Fishing With RayAnne (19 page)

“Well, he’s promised.”

The three stand at the open trunk of the taxi. The driver is itching to get going. RayAnne will ride along to the airport and catch the light rail back to her neighborhood. Big Rick has agreed to stay a few days with Ky and the boys, then go back to Arizona and give it another go with Rita. In the meantime, he’ll send flowers and a conciliatory e-mail, which Ky will help draft.

Her father stands at the open door with a twin on each shoulder, both waving as the taxi backs away. Ky is in the driveway, giving RayAnne a look as they pull out, knitting his fingers to sign, “I’m fucked.”

Ingrid, on the other hand, is optimistic Big Rick will keep the boys occupied so that Ky might get some hours of research in on his latest project, a book on the early years of the NHL. Ingrid’s mania for hockey is as deep as Ky’s and Dot’s. During the Stanley Cup, they all wear the same jerseys and talk hockey ad nauseum. RayAnne leaves them all to it for the duration of the playoffs.

It’s all settled then. Big Rick is squared away. RayAnne can drive up to Location in the morning with only the show to worry about.

She leans back into the seat and considers Ingrid’s profile, so serene, yet always pinballing between her family—the dervish twins and neurotic Ky—and the pressure-cooker job that requires her to be battle-ready and utterly confident.

“How do you do it, Ingrid?”

“Do what? Oh, you mean everything?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s kind of a cliché but it’s true—the calmest place? It usually
is
the eye of the storm.”

After her second six-hour drive in five days, RayAnne pulls into Location and brakes to a skid just as she sees Hal driving in the opposite direction with a beautiful woman in his passenger seat. She remembers he had volunteered to drive the guest—the climatologist from the educational nonprofit Norah’s Ark.

Cassi’s already set up in the trailer.

Banging in and dropping her duffel, RayAnne asks, “Where’s Hal taking the ark person? That
is
the ark builder, right?”

“I’m great, thanks. How was
your
weekend?”

“Don’t ask. My butt is flat from driving. Yours?”

“Ass or weekend?” She taps her travel mug with green fingernails. “Hal’s probably taking Norah over to Schmancy Camp.”

“Johannson’s?” RayAnne frowns. The fancy resort is where guests are sometimes housed since there’s nothing like a decent motel nearby. Johannson’s is expensive and often overrun with honeymooners—some guests complain it’s almost
too
romantic; others swoon over the monogrammed everything and little pine-tree soaps. RayAnne has only ever been in the resort’s bar, next to the lakeside restaurant that does not list prices on its menu. Dot knows all about it; apparently she stayed there with Ted back in the day, when it boasted a Michelin-rated chef.

“Yup.”

“He staying there too?” RayAnne chews a nail.

“How would
I
know?”

“They seem cozy?”

“You really want to know?”

“No. Yes.”

“They laughed a lot. But I haven’t caught them, uh,
doing it
. What do you care? He’s a sponsor.”

“Right. And . . . sponsors should act professional.”

The next morning she’s on the dock tapping her foot, waiting for Norah to be delivered by Hal. They are late.

“Where
are
they?”

Cassi rolls her eyes. “Three minutes late, Ray, keep your knickers on.” Winking, she adds, “Maybe they overslept.”

RayAnne harrumphs, digs out her phone as if she has more pressing matters, and walks to the end of the dock for better reception.

She calls Ky to check in. He reports it’s going well enough. “I’m hiding in our bathroom with my laptop, actually getting some work done.”

“He’s okay with the twins?”

“They’re five. Easy to impress. Yesterday I had the whole house to myself. He took them to Canterbury downs to see the horses.”

“The track? You let him take your children to the track.”

“Three hours of uninterrupted alone time, Ray? Of course I let him. He promised upon pain of death he would not touch a drop. Besides, I strapped a cell phone with GPS to Michael Jordan just in case.”

Cassi sidles up and nods toward the road where Hal’s Wagoneer is approaching, ticking through the trees. “Ky, I’ll call you later.”

“Before I forget, Mom called from some yoga camp, Cripple-you?”

“Kripalu.”

“Anyway, she said Gran called her, worried you were stressed out or something, so Mom called me. She thinks you’re too busy to be bothered.”

“Who, Mom or Gran?”

“Gran.”

“Why would she think that?”

“Dunno. Have you called her lately?”

RayAnne smiles brightly for the camera, maybe too brightly. “Four years ago, climatologist Norah Smith bought a Winnebago and turned it into a rolling classroom equipped to teach awareness of global climate change. Hoping to spread that knowledge across southern states, she outfitted her RV to look like an ark on wheels. Today she brings the facts of environmental science to thousands of kids in schools where creationism is taught and evolution is banned from the curriculum. We’ll talk with Norah about global warming, the state of melting polar ice caps, and the fate of our coastlines. Norah, welcome aboard.”

