Nell looked up from the laptop screen when the door opened. The man who walked in was winter pale with long, black hair and soft greenish-brown eyes. He looked sick, like a druggie. And she was alone. Nell pressed a knee into the counter-space wall to position herself for the baseball bat she kept there in case of trouble. The rounded bat end touched her knee, just to the side of the button for the silent alarm that sounded up the hill in PawPaw’s house. She had never had to press it, but it was always handy to know it was there. “Can I help you?” she said, her tone half challenge, just on the edge of civility.
“You Nell Stevens?” he asked in a whispery voice, like sandpaper on stone.
“That’s me.” She folded the laptop down so the screen was hidden. She had a problem in the Nantahala shop and the IMs were getting heated. She pushed the computer to the side and bent slightly, circling her hand round the bat. “You want to take a trip it’ll have to wait till tomorrow. River’s off on Fridays.”
“I’m looking for work.”
Her hand eased fractionally. “Guide?”
“Kayak instructor. Word at the BP station is you need one.”
The BP station served fast food all day and breakfast all night and river guides ate there when they had the cash. It made sense that her need for an instructor might be bandied about there. This guy looked vaguely familiar, but nothing like a paddler. He looked like he had been up since last week. Like a good stiff breeze would blow him away. Like he’d been sick for months. Black bruises circled his eyes, his skin was sallow. Yet, his hair was clean and his beard was trimmed. She didn’t smell old alcohol on him or old body odor, so that was a plus. The lack of a tan said he wasn’t what he claimed, however. She straightened, lifting the bat.
Carefully, she stepped back, the bat held low at her side. Letting him see it. “Pardon me for saying so,” Nell said, “but you look like a prisoner just out of jail, not like a paddler.”
His lips twitched just a fraction, amused. Somehow, that amusement eased her growing concern.
“I was a state cop. I got shot,” he said. “I can’t be an active investigator anymore.”
Nell saw the horror hidden just below the surface of his skin when he said the word shot, the misery buried beneath the casual phrase that followed. The bitterness in his tone was muted by the whispering voice, but it was there, and Nell believed him. She canted her head, deliberate, thinking.
“I’m hoping to make a little cash while I decide what to do with the rest of my life,” he said. “You have a job opening and I’m a certified kayak instructor. A match made in heaven.”
“You got your certification with you? ID? References?”
Eyes shifting to the bat, he stepped carefully to the desk and laid a packet of papers on the glass top. Still moving with care, he backed away. “All there. With my contact e-mail and cell number.”
Nell glanced down and saw the name. Orson Lennox.
Nell raised the bat and patted it into her free palm as she looked him over. “What do you paddle?”
“I have two boats, an old Perception Arc-ProLine and a 2006 LiquidLogic Hoss. And a playboat,” he added, “but the playboat is for fun and the Hoss is better for teaching. More stability if I have to do a rescue.”
“You got ’em with you?”
“Beg pardon?” he said, looking a bit bewildered.
“Your boats,” she said, letting him see her own half smile. “You got ’em with you?”
“Strapped to the roof of my truck.”
“Let’s see your stuff,” she said.
“My stuff?” His face went through a series of comical changes as he tried to figure out what she was talking about. Then he blushed.
Nell grinned. “Your paddlin’ skill, river boy. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
He blushed harder and Nell laughed. “Drive upstream to the bridge. The river isn’t running, but the water’s deep enough there for you to give me a lesson. Get into your gear and onto the water. I’ll be there shortly. Let’s see if you can teach me how to paddle.”
His face cleared and he turned and left. Nell laughed softly and dialed home.
Orson pulled his boat into the still water near the bridge crossing the Pigeon. He felt stupid, remembering his blush, thinking she was making a pass at him. Idiot. Just a damn-fool mistake. But she had looked…pretty. Standing in the shop, the air conditioner blowing a few wisps of hair, the rest up in stiff spikes. She had been wearing something on her eyes, and maybe a bit of blush. She had looked totally different from the Nell Stevens of six years before, her eyes black, her face tear-burned, her expression lost and grieving.
This Nell Stevens had looked composed, in control and self-assured. The way a killer should look. Of course, it had been six years. Her grief would have waned. If she had grieved at all.
Orson had decided to go with his given name rather than the name he had gone by on the SAR, undercover, six years before. Using his own name and his real background story made it easier, somehow, this time. Besides, he wasn’t undercover. Nor was he officially on the job. He had just agreed to take a look at things on the cold case while he recovered. His own name put him halfway between two worlds, halfway between a cop on a case, and a former cop looking for work, which his story permitted.
He pulled on his skirt and slid into the Hoss. Knuckle-walking over the stones at the shore, he pushed off into the water. The still, smooth surface reflected back the growth on the far shore, the smell of the sun on the bank was slightly sour, warming the silt brought down by the higher flow the day before. A bird called, sharp angry tweets, full of alarm. A squirrel chittered.
Orson felt himself relax. His shoulders dropped and his spine loosened. His hands eased their grip on the paddle. He feathered his way across the pool. And for the first time in a long time, Orson Lennox smiled.
