CHAPTER 13
“Don’t take her tennies off ‘till you lay her on the bed or she’ll know it’s not me,” Big John said. “It’s been our little tradition since her mama died.”
Robert’s mouth hung open. Did John think he was interested in his daughter? Was that why he’d invited him to dinner again? Was that why he chastised Gary about his bumper sticker? Was that why he wanted Robert to carry her to bed?
“You’re a scrawny fellow; might hurt your back for you to carry her.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“What are you afraid of then?”
“Her waking up and seeing me.”
“She won’t wake up. Soundest sleeper I’ve ever seen. Slept through a bat flying through her room and her mama screaming when she was seven, maybe eight. I caught the bat in a towel and popped it out the window. That’s when we knew she was a sound sleeper.
“Pert near my bedtime, Bobby.” John yawned.
“The name’s Robert. Your daughter doesn’t like me. What’s she going to think, if she wakes up and sees it’s me carrying her, and not you?”
“She won’t, but if for some reason she does, she’ll be surprised that you can lift her.”
“I played football in high school. I was a free safety, second team all league.”
“You’ll have to arm wrestle her sometime.”
Why in the world? He searched John’s bag-ridden eyes.
“She seems to think she can beat you at arm wrestling, too.”
Why would they even discuss such a ludicrous event?
“Come on. This doesn’t need to take all night.”
Robert sighed, and slowly neared Missy. He slid one arm beneath her bare knees and glanced back at John before he tucked his left arm behind her back. Using his legs, he stood up. Missy was heavier than she looked.
John led the way down the hallway.
“She’s a solid little twig. Pure muscle.”
Robert nodded. “Was your wife . . . petite?”
“A twig. Let me do the talking, just in case, you know.”
Before the light dimmed, Robert paused in the hallway to look at Missy. She was pretty—even prettier asleep than she was awake. She sniffled and pressed her cheek into his chest. Her face appeared surprisingly angelic before they entered her moonlit room.
“Gone?” she whispered.
“Who Bobby Boy or Gary?” John whispered.
Her reply was muffled, incoherent.
“Yes, he’s gone,” John whispered. “I forgot to tell you, she talks in her sleep.”
The moonlight outlined her white iron bed frame and her pastel yellow quilt. John folded back the covers and stepped back while Robert placed her on the mattress.
“You take off one tennie and I’ll do the other,” John said. At the foot of Missy’s bed, both men unlaced her shoes and slid them off. “Sometimes her feet smell something fierce.”
Tonight was no exception.
“Hey, doll, what do you think about this Bobby Boy fellow?” John nudged Robert’s shoulder.
Missy snored softly.
Robert knew it was an accurate answer.
“You might want to hold your breath while we take off her socks,” John said.
They were both able to ease off one sock a piece before she turned over.
Robert held his breath and dropped the white striped athletic sock near the foot of the bed before following John to the kitchen for fresh air.
“Missy’s tried to make up for her mama being gone. I keep telling her someday some fella’s gonna sweep her off her feet, and she’ll move away to start a family of her own. But she’s an awful lot like me. I’ve always had a soft spot for being needed.”
Missy Stuart wasn’t so tough. Beneath her strong facade, she was a sensitive, beautiful, young woman. Under the bright kitchen lights, Robert realized that John watched him closely.
“Now about those oil filters, why don’t you bring by a dozen next week and bill me for them? And I could still use five or six more cases of thirty-weight oil. I prefer Havoline. Usually Missy goes to town on Tuesdays for groceries and supplies, so it’s usually the best night of the week for dinner. Maybe after smelling her feet, you’ll want to come by Tuesday morning while she’s gone.”
“Tuesday afternoon is fine.”
“Good.” John gripped Robert’s right deltoid with his large hand. “Be here tomorrow about six. I’ll have Missy make pancakes. We’ll have a nice, relaxing breakfast before we drive to Woodland. You’ll need a fishing license and a salmon tag and the little sports shop doesn’t open until seven.”
