Page 8 of Off the Trail

“Why would I bring a book?” I say to give her a hard time, not because I didn’t bring one.

“Because you’re supposed to be relaxing! Jesus, you are thirty-five years old. Please tell me I don’t have to tell you how to be on vacation.”

“I know how to be on vacation,” I say gruffly. “In fact, I’m going fishing in an hour.” The thought of the man I’m fishing with reminds me of the strange reaction I had to him earlier. Must have been a side effect of the long drive and my new circumstances—temporary attraction to a man when I’ve never been drawn to one that way before.

“That’s what I like to hear,” she says. “Look, I have to get to a meeting, but I’m glad you called. Enjoy fishing. Enjoy everything. And when you’re ready, do some thinking about what you want. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agree, because her positivity is infectious, and I don’t know how they’re billing me for this call—by the minute? How did it used to work?

“Enjoy!” she says one more time before the line goes dead.

I hang up slowly, plug in my cell phone to recharge out of habit, and go to change into something appropriate for fishing with Blaze. And I don’t think about his crooked front tooth or water streaming off his biceps for a single second.

Chapter 4

Blaze

I shower off the lake in the boathouse’s small bathroom and redress in my nylon trek pants, light hiking boots, T-shirt, and a gray-and-blue flannel that Brooke gave me for my birthday in February. I find my favorite fishing pole, grab another one that should work for Shawn’s height. He’s a little taller than me but probably weighs thirty pounds less. I don’t know how experienced he is, but I go with my gut when selecting tackle.

Fishing wasn’t on the top ten list of what I thought Shawn Camden would be interested in. So far, he hasn’t been what I expected at all.

He’s more attractive in person, for one. I’ve seen him play on TV, and he was always in those dumb mirrored sunglasses and the Laurels’ tan and green uniform. But in regular jeans and a polo shirt, he looks more like a preppy banker on vacation than a shortstop.

I jog over to the lodge and let myself in the kitchen door. Nolan’s assistant, May, is chopping vegetables at the big silver prep table, but the touchy chef is nowhere to be seen. Perfect. I sneak into the cooler and find what I need in less than fifteen seconds.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Nolan’s deep voice startles me as I close the big silver door with a click.

“Holy shit, where did you come from?” I ask, blood jumping.

He doesn’t answer, just looks at what I have in my hand. “Cheddar?”

“I only need a little for bait,” I say, handing it over without question when he gestures to the hunk of cheese.

“You going to catch me something to fry up?” Nolan asks, part snarky, part hopeful, as he takes a knife from an array of them magnetically attached to a stainless-steel rack on the wall and efficiently cuts a modest wedge.

“Maybe. We might catch and release. If we catch anything at all.”

“We?”

“The new guest, Shawn Camden.”

“Just got off the phone with him. So far, he doesn’t seem like much of a challenge.” Nolan sounds disappointed. “He ordered a mushroom omelet for breakfast. I can make that in my sleep.” The chef makes a dismissive wave with one of his kitchen-scarred hands.

“I don’t know about that,” I mutter. There’s something about the guy that’s different from our usual, but I’m not sure what it is. The very notion of a usual guest is silly—we get all kinds of ages and backgrounds at the retreat, from families to single people. They come for a week, two weeks, and once in a while an entire month. They unplug, remember what it’s like to live away from the daily grind, and go back to where they came from with a new lease on life.

That’s the idea, anyway.

I wonder what’s got Shawn wound so tight he decided to unwind here.

Nolan hands me the cheese wrapped in a piece of parchment paper.

“Thanks for the bait.”

“That’s local organic cheddar worth its weight in gold. Bring me something good in payment,” he calls after me as I duck out the back door.

I swipe the tackle box and a cooler from the boathouse, whistle for Misty to get up from where she’s been napping under my desk. With her trotting at my side, we make our way to the dock. The late September sun hangs low over the lake, and the waxing moon’s already out. There’s no wind; the lake surface is glassy smooth.

Shawn’s punctual, walking up to the dock by the time I get the poles set up with lines and hooks. He’s changed into khaki shorts and sandals but left the polo shirt on. He’s dressed more appropriately for a Bahama beach resort than a fall evening on a Maine lake. It’ll get chilly as soon as the sun disappears behind the trees. He’s wearing a baseball cap, a plain light green one that makes me notice his eyes are green, too.