The lake where we meet Brody and his friend is nestled deep in the national forest. When we get out of the Jeep, it’s ten degrees cooler than it was in Rush Creek, and I suddenly get why Gabe wanted me in warmer clothes.
The lake’s beautiful, surrounded by mountains, some of which are still snow-capped. There’s a campground in the woods behind the boat launch, where people have set up tents and RVs. I’ll have to ask if Wilder Adventures owns an RV. They could set it up as a glamper. I bet that would appeal to some honeymooners.
Out here, I still smell sage, juniper, and evergreen like I did at Wilder headquarters, but there are other notes in the air, too—the clean water scent, and something that must come from the damp earth and the tangle of reeds and grasses around the edges of the lake.
A different kind of woman would be thinking about taking her shoes off and digging her toes into the soft mud.
The kind of woman Gabe and his brothers probably date.
The boat is already in the water, next to the dock, Brody standing beside it. In the bright sun, he seems less broody than he did inside the Wilder Adventures offices, but he still looks like he’s got a solid dark streak. Maybe it’s the tattoos, or maybe it’s the leather jacket, but I think it’s the fact that he never quite meets my eyes.
He helps me into the boat. It’s a decent-sized fishing boat, but I still hate the way it feels under my feet. I’ve never liked boats.
I was always the one who stayed home from waterskiing even though I loved the actual skiing part, because I hated being in the boat so much.
I’m hoping it won’t be an issue today. I’m pretty sure fishing is mostly floating.
“This is Connor,” Brody says, and his friend steps forward and shakes my hand. He fits right in with the Wilder brothers. He’s over six feet, olive-skinned, dark-haired and dark-eyed, dressed in fishing overalls that shouldn’t be sexy but somehow manage it.
“Hey, Connor,” I say. “I’m Lucy.”
“I bring Connor along because his mom makes the best Cuban sandwiches in the Five Rivers region and she can’t stand for anyone to go out on the water without bringing a full picnic.”
“He’s full of shit,” Connor says. “He brings me because he doesn’t want to clean the boat alone after.”
“Yeah. That, too. But the Cubanos don’t hurt.”
Gabe sits down and gestures for me to sit too, which I do a second before Brody unwinds the rope from the dock and pushes off. A moment later, we’re moving slowly across the water, and I release a breath. I can handle this.
But I’ve forgotten how much I hate the bounce of the boat as it crosses another boat’s wake. And the gasoline-and-oil smell of a boat motor.
I’m determined not to let anyone see how much I hate it. I sit very still and try to breathe deeply through my nose, but I have to stop, because the gas smell is making me nauseated.
After a moment, I rest my head against my hand.
“You okay?” Gabe asks.
I nod. If I hold very still and breathe through my mouth, I will be.
As we motor further onto the water, Gabe gives me a little background about the lake—that it didn’t use to be accessible from the forest road, but now it is; that if I look carefully I’ll spot elk, all kinds of waterfowl, and close to shore, pikas, which are sort of like what you’d get if you crossed a rabbit and a mouse. “And bald eagles and osprey,” he says, gesturing at the sky, which is a bright blue so vivid it hurts to look at.
We find a location that Brody likes. This part of the lake is mostly deserted, except for one other boat. Brody, Connor, and Gabe set up their rods, while I watch. Gabe offers to let me have a rod and bait my own hook. I say no thank you with more force than I mean to, and Connor laughs, but Brody and Gabe don’t. I wonder what they’re thinking.
I try to make Brody tell me what he’s doing. I’ve been thinking maybe some of the wedding groups would like to learn to fish. I want to see what Brody’s like with a newbie.
What I learn: He’s like Gabe when he doesn’t want to talk. He grunts answers.
“Don’t make Brody teach,” Connor says. “Brody doesn’t teach or give tours. He only works with anglers who already know their stuff.”
“You’d have to talk more,” I say. “If you want to broaden your audience.”
Brody stiffens.
“Lucy wants to make Wilder Adventures more appealing to the wedding and spa tourists,” Gabe explains to Connor. He says it almost neutrally, just the slightest edge in his voice. I’m making progress.
“People would like this,” I say. “Just this. Just a boat ride out to a quiet place, with a picnic. Maybe Brody giving basic fishing lessons, explaining the wildlife.”
“Huh,” Connor says. “Sounds like a good idea, right?”
“I also picture some small girls-weekend groups. Maybe photography? Landscape painting? Bottle of wine, a manicurist and pedicurist, or chair massage, on board.”
Heads swivel and all three men aim looks of disgust at me.
“Not in the forest,” Brody says.
“There must be other bodies of water, not in the national forest, where you could do something like that.”
“There are,” Brody says irritably. “I could. But I would rather have my own fingernails and toenails pulled out one by one.”
“Than be surrounded by pretty tourists in a good mood?” I ask.
Gabe snorts.
“Tourists are assholes,” Brody snarls.
“Brody.” The warning in Gabe’s tone catches me off guard. Brody glares at his brother, and Gabe stares him down. Brody ducks his head and goes silent.
Connor jumps in, obviously the smoother-over here. “She makes an excellent point about pretty and in a good mood,” he says.
Brody and Gabe don’t say anything. But Brody doesn’t repeat his throwdown, either, so that’s a good sign.
“Just don’t fuck with my fly fishing trips,” Brody grunts.
