smart ass, like he had a tendency to be sometimes.
"See? Just thinking of you." Showing him she could be just as smart-assish.
So now they were at the thirteenth fairway of the Osprey
Country Club, having parked along the road in this exclusive development with its piling houses shut tight among the trees, big air conditioners whirring; no one outside. Like a well-kept ghost town because of the heat and the mosquitoes.
Ford took the fly rod from the bed of his Chevy pickup, fitted it together and threaded line through the guides while she got her clubs out. "Hey," she said, "I just saw one roll. There's another, right there."
She had a good eye for fish—he'd told her that more than once, and she took real pleasure in proving him correct.
Ford followed her gaze to the water hazard, a small pond linked to a series of other small ponds and then a cement weir that, when flooded, led to the bay. An expanding circle in the water marked the spot where a small tarpon had just surfaced—one of many that had been trapped in these ponds over the years. Ford said, "No golfers, either. Lightning spooked them."
"Or these goddamn bugs. JEE-zus, why are the no-see-ums so bad right after a rain? You want some Skin So Soft?" She was rubbing the oil on her face and wrists, looking good in worn jeans and a white blouse, her blond hair long. The gnats drifted around her head, luminous as dust particles in the harsh sunset light.
"I'd rather have the bugs. Mineral oil works just as good, you know. Like flypaper on your skin; same concept."
"You already told me, but this smells better. Christ, they can bite."
"You don't actually feel the bite. No-see-ums—sand flics, really—they deposit a microscopic speck of acid. It dissolves the flesh. That's what you feel. Are you going to hit from the tee?"
"Nope. Working on the irons today." As she walked past him, clubs making a marching sound in her pro-size bag, she reached up and gave Ford's neck an affectionate squeeze, brushing him with her hip, thinking. Doc's so damn dull sometimes. I believe you'd have to book an appointment. Tell him exactly what you wanted, and when....
He walked along the edge of the pond until he saw another tarpon carousel at the surface. He tied on a tiny silver and white streamer fly, then began to strip line off his reel, letting it fall in a pile at his feet in the fairway grass. He shook the rod. goading the first thirty feet of line through the guides, and then began to false cast. Because the front seetion of line was slightly thicker and heavier, the rod fulcrumed the line easily, fore cast and back cast; a nine-weight Loomis graphite rod with a cork grip that moved as rhythmically in his big hand as a conductor's baton.
Checking over his shoulder on his back cast—he didn't want to hook Dewey—he could see that she had thrown golf balls at random around the fairway and had selected three irons, two of which lay on the ground behind her. She was studying her first shot, lining it up, as she pulled on the Easton batting glove she wore for golf, and Ford noticed again that her right wrist and forearm were huge from so much tennis. Much bigger than her left. And he could see the tiny white welt where she had had recent elbow surgery.
Another fish surfaced, twisting as it dove, and Ford shot line toward it, trying to get the fly in front of the fish and a little beyond. Behind him, he heard Dewey's club cutting the still air and then the green-twig crack of metal against golf ball, then silence, then the distant skip and splash of the ball landing in water.
"Shit!"
Looking at the spot where the ball had hit, Dewey thought. Why is it my first few golf shots suck and it's just the opposite in tennis?
It made no sense to her—because she enjoyed golf so much more. Not that she had played that much of it, hell no. With her parents, it had always been tennis, tennis, tennis. There was a color photograph her mother had kept on the mantelpiece for years: of
"See? Just thinking of you." Showing him she could be just as smart-assish.
So now they were at the thirteenth fairway of the Osprey
Country Club, having parked along the road in this exclusive development with its piling houses shut tight among the trees, big air conditioners whirring; no one outside. Like a well-kept ghost town because of the heat and the mosquitoes.
Ford took the fly rod from the bed of his Chevy pickup, fitted it together and threaded line through the guides while she got her clubs out. "Hey," she said, "I just saw one roll. There's another, right there."
She had a good eye for fish—he'd told her that more than once, and she took real pleasure in proving him correct.
Ford followed her gaze to the water hazard, a small pond linked to a series of other small ponds and then a cement weir that, when flooded, led to the bay. An expanding circle in the water marked the spot where a small tarpon had just surfaced—one of many that had been trapped in these ponds over the years. Ford said, "No golfers, either. Lightning spooked them."
"Or these goddamn bugs. JEE-zus, why are the no-see-ums so bad right after a rain? You want some Skin So Soft?" She was rubbing the oil on her face and wrists, looking good in worn jeans and a white blouse, her blond hair long. The gnats drifted around her head, luminous as dust particles in the harsh sunset light.
"I'd rather have the bugs. Mineral oil works just as good, you know. Like flypaper on your skin; same concept."
"You already told me, but this smells better. Christ, they can bite."
"You don't actually feel the bite. No-see-ums—sand flics, really—they deposit a microscopic speck of acid. It dissolves the flesh. That's what you feel. Are you going to hit from the tee?"
"Nope. Working on the irons today." As she walked past him, clubs making a marching sound in her pro-size bag, she reached up and gave Ford's neck an affectionate squeeze, brushing him with her hip, thinking. Doc's so damn dull sometimes. I believe you'd have to book an appointment. Tell him exactly what you wanted, and when....
He walked along the edge of the pond until he saw another tarpon carousel at the surface. He tied on a tiny silver and white streamer fly, then began to strip line off his reel, letting it fall in a pile at his feet in the fairway grass. He shook the rod. goading the first thirty feet of line through the guides, and then began to false cast. Because the front seetion of line was slightly thicker and heavier, the rod fulcrumed the line easily, fore cast and back cast; a nine-weight Loomis graphite rod with a cork grip that moved as rhythmically in his big hand as a conductor's baton.
Checking over his shoulder on his back cast—he didn't want to hook Dewey—he could see that she had thrown golf balls at random around the fairway and had selected three irons, two of which lay on the ground behind her. She was studying her first shot, lining it up, as she pulled on the Easton batting glove she wore for golf, and Ford noticed again that her right wrist and forearm were huge from so much tennis. Much bigger than her left. And he could see the tiny white welt where she had had recent elbow surgery.
Another fish surfaced, twisting as it dove, and Ford shot line toward it, trying to get the fly in front of the fish and a little beyond. Behind him, he heard Dewey's club cutting the still air and then the green-twig crack of metal against golf ball, then silence, then the distant skip and splash of the ball landing in water.
"Shit!"
Looking at the spot where the ball had hit, Dewey thought. Why is it my first few golf shots suck and it's just the opposite in tennis?
It made no sense to her—because she enjoyed golf so much more. Not that she had played that much of it, hell no. With her parents, it had always been tennis, tennis, tennis. There was a color photograph her mother had kept on the mantelpiece for years: of
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