More Than Words Can Say (12 page)

When they were about one hundred yards offshore, Brooke cut back on the throttle, then she turned and looked at Greg. He seemed so comfortable and happy, sitting there beside her in the front cockpit.

“So, what do you think?” she asked him. “Are we far enough out?”

Before answering, Greg lit a cigarette and looked around. “I’d say it’s about right,” he answered. “Did you plan on trolling or jigging?”

Brooke looked at the sky. It was still clear, with little chance of rain. The sun would be down soon, and the chances of catching something would improve.

“Trolling, I’d say,” she answered. “Seems the right sort of night for it.”

“I agree,” Greg answered as he left his seat and went astern.

Back there on the floor lay all their fishing things: two rods and reels, a tackle box, a net, a worm box, and a wet burlap bag that Greg had brought along. Brooke didn’t understand the need for the bag, but she had yet to ask about it.

While Greg began preparing the rods and reels, she asked, “So what’s the wet bag for, anyway? That’s a new one on me. Even my father never brought one of those along. And when it comes to fishing, he knows just about everything.”

“The answer’s simple,” Greg said. “The easiest way to keep fish fresh out here is inside a wet burlap bag. If you rewet the bag with lake water from time to time, you can keep ’em fresh damned near all day.”

“Really?” Brooke asked. “I’ve got to admit, that’s one I didn’t know.”

Greg smiled as he took another drag on his Chesterfield. “Well,” he said, “it certainly helps my ego to know that there’s
something
about fishing I could teach you.”

Brooke laughed. “There are many such things, I’m sure,” she said.

Greg looked at her and snorted. “I’m not,” he said laughingly.

While Greg opened the tackle box, Brooke set the boat on a course that ran parallel with the shoreline. After cutting the throttle back to trolling speed, she watched as Greg baited one line with a worm harness, a pair of lead weights, and two live worms. He then secured an artificial lure called a Canadian Wiggler onto the other rod’s line. Brooke approved of his strategy.

“You’re doubling our chances, right?” she asked.

Greg smiled. “Yep,” he answered. “Once we know what they’re biting on, we’ll make both baits the same.” He then handed the worm-baited rod to Brooke. “
Bonne chance,
” he said.

Brooke smiled back at him. “I didn’t know that you speak French,” she said.

Greg winked at her. “Just enough to get by,” he answered. “It comes in handy when trying to procure such things as sugar and coffee beans for the pretty neighbor lady.”

Understanding his meaning, Brooke laughed a little. Then, as the boat meandered along, she cast her line into the water and let it out slowly, allowing the lead weights to submerge the bait. After letting out enough line, she settled back onto her seat to wait.

Greg also cast his line. As the boat puttered along, the two of them looked at one another and smiled knowingly.

There was something quite marvelous about fishing, Brooke had always thought, something that she couldn’t put her finger on. Perhaps it was because there was so much solitude out here on the water. Or maybe it had to do with so greatly enjoying times like this with her father, as he had taught her. Whatever the reason, she had never really cared that much whether she caught any fish. Bringing in a catch was better than coming home empty-handed, of course. But to her way of thinking, just being out here was always reward enough.

Although Greg and Brooke still did not know that much about each other, they conversed little as the time passed, the boat slowly plied the waves, and the sun settled ever lower in the sky. That’s just how it was with fishing, Brooke knew. And Greg seemed to understand that, too. There was no need to be chatty or gregarious, for being out here wasn’t about those things. Moreover, it seemed to Brooke that they were becoming more comfortable in each other’s company. And whenever that was the case between two people, talking wasn’t always needed.

Just then Greg got a hit on his line and he immediately jerked his rod tip skyward, trying to set the hook. As his rod bowed down again, he smiled.

“Got one!” he shouted. “Come and grab the net!”

After quickly reeling in her line, Brooke set down her pole and rushed astern. Net in hand, she watched Greg as he carefully reeled in the fish.

His technique was very good, Brooke realized. Time after time he patiently lowered the rod tip while taking in more line, only to carefully lift it again and begin the process anew. Soon a very nice walleye appeared alongside the boat, its slick body reflecting multicolored hues just below the surface of the water.

