“Mr. King? Your line’s all tangled in the brush.” Macy’s pointing behind me. I tug at my rod, only to discover I’m hung up in the greenery behind us on the slope of the shore.
“Yeah, man, that’s a big ol’ mess.” Todd chimes in. He adjusts his stupid little porkpie hat.
“Shut it, Charlie Chaplin.” I stay still for a minute, trying to think how to calmly untangle my line.
Macy takes a few swift, hopping steps through the river, and she’s beside me. She reaches into the pocket on the breast of her waders and pulls out a pocketknife.
With the hand that isn’t wrapped, she flips the blade and cuts the line in one deft movement. “There you are. You know how to splice the line back together? I can show you the knot if you want.”
As much as I wouldn’t mind her close to me, I don’t relish looking like an idiot. And yes, the fly fishing coach in LA did actually show me how to tie two pieces of line together.
“I can do it, but thanks.” I set to the task.
“You need reading glasses for that, old man?” Todd chuckles.
“Andy? Can you please take your friend to the other side of the river before I drown him?”
Andy can’t hear me. Mr. Movie Star, he’s been on the river a lot since hooking up with Kelly. Her dad likes to fish, and since Andy and Kelly made their home base in Idaho’s capital, Boise, they’ve been all over the state fishing it up. So he’s our gifted and talented fisher today, and he’s already out in the river in his waders, casting like a pro.
I watch him. He looks like he’s at peace.
I remember him when I met him. Man, he’s come a long way.
He was staying at a friend of his mom’s. He slept on her couch, in a little cheesy condo in Venice Beach.
We met for coffee down the street from her house. He was probably hung over, but he was so charming, it didn’t matter.
He’s not that much younger than me, but he puts out this aura of youth and vitality and just plain charisma. The waitress was falling all over herself to take care of him. I think we were served nine thousand waters that lunch. I’ve never had better restaurant service than that, I swear.
I’d reached out to him. One of my friends had directed him in a shitty little ad about taco shells, I think, but Andy had said he was looking for representation, and this friend of mine had offered me up.
At first I’d been pissed, but when I met Andy, I understood. My friend, I owed him big. Huge.
I knew it when I saw Andy that first day, but man, has it proven out. He’s had his ups and downs, to be sure, but he’s a good guy, and a great talent, and I’m damn lucky that he’s stuck with me. A lot of actors taste success and go shopping for a new team, thinking they can negotiate greener grass.
But you know what? Andy’s loyal. I’m loyal. We get it. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a backstabber. And he’s never let me down, so when he’s needed a sergeant-at-arms, I’m his man.
Okay, if he literally needs physical protection, that’s what Tucker is for, but I’ve got his back in this business.
That’s probably why we’re unstoppable. It’s rare that talent and management don’t try to screw each other over eventually, but I’ll never do it to Andy. I don’t care if he gains a hundred pounds and has to play Dan in a Roseanne remake, I’ll still rep him.
On a side note, he’s made plenty of money, and he’s not an idiot. We won’t have to do the Roseanne thing. Trust me on that one.
Suddenly a shadow falls on my hands, I smell something sweet, and look up. Macy’s right in front of me.
“You’re quite the thinker this morning. I didn’t peg you for the introspective type.” She checks the knot I’ve made, mending the lines she cut, and nods in approval.
“Maybe I’m napping behind these sunglasses. Don’t give me too much credit.”
“Oh, I won’t. Why don’t you come into the water a bit?” She takes a few steps back into the current of the river and motions for me to follow. “I think you’re ready to get in a little deeper.”
I know I am. I want to, that’s for sure. I save the double entendre for my own thoughts, since cheese doesn’t seem to be the way in with this woman. I edge into the river, feeling for my footing. I’m not interested in swimming, especially since I didn’t wear waders this morning.
I’m surprised by the bite of the cold. I can feel the bracing cold through my river boots and thick socks, and I feel goose bumps raise under the sweat on the back of my neck from the rays of the sun.
