“Time to get you to Isabel.” I wondered if he could wake her. Was she Sleeping Beauty waiting for her Prince Charming? The thought drove me faster. “She’s probably at the stables. It’s becoming her favorite place.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from adding, And Grant her favorite guy.
“Hey . . . You’re doing it again. Slow down.”
I felt my shawl lift as I raced down the last few stairs. I halted when I reached the hall’s white-and-black marble. Nathan stood right behind me.
He had pulled my shawl off and was fanning it out. He then moved close, flipped it over my head, and settled it on my shoulders. “This was falling off too.” He looked down at me without stepping back.
“Thank you.” I stepped away first and led the way to the front door, down the front steps, and across the gravel drive. I darted my eyes everywhere but at him.
“It’s really beautiful here, don’t you think? I love these trees, and the air has this tactile damp feeling, but not today, or yesterday, which I think is unusual. I thought we were going to get more rain, but Gertrude, she’s the manager, says it’s been dry and is expected to generally remain so, which must be unusual with all this green. But we know dry back home and this really doesn’t feel dry.” I heard myself prattling and stopped.
I tilted my head toward the path. Shadow met us at the copse of trees covering the hillside down to the stream and stables.
“It reminds me of the Pacific Northwest.” Nathan caught up and walked next to me. “Does everyone always dress up here?”
“Sonia—she’s the maid—explained that the other night. Costumed parties dominate the summer months, the high season. But there are only two costumed stays offered in the fall, the last week in September and this two-week stretch to Halloween. Then the Stanleys, the owners, keep the house for themselves all through the holidays. And . . .” I took a breath; it rattled on the exhale. “The house doesn’t fill in the fall. It’s kind of the time for the staff to wrap up all the details of the busy summer before the Stanleys come. That’s why the Lottes—they’re the family from Geneva—chose this week. They didn’t want Clara, their eight-year-old, to feel uncomfortable. She already speaks three or four languages, and she adores Isabel. The other couple, the Muellers, chose it because I guess it’s a little cheaper now than in the high season. They’re from Salzburg. They’re about eighty, and don’t mention the Von Trapps. Well . . . Do. Herman likes to talk about them.”
I risked a peek. My head reached right above Nathan’s shoulders. It would probably tuck beneath his chin. I dropped my eyes—our hands were at the same level.
He glanced over. I glanced away.
We rounded the last bend to find an empty stable. The door to the dark-green building was shut, and the silence held a hard, empty quality. I peeked inside. Three horses. No humans.
“I didn’t tell her you were coming . . . I’m sorry.”
“Mary, I didn’t come to—”
“Good morning, Miss Davies.”
I spun as Duncan came from around the corner dressed in khakis, work boots, and a plaid shirt. He carried small needle-nose clippers.
“Duncan.” I practically shouted his name. “Good to see you . . . Has our resident Emma gone riding?”
“She and Grant left about an hour ago. He took a picnic, so I expect they’ll be gone awhile.” Duncan’s face split into a slow smile. “She didn’t balk about no chaperone today, and he looked very pleased to—”
“Duncan, this is Isabel’s boyfriend from the States. Nathan Hillam. Nathan, this is Duncan. He’s interning here this summer while getting his veterinarian degree.”
Duncan blanched. “I—”
“All good.” Nathan cut him off. He narrowed his eyes my direction, then pumped Duncan’s hand in greeting. “It’s nice to meet you, Duncan. Those look like they’re for fishing?” He gestured to the clippers.
“I was tying flies. Do you want to see—”
Nathan had already passed him.
Duncan followed Nathan. I followed Duncan. We rounded the stables and found a door on the other side. I stepped through.
Fishing rods lined the walls, and small bins of feathery flies lined the counter. There was a desk covered in brightly colored foam sheets, fluff, and more feathers. It looked like a kindergarten craft table. Rubber pants hung from hooks, boots stacked in rows beneath them.
“This is amazing. My grandfather tied all his own flies.” Nathan pointed to the table. “Can we fish?” He directed his question to me.
