Page 2 of Fishing for Keeps

Her eyes narrow. "How'd you know that?"

"Wild guess," I say. "Also, it's painted on your cooler."

She looks down at the cooler, where JOSIE is written in her grandpa's blocky marker handwriting, and she laughs, quick and bright, and I feel it like sunlight on the back of my neck.

Uh-oh, says a voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Ace.

"So, what's the plan for the Lucky Penny?" I nod at the boat. "Because no offense, but that motor sounds like it’s sputtering for dear life.”

"The plan is to get it running so I can sell it," she says. "The boat, the cottage, all of it. I'm only here for a few weeks to get everything squared away."

The five most dangerous words on Lake Mercury: only here for a few weeks.

I should know better. I have watched three grown men fall face-first into that exact sentence since June.

"Tell you what," I hear myself say. "I keep a whole rental fleet of cranky motors alive. Leave the Penny with me a couple days, and I'll get her purring."

"Really? What do you charge?"

"For Gus Barlow's boat?" I shake my head. "Pizza. You come to Mercury Slice on Thursday night and hang with the locals. That’s it. That's the whole bill."

She studies me for a long second, like she's looking for the catch.

"Fine," she says at last. "Thursday."

She heads up the dock toward the parking lot, and I stand there watching her go, grinning like an idiot at nothing.

A guy in a brand-new fishing hat wanders over. "Hey, man. Do you have any pontoons for rent?"

"Yep," I tell him, without looking away from her.

Yeah. I'm in trouble.

Chapter Two

Josie

My grandfather’s cottage smells like cedar and coffee and lake water, and I have cried in every single room of it.

I’m mostly keeping it together. No wailing or sobbing or dramatic, Oscar-worthy tears. But there’s a steady flow of tears lurking behind my eyelids at all times, just waiting to spring a leak. I'll be pulling a dust sheet off the couch or boxing up the mugs, and I'll find something—his reading glasses on the windowsill, a grocery list in his handwriting that says bread, worms, butterscotch candy—and the leak springs, and I have to sit down for a minute.

Grandpa Gus died in April. I hadn't seen him in person in almost three years, but we talked on the phone every Sunday. He never once made me feel guilty about the visits I kept postponing, or about the summers that stopped after my parents split and vacations became a custody spreadsheet. He just told me his terrible jokes and asked about my design clients and ended every call the same way: The lake misses you, Josie-girl.

I always said, Next summer, I promise.

Now it's next summer, and I'm here to sell his house.

The plan is simple. Fix the place up, list it, sign the papers, and use the money to restart my life, which fell apart with impressive efficiency this spring—my biggest client dropped me the same month my lease ran out, three weeks before the call about Grandpa. Freelance graphic design pays fine when it pays. Right now, it's not paying. Grandpa’s cottage is the only solid thing I own.

So, I've been cleaning. Which is how I found the tackle box.

It was under his bed, the old green metal one, and inside, on top of the trays of lures, was a folded flyer that said MERCURY RIDGE END-OF-SUMMER PAIRS DERBY — Labor Day Weekend — Teams of Two — All Proceeds Benefit the Kids' Fishing Camp.

Stapled to it was a copy of this year's entry form, filled out in his blocky handwriting.

Angler One: Gus Barlow.

And on the line for Angler Two, in careful letters: Josie Barlow.