After supper, Jack cleared the table and took the scraps outside to feed to the foxes and raccoons before drawing a bath. When he’d finished scrubbing the dirt from his body, he put on his pajama pants and opened the window to let in the cool breeze. The little house he and his mama called home was no mansion, and it didn’t have any modern conveniences like a telephone or air-conditioning, but it had gobs of windows. Most nights they left them open to let in fresh air and be sung to sleep by the crickets and bullfrogs.
He spent a few minutes talking to God, then wrote in the journal Fleta Pickle had given him for his birthday.
Dear Lewis,
You should have seen the big storm we had this afternoon. The way the wind was howlin’, you’d a thought the Rapture was coming. In all my days, I’ve never seen whitecaps like that. Luckily, I got me and George back in time without as much as a single raindrop hitting us. According to Mama, I nearly gave George a heart attack with that old engine-trouble stunt. Maybe she’s right, and I should take it easy on him from now on. After all, I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to George. Anyway, when the storm passed, I dropped a line and caught a couple of crappies from the dock on some minnows I snagged with the net this morning. Neither of them any size but a promising sign. Maybe tomorrow I’ll head up Flat Creek and see if I can’t catch me a catfish for supper. I haven’t had a good mess of fish in a while, and it’d sure beat having bologna again. Well, I gotta get some shuteye. Talk later.
Jack
CHAPTERTWO
Roomfor One More
A rooster’s crow woke Jack from a dream. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he rolled out of bed and found a pair of work jeans, slid one leg in, then the other, and added a T-shirt and ball cap before stepping out into the hall.
After a search of the fridge, he found some leftover bologna and a couple of biscuits, wrapped them in cellophane, and shoved them into a paper bag before venturing out into the dark.
As he topped the hill, to the east the first rays of golden sunlight spilled over the mountains. Below, where the land met the lake, thick fingers of mist stretched across the surface of the water, blotting out the far shore. “God, what a view.” It was the closest thing to heaven on earth.
By the time Jack made it to the dock, the tide had turned in the age-old fight between the fog and sun, and as rays of light bled through the thinning mist, he spotted George in his overalls and T-shirt.
“Gonna be another hot one.” George raked a hand across his dark brow. “You ready to get after it?”
“Yessir.” Jack stowed away his lunch, then went out to fuel the boat.
At the southeast corner of Douglas Lake, less than a mile from the dam, George and Jack ran a ferry service where tourists visiting the Smoky Mountains could stop and search the islands for arrowheads and other artifacts left behind by the Cherokee. They were an unlikely pair, George and Jack. George Duncan was a seventy-five-year-old Black man with a reputation for drinking too much. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and unblemished, 18-year-old Jack Bennett was the antithesis of George. But despite their many differences, the one thing they shared was their love for the water.
“What time are you expecting the first group?” Jack asked as he cleaned the boat.
“Nine o’clock sharp.” George finished sweeping the leaves from the dock. “And since I’m expectin’ two big groups, there won’t be no need for a third run.”
Knowing what that meant, Jack felt a flush rise in his cheeks.
“I figure we’d cut out around four, which will give me time to make a beer run and you to get in some fishin’ before dark. You can take the green boat if you want. I already gassed it up for ya.”
“Thanks, George. I’ll have to get some night crawlers from the corner store though. Forgot mine at home.”
“I picked some up this mornin’ on my way in along with a couple of sausage biscuits. You’re welcome to the biscuits and the worms so long as you bring back what you don’t use. The worms, not the biscuits.” He chuckled.
“I promise. By the way, I’ll be taking that paint if the offer’s still good. I talked to Mama last night over supper, and she agreed to let me paint the kitchen for her.”
“Fine with me. You need any help gettin’ it home?”
“Nah, I’ll manage.”
Once they had the place looking spick-and-span, Jack and George sat down to breakfast.
“I was thinking”—Jack chewed and talked simultaneously—“about opening a fishing service.”
“What happened to my mechanic idea?”
“I’m still mulling it over.”
“So a fishing service, huh? You mean like takin’ folks out and showin’ them all the best spots?”
“Not the best ones. I’d keep those for myself. I’m just talking about the decent ones, where they could catch their limit.”
George gave it some more thought. “Might work. Wait a minute. You’re not thinkin’ of strikin’ out on your own, are ya?”