Duncan answered. “Let me get you set up. You won’t need waders; you can stay on the bank. There’s a spot just downstream that has a good caddisfly hatch this time of the morning.”
I leaned against the wall and watched while the two of them chatted like old friends and grabbed everything a fisherman needed. Nathan acted like a kid on Christmas Eve—all excitement and questions. Christmas Eve as most people think of it, that is—the holiday as it should be.
Nathan sent me a warm smile. It felt as if he’d read my thoughts and liked their direction. Then he turned back to Duncan like a puppy yapping at Duncan’s heels. What kind of fish? . . . What’s running? . . . Any rainbow? . . . What’s hatching? . . . Dry fly? . . . Wet? . . . What do you tie? . . . Do you tie all your own flies? . . .
Once Duncan had everything sorted, Nathan stopped in front of me. “I’m sorry, Mary. Is there something you or we need to do? I didn’t even think about Isabel.”
“Don’t you want to find her?”
“She’s happy with Grant, right?” His gaze swept Duncan into the conversation too.
The younger man’s face clouded in confusion. “She looked very happy this morning. She seemed pleased to see Grant and she loved the idea of a picnic. Not that anything would be amiss. Grant would never be—”
Nathan stepped to him and clapped a hand on his back. “I’m not worried about any of that. If she is safe and happy, I am too.” His last sentence he directed to me. It felt like smoke—substantive enough to carry a message, but able to drift up and away before I caught it.
He wagged a finger at my dress. “It’s not as if she can go too far.”
“You’re right,” I conceded with a smile.
He and Duncan headed out the door. As Duncan strode ahead, Nathan paused to wait for me. He reached out and tugged my hand to hurry me along. And rather than let it go once we’d caught up, he twisted his fingers through mine and hung on.
I tried not to hold too tight. Then not too loose. Then chided myself for thinking about it at all. I then tried to enjoy the feel of my hand in his and the morning. All I really felt was confusion.
The sun refracted through the clouds. “Crepuscular rays—sunbeams.” I gestured to the sky with my free hand.
Nathan smiled at me.
We walked on and I watched the sun and clouds dance above us. I felt myself relax. Everything was right with the world when sunbeams were present. My dad always called them “angel lights,” and I’d believed him, until advanced physics proved they were merely parallel shafts of light passing through cloud and shadow. They only appeared to converge as if from some heavenly source. Regardless of the source or the explanation, they made the stream, the bank, the tops of the trees, everything, glow.
At the clearing, Nathan dropped his coat on the bench and met Duncan streamside. I hesitated, but Duncan waved me over too and held out a moss-green-colored rod.
“This one is for you. It’s a five weight. Perfect for these trout.” He then released the small fly attached to one of the rod’s eyelets. “I rigged this with my Booby Hopper-Red. It’s my own adaptation of the Red Squirrel Nymph, which is what you want right now. Mine sit high to give you more time on your cast.”
I accepted the rod, holding it like a sword, as he spoke to Nathan. Nathan reached over and pressed down on the rod before I poked Duncan in the temple.
Duncan hadn’t noticed. He was already focused on Nathan’s rig.
�
�You . . . you’ve fished a lot . . . You’ve got my Hare Ear Dry Fly. It’s a little twist on the more common Yellow Stone Dry. I named it for this patch of fur I added right here. Seems to work really well . . . And if you fish tomorrow, we’ll get out a couple I’m tying right now.”
“Right after breakfast?” Nathan prodded.
“Before.”
Nathan laughed. “You’re my kind of angler.”
Duncan grinned. He looked back to me, then to Nathan again. “Right. You don’t need me now. Come get me if you have any troubles.”
He surveyed our supplies, then took off at almost a run. His brown hair stuck straight up and wagged in the breeze like cilia moving in water. For some odd reason, he reminded me of a young version of my dad, a young Albert Einstein.
Isabel was right; my dad was relational. So was Duncan. I turned back to Nathan. “You made his day.”
