Page 9 of Off the Trail

“How’s it going?” I ask. “Finding everything okay?”

“Sure,” he says. “Wasn’t expecting the no internet thing. Takes some getting used to.”

“It’s a feature, not a bug.” We’ve definitely had folks come who couldn’t hack being off the grid and ended up spending their precious retreat time in town on their phones—those are the ones probably beyond saving.

But Shawn doesn’t dwell. He tells me he’s gone deep-sea fishing a few times in the last few years, but hasn’t freshwater fished since he was a kid.

“Same general idea,” I say, threading a piece of Nolan’s prized cheddar onto Shawn’s hook while he holds the rod steady in large, capable-looking hands. “But we’ll stay on the dock and see how we do this time. If you get ambitious, we can go out some morning in the rowboat.”

“Sounds good. You ever deep-sea fish?”

“Yeah, once off Bar Harbor. Caught a nice halibut. Where do you go?”

“Florida. My buddy Jett and my dad and I went out a couple of years ago, came home with some wahoo.”

It takes me a second to catch on that his buddy Jett must be Jett Montevideo, starting catcher for the Laurels, currently leading the division in RBIs. I’d forgotten for a second that Shawn was Shawn Camden. Not that it matters. In general, I find it’s better to pretend everyone who comes to the retreat is a nobody, especially when they’re famous. “You’re all set.”

Shawn walks to the edge of the dock and flicks the rod expertly, releasing the line in a smooth arc. I see but don’t hear the hook plop into the water a few dozen yards away.

“Nice,” I say. “We’ve got brook trout, rainbow smelt, and a few other things. You catch anything, you can always put it back, but Nolan wouldn’t be mad if we brought him something to cook for breakfast.”

“He’s the chef?”

“Yep.” I pick up the second rod, hesitate. I’d assumed he’d want me to hang around, but he seems to know what he’s doing. Maybe he wants to fish alone. “You want me to come back in a little while?”

Shawn glances back at me, light eyebrows scrunched up under his ball cap. “Why?”

“No reason.” It’s part of my job description to keep the guests company when they want it, but sometimes it’s awkward to figure out if they’d rather be alone. I jam some cheese onto my own hook and join Shawn at the end of the dock. “I guess if I fish, too, we’ll have better odds of making Nolan happy. And believe me, you want to keep him happy.”

Shawn smiles sidelong at me, and we settle into quiet, letting the sounds of the evening fill our ears. Besides the usual crickets and birds, I can hear the periodic croak of a frog somewhere down the rocky bank, and the lap of the water on the wooden dock posts. My mind wanders to the construction project going on across the lake, almost directly across from where we are. If I squint, I can make out some of the bright yellow construction equipment. They’ll be done for the day by now. I run through my mental contacts list to see if there’s anyone I can press into Luis’s crew.

I’m coming up empty, but Shawn starts reeling in his line.

“Got something?” I ask, watching him carefully manage the tautness. His biceps tighten against the fabric of his polo shirt as he controls the line. I shouldn’t notice quite as much as I do.

“Think so.” The end of his rod jumps. “Yeah, something’s on there all right.”

A few minutes, later he’s got a ten-inch brook trout in the cooler I brought in case of success.

“Nice work.”

“Thanks. This is a nice rod.” He grins at me, and I smile back. He’s really cute when he smiles. I duck my head because it feels like I’m blushing behind my beard. I rummage around needlessly in the tackle box to hide my face just in case.

“Guess I’ll try out where you were.” I rebait my hook and offer him the cheese so he can rebait his own. This time when he casts the line, I notice a slim, curved scar on the inside of his right elbow. It looks relatively fresh. As a baseball fan, I recognize the sign of Tommy John surgery. I don’t ask about it though, and we fish in companionable silence.

By the time the sun slips behind the trees and leaves us in semi-darkness, I’ve gotten an eight-inch trout and Shawn’s picked up two small rainbow smelt.

“I think we did good,” I say as we clean up. “Not bad for your first attempt.”

He smiles at me again, and I stumble leaving the dock for the sand. I’ve never been tempted to hit on a guest before, but that smile is something else.

“Thanks. That was fun. Totally got me out of my head.”

“Good to hear.” We walk back to the boathouse together. He’s got the rods, and I’ve got the tackle box and cooler.

Shawn’s bouncing on the soles of his feet. “Hey, what else do you recommend I do while I’m here? I totally thought my agent was crazy when she told me—well, when I got here and realized how out of the way it is—but I might as well take advantage of it, right?”

“Right.” I file away the notion that coming here wasn’t his idea and think. “Kayaking is always fun. There’s good hiking nearby with some awesome views. I can recommend a few trails. I think it might rain tomorrow, though. When it rains, I usually set up some activities in the ballroom.”