First Light by William G. Tapply, Philip R. Craig Page B

your leader, bluefish of all sizes will bite you off.
    I sat down on the dry sand, laid my rod across my lap, and lit a cigarette.
    My hands, I noticed, were trembling. Hell, that was a
big
damn bluefish. I’d caught enough blues on the fly rod to know the difference, and I’d been attached to this one long enough to feel its weight. That was my Derby winner, right there, in the first hour of trying.
    I figured I’d blown my one chance by neglecting to add some wire to my leader, and I could fish my ass off for the rest of the week without hooking another fish that big. The Fishing Gods rarely gave you a second chance.
    I was glad that my bet with Billy required me only to go fishing, and not to actually catch anything.
    I was aware that the sun had set and darkness had settled over the beach. The breeze had died down, and some fog had begun to gather. The fishermen off to my right were faint, fuzzy shadows, and across the Gut from where I sat, the island was a dark, shadowy mound.
    After a while I stood up and trudged back to Zee’s Jeep. In my haste to get fishing, I’d forgotten to stick my box of extra flies and my flashlight into my pockets.
    When I got there, Zee was sitting on the front fender. Two smallish bluefish lay on the sand next to her.
    I sat beside her and pointed my chin at her fish. “Good going,” I said.
    â€œThey won’t win any prizes,” she said. “But they’re perfect eating size. What’d you do?”
    I showed her the frayed end of my leader. “Blue, huh?”
    I nodded. “Guess so. Felt like a good one.”
    She smiled and shrugged, and I was grateful that she didn’t give me a lecture about using wire when there were bluefish in the water. “Hungry?” she said.
    I realized I hadn’t eaten since early afternoon. “Starved, actually.”
    Zee got out the cooler J.W. had loaded for us, and we sat there on the front bumper of her Jeep eating sandwiches and watching the ghostly fishermen cast into the misty black water. J.W. had made a salad of smoked bluefish, with mayonnaise and horseradish and chopped onions. Spread on thick slices of homemade bread, it tasted like tuna, except better.
    â€œSo how’s Alex?” said Zee after a few minutes. “We split,” I said.
    She nodded. “I’m sorry. I liked Alex.”
    â€œMe, too.” I’d brought my then–lady friend Alexandria Shaw down for a weekend with Zee and J.W. the previous summer. Alex and Zee had hit it off.
    â€œSo,” she said, glancing sideways at me. “You, um, dating anybody?”
    â€œDating?” I laughed. “At my age, I don’t date. Haven’t for a long time. There is a woman …”
    Zee looked at me, shrugged, and said, “Oh.”
    â€œHer name is Evie Banyon,” I said. “She’s the assistant administrator at Emerson Hospital.”
    â€œIs it serious?”
    â€œSerious?” I looked out over the dark sea. “I don’tknow where it’s headed. I’m here and she’s there, if that tells you anything. Why?”
    Zee was quiet for a few minutes. Then she said, “Well, I have a friend.”
    I laughed softly.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said.
    â€œNo, no,” I said. “Tell me about your friend.”
    â€œShe’s been through some tough times. Came down here to get away, start over. She’ll be heading back to America in a few weeks.”
    â€œWhere in America?”
    â€œThe South Shore somewhere. She’s bright and very pretty. Your age, I’d say. Maybe a few years younger. J.W. disapproves of me playing matchmaker. I think he’s worried that it would spoil our friendship. Yours and ours, I mean.”
    â€œWhy would it spoil our friendship?”
    â€œI don’t think it would, or I wouldn’t’ve mentioned it.”
    â€œI don’t see how it would, either,” I said.
    Zee and I fished in