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CHAPTER 12

  Hunched forward in anticipation, Mason was perched on the porch steps, a blue and white-striped beach towel draped across her shoulders and a bright red life jacket clutched to her chest.

  “Grandpa!” She waved as she jumped to her feet and danced down the stairs towards Osborne’s car. Shouting as she ran, she said, “C.J. invited us to a picnic, too! Root beer, bratwurst. Even Ray is coming.” She yanked open the car door and thrust her head inside. “And it’s just me who gets to go with you, Grandpa. Not Cody.”

  Osborne turned away to smile. He was not surprised to hear that excluding her little brother would make the afternoon even more special. As Mason clambered into the front seat, her mother appeared in the doorway, a blue backpack in her hands. She held it high as she said, “Dad, got a minute?”

  “Be right there,” said Osborne, holding the car door open until he was sure Mason had fastened her seat belt.

  “Here,” said Erin, as he reached the porch, “a change of clothes in case you-know-who falls in, which I can guarantee she will. And jeans and a sweatshirt for when it’s cool later. She’s got her swimsuit on under her shorts and T-shirt.”

  “Has she said anything more about this morning?” asked Osborne, reaching for the backpack.

  “Not a word, but she is certainly thrilled to be going off with you and her new best friend,” said Erin. “By the way, C.J. had me call Ray to be sure he knew he was invited.” Erin grimaced, “He’s coming all right, Dad, he’s bringing a “… surprise.’“ Erin mimicked Ray’s deliberate delay when imparting critical information.

  “Jeez Louise,” said Osborne with a wry smile as he gave his daughter a quick peck on the cheek, “I’m not sure how many more surprises this old man can manage.”

  On pulling to a stop in a parking space below the deck fronting the Calverson’s lake house, Osborne had spotted a handwritten sign directing them to take a side path between a garden and the south side of the house. “Mason, you run on ahead,” he said to the child, who needed no urging—as she was already flying down the path. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  He gathered up the fly rods and fishing gear and slung Mason’s backpack over one shoulder. Rounding the back of the house, he found himself at the top of a steep hill and a stone walkway that led, in a series of switchbacks, down to the water.

  Pausing to look below, he could see the back of a woman in a white T-shirt and navy blue shorts, most likely C.J., loading coolers from the dock onto the pontoon. The pontoon, which was one of the largest ones that Osborne had ever seen, was tethered to one of two docks fronting a wide, wooden deck. Alongside the other dock was a covered shore station, which held a speedboat and two jet skis.

  As he started down the stone pathway, he was a good fifty yards behind Mason who was bouncing her way down and shouting loud enough for the entire shoreline to hear. Mason’s cheerful calls alerted C.J., who glanced up with a pleased smile—a smile that broke into an even wider grin when she saw Osborne.

  “Hey, folks, you’re just in time for the picnic cruise. All aboard,” she said, wiping her hands on her shorts. “C’mon, I’m almost ready. Dr. Osborne, feel free to use the boathouse if you need to change—there’s a shower and everything in there.” She pointed to a boathouse off one side of the deck that had been obscured by trees when Osborne was looking down from the top of the hill.

  Osborne deposited Mason’s backpack and his fishing equipment on the dock, then straightened up and, hands on his hips, said, “C.J., if you’re up for it, I thought I would give you and Mason a lesson on fly fishing while we’re on the water this afternoon. Big Moccasin is known for its bluegills—I’m assuming, of course, that you two wouldn’t mind learning how to cast a fly rod …”

  “Serious?” asked C.J., moving forward to help Osborne load all the gear onto the pontoon. It wasn’t until she moved that Osborne could see there was another person on board. Seated to one side at the rear of the pontoon and nearly hidden under the boat awning was an older man whom Osborne figured to be in his mid to late fifties.

  “Did you hear that, Curt?” said C.J. calling back over her shoulder. “Dr. Osborne is going to teach me how to cast with a fly rod.” The man, who was sitting with his elbows on his knees and head down, was talking into a cell phone. At the sound of his wife’s voice, without raising his head he gave a preoccupied wave.