Forty minutes later, Nell parked at the Pigeon River bridge, just above the takeout for the upper half and the put-in for the lower half. She had taken the time to scan his paperwork, make a few calls, and found out that Orson Lennox was what he purported to be. A decorated ex-cop looking for work. If the cop she talked to in Knoxville was to be believed, he was a mixture of Gandhi, General Patton, the archangel Michael and a superhero. Whether or not that pedigree made him an able kayak instructor was unknown. If JJ and she were satisfied with his teaching skills, he was hired, but he had to pass the test first. And Nell and JJ were ferocious about teachers.
She looked at her six-year-old son and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “You ready to see if the new guy can teach?”
“I can teach. You should let me,” he said, that stubborn tone in his voice that reminded her of Joe.
“You can’t get certified yet. And I’m not gonna argue with you.”
He glared up at her. Nell forced her grin to stay out of sight. He would take it as laughing at him, not laughter because she loved him. He wasn’t prickly about much, but paddling was special. She was pretty sure JJ had river water flowing in his veins, not blood. She dropped her hand and unhooked his seat belt, then hers, and let the grin out, just a smidgen. “But…I told Mike he can take you to the Ocoee.”
JJ whooped and threw himself at her, his arms around her neck in a breath-stealing hug. Hugs were rarer these days as JJ grew up, aware that river guides watched him and thought him still a baby. As he fought to be judged an equal, he spent less time with little-boy stuff. Like hugs. She hugged him back, his body solid muscle and bone against her. He pushed away. “Let’s go see if this dude can paddle or if he’s just a diddler.”
Nell followed him to the back of the truck and hefted her own equipment. Together, cockpits of their boats braced over their shoulders, PFDs, helmets and paddles in their free hands, they walked down the gravel road to the water. Orson Lennox was on the water, sitting in his Hoss, facing the shore, nose plugs hanging around his neck, sunglasses hiding his eyes. He was lean to the point of emaciation, his arms mostly bone. What skin was uncovered by his vest and skirt was pasty. The water was totally still around him. He’d been there a while. Unmoving. Too far away for her to make out his expression.
“Whatcha smell, JJ?” she asked. A ritual question. Nell was training him to take time to smell a river. “Every river has a story to tell and a lot of it is in the smell. Its health, its rate of flow, its river-soul,” she said with a smile. The smile widened when her son pulled the scent in, closing his eyes.
“It’s slow and warm and lazy today,” he said. “The level is lower than yesterday, ’cause I can smell the stink of…of—” He opened his eyes and scrunched up his face. “That word you use. That means rotten.”
“Decay.”
“That one,” he agreed. “Smells like decay stuff.”
She put her equipment on the shore and canted a hip, sniffing too. The bouquet of the Pigeon was usually clean and slightly smoky, with a faint undertone of ozone. Now, it was indeed warm, with the smell of the sun on still water. Oddly, today, it smelled full of promise. And hope.
When she opened her eyes, they landed on Orson. He dipped a paddle into the water, feathering his stokes gently from side to side. His kayak came at them in a straight line, no deviation, which came from skill on the water. He could paddle, no doubt. Just watching him was like watching a dancer, all smooth fluid grace. Reaching shore, the bottom of his poppy-red Hoss scraped on river rocks.
JJ dropped his gear. “I’m JJ and I want to learn how to paddle. Walk us through it.”
“How old are you?” the broken voice asked.
JJ bristled. “Old enough.”
That faint smile touched Orson’s lips, a quirk, a reflex, as if he’d nearly forgotten how. “Your guardian sign papers to let you on the water?”
JJ looked at Nell, warring emotions on his face—that prickly anger at being thought a kid, and some uncertainty that the question might be important.
Nell said, “I signed release papers at the shop. Your boss has them. We both want to learn and we’re brand-new to it.” Establishing what kind of lesson this was. Telling him where to start. At the very beginning. Newbies.
Orson pulled off his glasses. “There’s five things you need to kayak,” he began in his raspy, wispy voice. “I call them the Big Five.” He walked them through a description of the minimum pieces of equipment required to swift-water kayak, and their uses—specially designed kayak, double-bladed paddle, personal flotation device, skirt and helmet. He walked them through how to put the gear on. While Nell and JJ geared up, skirted up, and pushed their kayaks into the water, he gave them a thorough safety lesson, all delivered from the water, where he looked at home, almost peaceful.
The lesson took an hour. And he was good. Never missed a beat or left out a safety point. He wasn’t just certified to teach, he had taught before, his spiel polished. On the water, he made them go through a wet exit three times each, watching them carefully for signs of fear, explaining that the body’s need for air often led to panic, but to survive on white water, one had to remain calm, focused, in command. No matter what.
Yeah. He was good. But something about the man still bothered Nell and she didn’t know what it was, except perhaps part of his stillness, his lack of emotion. His…watchfulness. Cop watchfulness, maybe, and PawPaw had taught them all not to trust cops.
Orson demonstrated the proper paddle grip and the basic paddle strokes—forward, back, sweep and draw. He made them perform for him, made them prove they could use the double-blades. As he talked, his voice grew stronger, not more raspy, which Nell figured meant that he hadn’t talked a lot recently. Then he talked them through how to do a peel-out, entering an eddy line at the proper angle, leaning downstream, sweeping into the current. He demonstrated the technique, and watched them as they tried one.
