it had to do with so greatly enjoying times like this with her father, as he had taught her. Whatever the reason, she had never really cared that much whether she caught any fish. Bringing in a catch was better than coming home empty-handed, of course. But to her way of thinking, just being out here was always reward enough.

  Although Greg and Brooke still did not know that much about each other, they conversed little as the time passed, the boat slowly plied the waves, and the sun settled ever lower in the sky. That’s just how it was with fishing, Brooke knew. And Greg seemed to understand that, too. There was no need to be chatty or gregarious, for being out here wasn’t about those things. Moreover, it seemed to Brooke that they were becoming more comfortable in each other’s company. And whenever that was the case between two people, talking wasn’t always needed.

  Just then Greg got a hit on his line and he immediately jerked his rod tip skyward, trying to set the hook. As his rod bowed down again, he smiled.

  “Got one!” he shouted. “Come and grab the net!”

  After quickly reeling in her line, Brooke set down her pole and rushed astern. Net in hand, she watched Greg as he carefully reeled in the fish.

  His technique was very good, Brooke realized. Time after time he patiently lowered the rod tip while taking in more line, only to carefully lift it again and begin the process anew. Soon a very nice walleye appeared alongside the boat, its slick body reflecting multicolored hues just below the surface of the water.

  “Okay, now,” Greg said. “Get ready, ’cause here he comes!”

  Just as the fish broke the surface, Brooke smoothly netted it. With the fish still wildly flapping about in the net, she quickly set the net on the floor of the boat.

  “Well done!” Greg said. “Now let’s get this hook out of him.”

  Greg removed the flapping fish from the net, then used a pair of pliers to free the hook. He held the fish up and smiled.

  “A good one!” he said. “About three pounds. Do we need another?”

  Brooke smiled back. “Well,” she answered, “it’s still early. And besides, we can’t go home with you one-upping me this way! So let’s stay out a bit longer, okay?”

  “Okay,” Greg answered as he thrust the walleye into the wet burlap bag. He then replaced Brooke’s worm harness with a Canadian Wiggler, and they eagerly returned to their fishing.

  AN HOUR AND a half later, Brooke was happily whistling along to some Tommy Dorsey playing on her radio, while at the same time she expertly filleted the two good-sized walleyes she and Greg had caught. As she did, she smiled and shook her head a little. Greg had been right about that burlap bag. It had kept the two fish nice and fresh, all the way home. Greg had gone back to his cabin to wash up and to retrieve a bottle of white wine that he said he had been saving for a special occasion. Because it had been so long since he had tasted fresh walleye, he said, tonight’s dinner would surely be special enough to warrant opening the wine.

  After finishing the task of filleting, Brooke paused and thought for a moment. She wanted to make this dinner special, somehow. It had been some time since she had cooked a full meal for anyone other than herself, and she wanted everything to be just right. She was hoping to do something novel with the fish fillets, but she wondered how.

  After rifling through her cupboards and pulling out a few varied ingredients, she believed that she had concocted an answer. She wouldn’t fry them, she decided. And so she started improvising, which always made her the happiest whenever she cooked.

  While preheating the oven, she combined some melted butter, crushed Ritz crackers, grated cheese, and small portions of basil, oregano, and garlic powder in a mixing bowl. She then dipped the fillets in some of the leftover butter, covered each piece with the crumb mixture, and put them into the oven to bake.

  Just as she was setting the table, Greg returned with the wine. He had changed into a white shirt with navy slacks, causing Brooke to remark how nice he looked. After thanking her, he opened the bottle and poured two glasses of the already chilled wine. Smiling broadly, he gently clinked his wine goblet against hers.

  “To the fruits of the sea,” he said.

  Before taking her first sip, Brooke smiled back at him. “I couldn’t agree more,” she answered. Then she laughed a little and added, “And to think that for once, Gregory Butler is eating a dinner that wasn’t entirely supplied by surreptitious means!”

  Greg laughed a bit in return. “Actually, that isn’t altogether true.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Well,” he answered, “there is the matter of this rather good Chardonnay . . .”

  Brooke nodded knowingly. “Let me guess,” she said. “You know a guy.”

  “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Several, actually . . .”

  Brooke smiled back. “I’ll bet,” she answered.

  Just then Greg narrowed his eyes a bit, and he glanced around Brooke’s little kitchen.

  “What’s that wonderful smell?” he asked. “I’ve noticed that you’re not frying the fish, so you must be baking it, right?”

  Brooke nodded. “It’s a new recipe I just invented. I hope that it’ll be good! Sometimes my culinary contrivances are very tasty, and sometimes they’re not.” She then handed her personal recipe book to Greg. “I’ve also taken to writing them down in that,” she added. “Who knows—maybe someday one of my descendants will find it useful!”

  Remembering the Churchill’s Cherry and Cream Chees
e Pie she had given him, Greg laughed as he scanned her handwritten recipes. “So what are you going to call this newest dish?” he asked.

  Brooke thought for a few moments before taking another sip of the very good wine.

  “Well,” she answered, “I don’t want to be redundant, but how about Winston’s Baked Walleye? Sounds about right, doesn’t it? Provided it passes muster, of course.”

  Greg laughed and lit a cigarette. “Yes,” he answered enthusiastically. “I think that it does.”

  “Good,” Brooke said. She then picked up a wooden mixing spoon and brandished it threateningly, as if it were some sort of weapon. “Now that that’s settled, you go and drink and smoke yourself to death out on my porch,” she ordered him. “I don’t much like men messing up my kitchen when I’m cooking, and I’m not done yet.”

  Greg laughed a little. “Okay, okay, I’m going. Just let me know when things are ready, and I’ll rejoin you.”

  While Greg waited on the porch, Brooke sliced up a couple of fresh lemons. She also prepared a green salad with olive oil, Parmesan, and balsamic, and then she began preparing some risotto, over which she would also sprinkle the remaining Parmesan.

  As she worked, Greg sat contentedly in one of the rocking chairs on the porch and looked out over the waves. It had been a long time since a woman had cooked for him, and having one do so now was certainly a treat. After sipping some more wine and taking another luxurious drag on his cigarette, he shook his head slightly.

  God, she’s wonderful, he thought. Her husband Bill’s a lucky man. She’s not only beautiful and intelligent, she’s also a damned good cook. All of which make me wish that I’d met her first. . .

  When he heard the telltale tinkling of glass, silverware, and plates, he realized that she had begun setting the table. He smiled, knowing better than to ask whether he could help her. For he now understood just how much that little kitchen and everything about it was her own special domain, and he liked that about her. He had also very much enjoyed fishing with her, and he had to admit that he had never known a woman who fished so well or who liked doing it so much. In many ways she seemed ideally suited to Lake Evergreen, he realized, even though she had had a privileged upbringing and was the daughter of one of Syracuse’s wealthiest men.