I tilt my head.
“I lead river fly fishing trips, too. They’re sacred. I’m not turning them into tourist traps.”
“Noted,” I say, and sit myself down for a while. I’ll harass Brody more about my ideas when we’re off the water.
It’s crazy peaceful out here. The sun is higher now, warm, sparkling off the surface of the water. I watch an eagle flying overhead, its bald head white against the dark of its body. It’s so beautiful and fierce.
The guys relax again, joking around, ribbing each other about fishing technique and other stuff. Gabe’s so mellow, I almost don’t recognize him. He’s giving Connor shit about the garbage trout he’s been catching, and Connor’s dishing it back.
Brody’s quiet, though. I think of the back and forth between him and Gabe and wonder.
“How’s Rachel?” Gabe asks Connor. “That’s his little sister,” he tells me.
“She’s coming home next week to spring ski with us,” Connor says.
Brody freezes. I’m the only one who notices. Connor and Gabe are focused on rebaiting and casting.
Connor adds, “For my mom’s birthday.” He casts and sets the rod back in its slot. “She moved in with her boyfriend.”
“I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”
Am I the only one who can tell how studied Brody’s nonchalance is? If he tried any harder to pretend to be disinterested, he’d fall backwards out of the boat.
Connor grimaces. “Yeah. And she hasn’t let us meet him. I don’t know yet if I need to beat the shit out of him.”
I sneak a look at Brody. He’s schooled his face to blankness—but I see the furrow between his brows.
Interesting.
“So she’ll be in town next week?” I ask, because I know Brody can’t. “For how long?”
Brody shoots me a look. I can’t tell if he’s pissed at or grateful for my interference.
“A week,” Connor says.
“Is she bringing the boyfriend?”
Connor frowns. “No. I’m going to have to go to Boston to check this dude out. Make sure he’s good enough for her.”
Brody winces.
Yep. There’s a story to Brody and Rachel.
The good news is, Connor doesn’t seem to pick up Brody’s weird vibes. “How’s Justin?” he asks Brody.
“He’s good.” Brody turns to me. “Justin’s my kid.”
“Hanna mentioned him.”
“Yeah. Well. You stick around here long enough, you’re going to hear plenty about it. It’s Rush Creek’s favorite topic.” Brody’s voice has hardened even more.
Gabe puts a hand on his shoulder. Brody doesn’t look at Gabe, but his jaw relaxes a notch.
Something warms in my chest.
Gabe’s a good guy. A good brother.
I like him so much more than I wish I did.
I like him so much more than is convenient for this situation.
“Pika!” Gabe calls, pointing, and sure enough there’s a cute critter sitting on the shore with its hands up to its face, nibbling on something in its adorable paws. It looks like a tiny rabbit with mouse ears.
No elk, yet, though. I’ll have to wait on that one.
Every once in a while, one of the guys brings in a trout. Some get thrown back—too small—some go into the cooler. I can’t watch while they’re removing the hook. I try not to even think about it. The good news is, with the boat anchored and the motor off, my motion sickness has ebbed. There’s a small amount of gentle rocking with the wind, but it’s not bothering me.
After a while, Connor breaks out the Cuban sandwiches, and holy shit, Brody wasn’t kidding. Pork, ham, melted Swiss, mustard, pickles, all on toasted bread that has somehow managed to keep its crispness despite being wrapped in waxed paper and aluminum foil.
It’s about as good as it gets, eating out here on the water with the sun shining down.
Tourists are going to love it.
Mid-afternoon, Brody pulls up anchor and we head back to the dock. It’s okay at first, but then the boat picks up speed and we cross paths with a few other boats. The sun is glaring off the white plastic of the boat’s interior, blinding me. And the gasoline odor is back, filling up my senses like I can hear it and feel it, not only smell it. We’re bouncing up and down and I’m suddenly not okay. Not okay at all.
“Lucy?” Gabe asks.
The world tunnels. I put my head between my legs. My mouth has filled up with saliva and everything is gray and staticky.
“Brody, stop the boat,” Gabe says, in a voice of absolute authority.
Brody obeys, and I lean over the edge and throw up. I grip the hull, miserably sick and embarrassed. So unprofessional. So unlikely to convince any of these men that I’m equipped to help them come up with a new direction for their business.
I feel a hand come around to cup my forehead, and then there is a body behind mine, bracing me. It’s the most comforting thing ever, even better than when my mom held my hair back when I was a kid.
When I’m done, I straighten up. Gabe backs away, taking his warmth and strength with him. Silently, he hands me a small bottle of water. Then he takes off his sweatshirt and gives me that. To wipe my mouth, I realize. I stare at him in disbelief. “No way.”
“Better than Hanna’s sweatshirt, right?”
He’s got a point. I sip the water, swish some and spit over the edge, and clean myself up. Then I fold the sweatshirt and keep it in my lap. “Unless you want it back.” I give him the cheekiest grin I can manage, trying to show that even if I get seasick, I’m not one to give up.
“You can put it straight in the washer,” he says gruffly.
Brody takes it slow back to the dock, and I notice he goes out of his way to avoid wake.
“We’re going to need some ground rules,” Brody says, as I climb onto the dock, painfully relieved to be on steady land.
“Ground rules?” I ask.
“Before I take anyone out, they have to sign a contract saying they won’t puke.”
Pretty sure he’s not joking.