In the cab of Daddy’s Ford truck, Missy sat between Daddy and Robert. She crossed her arms and frowned. In Baker’s absence, Daddy was letting himself be wooed and was now doing a little wooing himself. Fishing was a major step in his and Robert’s relationship. No matter how the day turned out, they’d have their first fishing story—good or bad—to talk about for years to come.
After Robert bought his license and salmon tag at Larry’s—a little Ma and Pa fishing store in Woodland— Daddy took a right instead of a left out of the store’s parking lot. Usually he launched their jet boat at the ramp near the Lewisville Golf Course
“Where are we going?” Missy asked.
“I heard fishing’s been hot at The Meat Hole.” Daddy took a left at the Oak Tree Restaurant and crossed the lower bridge over the Lewis River. From there, he followed the curvy road upstream.
“You know why it’s called The Meat Hole?” Daddy glanced at Robert.
“No.” Robert shook his head.
“During Chinook season they’ll take 300 salmon out of there a day. That’s a lot of meat.”
Missy sat up taller. “The Meat Hole’s the one Douglas always talks about.”
“Maybe.”
“He calls it the Bumper Boat Hole. Fellows bump your boat to get your fishing spot.” She looked at Daddy. A soft pink started in his jowls and rose up his large baby face.
“I brought my anchor.”
“And guns, Daddy. This is the hole where that fellow shot a hole in the other guy’s drift boat.”
Robert turned to look at her. “Where’d ya hear that?”
“From Douglas.” It had been last fall Chinook season when Douglas told the story during dinner.
“Douglas gets to yapping and he doesn’t keep his stories straight,” Daddy said.
Missy’s stomach knotted. Fishing with Daddy was never the relaxing experience she’d imagined beforehand.
“Shoot! It’s already busy.” Looking over his right shoulder, her father backed their boat and trailer down the ramp. A dozen boats were already in the water. After setting the emergency brake, he climbed out of the cab. Missy slid over and took his place in the driver’s seat.
“Should I help him?” Robert gripped the door handle.
“No. He has a system; you’ll only get in the way. But, he’ll need you at take-out.” Missy watched in the rearview mirror as Daddy started the outboard motor, and waved.
After Missy parked the long rig in the gravel parking area, they walked down the ramp. Now was probably her only chance of the day to tell Robert thanks without Daddy overhearing.
“Thank you for cleaning the kitchen last night,” she said, without looking at him.
“Gary helped a little, too.”
“Did he?” Her voice lilted an octave. Daddy had only mentioned Robert.
“Yes, he rinsed a few plates and helped load.”
At the thought of Gary, her heart did a little dance. Last night before Daddy and Robert came in for dinner, Gary sat at the table, and she could have sworn his eyes were like magnets on the front of the fridge, staring at her. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but something was different about him.
Fishing was slow. In the two-plus hours that they’d been at The Meat Hole, they hadn’t had a bite. Missy yawned and, keeping her thumb on the spool, lowered the fresh glob of cluster eggs into the dark g
reen slack water. It felt like noon, but the time on Robert’s wristwatch read only ten-thirty. Holding her rod in one hand, she handed both men tuna fish sandwiches and Daddy the box of Bugles corn chips.
“Last night when Gary was over . . .” Daddy said.
“Yes-ss.” Missy felt a tad out of breath and tried to appear natural.
“Well, he . . .” Daddy slapped a mosquito at the base of his neck. “If for some reason, he asks you out in the next couple of weeks, or years, I told him you’re not allowed to go.”
“Huh?” What was he saying? Had Gary asked?
“Now don’t go jumping to conclusions. I told him you’re not allowed to go out with him unless he gets rid of his bumper sticker.”
“Did he say he was going to ask me out?” Her heart twisted up like a pretzel. “Did he ask?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I know the warning signs.” Daddy’s eyes narrowed as he watched the tip of her rod.
She’d seen it too—a slight quiver.
“Patience, doll. Let ‘em get the whole wad in its mouth.”