Nathan looked up; surprise followed by delight moved through his eyes. “He made mine. He’s a good kid.”
“You know he’s probably only ten years younger than you at most.”
Nathan twisted to follow Duncan’s retreating form. “His enthusiasm made him seem younger. Was I patronizing?”
“You’re never patronizing. You’re one of the most considerate men I’ve ever known.”
Nathan stared at me.
I gave my attention to the bank beneath me. Rather than slope into the water, it cut a jagged descent to a foot below us. The water ran fast in the center of the stream, making little white bubbles and ripples as it passed over submerged rocks. Near the shore it moved more slowly, creating whorls and eddies in the current. Closest to the shore, right beneath me, the water sat like glass.
“That’s where you want to cast first.” He moved closer. “Right at the shoreline. It even digs in a little beneath you. Fish love to hide in those crannies. They get the bugs that drop from the land into the water, and if you start there you can work your way out without losing the chance for them. If you start out and come in, you’ll spook any fish hiding close long before your fly gets to them.”
I let the fly drop.
“Do you know what to do?”
I shook my head. “I used to fish with my mom, years ago, but only spinner rods for catfish or bass in a little lake near our house.”
“This isn’t too different. Watch.” He pulled a bunch of line out of his reel and let it puddle at his feet. He then stepped back and bent his arm. His rod pointed straight up. “Pretend there’s a clock resting on your shoulder, facing you. Up to midnight. Pause. Smooth to ten o’clock. Pause again to send the line out. Then drop the tip down to nine or eight.” The fly shot twenty feet into the stream, taking all the line at his feet with it.
“Do it again. It’s like you’re cutting the wind with nothing at all.” The fluidity of the motion was mesmerizing. He did it again, and again, and the line shot straight despite the breeze, at least thirty feet this time, to the far side of the stream. “Did you mean to do that?”
“Of course. I’m trying to impress you.” He smiled. “That was one of my better casts. The next will probably be a disaster.” He cast again. “It’s all in the plane of your cast. That controls the loop of your line. You want to keep it straight. No loop is best.”
He pulled the line in and let it lie at his feet, then cast once more.
“Amazing. The physics of it, the lines and angles . . . Once more.”
He cast again, and with the most wonderful grin. “Now you try.”
I did. It was a jerky motion that sent the fly two feet and plopped it in the water right along the shore.
“It’s a good start.”
“Liar.” I pulled in the line as he had—and it caught on the hem of my dress.
“You’re right.” Nathan laughed, then swung his head in an exaggerated motion as if that was the only way to become serious once more. “Try again. Think of it like flicking paint off a paintbrush. Pretend you’re Jackson Pollock.”
“Well then . . .” I did exactly what he said and fared no better. But it didn’t matter.
Nathan knelt and untangled the line from around my feet.
“I’m clearly not an artist.”
“It takes time.” He cast again.
After a few minutes, I reeled in my line and watched him.
He spared me only a glance. “My grandfather used to say that everything in the world could be solved at the cadence of a cast. Think about things, don’t rush them, get a feel for them, live organically. Live life like you cast.” He bent his arm again, and with fluid slow motion he shot the line straight across the pond into the slow-moving water near the far bank.
“All the stuff you’ve been trying to get me to do this past year?”
His brows met above his nose. I was tempted to press my finger there as he had done to me.
“I guess I have. I find work goes better when you ask for help and bring people into the process. And you do, don’t get me wrong. I’ve never seen anyone more giving. But something hiccupped with Golightly.” He returned to casting. “Please don’t think I’m advocating the same approach Karen is taking.”
“What? You’re not promoting ‘dialoguing’ and ‘collective creativity’ and ‘thought leadership’?” My voice felt as derisive as it sounded. “Karen wraps threats in buzzwords. There’s not much else there, not for me at least.”
Nathan didn’t comment.
“That was inappropriate of me. I’m still angry about a lot of stuff she’s doing.”
