by Leigh Duncan
“Fishing?” Glen snorted. “Too smelly. Too many barbs. How’d you get into that?”
“Taking a jaunt down to Belize with the guys this April.”
Glen’s chuckles echoed across the marble floor. “You? Going after sailfish? This I gotta see. You have room for one more?”
Dan tilted his head to give the older man a sideways look. The quarry he’d imagined were much smaller than monstrous fish with swordlike snouts. “What makes you think—”
“What else would it be? Belize is famous for ’em.”
“Don’t worry,” Dan said as much for his own benefit as Glen’s. “I’ll be ready by the end of March.”
“Yeah? Good luck with that,” Glen chortled before turning serious. “I worry about you. If this fishing thing doesn’t work out, you need to find another hobby. All work and no play makes for an unbalanced life.”
Glen’s sermons on what to do with nonexistent free time were all too familiar. “I run. I work out,” Dan protested.
“So do I, but only because it’s good for me. You need to have some fun, my boy.”
“I’ll work on that,” he said drily.
“See? That’s what I mean,” Glen shot back. “With you, it’s all work.”
“Okay, okay,” he conceded with a wry smile. His pager saved him from defending himself further by emitting a soft chirp. “Sorry, Glen,” he said, “I have to go. Appointments are backing up. My office manager’s getting antsy.”
“You’ll take care of finding a better place for Regina, then?”
“No problem.” Dan scuffed a foot against the floor. “Well, there’s always a problem. But I’ll manage. Now though, I have to run.”
Since Mondays were largely devoted to postsurgical consults, the progress of his patients made for a busy, but rewarding, afternoon. Though Dan frowned over a slowly closing incision and scheduled an extra follow-up later in the week, he was pleased to see that even his brittle diabetic was on the mend. The results added the tiniest boost to his confidence, which helped ease the fears of two new surgical candidates as he walked them through what they should and should not expect from their operations.
By five, when the last patient headed down the hall, he returned to his desk where making good on his word to Sean once again took top priority. Although there was little chance she’d have the answer he wanted, his first call went to Sarah Magarity, Regina’s social worker. The young redhead juggled so many foster kids and all their many problems that he had her cell number on speed dial.
“If you’re not calling to tell me you’ve gotten married and want to adopt a couple of kids, you’re wastin’ my time, Dan.”
He smiled at the tireless woman’s spunk. “Yeah, I love you, too, Sarah. How are you doing with placing the Mayer kids? Six, aren’t there?”
“I found homes for three. The Smith girl’s mom moved back in with her parents, so she’ll take the littlest one. That leaves two, and I don’t have any choice but to put them in Group.”
“Two?” Dan didn’t try to mask his surprise. “I thought it was only Regina. How old’s the other one?”
Sarah’s pause prepared him for bad news. “Twelve,” she said at last.
Hard at any age, the regimented atmosphere of a group home was especially tough on preteens. He should know. He’d spent a mercifully short time in one just after his mom died. Although he’d been thirteen, it had been a very unpleasant experience and he’d noticed how much worse it was on the younger ones. “And there’s nobody else? You’re sure?”
“People have a hard enough time putting food on their tables. No one’s looking for another mouth to feed.” The few who thought of foster care as an easy way to make money, didn’t stay in the program long. The monthly stipend barely covered essentials.
Sarah ran down her list of go-to people, the ones she usually counted on to squeeze in another child or two. There were no vacancies until she reached the particularly kindhearted Carol Shea.
“She’s out. After that last fiasco with the Johnson kid, she said she couldn’t take it anymore. Shame, too. She was one of our best.”
Dan understood. Carol had been burned one too many times. Most foster parents kept their emotional distance. The ones who didn’t were better for the kids, but sometimes paid a heavy price when biological parents swept in and ripped their children out of a perfectly good situation for one far worse. But history wasn’t likely to repeat itself with Regina. Her mom was in Lowell, serving twenty-to-life with no chance of parole.
“Let me see if I can make something work,” he said, mapping out the best approach. He jotted down the woman’s phone number and street address. “I’ll swing by. I’m harder to say no to in person,” he said with a grin.