Deliberately, JJ leaned the wrong way and went over. When he came up after a wet exit, he asked, “What’d I do wrong?” JJ had seen a hundred such lessons. He knew the shtick and the right questions to ask. Nell dipped her paddle in the river, letting water flow from the paddle blade and plink onto the surface.
Orson gave that not-quite-smile and said, “You leaned upriver. Eddy peels are counterintuitive. Downstream leaning. Do it again.”
Happily, JJ dragged his boat to shore, beached it, drained it and reskirted for the next part of the session.
When he reached the end of the introductory lesson, Nell said, “Okay. You can teach the basics.” She paddled closer. “What else you got?”
Orson, who seemed completely relaxed, calm and almost happy, gave a grin. A real grin. Almost a flirty grin.
Something heated its way down her spine and skittered though her skin. Something half remembered and alien. Nell felt her cheeks redden; her mind went blank.
JJ, on her right, looked back and forth between them, curiosity on his face at a lengthening, awkward silence. The sun was overhead and glimmered on the still surface, obscuring the rocky river bottom, its rays hot on her shoulders and arms. “Teach me how to roll,” JJ said.
Grateful for the interruption, Nell drew a breath, forced her nervousness down inside, and said, “Scenario is, we’ve been down the lower Pigeon, class IIs and IIIs with you, and down the Upper at low water. Midintermediate level. You know we’re ready. This is our third lesson. Roll-clinic time. Go.”
For thirty minutes, Orson instructed, showing them how to right an overturned kayak in a classic C-to-C roll, getting out of his boat and standing beside each of them in the waist-deep water, placing their bodies in the proper position, patting the hull to show where knee pressure went, where the body rested. When he touched Nell’s shoulder, she expected to feel uncomfortable, halfway expected to have to give him a brush-off, but his touch was strictly professional. Not flirtatious at all.
Maybe she was wrong about the look on his face during the uncomfortable silence. Had to be. Men didn’t flirt with her. Ever. But now she was uncertain about hiring him. Something about him…
When Orson was satisfied, he stepped back and said. “Okay, you got the idea. Let’s see you try without assistance.”
Nell pushed away her discomfort for later consideration. They rolled.
Orson climbed back into his kayak, laid his paddle over his cockpit and rested his arms and body in the loose, slumping position of the longtime paddler. He didn’t bother to reskirt, but studied them back and forth. When he spoke, he addressed his question to JJ. “Well? Do I get the job?”
“I think he knows his shit.”
“JJ!”
JJ ducked his head and looked away fast. “Sorry, Mom,” he mumbled, not meeting her gaze. “But people say it. I heard ’em.”
“Not in front of their moms they don’t,” Orson said mildly. “And not in front of employees or customers or anyone they want to impress. Know why?”
JJ slanted eyes at him, mutinous.
“Because it makes them look undereducated, rude and unkind.” Orson slid his sunglasses back on his face, as if hiding, maybe hiding amusement from them both. “And you were being unkind to your mother. Not cool, dude.”
JJ set his mouth in a stubborn line.
“We don’t talk that way, JJ,” Nell said, knowing she was about to kick a hornet’s nest. “And if you can’t see that even the guides know their language is bad, then you aren’t old enough to be around them.”
“Mom!”
“Grounded for the rest of the week.”
“No! It’s not fair!” he shouted.
“Actually, it is,” Orson said. “My mom grounded me for a month when I was your age and said a bad word. ’Course, it was a really, really bad word.” He turned to Nell and changed the subject. “Do I get the job?”
“What word?” JJ demanded.
“We have two beginners signed up for private lessons tomorrow morning. Be on-site with gear at ten.” Nell looked at her son. “And if JJ is behaving himself—” she dipped her paddle and swept away from the guys, toward the shore, throwing her words over her shoulder “—and if he apologizes to me for shouting at me, using cusswords, then acting stubborn, he can be your second on the lessons.”
“Hope he’s okay, then, because it’s been a few years since I taught. I could use the backup,” Orson said.
Nell warmed at the reply, not knowing if it was true or not, but happy to have the reassurance, and to have another man around for JJ, even if he made her slightly uncomfortable for reasons she couldn’t yet perceive. Mike was good for her son, but he was old enough to be JJ’s grandfather and his whole life was bound to rivers. Nell wanted her son to have more. Orson, having been a cop, had lived beyond the narrow confines of white water.
“It’s not fair,” JJ said, sulking.
“Maybe not. But your mom’s okay. And she’s the parent.”
Nell scraped her boat onto shore, listening to the sound of paddles dipping as the guys followed.
“I’m hungry,” Orson said. “Anywhere around here a man can get a sandwich and an ice-cream cone? I’ll treat you and your mom.”
Though she didn’t usually socialize with guides or employees, Nell called out, “The Bean Trees has sandwiches and burgers, and The Smokehouse has great barbecue and cones.”
“Pick one,” Orson said. “Just let me get changed.”