Fishing With RayAnne (28 page)

Out the window, RayAnne catches sight of a snowflake drifting across the patio light. Then another fluffy flake. First snow of the season.

I hope you are enjoying beautiful moments with your children; I hope you are watching the first snowfall from your windows.

All my best to you and your family.

RayAnne

She’ll put it in the mailbox this minute. Standing up, the combination of wine, pain pills, and emotion sway her, but at the same time, she feels a vague sense of a weight shrugged off—perhaps the self-pity she’s been buttoned into like an ugly dress. Whatever she’s shed feels like it’s pooled at her feet, something she can step out of and kick aside.

Outside her front door, she breathes in the night air deeply, clearing her head. She walks to the corner in her slippers and drops the card in the mailbox. It could be three a.m., it could be six p.m.; it gets dark so early these days. She stands a moment, registering the frigid temperature and holding out her bandaged hand to catch flakes of swirling snow.

By the time she’s reached her door, RayAnne is revived some by the chill. Again, she hears the voices of the Birkett twins—perhaps you can, indeed, choose who you are.

She’s set her alarm for the first time in weeks and is up with the first light. A chalkboard-gray sky lidded with snow clouds greets her when she yanks the shade. Her head pounds in rhythm to the throb in her hand. In the kitchen she sets about making coffee, clumsily, thinking of the mental list she’d fallen asleep to.

Letter to Mom: Apology

Cassi: Apology

Amy: Apology

Visit Ky and the boys

Craigslist: Handyman for shelves

And once that’s all done? She’s saved the best for last:

Google Map the route to Gran’s.
If Gran wants her to come earlier, she will, perhaps as soon as next weekend.

Scooping kibble into Rory’s dish, she is determined that the end of her week will look nothing like the beginning. Halfway through her first cup of coffee, she’s plugged her laptop in to charge, has found her phone and a legal pad, and is ready to listen to all her messages when the doorbell rings.

Rory has made progress—instead of yelping and welding himself to her leg, he merely uses her as a human shield, following to the front hall on her heels. Assuming it’s FedEx with Rory’s new activity cube, which will reward him with a treat each time he successfully flips it over with his snout or paw, she doesn’t bother with the peephole, just swings the door wide.

It’s not FedEx.

It’s Hal.

His unexpected presence incites a sort of brain-stutter. He does have a knack for popping up completely out of context—at least her context.

The chill swirling into the foyer makes her shudder. His hair is a bit longer, a curl tugged across his forehead by the sort of wind that had rattled the windows all night. Snow dusts the shoulders of his gray plaid jacket, the backdrop of the clouds and colorless trees all so dull his eyes seem that much bluer, like the gas pilot on her stove.

“Hello.” He shifts from foot to foot. “I was . . .
not
just in your neighborhood; I’ve actually driven quite a lo—what happened to you?”

“Long story. DIY.” She shrugs like it’s nothing. Her bandage is similar to his brace; her fingers are free, but her wrist and thumb are immobilized.

“May I come in?”

Since seeing him with her stumbling father on Location, RayAnne has tried to neutralize all thoughts of Hal. Her performance with Bernadette was one thing, but she’s loath to think of those moments in the well house—the near-kiss and her vomit-scented knuckles are incidents to be categorized under Moments to Forget.

But now the cornucopia of events of what had possibly been the worst day of her adult life comes spilling into the door along with Hal, her own “personal worst” Groundhog Day, but of course there is no going back to fix things, and now here is Hal on her doorstep, a manila envelope casually tucked under one arm.

He flashes an imploring smile. “
Captain
, may I? It’s freezing out here.”

“Of course. Sorry.” She steps aside.

Rory loops around her legs to get at Hal, wagging his entire back end and making that rare, joyful moan he makes when finding something ripe to roll in.

“What a good-looking pooch.”

“This is Rory.”

“What a face
you
have. Aren’t you a handsome boy?” Hal bends down, and Rory, who does not lick faces—unless one has egg yolk or peanut butter on its chin—is all over Hal, lapping him up while his tail lashes at RayAnne’s shins.

“Weird.” RayAnne straightens, her arms drifting to cross over her chest. “He doesn’t usually . . .”

Hal sets down the envelope and drops to his knees in order to ruffle Rory’s ears and neck. “Doesn’t usually . . . ?”

She shrugs. “Fawn.”

Hal immediately devolves to dog-speak. “What a good dog! Rory? Such a good name for a good dog!”

Feeling suddenly possessive and a little invaded, she quips, “Well, you can’t have him.”

Why, oh why does she blurt? Thankfully Hal seems to have barely heard her with Rory all over him. Well, he’s caught her off guard, hasn’t he? It’s not that she can’t handle the unexpected; it’s just that some advance warning would be nice, a little time to prepare. As it is, her thoughts swirl in a clear dome.

Hal looks up and says, “I tried calling again.”

He’s got her there. “Everybody has.”

Motioning him to follow, she moves into the kitchen, and sets about finding him a mug, blowing the dust from one and rinsing it under the tap. Her silence, which he’ll likely misinterpret, isn’t intentional—she’s simply out of the habit of speaking much to anyone human. Trying to remember if she’d washed her face or even mined the gunk from her eyes, she takes a quick look at her reflection in the window over the sink, baring her teeth to check for toast bits. When she turns back to give Hal his coffee, he’s looking down at the letter she’s reread half a dozen times—Ryan’s letter. Caught, he looks at her. “Sorry, I don’t usually—”

Ready to volley,
Gawk at other people’s private mail?
RayAnne stops herself. “Well, it
was
just there.” Handing over the mug, she smiles weakly. “That one really got to me.”