I shiver. “It’s cold.”
Macy looks at me, serious for a minute. “Doesn’t matter if it’s June; this river always means business.” I think she says this for the whole party’s sake. “The current can catch you off guard, and if you go under, you’ll get real cold, real fast. Most of the time we’re not in any really challenging current, but don’t ever forget the river’s the boss.”
I smile. “I thought you might be the boss. You’re the guide, after all.”
She looks across the river at where she’s just floated her fly, as a trout rises to take a taste of it. “I’m the guide, that’s true. Why don’t you just assume that I’m the one you take direction from, and we’ll be just fine.”
I nod. And tell my overactive imagination to stand down, ‘cause suddenly I have all sorts of bedroom applications for that last statement, and I think she’s standing close enough to me to see the gears turning.
She must feel the testosterone surge she’s just aroused in me, because she moves downriver to Todd, who struggles to get the line to come up off the water after landing his first cast.
Andy wades over to me. “I think I might pick my way down to just above the geezers over there. Wanna come with me?” He points towards the white-haired group fishing near us.
“Sure. We could take ‘em if they challenge us.” I’d love to stay close to Macy, but this is Andy’s fishing trip, and my first job is to hang out with my friend.
It’s not deep, but the current picks up a bit, and we edge downstream.
“Now listen, don’t aggravate the Golden Girls over there. We’re not trying to start a turf war.” Andy points to a spot in the shade, where the current lags a bit. “That’s where the fish are. The current’s slower; water’s cooler.”
“Let’s go over there, then.” I take a stride.
Andy puts an arm out. “Wait a sec. The old guys are fixing to move farther downstream. I don’t want them to change their minds if they see us sizing up that spot.” He turns his back on them and points something out upstream to me.
I keep my eye on the group. “This is an award-winning performance.” Andy’s right; they are sizing us up. Andy shakes his head and points more vehemently upstream to me, and they fall for the fake-out. They leave their spot to move farther away from us downstream.
Andy doesn’t turn his head yet. “Are they leaving?”
“Yeah. You called it.”
Andy smiles wide, pleased with himself. “To our shady spot. The trout are calling.”
We edge through the shallows to the little shady hole. I hold off on casting. Andy deserves his moment, and I can guarantee that my sloppy cast will freak out any fish in a twenty-mile radius.
He works the rod and gains the momentum on the line. With a graceful flick of the wrist, he sends the line floating and drops the fly gently at the edge of the shade. The current pulls it downstream. It twirls on the surface.
“C’mon, c’mon.” Andy watches, hands still.
Then the fly disappears under the surface. And there’s a flash of silver.
As little as I’m invested in the fishing portion of this trip, I can’t help but be impressed. “I’ll be damned.”
Andy gives the rod a quick, tiny jerk up, and grins. “Did I call it or did I call it? Now I just need to not lose him.”
I watch him gather line in one hand and pull on the rod, then let line out through the eyes on the rod, then gather the line in again. “What are you doing?”
“This is what it looks like to actually catch a fish, my friend.” He laughs, and the exuberant noise catches the attention of our guide, who wades over in our direction.
“We have a winner over here, do we?” She comes up behind us. Andy turns, a head nod in the direction of the fish, who is apparently not interested in participating in this fishing business.
“He’s a fighter.”
Macy looks at Andy. “Is this one for dinner or heading on its merry way when you’re done with him?”
“I think he’s a formidable foe—he’s earned another day to swim the South Fork.”
She nods. “I’ll help you release him. Maybe Mr. King can snap a quick shot of you with your catch.”
I pull for my dry bag around my neck. Yes, I brought my phone. Andy’s right—there’s no service on the river, but I’m never far from my phone. I’m an agent. It’s part of me.
I have the phone out, and Andy’s pulled the trout in, and now he cradles it, just out of the stream’s current.
“Take the picture quick. Fish has to get back to breathing.” Macy’s already freed the fly and hook from the fish’s mouth.
