“You’re right,” I conceded with a smile.
He and Duncan headed out the door. As Duncan strode ahead, Nathan paused to wait for me. He reached out and tugged my hand to hurry me along. And rather than let it go once we’d caught up, he twisted his fingers through mine and hung on.
I tried not to hold too tight. Then not too loose. Then chided myself for thinking about it at all. I then tried to enjoy the feel of my hand in his and the morning. All I really felt was confusion.
The sun refracted through the clouds. “Crepuscular rays—sunbeams.” I gestured to the sky with my free hand.
Nathan smiled at me.
We walked on and I watched the sun and clouds dance above us. I felt myself relax. Everything was right with the world when sunbeams were present. My dad always called them “angel lights,” and I’d believed him, until advanced physics proved they were merely parallel shafts of light passing through cloud and shadow. They only appeared to converge as if from some heavenly source. Regardless of the source or the explanation, they made the stream, the bank, the tops of the trees, everything, glow.
At the clearing, Nathan dropped his coat on the bench and met Duncan streamside. I hesitated, but Duncan waved me over too and held out a moss-green-colored rod.
“This one is for you. It’s a five weight. Perfect for these trout.” He then released the small fly attached to one of the rod’s eyelets. “I rigged this with my Booby Hopper-Red. It’s my own adaptation of the Red Squirrel Nymph, which is what you want right now. Mine sit high to give you more time on your cast.”
I accepted the rod, holding it like a sword, as he spoke to Nathan. Nathan reached over and pressed down on the rod before I poked Duncan in the temple.
Duncan hadn’t noticed. He was already focused on Nathan’s rig.
“You . . . you’ve fished a lot . . . You’ve got my Hare Ear Dry Fly. It’s a little twist on the more common Yellow Stone Dry. I named it for this patch of fur I added right here. Seems to work really well . . . And if you fish tomorrow, we’ll get out a couple I’m tying right now.”
“Right after breakfast?” Nathan prodded.
“Before.”
Nathan laughed. “You’re my kind of angler.”
Duncan grinned. He looked back to me, then to Nathan again. “Right. You don’t need me now. Come get me if you have any troubles.”
He surveyed our supplies, then took off at almost a run. His brown hair stuck straight up and wagged in the breeze like cilia moving in water. For some odd reason, he reminded me of a young version of my dad, a young Albert Einstein.
Isabel was right; my dad was relational. So was Duncan. I turned back to Nathan. “You made his day.”
Nathan looked up; surprise followed by delight moved through his eyes. “He made mine. He’s a good kid.”
“You know he’s probably only ten years younger than you at most.”
Nathan twisted to follow Duncan’s retreating form. “His enthusiasm made him seem younger. Was I patronizing?”
“You’re never patronizing. You’re one of the most considerate men I’ve ever known.”
Nathan stared at me.
I gave my attention to the bank beneath me. Rather than slope into the water, it cut a jagged descent to a foot below us. The water ran fast in the center of the stream, making little white bubbles and ripples as it passed over submerged rocks. Near the shore it moved more slowly, creating whorls and eddies in the current. Closest to the shore, right beneath me, the water sat like glass.
“That’s where you want to cast first.” He moved closer. “Right at the shoreline. It even digs in a little beneath you. Fish love to hide in those crannies. They get the bugs that drop from the land into the water, and if you start there you can work your way out without losing the chance for them. If you start out and come in, you’ll spook any fish hiding close long before your fly gets to them.”
I let the fly drop.
“Do you know what to do?”
I shook my head. “I used to fish with my mom, years ago, but only spinner rods for catfish or bass in a little lake near our house.”
“This isn’t too different. Watch.” He pulled a bunch of line out of his reel and let it puddle at his feet. He then stepped back and bent his arm. His rod pointed straight up. “Pretend there’s a clock resting on your shoulder, facing you. Up to midnight. Pause. Smooth to ten o’clock. Pause again to send the line out. Then drop the tip down to nine or eight.” The fly shot twenty feet into the stream, taking all the line at his feet with it.
“Do it again. It’s like you’re cutting the wind with nothing at all.” The fluidity of the motion was mesmerizing. He did it again, and again, and the line shot straight despite the breeze, at least thirty feet this time, to the far side of the stream. “Did you mean to do that?”
“Of course. I’m trying to impress you.” He smiled. “That was one of my better casts. The next will probably be a disaster.” He cast again. “It’s all in the plane of your cast. That controls the loop of your line. You want to keep it straight. No loop is best.”
He pulled the line in and let it lie at his feet, then cast once more.
“Amazing. The physics of it, the lines and angles . . . Once more.”
He cast again, and with the most wonderful grin. “Now you try.”
I did. It was a jerky motion that sent the fly two feet and plopped it in the water right along the shore.
“It’s a good start.”
“Liar.” I pulled in the line as he had—and it caught on the hem of my dress.
“You’re right.” Nathan laughed, then swung his head in an exaggerated motion as if that was the only way to become serious once more. “Try again. Think of it like flicking paint off a paintbrush. Pretend you’re Jackson Pollock.”
“Well then . . .” I did exactly what he said and fared no better. But it didn’t matter.
Nathan knelt and untangled the line from around my feet.
“I’m clearly not an artist.”
“It takes time.” He cast again.
After a few minutes, I reeled in my line and watched him.
He spared me only a glance. “My grandfather used to say that everything in the world could be solved at the cadence of a cast. Think about things, don’t rush them, get a feel for them, live organically. Live life like you cast.” He bent his arm again, and with fluid slow motion he shot the line straight across the pond into the slow-moving water near the far bank.
“All the stuff you’ve been trying to get me to do this past year?”
His brows met above his nose. I was tempted to press my finger there as he had done to me.
“I guess I have. I find work goes better when you ask for help and bring people into the process. And you do, don’t get me wrong. I’ve never seen anyone more giving. But something hiccupped with Golightly.” He returned to casting. “Please don’t think I’m advocating the same approach Karen is taking.”