Page 12 of Fishing for Keeps

"Right there," Trent says softly. "Off the point. Gus's spot."

I load the rod. Snap the wrist. Let it fly.

The Penny sails out in a clean arc and drops beside the sunken log, easy as breathing, and I let it flutter down and start my retrieve, and the whole lake holds its breath.

Three cranks in, something hits it hard.

The rod bows double. Line sings off the reel. Trent shoots to his feet yelling "FISH! FISH! BIG FISH!" loud enough to be heard at the weigh station, and then his hands hover at my shoulders—not taking the rod, never taking the rod, just steady behind me while the fight goes on and on.

"Tip up. Let him run. You've got him, Josie, you've got him—"

"Net!" I scream.

"Netting!"

The bass comes up out of the water green and gold and furious, and Trent scoops him into the net, and then we're both on our knees in the bottom of the Lucky Penny, staring at the biggest fish I've ever seen in my life, whooping loud enough to scare the loons. Trent grabs my face and kisses me, and the boat rocks, and he pulls back with tears flat-out running down his face.

"Rule one of fishing," he says, wrecked and laughing.

"It starts before you want to be awake?"

"No. That's the fake rule one. Real rule one." He looks at the fish, then at me. "You never keep a moment this good to yourself. Come on. Let's go show your grandpa's town."

At the scale, Aileen weighs him official: eight pounds, one ounce. The crowd loses its mind. Liam takes off his hat and, to his credit, eats a small ceremonial bite of the brim while Tommy Brandt films it. And when Jared hands me the Golden Gill and asks over the bullhorn if I've got anything to say, I look out at all of them—Dani and Mikki and the crew and the whole loud, nosy, wonderful town that knew my grandfather's name—and the words are just there.

"This is for Gus Barlow," I say, "who entered this derby every year and put my name next to his. It took me too long to come back. But I've got some news, and since it's Mercury Ridge, you'd all find out by breakfast anyway."

Beside me, Trent goes very, very still.

"I called my realtor this morning." I find Trent's eyes and hold them. "The cottage is off the market. I'm staying."

The town roars. Rayna bursts into tears. Ace yells "I HAD SATURDAY IN THE POOL!" and money changes hands all along the dock, which we will be discussing later.

Trent doesn't cheer. He crosses the stage in two steps and lifts me clean off my feet, trophy and all.

"Say it again," he says against my ear.

"I'm staying. I love you, Trent. I'm home."

"I love you, Josie-girl." He sets me down and rests his forehead on mine, and behind us the bullhorn crackles and the crowd whistles and the lake throws gold light over everything. "For the record, I was gonna love you either way. But I'm real glad I don't have to learn to like the city."

"You'd have hated it. No lake."

"No lake," he agrees, shuddering. "Nightmare."

I kiss him, right there on the stage, holding the ugliest trophy in North Carolina, in front of everyone—while somewhere, I swear, an old man with a tackle box laughs and laughs.

Epilogue

Josie

ONE YEAR LATER

There is a bite in the air this morning, the first cool breath of fall, and Lake Mercury is flat as glass while Trent noses the Lucky Penny out of Half-Moon Cove in the gray light before the derby.

Our derby. The one we're defending, thank you very much.

The Golden Gill has spent the year on the cottage mantel, next to a framed photo of Grandpa holding up a bass and grinning his terrible-joke grin. My drafting desk sits under the front window with the lake view, because it turns out clients don't care where you live, and it also turns out a town this size can keep one graphic designer very busy. The fishing camp logo came out great. So did the new Mercury Slice menus. Dani's rebrand is next; she has opinions.