  “I was worried about having room to practice some roll casts,” Osborne said, stepping onto the pontoon and looking around, “but this is a good-sized boat—plenty of space. By the way, C.J., I forgot one thing in my car and it’s rather heavy. Would you mind giving me a hand?” He pointed up towards the house on the hill. C.J. caught the look in his eye and nodded.

  “Mason,” she said, pointing to an open cooler, “I’m putting you in charge of the sodas. Would you finish burying those cans in the ice, please?” As the youngster knelt to follow orders, C.J. smiled at Osborne and hurried to follow him up the stone walkway towards the house.

  Midway up, Osborne paused in the center of one of the switchbacks where he could keep an eye on Mason as they talked. “I have a plan,” he said to C.J., “that I’ve talked over with Chief Ferris, who has a lot more experience with these matters than I do. She seems to think it might help us get Mason to open up.”

  “That would be a relief,” said C.J., “I’m so worried that someone was lurking around our place in town and that’s who frightened your granddaughter.”

  After a quick explanation of what he was planning to do and why, Osborne said, “… so after we’ve been casting for a while, I’m hoping there is a way that I might find some time to chat with Mason in private. She’ll be feeling good about herself, she’ll feel safe and I have to believe she trusts me enough to tell me what it was that upset her so.”

  “Well,” said C.J., “let’s hope you’re right. I know what I can do to make it easy for you two to have some time together and it fits with just how I like to picnic on the lake. After we’ve fished for awhile, we’ll anchor by that island out there.”

  She pointed across the lake. “It has a nice sandy beach that makes it easy to pull up near shore and wade in. With help from my husband and your friend, Ray, we’ll get a grill going on the beach while you and Mason talk. What do you think—would half an hour give you enough time?”

  “I would think so,” said Osborne. “I hope you don’t mind my forcing a casting lesson on you but it’s something Mason has been bugging me to teach her—”

  “Are you kidding? It’s been on my list of things to do ever since I knew we were moving here. I’m delighted, Dr. Osborne.”

  But not as delighted as she was a second later when she looked past Osborne, who stood facing her, to see another

  figure descending the stairs. “Ray, you made it!” said C.J. as she ran forward.

  Remembering that Ray had promised to bring a “surprise,” Osborne felt a moment’s trepidation. Before turning around, he prayed that the surprise would have a full set of teeth.

  CHAPTER 13

  The lanky kid shadowing Ray had to be two inches taller than when Osborne had last seen him. Taller and tidier. Gone were the eyebrow piercing, the nose piercing, the lip piercing and the black T-shirt: all that remained of Nick’s previous fashion statements were four silver studs along the lobe of his right ear.

  “Hey, you razzbonya,” said Osborne, rushing forward to take the boy by the shoulders and give him a friendly shake. “Ray didn’t say you were in town. Here for the rest of the summer?”

  “I wish,” said Nick, grinning as he reached to give Osborne’s hand a firm shake. Though his face had filled out since they last met, there would never be any mistaking that Nick was the son of the dark beauty with an arctic heart who had tried to convince Ray that she had borne his child.

  “Doc,” said Ray, “Nick surprised me, too. Showed up at my place about an hour ago to tell me he’s pre-fishing the Moccasin chain with a team from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. They’ve qualified
for the finals in the National Collegiate Bass Fishing Tournament, which starts next week, so I thought it might help if I show him some of my honey holes.”

  “Help? Hell! How ‘bout a guarantee,” said Osborne, turning back to the boy. “So when did you get into bass fishing, Nick? I thought Ray had convinced you that walleye fishing is the way to go.”

  Nick shrugged. It was long-standing argument among Osborne’s buddies over their morning McDonald’s coffee: walleye fishermen like to consider themselves more skilled than bass fishermen—insisting that walleyes are smarter, wilier than bass. Bass fishermen swear the opposite.

  “Yeah, Ray gave me some trouble about this, but for fourteen thousand bucks I’ll fish carp if I have to.”

  “Whoa, the purse is that good?” Osborne asked. “I had no idea.”

  “Oh yeah, the college tournaments are really popular, Doc. Our team’s been fishing since June and done okay—got five largemouths weighing just over thirteen and a third pounds in the semis.”

