“You got it!” I call over my shoulder as I stroll away. Anything to put off hanging out at a crowded bar. I take my time, cruising my truck down the main road that runs parallel to the Garnet River, scoping each turnout along the way. Forest normally patrols this stretch of land, but I know the routine, and so far everything looks in order.
But this day isn’t done throwing curve balls. The second to last of the turnouts is occupied by someone who looks like a damn skilled fisher—and she’s goddamn beautiful.
2
MOLLY
On my way out to the parking lot, I try not to think about how I’m carrying what’s left of my Mima’s last couple years on earth in a cardboard box. I should’ve done this four months ago, when I actually laid her to rest. But what can I say? Avoidance, denial. Those are my tools of choice when it comes to coping. One might think choosing distraction would include leaving the home I lived in with her and Granddad so I wouldn’t have a daily reminder of their absence.
They had given the beautiful home resting on forty acres of forest and meadows the affectionate name,Clover Hill. It was a beautiful piece of property to grow up on, and every square foot was full of laughter and love. The one place I’ve truly felt safe. And despite the ache of them no longer being there with me, the idea of leaving it would be its own special kind of trauma.
Learning to care for it myself the last couple years has been an ongoing feat. So much so that I’ve let myself believe it’s the reason I took so long to get Mima’s things from the nursing home. The nicer one that I worked extra hours to afford becauseshe was worth it. She had, after all, brought me up in nurturing happiness since before I was four.
Footsteps approach as I secure the box of belongings in the truck’s extended cab, And I slam the door, turning in time to see a man in a suit come to a stop a few paces away from me. He regards me with a friendly smile, and I regardhimwith a suspicious glare. I don’t trust suits. In a place like this, their presence can only mean one thing.
“Ms. Butler?” He guesses at my identity.
“Depends on what you want,” I answer him. In this northwestern region of the U.S., you either live here and work the blue-collar life, or you’re a tourist. And he sure as hell doesn’t look like he’s about to hit any hiking trails.
He chuckles and looks at his fancy, pointy shoes a moment before smiling back up at me, a gesture I’m sure he thinks looks humble.
“My name is Damen Riley. We’ve?—”
“Bye,” I tell him, turning away to open my driver’s side door. I know who he is. Over the last few months, his name has been at the top of multiple emails requesting information on my grandparents’—my—property.
“Ms. Butler, all I want is a meeting. We can go wherever you like. Coffee, a bite to eat, it’s on me. I just want a few minutes of your time.”
I toss my handbag on the passenger seat. “I already told you I’m not interested, and that was not code for come out to my grandmother’s former place of residence and stalk me.”
“Yeah, I apologize for the ambush, but I’ve made some amendments to my original offer I thought you should know about.” His eyes are bright, and he’s waving his hands like he’s trying to get me excited. “I’m talking about some really profitable opportunities and benefits, and since you won’t respond by email, I thought I should?—”
“Donotfollow me back to Ironvale Ridge.” I hop into the driver’s seat, slam my door shut, and lock it without giving him another look.
The lengthy drive back home will allow me to reflect on my morning and the exchange with Riley. He’d love nothing more than to pounce on my priceless property and turn it into a spa or casino or whatever the hell endeavor he has planned. He’s been hounding me since the minute I got Mima in the ground, but when I say Clover Hill is priceless, I mean it. There is no price tag for what it is to me.
I spend the second half of the drive trying to shake off my annoyance, and when I pass a sign for an upcoming bait and tackle shop, I suddenly remember Granddad’s solution to a stressful day.
“The tough go fishing,” he always said, sometimes taking me down to the eddy with him. He was entirely right. The weather’s been warmer for over three weeks, and I haven’t been out on the river yet…
The old,rusty rowboat—perpetually unclaimed—still sits parked on the shore of the output, half on the bank, half drifting in the shallows. I take advantage, laying down one of Mima’s blue tartan blankets over a bench and resting my sneakered feet on the bow. No phone and no other visitors on this public but somewhat hidden gem of land on the outskirts of our property, a place Grandad used to call one of the best fishing holes around. The sky over the water, the lapping of the lake, the gentle wind in the branches, and the occasional cricket make for a peaceful afternoon and bring me back to where it’s clear my problemsaren’t as big as they’re trying to be. Whatisbig is the bounty of Chinook salmon I score, proving that my granddad’s navy-blue Cascade Crushers ball cap truly is lucky. I don’t ever remember making out with such an abundance.
Abundance also comes in the form of the view as I’m leaving. A tall drink of water approaches from the north trailhead. He fills out a nice pair of relaxed jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His forearms are tanned and lean, and though the bill of his ball cap is pulled low, he’s showing off a sharp jawline dusted with the right amount of dark scruff.
Too bad his Aviators cover up the color of his eyes. Either way, having them on me for a few minutes would not be the worst way to cap off this day.
“Good afternoon,” he greets, although his tone suggests a what’s-so-good- about-it quality.
“Hi?” I return cautiously. The last time a stranger approached me, things didn’t go so well.
“Nice haul.” He tips his chin at my bouquet of silvery, squirmy fish.
It’s hard to tell with his eyes hidden, but I’m thinking he’s not sincere about that statement either.
“Yeah,” is all I give him.
Thankfully, he doesn’t waste any more time on small talk and instead reaches in his back pocket and produces a badge.
Fuck… Never mind. I’ll take the uncomfortable small talk.