Missy gripped the rod with both hands and watched as the line tightened.
“Reel down.”
Standing up, she prepared herself for war with one of the strongest, best eating fish in the Northwest.
“Little lady’s got one on,” a man announced in a neighboring sled.
“Too bad you stood up,” Daddy mumbled. “When you’re at The Meat Hole, you don’t want to announce fish-on too loudly, if you don’t have to.”
“What do you mean?” Robert asked.
“It’s too late now.” Daddy sighed, and shook his head.
Missy reeled and lifted.
“And, if Gary does end up asking you out, you need to say . . . No,” Daddy said.
Daddy! She’d waited four years for Gary to ask her out. “I’m not going to tell him ‘No’ on account of some dumb sticker,” she said, keeping tension on the line.
“If he hasn’t improved his bumper sticker, or removed it, you’re not allowed to go out with him. My daughter is not allowed to drive around town in a feller’s car that has a bumper sticker that reads Roofers like it hot.”
Her eyes felt like they were going to pop out of her head. Daddy was serious! She was twenty-years-old, and he was still telling her what to do and what not to do.
After ten minutes of playing the spring chinook, Missy’s arms began to ache. The salmon was also nicknamed “king,” and for good reason. The sun beat down on the back of her neck. She was tired of chasing the king around both sides of the boat.
“We can have Bobby Boy play it for you, if you get too tired,” Daddy said.
“No way,” she mumbled under her breath.
Daddy chuckled.
“Gary has two bumper stickers,” Robert said. “One’s a little faded.”
“What’s the second one say?” Daddy asked.
Missy stared glumly at the high water mark on the forested hillside. Daddy had always said that bumper stickers told a lot about a person. What was important to them. What made them tick.
“Uhh . . .” Robert’s voice petered out. He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
“Make love not war,” Missy said. Maybe Gary only thought they were funny.
“Crab.” Daddy shook his head.
Twenty feet out in front of their boat, her king jumped out of the water. A few minutes later, its silvery form surfaced again as she played it closer to the boat.
“Bobby, get the net, while I run the motor,” Daddy said.
Poor action with the net could cost her the prize.
“Get the net deep in the water, and come up underneath it. Now, Bobby,” Daddy said.
Missy steered the large silvery fish towards the boat, and Robert scooped and hoisted it up over the side.
“It’s a beauty,” Daddy whispered, bending down to loosen the hook.
It was definitely the largest springer she’d ever landed. She wondered how much it weighed.
“Hold on!” Robert’s voice reached an unusually high pitch.
“Huh?” Daddy said.
“Cra-aaab!” Robert belted out. Missy glanced over her shoulder just in time to see a black jet boat bump the side of theirs.
In slow motion, she fell headfirst over the starboard side into the snow-melt water. The Lewis River was as frigid as a bathtub full of ice cubes.
She bobbed up, and found herself staring at the side of their light blue, aluminum jet sled.
Why did she have to come today? Why couldn’t she have stayed home and weeded the front flowerbed? When she’d found out Jerry Boy was coming, she’d argued, but Daddy had insisted. And like he always did, Daddy got his way.
“Make sure she has the rod,” Daddy bellowed.
Wide-eyed, Robert peered over the side of the boat. “Are you okay?” He retrieved the rod first from her, and then extended a hand.
He’d never be able to pull her up. Where was Daddy?
“Lift her in, Bobby. I know you can do it,” Daddy bellowed.
The next time Daddy insisted that she do something she didn’t want to do, she was going to put her foot down. She’d do the unthinkable; she’d say, “No.”
Robert grabbed her by the wrists. Scrunching up his face, he pulled her up over the gunnel, and swiveled her onto her feet in the hull. He did it with such ease that she knew it had to have been adrenaline. Her father often credited adrenaline for the time he lifted up the back end of an irate customer’s four-wheel-drive pickup.
Standing in the bow of the opposing jet boat stood a shrimp of a man. He was unshaved, middle-aged, wearing a holey, white T-shirt that didn’t completely cover his pot belly.
