Up at Butternut Lake: A Novel (The Butternut Lake Trilogy)

by McNear, Mary

  “It’s harder than it looks,” Walker said now, encouragingly. He marveled, once again, at Wyatt’s determination to do everything by himself.

  Wyatt pinched the worm tightly between his thumb and his index finger and guided the end of the hook through its midsection. “There,” he said, with satisfaction, getting ready to cast off.

  “Now, remember what I told you,” Walker said, leaning forward in his seat.

  Wyatt nodded, then put his rod over his right shoulder, and, after a slight wobble, cast his line over the water in an almost graceful arc. When his hook hit the water, the red-and-white bobber Walker had attached to the line floated on the surface. If a fish took the bait now, the bobber would bounce and slide on the water, alerting Wyatt to its location.

  “And now we wait,” Wyatt said solemnly, borrowing a phrase from Walker.

  “Hopefully, not too long.” Walker said, smiling and thinking, as he had for over a month of Sunday mornings now, what a cute kid Wyatt was.

  Wyatt was sitting now in one of the two seats in Walker’s fishing boat, dressed in a sweatshirt, blue jeans, a Minnesota Twins baseball cap, and red Converse sneakers. His chin was resting on the voluminous padding of the bright orange life preserver Walker had strapped him into, and his feet, which didn’t reach the bottom of the boat, dangled off his seat.

  This was one of the things that had surprised Walker the most about Wyatt, he reflected now. How small he was. All young children were small, of course. But it was one thing to observe their smallness from a distance, and another thing to see it up close and personal.

  It made Walker feel protective of Wyatt in a way he’d never felt protective of anyone before. It made him take extra care in fastening the straps on Wyatt’s life preserver, in helping him in and out of the boat, and in driving him around in the boat, too. Normally, Walker liked to drive fast. But with Wyatt beside him, he steered cautiously around the lake’s bays and inlets. Like an old man, he thought. Or like a father.

  But no sooner had he had that thought than he pushed it away. Wyatt could do better than to have him for a father. Wyatt had already done better, he was sure. He wouldn’t be such a sweet kid, Walker figured, if his dad hadn’t been a nice guy. A guy who knew what Walker couldn’t imagine knowing. Namely, how to be somebody’s father.

  But if Walker didn’t have what it took to be a dad, he figured he could at least begin by being something else to a young child. A coach, for instance. Or maybe just a friend.

  And that, probably, was what had surprised him the most about Wyatt. How much being with him felt like being with a friend. The kid, it turned out, was surprisingly good company.

  For one thing, he never complained. Not about the early hour they went fishing. Not about being tired. (Although Walker had seen him yawn, discreetly, and even rub his eyes when he thought Walker wasn’t looking.) And he never complained about being cold, either, despite the frequent early morning chill on the lake. He also didn’t complain about having to sit still, something Walker had thought would be the most challenging part of these mornings for him.

  Instead, he soaked up everything Walker taught him like a little sponge. He learned quickly. Amazingly quickly. And far from asking questions all the time, something Walker had assumed all children did, he asked them only occasionally. And when he did ask them, they seemed to Walker to be unusually intelligent and perceptive questions. Although here again, Walker was struck by how little he knew about children. Maybe Wyatt was a typical five-year-old boy. But he didn’t really believe that. He seemed too exceptional, somehow, to be anything close to ordinary.

  “Look!” Wyatt said now, interrupting his thoughts. He was pointing at his bobber, sliding sideways on the water’s surface.

  “Hey, you got a bite,” Walker said. He wanted to help him, but he reminded himself that Wyatt didn’t want any help. Still, he couldn’t resist the urge to coach him a little.

  “Okay, not too fast. No sudden movements. You want to keep him on the line.”

  Wyatt nodded, resolutely, and started to turn the reel, slowly but steadily.

  “He’s coming in,” Wyatt said, his excitement momentarily breaking through his seriousness. “He’s still on the line.”

  “Nice work,” Walker said, as the line tugged the bobber across the water. When it got close enough, both Walker and Wyatt could see the fish’s silver scales flashing below the surface of the green water.

