by Jill G. Hall
They located Yoga and Yogurt on Main Street, but the windows were shuttered and the sign in the window said: Gone fishing. Namaste!
“Sorry. We can push back the living room furniture and practice there.”
“It’s not the same without an instructor.”
She pulled the car away from the curb and continued down the street. “Here’s where my favorite thrift shop was, but it closed two years ago.”
He read the new sign. “Beach Monkey. Looks like an interesting place.”
“Yes, they repaint old furniture and resell it. Pricey though.”
She drove out to River Road. “On the right, we have Richardson Elementary School.”
Sergio intoned, “Where the famous Anne McFarland, artist extraordinaire, began her illustrious illustrating career.”
“With Play-Doh, fat crayons, and tempera paints.”
They cruised further up the road. “And here we have Oscoda High.” Anne pulled over and parked.
Sergio read the sign. “Home of the Owls!”
“Hoot! Hoot!” she cheered, raising a hand above her head for each cry.
Since it was Sunday, the school was quiet. Spread out over a couple of acres, the low blue buildings were trimmed in white. Pines, sycamores, and maples shaded their way as they walked across the campus. A gray squirrel nibbled a morsel and ran up a tree.
“Tell me about your high school,” Anne said, taking his hand.
“My parents sent me to an all-boys boarding school outside Boston when I was twelve. They wanted me to learn the American way.”
She was surprised she hadn’t heard this before. They sure had different upbringings. “So young? Weren’t you homesick?”
“Desperately,” he whispered. “My parents were working their tails off at the factory keeping the business going. They planned for me to take over the business and someday expand it overseas.”
“Have you accomplished that?”
“Yes.” He nodded, putting his arm around her and kissing the top of her head. “We’ve gone global, as they say.”
“What’s this?” He stopped in front of a graffitied boulder with a smattering of unidentifiable words.
“Senior Rock! I’d sneak over here with Pootie at night and paint satirical cartoons of students who’d been mean to me.”
“Who would ever be mean to you?”
“You’d be surprised.” She’d never told him what a nerdy misfit she’d been. Always wearing resale-shop clothes. Sketching in her notebook. He wouldn’t understand. “Let’s go. I have something else to show you.”
They drove back up the highway and crossed the Astoria Bridge, the river a blue ribbon flowing beneath them. She continued up the road, pulled over, and pointed to a massive display behind a chain-link fence.
“And here we have Paul Bunyan and his ox, Babe.” Anne felt nostalgic whenever she visited these humungous kitschy statues. “When I was little, you could walk right up to them, push a button, and hear a narrator tell the tall tale through a speaker.”
Sergio nodded. “Really?” She could tell he wasn’t impressed.
Anne took on the persona of a deep male voice. “Growing up, Paul Bunyan was too big. Too big for the furniture. Too big for regular clothes. Too big to play with the other kids. But out among the tall trees in the great northern forests, Paul felt at home. So he set out with his big blue ox, Babe, to live the life of a lumberjack. Blah, blah, blah. And that ends the grand tour.”
They returned to the car, and Sergio said, “You act very different here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem more quirky.” He ran his hand over her hair.
“Is that good or bad?” She frowned.
“I’m not sure.” He shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet.”
What an odd thing to say. She held back tears and looked at her phone. “Time to go to the restaurant.”
“Fantastico! I’m starving and can’t wait to meet the rest of your family.”
“They’re gonna love you.” She tried to remain positive. “Just don’t bring up politics or ask about our family tree and you’ll be fine.”
“What’s left?”
“The weather.”
Outside Tait’s Bill of Fare, noon church bells rang in the distance and white petals drifted from the ornamental pear tree. Anne grabbed Sergio’s hand and guided him through the door. It was packed—good thing they had a reservation.
Her family waved as Sergio and Anne wove their way to the table. She tried not be too nervous, but prayed they wouldn’t tease Sergio too much. She introduced him and they sat. Cousin Pootie handed adorable Baby Brian over to Anne. She held onto his soft, tiny hands. He wore the knit cap and had almost grown into it.