Andy grins, the trout’s scales glint silver, and I get a couple good ones. “You’re good.”
Macy smiles. “The first of many, I’m sure.”
Andy points to me. “Time for you to land one.”
I shrug, look at Macy. “It’s okay if I have to bide my time. I get what I want in the end.”
Macy looks at me over her sunglasses. “Some guys find they wait a really, really, really long time.” And then she wades away, up the stream to check on Tucker.
Andy points the trout downstream and gently lets it wriggle out of his grasp. “You’re talking about trying to land her, huh?”
“Whoever said actors are dumb is so wrong.”
Andy pushes me, just enough to throw me off balance, but catches me before I swim. “Watch yourself. I’m quick. And the cute guide looks to be a pretty wily fish.”
“No one’s more cunning than a Hollywood agent. I guarantee.”
“Ha! That sounds like a ‘mark my words’ declaration. Tell me how that goes for you, J.” He edges a little farther downstream and readjusts his rod. “I’ll just be over here fishing while you make all sorts of big promises.”
“You can’t tease me about the ‘mark my words’ thing forever.”
“I can as long as you’re my friend.” He chuckles and turns his back to me to cast again.
I chew on my lip. Yes, years ago, when the first of the Harry Potter movies came out, I may have said that it was a guaranteed flop. I may have said some unkind things about Chris Columbus and maybe made a few disparaging remarks about Emma Watson’s hair. And yes, I may have said “mark my words” when I declared that the franchise wasn’t going to make it past the first movie.
I’m mostly never wrong. Andy remembers when I am. He remembers really well for a long, long time.
We fish for most of the morning, straight through lunch, and come off the water when the day starts to really heat up. The fish don’t bite when the sun is high and the day is hot.
We retire to the lodge, and I hole up in my room for a few hours to conference call with the junior agents in the office. Like I said, I don’t vacation, I work from the field.
As the call is wrapping up, I step out on to the deck to stretch my legs. One of the agents is recapping a pitch meeting she attended with one of our clients. This agent will one day be great. Right now, she’s still too worried about sounding smart. So she goes on. And on.
Movement in the bright sun catches my eye. I turn and shade my eyes to see what’s moving near the river’s edge.
It’s our guide. Macy. She picks up rock after rock and skips them out into the middle of the river. All the groups are off the river—the fish hide away in the heat of the day. The old guys would more likely catch heat stroke than a fish this time of day. Plus, it’s time for them to watch some judge shows on TV and nap.
She’s good at it. Skipping stones, that is. She gets at least three good hops out of each rock. I don’t know that I’ve seen anyone like her before. She certainly is different than the LA kind of girl I’m used to. Sure, she’s attractive, but there’s more going on than that.
I don’t even notice that the agent’s stopped talking until someone on the call clears his throat.
“Is that it, then?” My voice sounds deeper than normal. Inattentive or not, I’m still the alpha. I want to remind them of that. They work for me. Even when I’m watching Macy.
Someone jumps in to kowtow. “We’re done, Mr. King. Have a nice evening.”
I end the call without another word.
Macy picks up her rod and gear and walks down the river’s edge, disappearing behind another one of the buildings of the resort.
I decide to go talk to her. Just go and find her and talk to her. Maybe it’s not the best idea I’ve ever had, and maybe it’s not the Jeremy King experience, but I’m interested in her, and there won’t be many times to get to talk to her on my own. I’m always up for any kind of advantage I can win, and right now this is the only one that’s presented itself.
I slip out before any of the guys notice. They’ll all figure I’m still on my conference call with the office.
Outside, the heat bakes the air and shimmers off the asphalt in the parking lot. I walk around the other side of the house and scan the riverbank for Macy.
I see her, upstream, sitting under the shade of a tree. It’s at the edge of the property, and I can tell this is probably her time, her way to get some space from all of us.
So I will naturally go and interrupt that.