The camera pans to Norah, a younger, much hotter version of Meryl Streep.

“RayAnne, I’m
so
glad you asked me.” Her accent is a genteel drawl.

She imagines Hal is glad as well. Sponsors do love to worm in, get their thumbprints on things, then hang around the sets and act the big shot. Or, in this case, sniff around resorts where guests stay and chaperone them. RayAnne shakes herself back into the moment, takes one look at Norah, and feels suddenly so dowdy she could be a different species. Of course he would pick someone this gorgeous.

Unprompted, Norah begins, “My goodness, I am so thrilled, I just
love
this show. I can’t believe I’m on it! And RayAnne, you are even prettier in person.”

Messing with her, surely. “Well, that’s very . . .”

“And all this
nature
. Lordy, we’ve nothing like this down in Alabama!”

RayAnne sneaks a look at the notes written on her palm. She’d had the entire weekend to study the guest materials, but Big Rick had monopolized every waking moment. “First, Norah, congratulations on your genius grant.”

“I know. So exciting! Now I can build an
actual
boat, so the classroom can float right there on the gulf, a real Norah’s ark.” She pronounces it “auk.”

“I hear you had some trouble at some of the summer church camps?”

“Oh, yes, the Jesus camps. Once the Baptists discover I’m teaching climate awareness, my welcome can wear out reeeal quick.”

“And you were even escorted to a county line?” RayAnne frowns convincingly. “Have you been threatened?”

“Well, I’ve certainly been
discouraged
and called some names—everything from ‘the Devil’s Handmaiden’ to, well, you can imagine.” Her laugh is like glass chimes, and when Norah stands and readies to cast, her reel spins a perfect line, making RayAnne wonder if Hal spent any time teaching her to fish. She imagines him close behind Norah, arms around her, his hand covering hers on the pole . . .

Cassi’s canned voice in her ear catches her in mid-drift. “Snap to, Ray.”

Brightening, she asks, “And the ark was vandalized?”

“Scorched some. Nothing a little elbow grease and paint couldn’t fix.”

As Norah talks about the science behind climate change, RayAnne scrutinizes her. This woman is the very type she admires, smart and warm, yet tenacious, like her mother, Dot, and Ingrid. When she looks to the camera boat, Hal is giving a thumbs-up, and RayAnne smiles before realizing he’s looking past her to Norah, who is gushing statistics about the end of the climate as we know it. “And all these lovely spruce and birch will die out in two or three hundred years, or be underwater from the melted polar ice.” She looks around. “Shame, isn’t it? These pretty lakes are so
romantic
.”

RayAnne smiles tightly. “Are they?”

“Oh!” Norah’s eyes widen. “My, I think I’ve hooked something . . .” She starts reeling. “Just a little nibble,” she nearly giggles. “Like a
love
bite.”

While Norah flirts with her fish, RayAnne faces the camera. “When we come back: Is keeping up with fashion draining your bank account? Ana Kozlak is the creator of Pockets, a label designing custom uniforms for busy women. We’ll have a runway show on the dock featuring Ana’s uniform creations for a florist, a writer, a teacher”—she pivots to camera one—“and even a fishing show host. Here’s a sneak peek of what’s in store.”

Footage from that morning features a number of models sashaying across on the dock, RayAnne bringing up the rear in a knee-length fishing-vest dress with perhaps fifty pockets. Overkill. Her bit will be edited, she hopes, at least the moment when the toe of her shoe stuck between the dock boards and she stepped out of it to continue down the runway-dock with one foot bare.

After taping, RayAnne finds Norah at a picnic table, lighting up a cigarette. To RayAnne’s inquisitive look, she shrugs. “Well, we’re all gonna die from
something
. . .”

“Hmm, I wish I could think like that. The things I would eat. Does Hal smoke?”

“Ha, I don’t know about smoke, but he sizzles some.”

“Huh.” RayAnne grins. “Speak of the devil.”

As Hal is coming up the path, Norah crushes her cigarette and fluffs her hair, wondering quietly under her breath, “I s’pose he’s married?”

“Hal?” RayAnne feigns indifference. “Hmm, I might’ve heard that. Probably has kids and the whole shebang. You didn’t ask?”

“No.” Norah is looking past her, suddenly looking annoyed. “Oh, there’s that girl who pops up everywhere like a prairie dog.”

“That’s just Cassi.”

Before Hal has a chance to reach them, Cassi has cut in front, giving RayAnne a curious look. “Ray? Um, I think you should . . . there’s been a development.” She points up to the satellite truck, where a tall man with a familiar posture is talking to Randall, the camera guy.

She squints—from the back he could double as Big Rick. “No. That’s not my . . .”