Two hours and a whole lot of sweet-talking later, the grandmotherly Carol Shea had agreed to take in the two young girls for a month. After that, well, they’d just have to see how things went. The solution wasn’t perfect, but in the chaotic world of foster care, Dan knew it was as good as he was likely to get.
Chapter Five
Jess shored up the corners of a fake smile as she escorted her top candidate for The Worst Customer list to the door of On The Fly.
“Let me know what you decide about that ten-weight,” she said, her way of reminding the frequent visitor that he’d asked her to put the expensive rod on hold.
“Sure, Jess. Sure. How ’bout I let you know over drinks Saturday night? We could go to Port Canaveral, watch the cruise ships dock for the weekend.”
Jess shook her head. Mr. Not So Charming needed some new material. He’d made the same play on his last visit to the shop. “Sorry, Bill,” she said. “No can do.”
Weekend clients from out of state meant she’d be up at four, at the boat ramp by six, and doling out coffee and donuts on her way to her favorite fishing spot before the sun cleared the horizon. By the time nightfall rolled around and all her gear was prepped and ready for the next day, she’d be too tired to hold her head up, much less play the flirt, even if she wanted to. Which she did not.
“Let me know if you change your mind,” Bill insisted. “You’ve got my number.”
She had his number, all right. Once the door swung closed behind him, she clutched the handle as much to prevent the man from coming back as for support. She stood guard until he tossed his purchases—a too-small bag of hand-tied flies—into the back of his SUV and eased the car onto Grove Street from the parking lot at the edge of Merritt Island’s bustling business district. Only then did she let her fake smile fade.
“How did I let myself get talked into this? What was I thinking?”
She’d never wanted the hassles of running a store. Of juggling schedules for ten employees or making sure the parking lot was freshly paved. On The Fly had been Tom’s dream, not hers. He had taken her idea of a fishing guide service and turned it into the area’s best fly fishing shop. He’d made it seem so easy, glad-handing the demanding customers until they walked out the door carrying twice what they’d come in to buy. He never even flinched at their outlandish requests. If someone wanted a rod in a particular color, he built it. If they wanted green bullet shrimp instead of the standard copper and brown, he tied them.
Yeah, and if they wanted to fly across treacherous water, he did that, too.
He’d always taken the dare, enjoyed the risk. Only this time, he’d paid the cost. Leaving her to manage their business. Alone. To raise their child. Alone. To bear the full weight of responsibility. Alone.
She leaned forward and knocked her head against the hardwood door frame.
“Problems, Jess?” came a familiar voice.
“Nothing that rolling back the clock a few years wouldn’t cure,” she whispered.
She left off butting her head and crossed to the register where Sam counted the day’s miniscule take. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the nearly empty parking lot.
“I spent two hours showing Bill every rod in stock, and all he bought was twenty-five dollar
s worth of flies. That’s it for me. Next time Prince Charming shows up, you handle him.”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t think he comes here to see me.”
“Really. Ya think?”
From the sales counter, Sam tsked. “Sarcasm, Jess. Not your most endearing quality.”
“He asked me out again.” She twirled one finger in her hair.
“Okay, so he’s not your type.” The manager studied the floor. “It’s time you got a social life, though. Maybe not with him, but with somebody.”
She felt her eyes widen. Since Tom’s death, Sam had assumed the role of a Dutch uncle, offering his opinion on everything from the rods they stocked to the guide service she hoped would take up the slack in On The Fly’s sagging bottom line. Though she counted on his frank advice, her social life had remained off-limits. Until now.
“Dating so does not enter into my immediate plans,” she answered. “Between the shop and Adam, I can hardly catch my breath. And now that Henry’s gone, things with Phelps Cove are a mess, too.”
“I’m just saying you should think about it, is all,” Sam persisted.
“Okay, Sam, have it your way.” She had no idea what had prompted his sudden interest in her love life, but she wasn’t going to let it slide. “I’ll play along. Let me take some notes.” She pressed an imaginary pen to an imaginary pad. “Let’s see. I need someone who has a job. And enough money to be comfortable, but not so much it turns him into an arrogant and demanding jerk. I know, how ’bout Li’l Al? At least then I wouldn’t have to cook, because he still lives with his mother.”
