Fishing With RayAnne
Page 31
For now, she adores every person in her sight, loves them all for loving Dot. The meaning of what Gran had said with such conviction—despite being weak and ill—comes clear. All we have is who we have. She’s about to tap her glass with her knife so she might quote and toast Gran herself, but just as she’s taking a breath, something damp snuffles into the space between her shins. She yelps and, expecting one of the twins, yanks up the tablecloth, but it is a dog’s snout poking from underneath, a dog too large to be Trinket. Her instinct is to knee it away, just as the dog’s head tilts into the light. She does a double take, crying, “Rory?”
It can’t be. How? But it is, and he’s out from under the table, his tail thwacking at speed. She squeals, “Hey! This is my dog!” RayAnne holds his paws up as if dancing with a short man, and twirls. “It’s Rory!”
She spins to the empty space behind, looking around, scanning faces for Cassi, one of the few people on the planet clever enough to beam a dog from Minnesota to Florida. Ky sidles up and points down the length of the table.
“Ray, I think you have company.”
TWENTY
Most waiters have stopped serving and are plunked down. Some are slamming shots, others are engaged in a napkin-folding contest; having cleared a middle section of the table, they work their mastery, creating intricately folded bishop hats, rockets, and a horse’s head to appreciative murmurs. To a cheer and a round of applause, one flourishes a surprisingly anatomically accurate penis, erect. Dot would have loved it.
Guests RayAnne thought would surely have nodded off or wheeled themselves home by now seem to have gotten a second wind. The latecomer is being badgered with greetings, everyone wanting to know who . . . another of Dot’s posthumous surprises?
Rory clings to RayAnne like a toddler, having jumped into her arms, sniffing as if to confirm it’s really her, his barky little complaints translating to “Where have you been?” His tail sweeps a champagne flute clear off the table to shatter against one of the awning poles. Fifty heads turn.
RayAnne shrugs. “It’s not a real party until a glass gets broken. That’s what Dot always said.” People laugh as she shifts Rory’s warm weight in her arms. Something that isn’t anything seems to have descended over the celebration, over her. Not Rory’s impossible arrival, nor the presence of everyone gathered, but everyone and everything at once—the surroundings, the sea air and torchlight. All pulls into full Technicolor surround-sound focus. Talk and laughter and the sounds of surf swell. The present—for lack of a better word—and all it entails has suddenly become more. There’s no expressing the feeling—but maybe it’s what poets are always trying to get at.
In the commotion, she has slipped into stillness herself. The nightmarish clutter of the last week, the knots of emotion, wringing as they are, fit somehow, at least in the scheme of things, and she understands it is her duty, painful or not, to know this.
He’s standing at the end of the table, looking down the bowling-alley length of linen, now stained with wine, dribbled with candle wax, littered with cherry stems, cheese rinds, crumbs, and cigar ash. She’s not at all surprised to see him. Making his way along the table, Hal politely stops to answer questions and explain his presence, canting his head repeatedly toward RayAnne.
Even at this distance, she sees the days of stubble carving a shadow across his jaw. He moves a bit stiffly, rolling his shoulders as if they ache. He’s driven, of course. From Minnesota to Florida to bring Rory to her.
When he’s closer, she can see he’s wrecked. Her first words are laced with concern. “Oh. You look so tired.”
“And you look lovely.”
She begins to balk, but then lets the compliment wash over her.
He stops and grins, the dimples in play, unsure. “Timing, huh?”
RayAnne shakes her head and gently sets Rory down. She straightens to face Hal, and unblinking, she steps forward. “Your timing isn’t so bad.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Mickey Smith for the idea of a talk show in a boat, and for inspiring a character who possesses none of the fashion savvy she does. Thanks to Alvin C. Smith for giving me Big Rick. Thanks to the people of Minnesota who voted for the Legacy Amendment, which protects and funds the two essential resources that make our state sparkle: clean water and the arts. Utmost gratitude to Jon, the most patient and handsome man on Earth. And to Betsy for sectioning my hours into manageable units.
And finally: thanks, Dad, for teaching me how to fish.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2015 Jon Ware
Ava Finch was born in Sechelt, British Columbia, and now makes her home in Minneapolis. When not writing, she hikes with her dog, ties flies, and collects vintage outdoor magazines. Her current secret fishing spot is a stream running from the Laurentian Divide to Lake Superior. Ava Finch is a pen name adopted by a popular novelist.