“Yeah. I can see why. Jeez. Poor kid.”

RayAnne sits. “I only hope my reply is in time.” After a few beats, she looks down. The manila envelope he’s set on the table has her name on it. So he’s here to deliver something. “Is that more viewer mail?” She’s not sure she can handle more right now.

“Nope.”

“What then?”

“Your contract.”

Her laugh comes out more as a bark.
“Contract?”

Half an hour later she’s still blinking in disbelief. Skimming the contract a second time, she zeroes in on certain sections. “
Two
seasons? Really?”

“Really.”

“As host?”

“Yes, as host.”

She sits back. “I don’t understand.”

He frowns. “You haven’t been watching?”

“No. Well, I sort of stumbled upon the one with Leslie Jordache.”

Season two had begun airing weeks before. Of course she’d known, but these days the only television she watches is pet-themed, like
Rescue Ink
, Animal Planet,
DogTown
, or the show with the doe-eyed dog trainer with two first names, Zak George. Having no desire to be reminded of her near-career, she’d pointedly avoided the Sunday evening WYOY slot for
Fishing
.

“But the episode with my mother . . .”

“Is the one we led with for the season, actually—you two in front of the segment with the twins in the second half. It’s gotten the highest ratings yet.”

“You’re joking.” Which part of her on-camera pissant hissy fit could possibly have garnered any ratings, let alone high?

He says something that sounds like a remix of his words in the well house that day: “You were
real
out there, you
and
your mother.”

RayAnne pulls a face. “It was a disaster.”

Hal sighs. “I told you the worst would be cut. I sat in on the editing to make sure.”

“You did?”

He frowns. “Well, I generally do what I say I’m going to. You do know Cassi and the crew followed your mother up to that Ojibwa retreat the next day?”

“No.”

“She got a really great ten-minute piece out of it. Mostly of Bernadette in action. We can thank Cassi for saving the segment.”

“They cut out the throwing-up part, right?”

“The actual moment? Don’t worry, it only shows your face while she’s doing it.”

This time he is kidding—his laugh is deep, while hers sounds like a sort of punctured-tire hiss.

Hal’s hand settles firmly on her shoulder. “Hey. Give yourself some credit. Give us all some credit.”

Her eyes fall back to the contract.
Two
seasons. The document is a six-page scroll of legalese she can barely grasp. When his hand falls away from her shoulder to turn the page, she feels a slight trail of disappointment. She looks again at the amount they will be paying her. It’s probably a fraction of what Mandy got, certainly less than a cable show host might get, yet more than she’s used to making—quite a decent sum, in fact. She rereads the terms. “Wait. This figure, that’s
not
for two seasons?”

“No, see,
annual
. That’s what you’ll get for each season.”

“No way.” It’s three times what she’d made during her best year on the circuit. Images of “PAID” stamped over her student loans, her Amex, and the final bills for Penelope’s restoration flit through her mind. It’s an income Gran would call “comfortable enough.” Comfortable enough RayAnne could take Gran to Italy.
I could take Gran to Naples.

But she’s getting ahead of herself; besides, it’s not like she’s signed anything yet. There are still unanswered questions.

“And Cassi?”

“Producer.”

She squints hard at Hal with Caroline Crabb’s snake-eye. “For real?”

“Cross my heart.”

She’s still not convinced it’s all real. “Why’d they send
you
?”

“They didn’t. I sent myself.”

“Because . . .”

“I
wanted
to? Crazy, I know—because Lefty’s, because
I
, signed on as an underwriter for the duration of your contract.”

Perhaps Dot is wrong after all; opportunity
can
come knocking. It’s a lot to take in. A week ago she was reading crime novels in bed in the afternoon, eating meals of red licorice and Cheez-Its.

“You have a pen?”

“Sure. But don’t you want to have your lawyer look it over first?”

Would admitting she doesn’t have a lawyer make her seem like a total rube? She chews her lip. “Seems you’ve looked it over a few times.”

“Just making sure you get what you deserve.”

She signs the document. “That works for me.” She holds her good hand out to his and they solemnly shake in a left-handed deal.

RayAnne recalls the morning they’d gone fishing, the ease they’d had with one another; sitting here with him now feels like sitting in the boat that day. She shrugs, adding, “Boss.”

“Nope. None of that. Collaborator, more like. Think you can stop thinking of me as a sponsor?”

“I can, I think. It’s not so much—when I think of sponsors I’m always reminded of something Old Lodge Skins said, ‘There is an endless supply of white men . . .’”

Hal finishes the quote. “‘But there have always been a limited number of Human Beings.’” He sighs. “There’s two strikes against me: I’m a sponsor and a man.”

“And white.”

“Well, mostly. My father’s mom was Lakota, so . . .”

“You
are
part Human Being.”

Rory is turning circles under the table. “Ray. I’d—”

She cuts him off, thinking that maybe enough has been said, at least for now. “We should celebrate sometime.”

He brightens. “Sure. Sure, you’ll need a bit to let this all sink in.”

Hal is still wearing his coat, but it seems too late to be a good hostess and offer to hang it up. Besides, he’s right; she’s still not taken it all in—the turn of events, the scope, the
thunk
of life abruptly switching tracks. The contract in her hand is real.