They walked along the gravel side of Palm Boulevard to the third dock.
“This is it,” John said, pointing to one of the oldest docks. It was a step away from dilapidated, missing a few wood slats and leaning to the side. Vines crept up the pilings near the shore. At the end of the dock, a pelican perched serenely on the railing. It watched them approach with a proprietary air before spreading its long wings and taking off.
“Do you own this dock?” Gordon asked.
“I wish. This dock is owned by an old friend of my mother’s,” John said. “Clay used to be the mayor of the city and has always been very generous whenever I wanted to use his dock. He’s like that with all his neighbors. Time was, he brought my mother and Cara tomatoes from his garden. Life used to be like that around here. Now, sadly, there are a lot more rentals.” They stepped onto the dock, each of them wearing rubber-soled shoes. “Mind your step.”
It was a precarious walk along the crooked boardwalk, which was missing almost as many slats of wood as it had kept. At the end, an old fishing boat dating back to the 1970s floated in the water. John thought it looked like an old boot—worn and used, but one you could still walk around in dependably.
“I called Clay. He left out a few poles for us,” John said.
Gordon, dressed in tan nylon fishing pants and a brown T-shirt, lifted one of the poles lying on the dock and inspected it. He turned to John and said teasingly. “I think this was one Hemingway used.”
John laughed, looking down at his own olive-green fishing pants. They were both dressed for a day on the water with ball caps, sunscreen, and wicking shirts.
“Yeah, well, Clay’s getting up there. I’m sure he has his own rods that he keeps aside. These are freebies, so you know what they say about beggars and choosers.”
“Check this out,” Gordon said, lifting the rod to show the hook dangling from the line. “There’s a petrified worm on this rusty hook.”
John struggled to keep a straight face. “Wow, look at that.”
“You really spare no expense. I didn’t know you were a serious fisherman. When was this used last? The Civil War?”
“Going fishing was your idea, Einstein.”
“I wanted to thank you for allowing me to rent your loft. For an exorbitant price. I thought a bit of male bonding was in order.”
“Sure. We both know Linnea ordered us to go out.” He scratched his head. “Look, I know this isn’t first class, but we’ll be fine. There’s a hook. You put bait on the hook. The fish bites the hook. How hard could it be?”
“So, what you’re telling me is that you don’t know how to fish either.”
“You mean you don’t?” John asked. “I thought all Brits fished.”
“I thought all lowcountry men fished,” Gordon fired back.
John looked out at the water and shrugged. “I was always more of a surfer.”
“Now that we’re done with stereotypes, let’s say we figure this out.”
John picked up one of the poles. He had to admit, it was in pretty bad shape. “I didn’t know fishing poles could rust.”
“Most of it is the salt,” Gordon said with enviable knowledge. He squeezed a hook between his thumb and index finger. He didn’t look at all surprised when it cracked in half. “Perfect. Do you have a spare?”
“A spare?”
“You did bring hooks?”
“You didn’t?”
“I don’t suppose you brought bait, either.” Gordon bent to open the cooler.
“Nope. All beers in there. I took care of packing the serious provisions.”
“Fantastic.” Gordon looked annoyed. “One of us has to go to Harris Teeter. They’ve got bait and hooks there.”
“I nominate you,” John said, tossing Gordon his car keys.
Gordon caught them on the fly. “You idiot. They could’ve fallen into the creek.”
“I trusted you. The first rule of fishing. Trust your partner. My car’s in the driveway. I’ll be on the end of the dock, tipping a cold one. Drive safe.”
Gordon looked fed up with the whole expedition. “Very well. At least grab the poles. Would you do that? Please?”
John grabbed both poles with one hand. “All done. Thanks.”
John watched Gordon walk back down the precarious dock and felt a twinge of guilt. Sure, he wanted to stick it to him. Gordon was lording his man-of-the-house presence at the beach house, never missing a chance to put an arm around Linnea or, his personal favorite, kiss the top of her head whenever John walked into a room. John tipped back the bottle and took a long swallow. He couldn’t deny it was killing him. He couldn’t sleep at night, knowing that guy was in bed with Linnea. There wasn’t enough alcohol to quench that burn.
Let the Brit be a gofer, he thought sourly, drinking again. Still, it didn’t sit right, treating him like this. If he weren’t with Linnea, John might even like the guy.
From around the corner house across the street, John spotted someone approaching. Squinting, he recognized Cooper, wearing nylon shorts and a T-shirt. In one arm he carried three brand-new fishing rods, still with price tags flapping in the breeze. From his other hand dangled a small Coleman cooler that bumped against his thigh as he walked at a lazy pace.
“Yo,” Cooper called out.
Gordon stopped walking to turn in Cooper’s direction. He raised his hands in the air. “We’ve been saved!” He waited while Cooper watched the traffic, then sprinted across Palm Boulevard. Gordon slapped Cooper’s shoulder, clearly glad to have been saved from a trip to the store. He reached out to grab the cooler. The two men sauntered back to the dock, then navigated the treacherous boards to the end where John sat shaking his head and grinning.
“Who invited this guy?” John said to Gordon.
“Not me,” Gordon said, clearly in a better mood. He set the cooler on the dock. “He just kind of shows up. Like a paper airplane that floats into a room.”
John’s eyes darted toward Gordon.
“It’s a God-given talent,” Cooper said, resting the rods against a piling. “Right place at the right time.”
“Maybe you can make little origami bait out of some old newspaper,” Gordon said to John, continuing the dig. “I hear fish love to hit on those.”
“You guys are still at each other’s throats, I see,” Cooper said. He spied the poles in John’s hand. “Nice. You steal those from a Civil War museum?”
“Right?” Gordon said, laughing.
“Whatever,” John said. “What’s in the cooler? We’ve got beer.”
Cooper smiled. “Ten bucks says neither of you geniuses remembered to bring bait.”
John and Gordon stared back with blank eyes.
“I knew it. You guys think of beer, and I bring essentially everything needed to fish. Rods… patience…”
“We didn’t even invite you,” John said.
“Yeah? Well, my sister said I had to come babysit you guys. Looks like she was right. You wouldn’t even be able to fish if I hadn’t shown up. Come on, Romeos. Let’s go.”
John looked around the dock, scratching his head. They were both being put properly in place by the kid. There were fish bloodstains from an incalculable number of catches deeply entrenched in the wood. Old hooks with a few inches of fishing line still attached littered the dock, some with encrusted bait on the end.