eggs, bacon and the biggest biscuit Brady had encountered so far in his travels. “Haven’t seen you around. You here for the fishing?”
Mildly curious, Brady looked up. “Fishing?”
“White River trout. We’re famous for it.”
Why not? “Uh, yeah. Know any good places to stay?”
“Well, there’s the resort—”
The mere word resort reminded him of California and all that he was fleeing.
“Then there’s a B-and-B, if you’re into that. Quiet place with all the comforts of home. The Edgewater Inn.”
All the comforts of home. Brady doubted it, but the word home resonated in a way nothing else had in weeks. “Can you give me directions to the B-and-B?”
“Sure.” She pulled a paper napkin from the holder and drew him a rudimentary map.
Later, crossing the bridge over the White River, Brady felt a stirring of interest. He’d done a lot of fly-fishing in Colorado as a kid. Maybe he’d hole up in the Edgewater Inn for a few days, outfit himself and spend time on the river fishing—and making some decisions.
Carl had been right. He couldn’t run forever.
“YOU LOOK BEAT,” Reggie Pettigrew, the sixty-year-old head librarian, said when Nell reported for work Saturday after taking Abby to the airport.
Setting down the stack of books she’d collected from the outdoor depository, she shot him an I-don’t-need-much-of-this look. “Full of compliments this morning, aren’t you?”
“Even beat you look good. Big weekend?”
“Reggie, are you trying to get my goat or does it just come naturally? You know I haven’t had a big weekend in years. And that’s not all bad. They can be highly overrated.” She cringed, remembering some of the “big weekends” of her past. “It’s Abby. I can’t help worrying when she flies to visit her dad.”
“Did she give you a hard time again about going?”
“As usual. This time, it’s for a week.” She began sorting the returned books. “I don’t know how I ended up being the bad guy in this arrangement, but she blames me for making her go.”
Reggie eyed her over the top of his thick bifocals. “While Prince Charming and his lady love live happily ever after?”
Reggie had a way of seeing straight through her. “Exactly.” She glanced at the wall clock registering 9:59. “But enough about me. The hordes are undoubtedly lined up at the door racing to get to Balzac, Dickens, Faulkner, et al.”
“I wish. At least we can count on Clarence Fury and his daily two hours with The New York Times.”
Nell filled a book cart and made the rounds reshelving. When she’d hit bottom after Rick left her, Reggie had been a godsend hiring her as his assistant. Gradually her role had grown until she was now the children’s librarian and coordinator of special adult programs. With the limited library budget, she wasn’t able to do as much as she would’ve liked, but the pre-school story hour was booming and she was having sporadic success with the adult forums she’d initiated in the past year. That reminded her to prepare the flyers for the September forum. A minister from the county hospice board was speaking on death and dying. Not exactly an upper of a topic, but several patrons had expressed an interest.
Automatically reshelving two misplaced volumes, Nell fought the familiar ache in her chest. She bowed her head. It had been nearly seven years. Even so, it was hard for her to believe her father was dead. In the snap of a finger. One day, here. Robust, laughing, vital. The next, gone. Without so much as a fare-you-well.
She straightened and slowly made her way to the main desk. Maybe that was why for so long she’d resisted the death topic for the forum. What if she went to pieces during the discussion? Seemingly her mother and Lily had moved on better than she had after her father’s massive heart attack, but there wasn’t a day when Nell didn’t think of him and miss him.
Like now, with Abby protesting vehemently about her upcoming week with Rick. Her dad would’ve reassured her that she wasn’t the worst mother in the world, that adolescence, too, would pass, that Abby appreciated her more than she was able to let on. Although Nell could spout that kind of self-talk all day, it did nothing to ease the cramping loneliness that fused to her like a second skin.
“Has Hazel Underwood returned that new Patricia Cornwell yet?”
Nell looked up into the scowling face of Minnie Foltz, whose boundless knowledge of murder and mayhem was acquired from the numerous mysteries she devoured.
Nell searched the books lined up on the reserved shelf. “Looks like you’re in luck, Minnie.”
“Hmphh. I should hope so. I can’t figure what takes Hazel so long. That’s the real mystery.”
Nell processed the checkout, acknowledging that at least she’d made one person happy today.
MORNING SUN SILVERED the ripples on the surface of the slow-moving river. Swallows soared and dipped above their mud nests built into the crevices of the facing cliff. Standing thigh-deep in the clear, cold water, Brady pumped his arm, flicking the fly several times before letting it settle upstream from a deep hole. He’d discovered this spot yesterday, pulling in two browns nice enough to keep. Sally, the proprietress and cook at the Edgewater Inn, had been pampering him all week, and last night she’d prepared his fish, which they’d eaten in the kitchen out of sight of the other guests. Somehow the older woman had sensed he was a troubled soul. He’d give her credit. She provided all anyone could ask—good food, soft beds, lazy afternoons in a hammock and splendid fishing.
But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to share the place with those he loved. Wanted Brooke nestled beside him in the soft four-poster bed, wanted to hear Nicole’s infectious laugh when she caught her first trout, wanted to watch both of them hunched over the chessboard in the inn’s living room.
Wading downstream, he reeled in, then cast toward a boulder near the far bank. On either side of the river, the forested hills rose, the deep greens of the trees a contrast to the blue sky. Rounding a bend upstream were three canoes, the occupants grinning and sweating with exertion. Three men and three boys. A father-son outing, maybe. Longing, fierce and potent, stabbed him.
Would anything ever be normal again? How could it be? Not when everywhere he looked were reminders of what he was missing. Not only what he was missing now but, worse by far, what he had bypassed in the name of work when it had been right under his nose.
Too late, he felt the quick tug on his line. He couldn’t react fast enough. Asleep at the switch and the big one had gotten away. He barked an ironic “Story of my life.” Reeling in, he made his way to shore, removed his waders and gathered his gear.
He’d already been at the Edgewater Inn longer than he’d stayed anywhere. It was time to move on. He couldn’t remain here forever, counting on Sally’s hospitable and generous nature. Move on where? That was the sixty-four-thousand dollar question.
Because no place had the slightest meaning for him.
Back at the inn, he told Sally he would be leaving in the morning. That final evening he sat on the deck outside his room, his feet up on the railing, watching the sun sink behind the mountain. The occasional cooing of a pair of mourning doves and the soothing sound of the river lapping the rocky shore kept him company. In his hands he held the guest journal Sally had asked him to sign. Each room had one. He opened the paisley cover. The first entry was from 1995, the year Sally had bought the inn. “Wonderful food, wonderful hostess, wonderful place! The slow pace was very therapeutic. Thank you.” It was signed “Ron and Shari Huxley, Tulsa, OK.”
Brady turned the page. “Oh, Sally, John and I really needed this time away from the children and all our responsibilities. You’ve created a little piece of heaven here on earth. We can’t wait to come back and be spoiled again.” This one was signed