“Okay, now,” Greg said. “Get ready, ’cause here he comes!”

Just as the fish broke the surface, Brooke smoothly netted it. With the fish still wildly flapping about in the net, she quickly set the net on the floor of the boat.

“Well done!” Greg said. “Now let’s get this hook out of him.”

Greg removed the flapping fish from the net, then used a pair of pliers to free the hook. He held the fish up and smiled.

“A good one!” he said. “About three pounds. Do we need another?”

Brooke smiled back. “Well,” she answered, “it’s still early. And besides, we can’t go home with you one-upping me this way! So let’s stay out a bit longer, okay?”

“Okay,” Greg answered as he thrust the walleye into the wet burlap bag. He then replaced Brooke’s worm harness with a Canadian Wiggler, and they eagerly returned to their fishing.

A
N HOUR AND
a half later, Brooke was happily whistling along to some Tommy Dorsey playing on her radio, while at the same time she expertly filleted the two good-sized walleyes she and Greg had caught. As she did, she smiled and shook her head a little. Greg had been right about that burlap bag. It had kept the two fish nice and fresh, all the way home. Greg had gone back to his cabin to wash up and to retrieve a bottle of white wine that he said he had been saving for a special occasion. Because it had been so long since he had tasted fresh walleye, he said, tonight’s dinner would surely be special enough to warrant opening the wine.

After finishing the task of filleting, Brooke paused and thought for a moment. She wanted to make this dinner special, somehow. It had been some time since she had cooked a full meal for anyone other than herself, and she wanted everything to be just right. She was hoping to do something novel with the fish fillets, but she wondered how.

After rifling through her cupboards and pulling out a few varied ingredients, she believed that she had concocted an answer. She wouldn’t fry them, she decided. And so she started improvising, which always made her the happiest whenever she cooked.

While preheating the oven, she combined some melted butter, crushed Ritz crackers, grated cheese, and small portions of basil, oregano, and garlic powder in a mixing bowl. She then dipped the fillets in some of the leftover butter, covered each piece with the crumb mixture, and put them into the oven to bake.

Just as she was setting the table, Greg returned with the wine. He had changed into a white shirt with navy slacks, causing Brooke to remark how nice he looked. After thanking her, he opened the bottle and poured two glasses of the already chilled wine. Smiling broadly, he gently clinked his wine goblet against hers.

“To the fruits of the sea,” he said.

Before taking her first sip, Brooke smiled back at him. “I couldn’t agree more,” she answered. Then she laughed a little and added, “And to think that for once, Gregory Butler is eating a dinner that wasn’t entirely supplied by surreptitious means!”

Greg laughed a bit in return. “Actually, that isn’t altogether true.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well,” he answered, “there is the matter of this rather good Chardonnay . . .”

Brooke nodded knowingly. “Let me guess,” she said. “You know a guy.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Several, actually . . .”

Brooke smiled back. “I’ll bet,” she answered.

Just then Greg narrowed his eyes a bit, and he glanced around Brooke’s little kitchen.

“What’s that wonderful smell?” he asked. “I’ve noticed that you’re not frying the fish, so you must be baking it, right?”

Brooke nodded. “It’s a new recipe I just invented. I hope that it’ll be good! Sometimes my culinary contrivances are very tasty, and sometimes they’re not.” She then handed her personal recipe book to Greg. “I’ve also taken to writing them down in that,” she added. “Who knows—maybe someday one of my descendants will find it useful!”

Remembering the Churchill’s Cherry and Cream Cheese Pie she had given him, Greg laughed as he scanned her handwritten recipes. “So what are you going to call this newest dish?” he asked.

Brooke thought for a few moments before taking another sip of the very good wine.

“Well,” she answered, “I don’t want to be redundant, but how about Winston’s Baked Walleye? Sounds about right, doesn’t it? Provided it passes muster, of course.”

Greg laughed and lit a cigarette. “Yes,” he answered enthusiastically. “I think that it does.”

“Good,” Brooke said. She then picked up a wooden mixing spoon and brandished it threateningly, as if it were some sort of weapon. “Now that that’s settled, you go and drink and smoke yourself to death out on my porch,” she ordered him. “I don’t much like men messing up my kitchen when I’m cooking, and I’m not done yet.”

