Fishing With RayAnne (14 page)

The carrying case for whatever instrument he plays is next to his feet. Now that they are face to face, the same befuddlement that visited her during their previous encounters roils up again. “Hang on. I’m a bit confused here. You’re not freelance, or crew, yet you were at the Expo . . .” She scans his casual posture and bare feet. “And I know you’re not management.”

He laughs. “None of the above.” In explanation, he picks up his case and clicks the hasp. Inside, nested in compartments, are arrays of fishing lures and jars of the new artificial bait everyone is talking about. The Lefty’s logo is stamped inside the lid.

“Oh.” Bits and pieces rattling in RayAnne’s head fall roughly into place. “You work for Lefty’s?”

Lefty’s is their biggest underwriter, a growing chain of fishing gear and bait outlets known for its line of quality products and for sourcing them all from Minnesota, their slogan being “Bait Locally.”

“You could say that.” He grins.

“Right.”
Sales rep, of course,
she thinks. “So, you’re here about the PETA complaint.”

“Uh-huh.” He snails his eyebrows into a scowl and does a dead-on imitation of Robert, the stuffy guy from legal. “In an effort to, ahem, make the show more, ahem,
humane
and utterly sanitized, you will from this day forward use only fake-live bait instead of live, living bait.”

RayAnne laughs, her annoyance draining to make room for something smoother. It is a lovely morning, after all; the storm has pummeled the pine chaff and other allergens to the ground. The air is good.

He cocks his head. “Sorry. No one told you I was coming?”

“They did, but I didn’t expect
you
-you.”

“Well, here
I
-I am, along with my wares. So, no more chopping live night crawlers in half with your thumbnail?”

“That got edited out!”

“Not before a test audience saw the dailies.” He’s able to make the shake of his head seem beguiling. “Fortunately I’m the only one who saw yesterday’s footage with Missy Fox. Writhing leeches?” Hal affects Robert’s voice again: “Simply won’t
do
.” He holds up the lure case as if proffering jewels. “So. Might I interest madam in some biodegradable vegan chum? Perhaps some gluten-free latex minnow-ettes? A completely bloodless rice-mochi leech?”

“Well,” she mimics him, “perhaps
madam
should try a few out first?”

“Now?”

“Sure.”

When they pull away from the dock, RayAnne at the helm, her hair flying, the bats and broken sleep and pimpled teenage killers are utterly forgotten.

Once they’ve baited their lines and have settled in to fish, Hal pulls out a foil packet tucked in his windbreaker. “How do you feel about cold pancakes?”

Suddenly ravenous, she feels great about them. He opens the packet between them to reveal a half dozen rolled frilly-edged pancakes filled with something creamy. He refreshes her coffee with his own thermos.

“Cheers.” She tentatively holds her mug to meet the edge of his.

“
Till din Halsa.
Dig in, before they get warm.”

“Is that Norwegian?”

He shakes his head. “Swedish. My grandmother taught me a few words, and how to make these.”

“My grandmother taught me that carrying bacon bits in your pockets attracts men.” As soon as she says it she feels like an idiot and plugs her mouth with a pancake. The edges are crisp, and the moist centers are slightly sweet, with a hint of something.

“What’s that filling?”

“The secret ingredient. Mashed potatoes with maple syrup.”

“So good.” RayAnne chews, closing her eyes. Things you would never think to put together. She murmurs around the mouthful, “Boy howdy.”

Hal laughs and raises his thermos a second time. “Here’s to grandmothers.”

She suddenly regrets snapping at Hal. “Sorry about back on the dock. I can get . . . I don’t usually let just anyone in my boat.”

“Well, Penelope isn’t just any boat, right?”

He’s the first person to call her by name. RayAnne smiles. “No, she is not.”

“If boats could talk, right? How’d you find her?”

“Oh, long story.”

“Yeah?” He leans back and tucks his pole under one arm as if he has all day.

She chews down her last bite. “I wasn’t even shopping for a boat. In fact, I was looking for the Porta-Potty in a marina in Michigan. Just behind it was this graveyard of Chris-Crafts and old Crestliners—the sort of place you go to scavenge for parts. Anyway, I only saw the shape of her under a tarp but thought, you know, here’s something different. When I saw the fish-scale finish I decided right there. But what a wreck. Carburetor gone, what finish wasn’t worn off was gouged, half the decking rotted, no windscreen. Her hull was cracked.”

“None of that stopped you?”

“The opposite.” RayAnne shakes her head at the memory. “I decided on the spot I wasn’t just going to save her, but improve her.”

“Like a missionary?”

“More like the Six Million Dollar Man.” RayAnne reaches under the console to unlock a compartment. It’s not as though Penelope has an astonishing story—it’s just that until now no one’s been curious enough to ask. She pulls out a waterproof zip folder thick with papers: log books, slip rental contracts, fuel receipts, license stickers. Penelope’s provenance. She rummages through.

“Here. Here she is, the
original
Penelope.”

It’s a faded color photo with ruffle-cut edges. A woman waterskiing, wearing the sort of shirred swimsuit that looks like there could be a girdle involved. The bottom of the snapshot shows the bench seat in the foreground, the little flags flying straight with speed. The white wake looks like a road of ploughed water. Even in the grainy photo the woman is quite beautiful—arched brows, bright teeth, and a figure like Marilyn’s. The camera angle is straight on.

“Look at her.” Hal holds up the snapshot to align the back end of the boat with that in the photograph. “Like seeing a ghost.” He nods to the log book. “This was in there?”

