The only child of two self-absorbed workaholics knew when tostay far, far away. Even Granny couldn’t argue with that.
Sitting up, she wiped her eyes and peered across the river. Years ago, twenty-six to be exact, she’d flung flat rocks across the smooth surface, watched them bounce and zip along while her Gramps strung fishing line and hooked a worm before he cast out, wide and perfect into the water. Bass, bream, and catfish swam in those waters, she knew. Later it was she who’d cast the lines, Gramps in his work shed or at the shop downtown.
She remembered the exhilaration she’d felt when she got that unexpected tug of line—she’d caught one!—and wished now she had a pole with her. Sometimes she’d throw the fish back, and other times she’d bring a few home for dinner. Granny and Gramps had even taught her to clean and cook them, something she hadn’t done since she was a teenager. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. Come down here later, after dinner, and fish awhile. Back then, it had been a balm for her melodramatic teenaged heart and mind, the smooth feel of the fishing pole in her hands, the zing of line as it whipped gracefully over her head and into the water, the satisfying plop as it landed way out in the Wahca River. Maybe it would be the same kind of balm now.
She heard whistling behind her and whirled to see a man and young boy walking up the path, looking straight out of an episode fromThe Andy Griffith Show.Quickly she wiped her eyes and tightened her ponytail.
It was the boy whistling, and the man ruffled the kid’s sandy hair as they walked. The tune sounded majestic, and their steps were in sync with the song. A deep brown dog followed, tail wagging as it sniffed at tree roots and tufts of grass. They were still far off—the path from the main trailhead was a long, relatively straight one—but Rebecca felt there was something familiar about the pair.
“Dad, what do you think Pastor would say about that song? ‘All creatures of our God and king, lift up your voice with us and sing.’Does that mean people and animals sing? Like when Choco howls at the fire sirens?” The boy thumbed back at the dog and whistled the tune some more.
Rebecca gathered her keys at the same time the pair noticed her. “Nice day.”
“Don’t leave on account of us,” the man said with a smile. She noticed a pair of fishing poles slung over his shoulder.
As they got closer, she felt a glimmer of something—recognition?—and then her heart sank. Ugh, the letter-writer. Josh Jamison. Rebecca felt her smile tighten.
“It’s okay, I really have to get back to work. The water looks good today.”
“Work? On a Sunday?” The kid stared up at her, freckles dotting nearly every half-centimeter of his face.
“JJ, some people do have to work,” Josh said. He gave Rebecca a wary but friendly look. “Say hello, son. This is the editor of our local newspaper.”
“Did you say JJ?” Rebecca’s eyes widened, and she shook the boy’s hand. It couldn’t be.
“That’s his name, short for Josh Jamison Jr.” Josh peered at her closely, and she met his gaze.
Years fell away as they stared at each other. A sharp staccato began in her chest then, and suddenly she remembered fishing on these same banks with a freckle-faced, overweight, acne-riddled teenaged boy named JJ, who used to bring apples and Hostess cupcakes to share after they’d caught a bucketful of catfish to bring home. The staccato became an all-out thrum. This had to be the same JJ.
Josh broke into a grin as Rebecca saw the recognition suddenly match her own.
“Should be Triple J, but Dad says that’s a mouthful,” the boy said, oblivious to the looks his father and Rebecca exchanged.
The Josh Jamison of today looked nothing like that pimply, chubby kid. Absolutely nothing. I mean, this Josh was downright cute. Handsome, really. If she was being purely objective.
“I’m nine,” the kid prattled on, “definitely old enough to hook my own worm this summer.”
“Becks? It is you, right? I should have realized.” Josh’s smile was as open as his son’s, his shoulders doing that familiar half-shrug he’d done as a teen. The wary look was gone, as though it had never been. “You look so different. I mean completely different. All blonde and ladylike and professional-looking. No offense, but back then you were almost a tomboy—brown ponytail and baggy T-shirts and none of that makeup stuff. And of course, there’s the whole ‘Rebecca’ thing. If you didn’t have the whole ponytail hairdo deal going today, I might not have even made the connection. Well!” He took a breath, held out his hand for their old handshake. “Good to see you, Becks.”
She returned the handshake, smiled in spite of herself.
“Becks. I haven’t heard that in years. I can’t believe I didn’t realize it was you at the Rotary breakfast.” She looked at young JJ, his freckles gleaming boldly in the late morning sun. His boyish face open and kind. “Your son looks just like you.”
“Minus the craters and the flab. He takes after his mom in that area, thankfully.”
Rebecca laughed, tried to imagine what kind of woman he had married. Probably pretty, athletic, good-natured. Fun like him.
“You weren’t that bad.”
“Please.” Josh gave her a “what-you-talkin’-bout-Willis” smirk, and she laughed again.
Josh looked down at JJ, put his hand on the kid’s shoulder. “I used to fish this very same river with this lady here, back when I was a few years older than you are now, son.”
“Fish with us now!” JJ said, his smile all teeth and a gumball.
“I can’t. I really do need to get some work done today.” Rebecca winked. “Rain check?”
“My dad says that! Yeah, rain check. And I’ll hold you to it.” JJ winked back at her. “And maybe you can come to church with us next Sunday! Dad and I, we always fish the river or the pond behind our house after church. We even brought a picnic.” He patted his backpack.