  “Okay, now for the hard part,” Walker said, feeling suddenly tense. He didn’t want Wyatt to lose the fish now, not when it was so close. It had happened once before, and while Wyatt had survived, he’d been disappointed.

  But Wyatt didn’t lose this fish. He finished reeling it in, reached for the line with both hands, and lifted it out of the water.

  “You caught a smallmouth bass. That’s not easy to do in this lake,” Walker said, approvingly. “It looks like it’s about six inches long.”

  Wyatt brought the fish into the boat and beamed at it as it thrashed energetically on the end of the line. But after a moment he looked up at Walker and frowned, understanding dawning on his face. “It’s not big enough to keep, is it?”

  Walker shook his head. “It’s still pretty small for a smallmouth bass. It’s got some growing left to do. It’ll be about twice that size by the time it’s done.”

  Wyatt looked wistful. But only for a second. “I’ll throw him back,” he said, then jumped a little when the fish flailed again on the other end of the line he was still holding.

  “Okay, this part I am going to help you with,” Walker said, reaching for the fish. “Remember, if you hold it the wrong way, the gills are sharp enough to cut your hand. And taking the hook out is tricky, too.”

  “Watch how I do it, though,” Walker said, reaching for the fish with both hands. “Because next time, you’re going to do it by yourself.” He gripped the fish carefully in one hand, while he eased the hook out of its mouth with the other. Then he tossed the fish back into the water. Wyatt leaned over and watched it, hovering, just below the lake’s surface, before it swam swiftly away.

  “Do you think he’s all right?” he asked Walker, frowning.

  “Absolutely,” Walker said. “He’ll probably live for many more years. Unless, of course, you catch him again one day.” He winked at Wyatt.

  “Do you think he has a family?” Wyatt asked then, his brown eyes questioning.

  “I know he does,” Walker answered, seriously. “A big family. With lots and lots of siblings. But I don’t think they really know each other. At least, not the way we know the people we’re related to.”

  He waited for Wyatt to rebait his hook, but Wyatt instead kept looking out over the water in the same direction the fish had swum in. And he looked so sad, Walker realized, with surprise. His brown eyes were shiny, as if with tears, and his lower lip was jutting out in a way that managed to seem tragic and sweet at the same time. He wondered if Wyatt was going to cry, and, if he did, if he’d know how to comfort him. Talk about being out of my comfort zone, Walker thought. Because what could be more terrifying, really, than the prospect of consoling a tearful child?

  But Wyatt didn’t cry. He just kept looking sad. And Walker, feeling helpless, tried to think what it was that was making him feel that way. Was he anxious that he’d hurt the fish? Or was he unhappy because, unlike the fish, he didn’t have any siblings?

  But when Wyatt spoke, finally, it had nothing to do with the fish. “Do you know how to play basketball?” he asked Walker, looking back up at him.

  “Basketball?” Walker repeated, surprised. “Um, yeah,” he said, after a moment. “I do. I played on a team in high school. Since then, though, it’s just been the occasional pickup game. I’m probably not very good at it anymore.” Then he asked, conversationally, “How about you? Do you know how to play basketball?”

  Wyatt nodded. “Uh-huh,” he said. “But I don’t get that many chances to play anymore. I’m probably not as good as I used to be, either.”


  Walker did his best not to smile. “Well, what about watching basketball games on TV?” he asked Wyatt. “Do you ever do that? Not that that’s the same as playing, but it can still be pretty exciting.”

  Wyatt’s face brightened momentarily. “We just got cable TV,” he said, “so maybe I can watch basketball now.” But then another thought occurred to him and his face clouded over. “I have to ask my mom, though. She doesn’t let me watch that much TV. She says it’s bad for my brain.”

  “Well, she’s probably right about that,” Walker said, smiling. “But maybe when basketball season starts, she’ll let you come over to my cabin and watch a game with me.” He almost added that his television set, unlike the ancient model he’d seen in Wyatt’s living room, was a seventy-inch flatscreen. But he was afraid that would qualify as bribery, especially when he’d probably overstepped his boundaries already. Allie had said he could take Wyatt fishing, not invite him over to watch television.