  “Wow.” Osborne was impressed.

  “Thanks to my good buddy here, I’ve got some decent skills,” said Nick with an appreciative nod towards Ray.

  “Ray suckered you in.” Osborne gave him a light punch in the shoulder. “He let you think you hooked those fish but, fact is, son, the fish hooked you. Right?”

  “Absolutely,” said Nick. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts as he said with a sheepish expression: “I am thinking of doing this for a living …”

  “Not the easiest way to get rich,” said Ray. “I’m proof of that.”

  “Rich is relative,” said Nick. “Thing about you is you’re fun to be around, man—you’re a happy guy. More’n I can say for my stepfather, who’s worth a few million and can’t start the day without a shot of Jack Daniels.” Nick raised his eyebrows, “He says it beats Zoloft.”

  “Hey, enough talk, you guys,” said C J., “let’s get this show on the road.” And she waved for them to follow her back down to the dock. Ray tipped his head towards C.J. as he caught Nick’s eye with a wink.

  Yep, thought Osborne, some things never change: Ray would always love fishing and he would always love pretty women, and one or both could always get him into trouble.

  Ambling down the walkway behind Nick and Ray, Osborne reflected on what had been a tense summer two years ago: three long months when Ray had tried to be the dad he thought he was to a recalcitrant teenager from New York City. It took a series of life-threatening events crossed with the lure of the northwoods to weaken Nick’s resistance to authority—not to mention his addiction to the Internet.

  But nature worked its magic on the kid—fueling a love for the mournful wail of the loon, the heavy breathing of the wind through the pines, the soothing lap of waves in the dark. Ray, in turn, found himself charmed by a boy whose curiosity and willingness to take chances rivaled his own.

  Thus was born a kinship that had to survive devastating news when a DNA test (requested by someone other than Ray) delivered one simple, heartbreaking fact: Nick’s mother had lied. Ray was not the boy’s biological father.

  No matter. Ray had no intention of letting go: “Nick,” he’d said, chin thrust forward, “I may not have been there when you were born, but … you are my son.”

  Oblivious to his guests, Curt had remained engrossed in his cell phone conversation while his wife untied the pontoon from its mooring. When her husband still didn’t move to take his place running the boat, C.J. had shrugged and anointed Ray skipper.

  “It’s up to you or we’ll be stuck here forever,” she’d said, beckoning Ray forward.

  So Ray had taken over the captain’s chair while Nick settled into the seat beside him. As they crossed the lake, C.J. was standing, legs apart and knees bent for balance, behind Ray and Nick, leaning over their shoulders with a wide smile on her face as the three shouted back and forth over the roar of outboard.

  Osborne sat with one arm encircling Mason’s shoulders as they sat side by side on one of the pontoon’s padded benches. He gazed across Big Moccasin while the pontoon scooted over the waves towards the western shore. The late afternoon sun was glorious on the water: electric blue and sparkling.

  CHAPTER 14

  As the boat picked up speed, Mason snuggled closer, glancing up every few minutes with a happy grin. Clutched tight in her right hand was the new Scientific Angler reel he had handed to her for safekeeping as they left the dock. Between his feet Osborne cradled two long metal cases holding his fly rods.

  It was a good ten minutes before the boat slowed and Ray shifted down to a slow trolling speed. “Doc,” he said, “I’m going to run us along the shoreline here for a bit. Point out the key spots for Nick to lock into his GPS. No problem for us if you want Mason and C.J. casting off the sides. You won’t be in our way.” Nodding towards Curt, he rolled his eyes. The man was still on the phone.

  “Okay,” said Osborne, getting to his feet. The late day thermals off the potato fields had died, leaving the lake still as glass. Only the burbling of the pontoons trolling motor disturbed the surface.

  “Mason and C.J.,” said Osborne, uncapping his rod cases, “I’d like both of you up front here.” He pointed out two spots, one on each side of the pontoon. Mason and C.J. took their places. Moments later, fly rods rigged and eyes bright with anticipation, they stood ready for action.