She paused to take a breath and shook her head. The mechanic hadn’t said a word about the man he’d towed out of Phelps Cove.`
“Jeez, Jess. I’m not saying you should marry the guy. Just go to dinner. Catch a movie. Get—” Sam’s ears turned as red as a Clauser minnow “—you know.”
“Sam, I cannot believe you,” she sputtered. More slowly, she added, “I am not looking for a bed partner. If I were, it wouldn’t be on a casual date. And I do have my own criteria. Anyone I date has to like kids—specifically mine. And he has to enjoy fishing—specifically fly fishing. And it wouldn’t hurt if he was easy on the eyes.”
“I don’t know, Jess. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.” Sam slammed the drawer of the cash register closed.
For a second there, she’d almost hoped they’d come up with a likely candidate. “Maybe someday.” She softened. Maybe after the state bought Phelps Cove and POE turned it into a protected habitat. After On The Fly was a tad more solvent. Years from now, when Adam was much, much older.
“So, what about him?” Sam asked as the bell over the shop’s door tinkled.
Jess blinked, momentarily speechless. There, walking through the door and into her store, was the man from the river. Half convinced she had conjured him from thin air, she closed her eyes, counted to ten and took another look.
Well, he was easy on the eyes. With broad shoulders, a trim waist and long, lean legs, he had a body that would entice any woman to cast a line in his direction.
She twisted a curl around one finger and told herself she wasn’t interested. The perfectly good pair of leather shoes he had dunked in salt water showed a sense of entitlement so ingrained it made her blood boil. Granted, his looks could generate a whole different kind of heat. But since he hadn’t known enough to wear a hat over all that dark, wavy hair, she knew he was not the outdoors type.
And so, not her type. Not at all.
“Sam,” she hissed, turning to face her manager. “That’s the guy who’s interested in buying Phelps Cove. What the spit is he doing here?”
“I don’t know,” Sam answered, “but he’s on his way over.”
“You handle him,” she said, overruling Sam’s grumbles. “I’ll be upstairs in the apartment.”
SMOOTHED AND POLISHED BY COUNTLESS hands, the brass-belted tree limb that served as On The Fly’s door handle was whimsical enough to put an amused smile on Dan’s face. Inside, antique fishing gear mounted on cedar paneling gave the place a homey feel. The fireplace scented the air with wood smoke, a vast improvement over the stench of fish that had permeated the only bait and tackle shop he’d ever visited. He scuffed his shoes on a thick, bristly doormat, glancing at the customers who browsed sparkling glass cases. They all looked as if they’d stepped off the pages of GQ and, knowing he fit right in, Dan drew an easy breath before stepping onto an acre of tongue-and-groove.
“Welcome to On The Fly,” called a wizened man whose pumpkin-colored shirt sported multiple pockets. He rounded a sales counter, the hem of loose khaki shorts flapping above his skinny knees.
“Nice place you have here.” Dan traded smiles with the man who closed the gap between them.
“We like it. My name’s Sam,” the clerk answered. His grin widened. “Your first visit?”
“Yeah,” Dan said agreeably. “I need to hire a fly fishing guide. Who’s your best?”
Sam threw a glance toward the back of the store where a door swung closed. “You just missed the owner. If you’re looking for number one, you’ll have to see her, but she went upstairs, uh, home for a bit.”
A woman fly fishing guide? What were the odds there were two of them in the same town? A warm feeling spread from the pit of Dan’s stomach. Half hoping he was wrong, he asked, “Does she have a boy about four or five?”
“Ay-yup. That’d be Adam,” Sam said. He squinted and his chin tilted to the side, pulling the rest of his face down with it. “You’re the guy who cost Adam his red fish, aren’t you?”
“You got me. I’m Dan Hamilton,” he said, offering Sam a handshake. Behind his smile, he wondered if he’d wasted a trip to the store. The cocky blonde’s ties to Phelps Cove ran deeper than he thought if she’d mentioned their run-in to her clerk.