Nathan looked at me. “Not at all. We aren’t at WATT. In fact, WATT is no longer a client of mine. We are two friends talking about my fishing and your work.” He winked.
“Yes, but you know a lot about my work.”
“I also know you’ll figure it out. You’re good at your job, Mary.”
I gestured to the rod, ready to change the subject. He was slowly pulling in the line. The fly fluttered across the surface of the water. “So you grew up doing this?”
“My grandparents had a place in northern Minnesota. It was a tiny cabin on a lake with no indoor plumbing, and it was heaven. I used to spend as much time there as I could during the summers. Granddad wasn’t a talkative guy, but every now and then, after hours of silence, he’d reveal these great quiet truths. I should’ve written them down because I’ve forgotten most of them.”
“What’s one you remember?”
Nathan cast again. “He said that how people treat you is only 10 percent about you and 90 percent about them, so you need to be careful how you react and how you judge. You never know someone’s story.”
“Clearly a numbers guy. I like him.”
“An engineer at 3M for forty-three years. Definitely a numbers guy.” Nathan gave me more than a passing glance this time. “You would have loved him and he you.”
A fish saved me from a reply. Nathan immediately yanked his rod tip up and started pulling line in with his free hand.
“How can I help?”
He tilted his head to the soft turf beside me. “Can you get that net over the side without ruining your dress?”
“It’d be my second. There was a muddy hem issue yesterday.” I envisioned poor Sonia as I dropped my rod and grabbed the net. I pulled my skirt over my knees so as not to get it too dirty and knelt on the grass.
I scooped the net in a few times before emerging with an iridescent fish. It flipped and flopped, forcing me to wiggle the net to keep it inside.
“Here.” Nathan pulled me and the net up. He patted his hands against the wet sides of the net, then unhooked the fish. “About a thirteen-inch brown trout; what a little beauty.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“Fish are covered with a film. Dry hands will ruin it and hurt the fish, so you wet them in the water or on the net first.” He held up his “little beauty.”
“Now I feel bad; I didn’t know they needed that viscous coating. I used to wipe it off as a kid.”
“Ugh . . . Really?”
“We ate the fish,” I whined, sounding like a five-year-old. “It hardly mattered.”
“This one we’ll release, if you don’t mind.” Nathan smiled and dipped his hands and the fish under the water. He pumped it beneath the surface like winding up a Matchbox car and let it go.
“Too small to eat anyway,” I quipped, then retreated to the bench behind us. His pack of gum lay on top of his coat. I took a piece.
“Are you giving up?”
“I’m not very good at it and, you’re right, this dress makes it awkward. I’ll try it again someday, in my own clothes. Right now, I’d rather sit here and admire you while you fish.”
As the words left my mouth, I realized that, like a true aficionado, I’d just appropriated an Austen line. Mr. Bingley’s sister Caroline was a wonderful model for fawning adoration. She’d practically salivated over Darcy, and he was only writing a letter.
I sat and Nathan fished. The silence was light and lovely until I realized it wasn’t silence at all. The stream gurgled, birds chirped, something called in the distance. It was downright noisy—and perfect. I closed my eyes to enjoy every sound . . . and then opened them to watch Nathan, like a good and proper Caroline Bingley. He still faced the river and cast with ease. But there was a rhythmic quality to his motions, as if he wasn’t paying attention to what was in front of him. His shoulders lifted up then seemed to stiffen and broaden as they dropped back. I’d seen the gesture before. Nathan had made a decision.
“Mary?” He called and let my name linger in question, but he didn’t turn.
“Yes.”
“You know Isabel calls me TCG. She has nicknames for everyone. Have I heard about you?”
“I thought you knew.” I closed my eyes. I felt almost swamped with relief that he didn’t. But then . . . how fair was that? “SK.”
I expected him to take time and converge the girl with the nickname. He didn’t. “Will you translate it for me?”
“I can tell you when it started.”
He slanted a look my way.
The Austen Escape Page 15