She loved this restaurant, from the tin ceilings with the brass chandeliers, to the red tablecloths and old oak bar. She glanced at Sergio. Compared to the tony New York restaurants he frequented, this must seem like the Podunkville Express.
A vivacious waitress in a white lace apron dropped off their drinks and took their orders. Anne’s mother, Aunt Tootie, and Pootie gabbed away. The two guys sitting across the table from her were as different as night and day—one dark, the other fair—but each handsome in his own way. Sophisticated Sergio in his white linen shirt and rugged Brian, Pootie’s husband, in his black T-shirt with the bald eagle on it. He picked up his stein and tipped it toward Sergio, who clinked his back at him. Anne hoped they would get along.
“Why don’t you order the ribs, Anne?” Pootie teased, and the whole family laughed. They couldn’t accept that she was a pescatarian.
“What business are you in?” Brian asked. “Shoes?”
“Yes . . .”
The waitress did another drive-by, dropping off a bread basket.
“I’m in heating and air.” Brian sat up straight.
The women all mimicked his ad. “Air conditioner broken down? Don’t start cryin’, just call Brian.”
On cue, Baby Brian began to cry. The couple at the table next to them peered over with a glower. Pootie took the baby from Anne and jiggled him up and down.
Brian continued. “I’m going to expand.”
Anne gooped some honey butter on the hot bread and took a bite. “Another van?”
“No, he’s getting into solar,” Aunt Tootie answered, and took a sip of her pop.
“Isn’t that a bright idea?” Pootie’s blonde ponytail shook as she laughed.
Everyone at the table laughed except Brian.
“Do you get enough sun here for that?” Sergio asked.
“Certain times of the year. The economy is improving, and people are looking for ways to spend their money. Maybe you could open up a shoe store here, too.”
Anne’s mother piped up. “You could move here and run it.”
Anne caught Sergio’s eye. “You’d need to carry Birkenstocks, though.”
“Yes, give Millican’s some competition,” Pootie smiled. “It’s been the only shoe store here for forever.”
“But I don’t do sales,” Sergio said.
The family looked at him quizzically, and Brian asked, “Then what do you do?”
“Design and manufacturing. We make shoes.” To change the subject, Sergio looked at Aunt Tootie. “Tell me about the McFarlands.” He smiled at Anne teasingly.
“Of course you’ve heard Anne’s father was my brother. We were from the South, and Ma had been fickle. Had five husbands.”
“I’ve never heard that before.” Anne hit Pootie on the shoulder. “Did you know that?” Pootie, still bouncing Baby Brian, nodded her head.
Tootie continued. “We called her the black widow. She’d always say, ‘Honey, they just keep on dying.’ At least she married Daddy for love. The others she said she married out of habit.”
Anne gaped. “Grandma McFarland? But she was such a sweet lady.”
“She’d been a fireball.” Tootie raised her voice.
The waitress delivered their meals. Sergio stared
at his pan-fried perch smothered in pickle-infused tartar sauce. He forced himself to take a bite and swallow. Then he put down his fork.
Anne had warned him Michigan wasn’t exactly a culinary mecca. “Here, I’ll trade meals with you.” She pulled his plate toward her and handed him her bowl. “You’ll love the Swiss onion soup.”
“Thanks.” He took a spoonful and smiled.
Tootie dug into her Chicken Especiale. “Uncle Robert’s a bit of a mystery man. I met him once at Daddy’s funeral.”
“Is he even still alive?” Anne’s mother asked.
“I suppose so.” Tootie shrugged.
“Did he ever marry?” Pootie handed Baby Brian to Brian so that she could dig into her burger.
“God, no! He wasn’t marriage material, stubborn and ornery. Mama told me that he once proposed to a pretty young thing, out of good will, but she’d already been married to a Yankee. The older you get, the harder it is.”
Pootie cleared her throat and stared at Anne.
“Thirty-something isn’t that old!” Anne defended herself.