Sam angled them toward a side room where wooden grids held swarms of bug-shaped lures. His pale blue eyes narrowed until Dan felt certain the man had lasered off a slice of his skin to put under a microscope.
“Jess’s had it rough since Tom died,” he said, his voice a slow, careful drawl. “You might be better off if I helped you.”
Dan stilled. He hadn’t even considered that the guide might be a widow, her son as fatherless as he was. He eyed the clerk whose rigid stance now made sense. There’d be no getting past the protective guard without a good explanation, and he had one.
“I need to learn enough about fly fishing so I don’t embarrass myself on a trip to the Caribbean with my business partners in April.”
This latest information didn’t go down as well as he’d hoped because the man fired off another round of questions.
“You from around here? What do you and your business partners do for a living?”
Dan pretended interest in a display of long-sleeved shirts. He hadn’t expected an inquisition, but the sour expression on Sam’s face told him he’d better pony up a good account of himself if he hoped to hire the guide he needed. He slipped one hand into a pants pocket and shifted his weight to the opposite leg.
“I grew up in the southern end of the county. Attended Melbourne High.” He eased back on the tight control he normally kept over his own accent until his syllables softened and the vowels stretched out. “After med school at UF, I set up practice near the hospital. It’s going well enough.”
Sam didn’t back down an inch.
“A doctor, huh?” he said. “You sure you ain’t a builder? Want to put them fancy condos all along the river?”
Dan managed a straight face long enough to say, “I’m pretty sure I’m a thoracic surgeon.”
The answer earned a barely suppressed snort, followed by an invitation to look around while Sam let Jess know she had a visitor. Now that he’d passed the test, Dan had second thoughts. Though the idea of spending time with the spunky guide held a certain appeal, he wasn’t sure he wanted to sign up for lectures on the sanctity of Phelps Cove.
But surely they could be adult about
the disputed property. He wasn’t planning to marry the woman. They didn’t even run in the same social circles. All he needed was the right equipment and someone to teach him a few rudimentary skills. The rest he could manage on his own.
His plan made, he stepped behind a counter to run his finger down the spine of a handsome fly rod made of tapered graphite. The finish felt like silk and he lifted it, intending to test its balance the way all the fly fishing books said to do. He imagined himself standing in a river somewhere with Jess Cofer at his side. She’d be surprised at how well a novice mastered the techniques of fly fishing and offer to—
“If you want to keep those fingers, buster, put that rod down slowly and back away.”
“Excuse me?” The rod rattled onto its rack and, bristling at a welcome that wasn’t exactly what he’d envisioned, he turned to face her. A corona of untamed curls surrounded her flushed cheeks.
Whatever had upset her this time, only a fool could miss how passionately she felt about it. And he was no fool—not that she’d give him a chance to prove it.
“You make a habit of showing up where you don’t belong. First where my son and I were fishing. Now here. What are you doing behind my counter?”
“There’s no no-trespassing sign.” He pointed to the bare wall above his head.
Her frown deepened. “There isn’t?”
She swept past, stabbing one finger at a miniscule brass plate screwed into a cedar shingle.
“Huh,” he grunted. He’d been so entranced by the workmanship, he hadn’t considered the rod might be off-limits. He tried to scrutinize the inscription, but Jess brushed past him, leaving the scent of sunshine mixed with citrus in her wake. His head filling with another breath of her, he bent down to read, Sweet Baby Blue by T. Cofer.
Maybe Jess wasn’t her first name. The odds were against him, but he still had to ask, “You made this?”
“Built,” she corrected. She whipped a soft cloth from her back pocket and ran it down the navy-blue spine. “Fly fishermen build rods. And no,” she said, her voice thinning, “my husband built this one.” Her eyes riveted on the graphite, she buffed until every trace of fingerprints disappeared and made him wait while she settled the rod onto its holder. Her back was still turned to him, and he strained to hear as she murmured, “On The Fly was Tom’s pride and joy. He loved nothing more than spending time with his customers. It was their idea to hang Blue in the showroom.”
