“Yeah.” His voice wavers. “Good plan.”
What’s up with him?
Taylor maneuvers the minivan carrying Ana and Co. out of the driveway and sets off toward town. I hand Mrs. Bentley’s Audi keys to Elliot. He’s told me and Ethan to go ahead without him. “We’ll be on the Roaring Fork. Usual place, I think,” I say.
As he takes the keys, his expression is odd, like he’s about to face a firing squad. “Thanks, bro,” he mutters.
I frown. “You okay?”
He swallows. “I’m going to do it.”
“What?”
“A ring.”
“Ring?”
“I’m going to buy a ring. I think it’s time.”
Shit. “You’re going to ask Kate to marry you?”
He nods.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. She’s the one.”
I think my mouth drops open. Kavanagh?
“Hey, hotshot, marital bliss seems to be working for you.” He grins, recovering his usual devil-may-care demeanor in an instant. “You’re gonna catch flies with that mouth open, dude. Go catch some fish instead.” He laughs as I shut my mouth, and dumbfounded, I watch him climb into the A4 wagon.
Hot damn. He’s going to marry Kavanagh. That woman will be a thorn in my side forever. Maybe she’ll say no. But as I watch him reverse out of the driveway, something tells me she won’t. With a brisk wave, he’s gone. I shake my head. Elliot Grey, I hope to God you know what you’re doing.
Ethan is in the mudroom, checking out the line of fishing rods. “Float or fly?” I ask him.
“Let’s wade. We’ll be wet anyway, with this rain,” Ethan replies with a grin.
“The gear’s there.” I point to one of the cupboards. “I’m going to get changed. You can wear what you like from whatever’s in there.”
“Cool.” Ethan opens the cupboard and pulls out a pair of waders.
We load our backpacks and our fishing gear into my pickup and I reverse out of the garage and head down the mountain; even in the rain, the scenery is inspiring. Our first stop is the local angling store, where I purchase our fishing licenses. From there we drive to one of my favorite spots on the Roaring Fork River.
“You fished around here before?” I ask Ethan as we make our way to the bank.
“Here, no. But around the Yakima. My dad’s a big fan.”
“He is?” Now, there’s another reason to like Eamon Kavanagh.
“Yeah. Dad told me you’re working with him,” Ethan says.
“GEH is updating his fiber-optic network.”
“He’s pleased.”
I grin. “I enjoy working with him. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”
Ethan nods. “He says the same about you.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” From my backpack, I remove a box of flies. Inside is an impressive collection. “Carmella’s husband makes these. They’re great for trout.”
“Cool.” He selects one and examines it closely.
“Yeah.” I choose one. “The mayflies are hatching around now.”
“These should do it. Let’s hook some lips. I’ll give you some room,” he says, and we both move over the rock-strewn bank in opposite directions.
My reel is attached, but I quickly assemble the rest of the rod and run the fly-line through the guides and attach my fly to the tippet. I’m ready. A glance at Ethan, who must be twenty-five feet away, tells me he’s ready, too. He makes his first cast. It’s smooth and graceful, and the fly lands in what looks like a sweet spot in the water. He knows what he’s doing.
The Roaring Fork gurgles westward at my feet, flanked by rocks and silver birches. It’s a perfect, peaceful setting. The mere sight of this wilderness is enough to make me exhale. I gaze intently at the water as it rushes past me, and slowly wade into the shallows.
Dad is standing with me in the water.
We’re in waders. He scans the river.
Here, son, you’ve got to learn to read the water like you do a book.
Look for those telltale signs of Mr. Trout.
He could be hiding under rocks in the river.
He could be in the seam.
You see the seam, where the slow water hits the fast water.
And look for the bubbles. He could be feeding there.
He loves to eat mayflies, especially this time of year.
This guy, he holds up a fly. We’ll fool him with this.
Take your fly and fasten to the tippet. Here. Like this. Dad knots the fly.
Now you do it. After a few goes, I do. It’s a good knot because Dad’s shown me how.
Good going, Christian. Remember to cast like you’re flicking paint off a brush. It’s all in your wrist.
The mayfly lands and I let her drift on top of the water like Dad said. I get a bite. A trout.
Good going, Christian!
Together we reel it in.
My dad was a good teacher. I make a couple of casts upstream to the far bank and let the fly drift toward me, and soon I’m lost in concentration. Everything slips from my mind as I set about conquering the river.