“Mama’s sisters, Dixie and Trixie, were a kick. Dixie moved to California and married a surfer. Trixie married a preacher, and they drove an old station wagon around the country, doing revival shows. She sang and played the tambourine. She wore her hair as tall as the Empire State Building, and he had the most god-awful comb-over.”
“Just like the Donald!” Sergio exclaimed. Everyone at their table and the one next to them stopped eating and stared at him. Anne had forgotten to warn him Michigan teemed with Trumpsters, even in her own family.
Pootie fed the last of her mashed potatoes to Baby Brian, then picked him up from Brian and handed him to Anne again. “What are you doin’ tomorrow?”
“Let’s go for a hike,” Sergio said.
Anne laughed. “No, sir. You’re in my territory. I’m taking you fishin’!”
“Fishing? Do you want to take me hunting, too?”
“Not this time.”
“You mean you’ve shot a gun?”
“Of course she has.” Pootie punched Anne on the arm. “Tell him about the time we were shooting beer cans at Danny’s farm.” She turned to Sergio. “She didn’t realize there would be a kickback, and the bullet casing jumped out and went down her top!”
Anne’s face turned red.
Sergio grimaced. “You’re kidding.”
“That was so funny!” Pootie said, and everyone at the table laughed except Anne.
“No, it wasn’t. I still have the scar.” Anne fingered the spot in her cleavage.
“Has she shown it to you?” Pootie asked Sergio with a wry smile.
“Not yet.” He leaned over as if to get a peek.
“Anne. Remember when you let Danny take you hunting? He was crazy about hunting, and you were crazy about him. Tell Sergio.”
“No, that’s okay.” Anne couldn’t believe Pootie brought this up.
Pootie continued. “She tried to impress him with her sense of adventure. Even bought herself an Elmer Fudd cap and full camo outfit. You were so upset when he made you wear that ugly orange vest over it. Tell it, Anne. No one can tell it like you.”
Anne sighed. The cat had come out of the bag anyway. “We were in the woods waiting behind a blind.”
“A what?” Sergio asked.
“A little hut where you hide to watch for deer. After waiting for an hour, a doe strides into the clearing. It had white spotted fur and such a sweet face. I held my breath as Danny raised his rifle and cocked it. The doe froze and stared at us. I couldn’t help myself—I clapped my hands and yelled, ‘Run!’”
Pootie laughed. “That was the end of that romance. She decided to stick with fishing after that.”
Sergio frowned. “Did that really happen?”
Brian nodded. “Sure did. I heard it from Danny myself. He was pissed. I prefer duck hunting. Can you come back in October? Join us for a guy weekend. We get up at sunrise, row boats out into the lake, and wait for the ducks to fly overhead. At night we eat chili, swap stories, and smoke cigars. I’ll let you use the AeroBed.”
“Would be more comfortable than the . . .” Sergio coughed to catch himself before he said foldout. “Sorry, October is a very busy time for me at work.” He hadn’t eaten any more of his soup.
Brian drank the rest of his beer. “Let’s go over to the Edelwiess Tavern for another brewski.”
“That’s okay. Maybe some other time.” Sergio looked as if he might run out the door, grab a bus, and head back to the airport.
19
Before dawn, Anne shook Sergio’s shoulder. “Get up!”
He rolled over. “Mamma mia! It’s not even light yet. Let me sleep a little longer.”
“We need to get there while the fish are still jumping.” She couldn’t wait to show him Lake Tawas, one of the most romantic places ever. Once he got there, he’d love it. “Come on!”
He got up and threw on his jeans and white dress shirt from the night before.
“That might get ruined. Here.” She handed him a T-shirt she’d bought especially for this day. He pulled it over his head without noticing the openmouthed fish, the dangling hook, and the Bite Me! caption. She smiled, handing him a mug of coffee to go.
Her mother’s garage was filled with gardening equipment, Avon boxes, and the family’s old snowblower. She handed Sergio two fishing poles and her pink tackle box. Then she draped binoculars around her neck and donned her hat with the hooks pinned onto it.
Sergio squinted. “Really?”
“Yes, really. It’s my lucky hat. If I don’t wear it, I won’t catch a thing.”