“Yes, it belonged to the original buyer, the real Penelope’s husband, Mr. Lancaster, so I looked him up. The boat had been his wedding present to her. Sweet old guy.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much on our first phone call. Just that they had the boat maybe thirty years then sold her. His wife had
just
died that week, but I didn’t know that then. Only that he was sad.”

“He didn’t want this photo back?”

“Said to keep it, that he had others. I sent him before-and-after pictures of the restoration. He sent a long letter back, wrote out the whole story of how they met.” She eases the photo gently from Hal’s bad hand. As her palm brushes his, she can’t help but wonder if it has much feeling. It seems to function well enough, the fingers bend and move in a “talk-to-the-hand” sort of motion. Would his fingertips experience sensation? If he skimmed them across the downy hairs on her forearm would he feel the goose bumps? Impulsively she wants to pick up this hand and run her teeth over the knuckles.

“Sounds like a nice old guy.”

“What?” RayAnne straightens. “Yeah. Really sweet. We write now and then. I even thought about hooking him up with my Gran, since she’s forever trying to hook
me
up on blind dates.”

“Will you?”

She shakes her head. “Gran’s still grieving. Dead Ted—that was my grandfather—seems to be a chapter Gran’s still living thirty years later.”

“I’d hate to think of someone mourning me for that long.”

“Well, I’d hate to think of someone
not
mourning me.” RayAnne laughs, but a small part of her means it. “Anyway, Mr. Lancaster watches the show all the time now, says it does him good to see Penelope out on the water—it reminds him of old times. And he seems to think she’s famous just cuz she’s on TV.”

Hal just grins. “Imagine that.”

They are silent a moment, both looking out over the lake. He elbows her softly. “This show . . . not such a bad place to punch the clock, is it?”

“Nope.”

“These women you find, you really get them to . . . they
talk
, and it’s not phony. How do you do it?”

Do? She doesn’t really do anything beyond asking the questions she senses they most want to answer—or maybe need to answer.

She shakes her head. “I dunno. If I think about that too long, I’ll start to wonder myself.”

Guests do seem to open up, like strangers do when time is finite and has a scheduled end, like during a flight to somewhere, or a visit to the hair salon, a drink at the bar in a town you’re just passing through. The plane will land, the hair gets swept up, the tab paid—you have only so long to tell your story. On
Fishing
, the boat will dock. RayAnne reckons it must seem a safe place to spill.

“They only say the things they’re thinking.”

She’d like to ask Hal questions but is unsure where to start. Her gaze wanders again to land on his hand.

He leans in, his tone matter of fact. “You can ask me about it.” He wriggles his fingers.

“What?” Heat blooms across her face, and she begins to stammer. “I didn’t . . .”

Just then Hal gets such a firm tug on his line the pole nearly leaves his hand. While he starts reeling, she scrambles to get the net, thinking,
Thank you, fish.

Saved by a fat bass. Hal expertly lands it, unhooks it. It’s sturdy and handsome with a clear stripe. They admire it a moment before he releases it. He leans far over the gunnel, allowing the fish to slip from his hands like an offering.

More fish start biting then, so there’s not much chance for real talk. The weights and numbers of their catches even impress the local game warden, who motors over to see what they’re up to, with questions about the filming location and the show, and to check permits.

Motoring back later, RayAnne asks, “You don’t suppose
Fishing
could actually get real traction, like a commercial show?”

“Like
Fin
or
Dock Watson
?” Hal smiles. “I’d wager it could.”

“Well, Lefty’s has wagered, haven’t they?”

“Um, true.” He turns back to the wheel, smiling.

She certainly has wondered why anyone would sink money into such an untested premise as an all-women fishing talk show on public television.

Growing pensive, she watches the tendril of a curl bat against the nape of Hal’s neck until they near the dock.

When RayAnne breezes into the RV, Cassi barely looks up from her laptop at the booth that doubles as the world’s tiniest shared office space. “Catch anything?”

“Three bass, a ton of sunnies, and two big walleye.” She sees her bed has been made and sighs. No sooner has RayAnne set something down than Cassi has either filed it, tidied it, folded it, tossed it, or eaten it herself. As a defense, RayAnne has unconsciously adapted strategies a sibling might: hiding things, gobbling.

Rinata has sent the wardrobe from Minneapolis. Identical clear garment bags hang on the rack—sets of two of everything in case she out-sweats a shirt or spills in her lap, occurrences of which are all too frequent. Rather than bare her muffin top to Cassi, RayAnne ducks behind the rack to shed her clothes, humming while sausaging into her Spanx.

Cassi stops pecking her keypad. “Someone is in a good mood. I heard you laughing out there.”

RayAnne pops her head up over the rack. “What do you know about Hal? He seems okay.”

“I
told
you about him. You were supposed to go meet him at the Lefty’s booth during that Shoot & Kill Expo.”

“Rod & Gun Expo.”

“Whatever. You looked pretty cozy out there in the boat. I thought you never crossed that line.”

“What line?” RayAnne sucks in her middle and snaps the waistband into place, wondering if Spanx’s motto is
breathing is overrated
. She pulls garments from hangers.

“The sponsor line.”

“So Hal is with Lefty’s. Big deal.”

“He’s not
with
Lefty’s.” Cassi gives her a curious look. “Ray, Hal
is
Lefty.”

“What?” RayAnne’s words are muffled under the stripes of the boatneck shirt she’s wrestling into. She yanks it over her nose. “
Hal
is Lefty?” She falls to the couch as if shoved.