“Your father and I . . .” Calling Austin her father stung, but he had no choice at the moment. He cleared his throat and continued. “All our friends fished off this bridge. We used to have to contend with traffic, but the state closed it many years ago because it was more dangerous for the cars to drive over it with all the fishing that was going on.”
“So how do cars get across now?”
He pointed to a bridge a bit farther down. “The new one added about a two-minute drive. No one really complained because most everyone in town loves using this bridge to fish.” They walked to an open spot, stopping only a few times to say hello to people. Bowie introduced Brystol as Brooklyn’s daughter. Soon the town would know that she was his, and honestly, he couldn’t wait.
“I’ve never done this before,” she said as she looked over the railing at the rushing water below.
“Don’t worry, kiddo.” The man next to her spoke. “You’re with Bowie Holmes; he knows how to fish. He’ll teach you.” Brystol looked at Bowie and smiled. He couldn’t help but return the sentiment. They shared a moment, one he would remember for the rest of his life.
Bowie explained everything to her about fishing, except how to cast. For her first time, they’d drop a line from the bridge, which would be good practice. He asked her if she wanted to bait her hook, to which she shook her head so hard the end of her ponytail smacked her glasses. They both laughed. With her hook baited, he handed her the fishing pole and walked her through how to drop her line down.
Brystol was a natural. She pulled the bail back, kept her finger under the line, and watched her worm-baited hook sail toward the water. Per Bowie’s instructions, she let the fishing line unravel for a few more seconds before she wound the reel handle.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now we wait. Every few minutes we’ll bring your line up, see if it’s still baited, and send it back down.”
“How will I know if I have a fish?”
“You’ll feel a good tug, and your pole will feel a bit heavier.”
“Got it,” she said as she leaned a bit over the rail. Bowie watched her for a minute before he dropped his own line.
“You know, if you want to talk about your grandmother, I’ve been told I’m a good listener. I’ve known her pretty much my whole life.”
“Maybe later. Right now, talking about her makes me sad. I asked my mom, though, if I could write her eulogy. She told me that Nonnie would love if I did. I learned about those from a book I read.”
“I bet it’s going to be beautiful.” His daughter was something else, and he was proud that she was his.
Word spread fast that Brooklyn’s daughter was on the bridge, fishing for the first time. People stopped and chatted, introduced themselves and their kids. Bowie caught a few young men checking out his daughter and wanted to move her behind him but knew he couldn’t, at least not yet. He would have to talk to Brooklyn about what kind of rules Brystol had so he wasn’t overstepping. Most importantly, he wanted Brystol to make friends, to feel like Cape Harbor was her home.
The first few times Brystol brought her line back up, her worm was gone. Bowie’s too. Everyone around them laughed and told their new friend that she’d get the hang of it, and when she hooked a small trout, she squealed so loudly that everyone on the bridge came running.
Bowie guided her as she reeled furiously. The fish was small and would have to be tossed back in the river, but not before he got a picture of her and her catch. Brystol held her pole in one hand and the line in another, while her fish flopped in the air. She smiled brightly for her photo and quickly handed her fishing pole and fish to Bowie to take care of.
They stayed for a few more hours until they were both starving and in need of the best, greasiest burger Peggy could order them up. On the way back to his truck, Brystol stopped him. “I want to thank you for today. I’ve always wanted to fish, and my mom . . . it’s not her thing.”
“I’m happy to teach you everything, Brystol.”
She nodded and then surprised Bowie by launching herself into his arms. He held her tightly, wishing today was the day he could tell her he was her father.
THIRTY-FOUR
Brooklyn took her time showering, letting the hot water pound into her sore muscles. She was tired, emotionally drained, and also angry at Carly. Not only for her bombshell, but for refusing treatment and for not telling her when she found out she was sick. Brooklyn could’ve made sure Brystol had more time with her grandmother. Instead, they were planning her funeral and cremation.