  “I’d like to go to your cabin again,” Wyatt said, his face alight with anticipation. “Because when we went there that night of the storm, I was mostly asleep. And you know what? I bet my mom wouldn’t even say no to my going. She can be kind of strict sometimes, about stuff like brushing teeth. But she’s not really mean or anything.”

  Walker tried, again, not to smile. “No, I don’t think she’s mean. But I’ll still have to ask her about it first, okay? After all, she is the boss.”

  Wyatt nodded, satisfied, and started to reach for the lid of the Styrofoam cooler that Walker stored the bait in. But then he stopped and turned back to Walker.

  “My dad was teaching me how to play basketball when he went away,” he said.

  “Oh,” Walker said, not sure what else to say. The subject of Wyatt’s father had never come up before, and now that it had, he felt himself tensing involuntarily. Coward, he told himself. Still, he wondered, what did Wyatt know, and not know, about his father’s death?

  But Wyatt didn’t notice his uneasiness. “He didn’t have time to teach me everything,” he said. “But he showed me how to do a layout.”

  “A layup?” Walker corrected him, automatically, and then was irritated at himself for correcting him. What difference did it make what Wyatt called it? He knew what he’d been talking about.

  But Wyatt was unfazed. He nodded. “He was teaching me how to do a layup,” he said.

  “And you remember that?” Walker asked, gently.

  “Uh-huh,” Wyatt said, nodding emphatically.

  Was that even possible? Walker wondered. If his father had died over two years ago, then Wyatt would have been three, at most, when he’d shipped out. Maybe even younger. Could he remember back that far? Walker tried to remember how old he’d been at the time of his earliest childhood memory, but he came up empty. Maybe, he thought, that was just as well.

  But he realized then that Wyatt was looking at him expectantly. As if he was waiting for Walker to say something. But what? He was definitely out of his depth here. And then Wyatt surprised him again.

  “My dad died,” he said to Walker, matter-of-factly. “He was in a war.”

  “I know that,” Walker said. “And I’m sorry,” he added, realizing, for the first time in his life, how truly inadequate those two words were.

  “That’s okay,” Wyatt said, and then, much to Walker’s surprise, Wyatt reached over and patted his hand. He’d never done anything like that before and, for a second, Walker was so surprised he didn’t know what to do. Or say. It was such a small gesture, but it spoke volumes about the kind of kid Wyatt was. How gentle he was, and how sweet.

  Walker swallowed past something hard in his throat and did the only thing he could think of to do. He reached over and tugged down on the visor of Wyatt’s baseball cap until it covered his chocolate brown eyes, and then he pulled it up again until Wyatt’s brown eyes came back into view. Wyatt smiled happily at him, and Walker was reminded, suddenly, of the child he and Caitlin might have had together. He felt a dull ache, then, somewhere behind his chest, as he realized, for the first time, that what he’d always considered to be Caitlin’s loss had been his loss, too.

  In that same instant, though, he felt a decisive tug on the end of his line. “Hey, buddy,” he said, to a still-smiling Wyatt, “I think I’m going to need your help.”

  An hour later, Walker was steering the boat back to Allie and Wyatt’s dock. The sun had burned through the early morning mist by now, and the lake’s surface, which had been a pale gray when they’d left earlier that morning, was now a deep blue. It was going to be a hot day, but right now it was perfect. Golden and warm, but with a hint of the night’s coolness and freshness still left in the air.

  “I bet you’re hungry,” Walker said, as Wyatt’s dock came into view.

  “I’m starving,” Wyatt agreed cheerfully.

  Walker squinted across the water. No sign of Allie yet. She didn’t usually come out to the dock until she heard his boat pull up. He’d come to savor those moments, when he picked Wyatt up or dropped him off. They were the only times he saw Allie all week, and they were too brief. But he had to be satisfied with them. They were all that he had of her, and they always kept him going for another seven days. He was like an engine running on fumes, but instead of fumes, he was running on hope. Hope that sometime soon they’d have more than these handoffs of Wyatt, more than the few quick words they exchanged about the weather, the fishing conditions, or the thermos of coffee she always made for him.