Greg laughed a little. “Okay, okay, I’m going. Just let me know when things are ready, and I’ll rejoin you.”

While Greg waited on the porch, Brooke sliced up a couple of fresh lemons. She also prepared a green salad with olive oil, Parmesan, and balsamic, and then she began preparing some risotto, over which she would also sprinkle the remaining Parmesan.

As she worked, Greg sat contentedly in one of the rocking chairs on the porch and looked out over the waves. It had been a long time since a woman had cooked for him, and having one do so now was certainly a treat. After sipping some more wine and taking another luxurious drag on his cigarette, he shook his head slightly.

God, she’s wonderful,
he thought
. Her husband Bill’s a lucky man. She’s not only beautiful and intelligent, she’s also a damned good cook. All of which make me wish that I’d met her first. . .

When he heard the telltale tinkling of glass, silverware, and plates, he realized that she had begun setting the table. He smiled, knowing better than to ask whether he could help her. For he now understood just how much that little kitchen and everything about it was her own special domain, and he liked that about her. He had also very much enjoyed fishing with her, and he had to admit that he had never known a woman who fished so well or who liked doing it so much. In many ways she seemed ideally suited to Lake Evergreen, he realized, even though she had had a privileged upbringing and was the daughter of one of Syracuse’s wealthiest men.

Just then she called him to dinner, breaking his personal reverie. And so he rose from his chair in a rather awkward of his and then joined her at the table.

Everything looked wonderful, and he said so. The fish seemed baked to perfection, the salad was crisp, and the freshly prepared risotto was still steaming. After they sat down, he looked at her and smiled. As if she had been doing it all her life, she first prepared a plate for him and then one for herself. Only then did she sit down across from him.

When Greg took his first bite of the fish, his face lit up. To his happy surprise, he had never tasted anything quite like it.

“Damn!” he said. “This is wonderful! This settles it! Winston’s Baked Walleye is definitely worthy of a place in your recipe book!”

After Brooke took a tentative bite of the fish, she nodded. “I think you’re right,” she answered. “And what about the risotto and the salad?” she asked. “Are those okay too?”

As he enjoyed one of the best meals of his life, Greg nodded happily. “Absolutely,” he answered. “With food this good, and your cabin so close to mine, you may never get rid of me!”

Brooke was unsure of what to say. She was beginning to genuinely like this man, this handsome artist who had so unexpectedly entered her life. In many ways he was quite unlike the other men she had known, including her husband, Bill. Just then the memory of Bill overtook her heart again, as did the lingering sense of sadness she always experienced every time she thought of him or whenever she received another of his heartfelt letters. Sighing slightly, she put down her fork.

The change in her was not lost on Greg. Although he still did not know her well, he believed that he was beginning to understand her moods, her needs, and that special sense of fearful melancholy she always seemed to carry regarding her husband. It was Bill, Greg realized, of whom she was now thinking, rather than him. For the first time since knowing her, he reached out and touched her hand. To his surprise, doing so came naturally to him, almost automatically. And to his further contentment, she did not pull away.

“Are you thinking about Bill again?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she answered sadly. “I’m sorry, sometimes I just can’t help it. I don’t mean to ruin our dinner, honestly I don’t. It’s just that sometimes my thoughts of him take over, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Greg instinctively rubbed her hand a bit, the same way he might do to comfort a crying child or an ill person. To him, the gesture had no greater meaning than simply trying to calm her. Or so he had thought at the time, he would later realize. . .

“That’s quite all right,” he said gently. “No one could expect you to feel any differently. If you did, you wouldn’t be human.”

“Thank you for understanding,” Brooke said. Then he saw her smile just a bit through her sadness. “You somehow always seem to make me feel better,” she said. “And you’re such a good listener, too. All I can say is that I’m glad it was you who became my new neighbor, rather than somebody else.”

“Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot to me.”

They then returned to eating their dinner, this time in relative silence. Greg knew that Brooke didn’t really feel like talking, and for his part, he was content to simply be in her presence and to enjoy her marvelous cooking.