  “Watch closely now,” said Osborne, reaching for the Winston rod that Mason was holding, “I’m going to demonstrate. First thing you need to know is that casting a fly rod is easy—all it takes is a little coaching. And, ladies, women tend to be very good at it because—unlike spin casting—it requires no muscle.”

  As he talked, he brought his elbow up and down for a perfect roll cast. Possibly the best he’d ever done. Damn, he thought, why wasn’t Lew here to see this? Oh well.

  “In fact, the more muscle used, the worse the cast. It’s all in the timing—” Again the elbow was up and down and his fly line flew forward straight and smooth to land light as a dragonfly on the water.

  “So today you’ll learn the roll cast, which is the best for catching bluegills off a pontoon like this. Watch me a few more times—then I’ll have you try …” Again the elbow up, down and the thumb snapping forward.

  “See how I keep my hand, forearm and upper arm in line? Watch my wrist: I start by bending it down so I can feel the rod against my arm here—” He held his arm out so they could both see, “now I take my wrist straight back, lift … and lower my elbow as I push with my thumb to let the fly line out—that’s the power snap that Lewellyn Ferris taught me. She learned it from Joan Wulff who was a world champion fly fisherman.”

  He demonstrated twice more, then handed the rod to Mason. “C.J., Mason, you try it.”

  “This doesn’t look like the movies,” said C.J. after a few tries. “I want to look like Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It”

  Osborne chuckled. “Hold your horses, C.J. Next trip, I promise you’ll learn how to backcast—but not today or we’ll hook your husband in the head. One step at a time, kiddo.”

  “Oh?” said C.J. with a tease in her voice. “Do you mean we might have to do this again pretty soon?” The prospect appeared to please her and Osborne suspected it had less to do with backcasting than spending more time with a certain fellow who did not have a cell phone permanently attached to his ear.

  She raised the Sage rod, bringing her arm back and sideways as if to throw a baseball. “No—no swinging,” said Osborne, straightening her arm. “Bring the rod straight up. Bring your thumbnail to your forehead with your hand close to your face … lead with your elbow, finish with your hand forward … good! Okay, again. Keep in mind that the rod is an extension of your arm.”

  Mason and C.J. cast again and again, eager to get it right. Osborne watched, then offered the tips he heard so often from Lew: “Use your thumb to target an area … okay, lead with your elbow and if the line coils try again … keep going ‘til you get a nice, straight c
ast. If it coils, you chopped too low and didn’t push out … think of punching your thumb forward.”

  “So if I do this right, I’ll catch a fish?” asked Mason, raising her elbow and nearly clocking herself in the forehead, she was so determined.

  “Well, that’s part of it,” said Osborne. “I still have to teach you how to pick the right trout fly—the one that looks just like the insects the fish are eating—how to ‘match the hatch’ as they say.”

  Mason looked at him in surprise: “They don’t eat worms?”

  “They do. Yes, they do. But that’s a political issue we’ll discuss another day. For now keep practicing—you’re getting it.”

  As Osborne settled back to watch, he let his mind drift to an evening of fly fishing weeks earlier. The kind of evening that always settled his soul …

  Lew had managed to escape her office early and they’d sped north to a place known only to a few lucky anglers as “secret lake.” And a secret it was: well hidden with no motorboats allowed, only a few cabins to mar the shoreline and a bounty of seldom-harvested rainbow trout.

  They had hiked in a mile and a half then sat on boulders to pull on their waders. Osborne had entered the water behind Lew, following her lead from a distance. By the time she reached the spot she wanted, the sun had dipped below the spires of the balsams lining the western shore.

  He took care to stay far enough behind that he wouldn’t disturb the fish Lew was targeting—but he wanted to be close enough to watch as she fished. A rank beginner still, he knew he could learn more from watching than struggling with his own floppy fly line.

  And so he watched as Lew waded in until she was waist deep in the darkening, silent water. Random lights glowed gold along the far shore, a fish slurped. She began to rock back and forth, her body supple as a dancer’s, moving with the grace of a doe. A whisper as the fly line unfurled behind her only to shoot forward with the momentum of a power snap that sent the line straight and true, dropping a #12 Adams dry fly with such stealth that the trout leaping for a fluttering insect was stunned.