I can’t tell what she’s doing. Reading? Texting? Probably not, since cell service here is shitty. I secretly hope she’s not a serial texter or Snapchatter, or any of that. I’m the first to admit that I’m narcissistic and self-centered, but I also have no time to preen and pose and take endless pictures of myself. Not when there are deals to be made.
I try to approach as casually as I can, and she catches sight of me and calls out.
“Mr. King.”
“If you’re on your break, I don’t mean to interrupt,” I say, hoping to give her some choice in the matter.
She waves for me to come ahead. “You came looking for me, so you do mean to interrupt, but I don’t mind the company.”
I can see now what she’s working on, in the cool shade of the tree. Little fluffy flies. Her lap is full of iridescent fake insects, shiny and sparkly and meant to tempt a trout into taking a hook in its mouth. She takes each one in her fingers and adds a slick brown tuft of what looks like duck feather to the tail end of it.
I point to the one in her hand. “Nice work. You tie all of your own flies?”
“Yep. It’s cheaper, and the detail work quiets me down.” She deftly weaves a tiny bit of feather on the fly and places it back in the plastic tackle box next to her.
“So, what is it about fishing? You really like it?”
She shakes her head and smiles, not lifting her head from her task. “Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not a master conversationalist. That’s the best line you’ve got?”
I ignore the burn and try for funny. “I was looking to find a smooth way to work in some reference to scum-sucking wiener dogs, but it just wasn’t coming to me.”
She does look up at me now. “Fishing is peace. I’m good at it. I figured out I was good at it when I was pretty young, and around here you don’t need a fishing license until you’re fourteen.”
I pick up a couple rocks and skip them into the river. I get one skip on each, and then they plop to the bottom of the river. “Interesting.”
She narrows her eyes. “Were you watching me skip rocks, earlier?”
“Maybe. Is that bad?”
She gets up. “Kind of stalky, but I’ll allow it.” She picks up the tackle box and starts to walk back toward the main lodge. “I’ve got to go cover the front desk.�
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“Maybe we can grab a drink after,” I offer.
She shrugs. “Mr. King, guests come and go, but my river is always here for me, so I’m gonna leave now. If I ever lost this job, had to leave the river, it’d break my heart. I can’t mess around with our clients. Sorry.”
She gives a little wave with the tackle box.
She looks back once, over her shoulder, and smiles to see that I’m still watching her go.
She calls out to me. “You’re still looking at me. You’re gonna get a reputation. Seriously.” Then she laughs. It’s musical and full of joy.
I said earlier I could wait, but she is something. I don’t know what it is about her that’s so tantalizing, but I intend to find out.
That evening, the guys decide we’re going into town.
Town is a complete overstatement. We’re going to the crossroads, not even into Driggs, and sure as hell not into Jackson. No, we’re not going there, since Andy wants to lie low.
We’re just, really, this does exist, just going to the intersection of two highways. State highways.
“BFE, ladies and gents.” I say this to the group as we pile out of the Yukon. Tucker drove. The guy can’t let go of his bodyguard tendencies. Todd and Andy rode in the back, and Todd spent the whole time trying to get a signal on his phone.
He’s lucky I rode up front. I swear to God he’s been acting like a twelve-year-old this whole trip.
As we walk through the parking lot of the Double A Supper Club, there’s a huge clap of thunder. The black clouds are piled up over the Tetons.
“Big storm moving in. It’ll clear before we even drive back, what do you wanna bet?” Andy sounds relentlessly chipper. Tour guide chipper.
“It’s okay if it rains, Andy. We’re not made of sugar.” I sound less chipper.
Tucker smiles. “Speak for yourself.” He straightens his Polo out over his huge form. He’s smiling because he knows he’s not made of sugar; he’s made of tank. Or freight train.
We follow him into the supper club. These kind of places can be two things: they really are the small-town supper club. It’s where the locals come to eat and meet. It’s Ma and Pa and the mayor.
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