Holding Lies by John Larison Read Free Book Online Page B

was mapped out in the back of his fishing journal. They’d start rustic and simple, salmon with sweet potato au gratin and a chilled salad of spring greens and blue cheese and filberts and huckleberry vinaigrette. A shiraz seemed the right choice, or a zinfandel, he hadn’t yet decided. When she raved about the complexity of flavors, the crisp freshness of it all, he’d tell her every ingredient had been grown right here in the Ipsyniho Valley. There would be elk tenderloin the next night, bear burgers the night after. Malbecs, pinots, a bottle of tawny port. He’d show her there was more to this place than clear water and big mountains.
    He called his sport to confirm, then ordered the man’s lunch, and finally packed his own cooler. He kept it pretty bare out there on the river, so as not to be distracted by the flavors: string cheese, almonds, an apple, a bag of jerky, and a beer for the ride home.
    And coffee, of course, which was as important as his fly box. He measured a thermos-plus-a-cup’s worth of water into a pan and put a lid on it. Then he measured six tablespoons of his own homemade roast into the French press and cleaned his travel mug. In the morning, he’d turn on the burner first thing and would be drinking steaming brew ten minutes later on the drive to the ramp. Nothing perked up a predawn morning like a cup of mud.
    One benefit of Annie not coming would be that he wouldn’t miss any mornings on the river. If she came, they’d stay up late and sleep in, and he’d miss all those dawns, the orange and pink pastels on the glassy tailouts, the secret promise of the day to come, the sipping rise of the unharried steelhead. Dawn offered its own rewards, and the year was too short as it was.
    She’d call him tomorrow and cancel, and he’d be glad for it.

Chapter Five
    H E’D MET ANNIE’S mother, Rosemary, in ’77, on Bakke Island, a slab of forested land on the middle reach of the river. He’d just dropped his client at the ramp above, finishing his half day of work, and was pushing down to the island and a run called Barrier just below, a place that shifted to the shade just after 2:00 p.m., the first run on the whole river to find reprieve from the afternoon shine. Rosemary had pulled her kayak into the cove on the island’s bottom end, where she was sprawled out in the sand, nude.
    She was more than a bit surprised to see a boat, as was he to see a pair of breasts. She held her shirt to her chest and crossed her sandy legs, and called, “Guess there’s no place private on this river anymore.” He recognized the face—he’d seen her around town and on the river a time or two—but those were her first words to him.
    â€œGuess not,” he called back. “Sorry.”
    The problem, though she didn’t know it, was that he needed to anchor here, on that beach where she was now waiting for him to leave. If he pushed on, he’d be drifting over Barrier and would be forced through the rapid below, rendering him unable to wade back up to give the water a proper fish. He pondered his options. Quickly determined he didn’t have any.
    â€œI hate to be a bother, but this is where I need to be.”
    â€œHere?”
    â€œI hate to be a bother.”
    â€œThen push on.”
    â€œSorry, I don’t have a choice.” He pointed to Barrier, explained the situation.
    â€œFishing is always a choice,” she said.
    He turned his head to give her privacy, considered what she’d just said, realized they had fundamental disagreements. He muttered, “You can sun yourself anywhere.”
    But this is where she wanted to be, and she wasn’t moving. If she wouldn’t bend, neither would he. He anchored, grabbed his rod, and leapt over the gunwale. “We can share the place then. I’ll be down there for an hour or more. I’ll holler when I’m on my way back up.”
    She just