“It’s our turn,” he said with a cigar in his mouth.
“We were here first,” Daddy bellowed.
Her king was loose, flopping about on the floor of the boat. Missy dropped to her knees, gripped the salmon by the tail, and whacked it on the head before sliding it into the ice chest.
During the boat bumping, Daddy had lost his baseball cap. With his sweaty hair and round red face, Baker’s term for him came to mind; her father looked like an overgrown Kewpie doll. No wonder Cigar Man wasn’t taking him seriously.
“Is that silver boat the sheriff?” Jerry Boy pointed toward the ramp. For a moment, Cigar Man glanced over his shoulder.
Missy peered too. It was just a silver boat.
“Nice try mama’s boy.”
“Who are you calling mama’s boy?” Daddy picked up the long wooden oar and held it like a baseball bat. “Bobby, help me balance out the boat.”
Robert and Missy crouched down on the starboard side, while Daddy prepped his stance, ready to swing Cigar Man out of the water.
“Back up, ding dong,” Cigar Man yelled over his shoulder at the skinny man at the motor. After a lurch forward, the fellow figured out reverse. Blue smoke billowed out of their old Mercury motor as they passed half a dozen jet sleds on their way toward the hatchery.
Daddy chuckled. He returned to their little electric motor while Robert and Missy got their lines back in the water.
“Are you okay?” Robert studied her over his shoulder.
“Yes.” She was soaked to the bone. Fortunately, it was a hot day; it wouldn’t take long to dry.
“Sorry, honey,” Daddy said. “I didn’t see ‘em coming. But if I remember right, Bobby Boy did.”
That’s right, he’d said cra-aaab. She suppressed a smile.
“Yes, I’m sorry; your family’s favorite expletive slipped.” His straight white teeth practically glowed in his summer-tanned face.
Daddy chuckled.
“I think you may have a new dent,” Robert said, studying the reflection in the water on his side of the boat.
“It’s an old boat.”
Missy knew the reason Daddy didn’t mind so much is he had a new story to tell. She was never quite sure what was more important to him, his fishing stories or the fish.<
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CHAPTER 14
In their driveway, Daddy shifted the truck into park and looked past Missy across the cab at Robert. “Would you like to stay for barbecued salmon?”
“I better not. We’re having company over for dinner.”
“Is your mom a good cook?” Daddy asked.
“One of the best.” Robert kept his gaze riveted on her father.
Missy was glad he didn’t glance at her, or it would have been easy to take it the wrong way, like he was insinuating she wasn’t.
“Would she mind unexpected company?”
“Daddy!” Missy sighed. If she wasn’t trapped between the two men, she’d hurry inside and take a nice, warm shower. She felt sticky.
“I can call her, if you like?”
“I was kidding.”
Deep down, Missy knew he wasn’t. Something needed to be done about her cooking. Even Daddy was getting restless.
They unloaded the boat. Missy carried the ice chest toward the hose and faucet on the front of the house.
“Missy, call Jean and ask her how to make that light green fluffy salad of hers,” Daddy said. “She’ll know which one I’m talking about.”
She meandered into the kitchen, and looking at her notes on the fridge, rang Jean’s number.
Jean’s sweet voice came on the line.
“Hi, Jean; it’s Missy. Dad wanted me to ask you for your recipe for your light fluffy green salad.”
Jean giggled. “Easiest salad in the world. Hardest part is having all the ingredients at one time. All you need is a can of crushed pineapple, a carton of cottage cheese, a carton of Cool Whip and a package of instant pistachio pudding.”
The only ingredient Missy had on hand was a can of pineapple. “This salad will have to wait until I go grocery shopping.”
“Yes, you have to plan ahead.”
“Do you have anything planned tonight? We’re barbequing a salmon.”
“Oh, rats. I’m playing Bunco with my monthly group. You two have been so good about inviting me. I promise I’ll make it one of these days, so don’t give up.”
Fried Chicken and Gravy - Christian Romance Page 8