  As he coasted up to the dock now, he saw Allie come out of the cabin, drying her hands on a dish towel. He waved to her, and she waved back. He cut the engine and angled the boat so that it bumped gently against the end of the dock.

  “Hi, Mom!” Wyatt called out, as Walker tied up the boat.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Allie called back, taking the stone path that led down to the dock.

  Wyatt scrambled out of the boat now, and, for once, Walker didn’t remind him to be careful. He watched as Wyatt ran down the dock, meeting Allie halfway, and he watched as Allie scooped him up into her arms and gave him a big hug. No sooner had she done that, though, then she wrinkled her nose and held him away from her.

  “Wyatt,” she said, laughing as she set him down, “did you catch fish or did you roll around in them?”

  “We caught them,” he said, proudly.

  “That’s wonderful,” Allie said, rumpling his hair. “But maybe you should take a shower before you come to the breakfast table. Why don’t you go put your clothes in the hamper and I’ll come and run the water for you, okay?”

  He nodded and, his enthusiasm undiminished, ran up to the cabin.

  “Good morning,” she said to Walker, coming out to the end of the dock.

  “Good morning,” Walker said, trying not to gawk at her. It was hard, though. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse and blue jean cutoffs, both of which showed off a delicious amount of bare, suntanned skin. She’d left her honey-gold hair out of its customary ponytail, and it fell, straight and shiny, to her shoulders.

  “Wyatt didn’t thank you,” she said, apologetically, coming to a stop in front of his boat. Her two perfect knees were right at his eye level.

  “He thanked me,” he assured her.

  “Well, I’d like to thank you, too,” she said.

  “That’s not necessary,” he said, unhooking his boat. He would have loved to stay and talk, but he knew Wyatt was waiting for her in the cabin.

  “It is necessary,” she corrected him. “And, if you have time this morning, I was hoping you’d let me return the favor and cook breakfast for you.”

  He held on to the end of the dock. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  She smiled down at him. “Absolutely,” she said. “It’s the least I can do. I heard in town that good fishing guides can charge up to a hundred dollars an hour.”

  “I never claimed to be a professional,” he said, hooking his boat up again. “But I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  He climbed out of
the boat and walked with her up to the cabin.

  “Why don’t you wash up at the kitchen sink?” she suggested, when they got to the front porch.

  “That’d be great,” he said, following her into her sunny, delicious-smelling kitchen and scrubbing up at the sink.

  “Here,” she said, when he’d dried his hands on a dish towel. She handed him a steaming mug of coffee and an enormous blueberry muffin wrapped in a checked napkin. “Why don’t you take these out on the porch? They’ll tide you over until breakfast is ready, and you can try out the new porch swing I bought at the hardware store. I’d join you, but I have to make sure that Wyatt remembers to use soap in the shower.”

  “Is it possible he won’t?” he asked, amused.

  “It’s entirely possible,” Allie said, and she smiled at him, almost shyly, before she left the kitchen.

  Her shyness was adorable, Walker thought, taking his coffee and muffin out on the porch. And oddly enough, it had the opposite effect on him that it should have had. It should have made him feel more reserved around her. Instead, though, it made him want to kiss her. Or, more accurately, ravage her. But Allie, he thought regretfully, wasn’t on the breakfast menu this morning.

  So he sat on the porch swing and drank his coffee, which was good and strong and laced with half-and-half, and he ate his muffin, which was buttery, warm, and full of fresh blueberries. Had she and Wyatt picked them together? he wondered, lounging on the swing. He imagined them doing it and wished somehow he could have been with them.

  He was still sitting there, still thinking about them, when Allie poked her head out of the cabin. “Breakfast is ready,” she said. He followed her into the kitchen, carrying his empty coffee cup. Her blouse, he saw, was slightly damp from supervising Wyatt’s shower, and it clung to her appealingly. Her hair, too, had gotten a little wet in the humid bathroom, and it curled slightly at the ends.

  “You’d probably like more coffee,” she said, reaching for his cup and refilling it from the coffeepot. “Cream’s on the table,” she added, handing it back to him.