“But you look like an old man.”
“Don’t worry. No one you know will see us.”
He smirked and chuckled.
She looked up at the cloudless apricot-colored dawn as she closed the car’s trunk. “I sure hope the weather holds.”
Sergio yawned. “The news last night said sunny skies predicted.”
“In Michigan, there’s no such thing as a long-range weather forecast. It can be clear and seventy-five degrees, but then, within no time, the nimbostratus will rush in and ruin it all. Besides, the lake can get breezy. Better grab a jacket.”
“I’ll be fine.” He sipped his coffee.
She headed back into the garage and grabbed a fluorescent-green windbreaker from the rack. “Let’s take this just in case.”
“But it’s an XXXL.”
She threw it in the back. “Want to stop at Walmart and get you one that fits?” She glanced at his frowning face. “You’ve probably never even been to a Walmart.”
He didn’t answer.
They drove south and within a half hour arrived at the lake. Purple hyacinth lined the beach beside the dock. A frog jumped on the sandy shore. A goose led her five goslings single file on a morning swim.
“Isn’t it beautiful here?”
“It’s a big lake.” He didn’t sound very happy. “I can barely see all the way to the other side.”
“Yes, and it goes down that way for miles.” She hopped off the dock into the boat and set down the cooler. Sergio handed her the life vests, tackle box, and fishing poles. Then she reached for his outstretched hand. He grasped it with tight lips and climbed aboard, the boat rocking to and fro.
“You can swim, can’t you?” she teased, and sat on the backbench seat near the motor.
“Of course.” He landed on the seat facing her.
“Ready?”
He saluted her. “Aye, aye, captain.”
She tightened the hat strap under her chin, revved the motor, and took off across the gray-green lake, trying to avoid the blooming water lilies. Cattails rose above the water like Chippewa spears.
Along the bank, maple tree branches waved goodbye to them in the gentle breeze. The leaves blew upside down, which meant a storm was on its way. She wouldn’t mention that to Sergio, though. He wouldn’t believe her.
In the center of the lake, she cut the mot
or and smiled. “This is a good spot.”
“What makes you say so?”
“No reeds and deep water.”
He looked down into the depths.
“Want me to show you how to bait your hook and cast?” she asked.
“Sure.” He grimaced as she opened the cooler, took from the baggie a wiggly worm, and wove it back and forth onto the hook.
“Watch.” Pulling her arm back, she threw the line into the rippling water several yards away and handed him the pole.
“Hold it like this.” She placed his hands on the rod.
“I’ve got it.” Something splashed near the boat, getting him wet. “What was that?”
“A fish.” She baited her own hook and cast it out. “Now all we do is wait.”
After a minute or two he yelled, “I’ve got one!” and started to reel it in.
She looked at the top of his pole. “Might just be the current tugging on it.”
He kept reeling until the hook and the worm popped out of the water. “Nothing.”
“Too bad.” She sure hoped he’d catch a fish.
He reeled the line in all the way, pulled back, and let it go. He’d forgotten to loosen the gripper though, so it plopped back into the water in front of him. He pulled his arm way back, and this time he cast perfectly a few yards off.
“Wow! Babe Ruth. Hit it out of the park, baby.” The line was slack. “Reel it in a bit.”
Holding their poles, they sat in silence for a while. Purple dragonflies hovered overhead like miniature helicopters. To the west, white clouds began to billow on the other side of the lake. Anne smiled at Sergio. His mouth responded with half a grin, his foot bouncing up and down.
She needed to keep him entertained to help pass the time. “Last time Pootie and I were out here, she caught the ugliest fish ever. It resembled a catfish, but it had a hairy mustache and a beard, had to google to identify it. It was a dogfish! I swear I had heard it bark when she pulled the hook out of its mouth.”
Sergio laughed.
Anne’s line had slackened. She reeled it in and recast.
He did, too, but his hook got stuck in some reeds, and when he tried to roll the line back in, it snapped and broke. “Porca vacca!”
“Don’t worry, that happens all the time.” She fixed his line up, added another worm, and he recast.
