His bare chest and legs were covered in sweat, grime, and grass clippings. “I’m filthy.”
She handed him the mail. “Save some energy for tonight.”
He caught the twinkle in her eye, which had always captivated him. “I hear you.”
“Gotta get back. I have two routes to handle today.”
“See you later.”
She trotted back to the van, his eyes riveted on her.
His mother was right.
Life did go on.
1:35P.M.
ALL WEEKBRENT PROMISED THE TWO YOUNG BOYS NEXT DOORthey’d go fishing Saturday. That’s why he rose early and cut the grass. So right after lunch he packed the Jeep with fishing tackle, poles, and a cooler of drinks and they headed for Eagle Lake.
Only one of his father’s three fishing boats had survived his mother’s garage sale. A ten-foot, flat-bottomed skiff powered by an aging outboard and equipped with a bow-mounted trolling motor. It was the smallest his father had owned, the green skiff resting quietly under a mildewed tarp behind the garage the past two years. Starting last Monday he’d spent time scrubbing the hull and making sure the motors worked. A few of his father’s rods and tackle pieces were still in the garage, more than enough to outfit all three of them. He was even surprised to find the rod he’d liked as a teenager.
He pulled the skiff to the public boat ramp at the southeast corner of Eagle Lake. It was the most popular spot for launching, three concrete ramps fading down into the gray-brown water, a large bait-and-tackle shop nearby along with rental cabins offering accommodations to the anglers who traveled from all over middle Georgia and western South Carolina.
He floated the skiff and gassed the outboard, then he and the boys powered out. Fifteen minutes later they drifted with baited lines cast in the mineral-rich water.
“Did you come out here when you were little?” Grant asked.
“All the time.”
“With your daddy?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes by myself or with friends.”
James tightened his line. “Did you like to fish?”
“I sure did.”
The boys, James and Grant, ages twelve and thirteen, were the grandchildren of Grace Tanner, who’d lived next door all his life. Her husband, a local pharmacist, died years ago of cancer. Grace and his mother had been best friends forever. With both of them widows, they looked after each other. The boys were here for a summer visit. Grace’s son and daughter-in-law lived in North Carolina. He’d been wanting to do a little fishing, so his mother had suggested bringing the boys along.
He looked around and admired the pristine lake, a perfect fit between tall stands of old-growth pine, birch, hickory, and oak. Its irregular shape had been intentional, designed to create coves and inlets that translated into marketable shoreline for landowners fortunate enough to abut the banks. He’d handled many real estate closings for lakefront property back in his days of private practice.
“Did my daddy ever come out here with you?” James asked.
“Not really. He wasn’t much of a fisherman.”
“Did my granddaddy?”
“Oh, yeah. He and my dad fished here all the time.”
James sighed. “I miss Granddaddy.”
“I miss my dad, too.”
Grant tugged at his line. “They’re in heaven. Right?”
“That’s exactly where they are.” He didn’t like to think about it.
“Do people die like that all the time?” Grant asked.
