Chapter 20

20

I got back late from fishing after dark at almost six, and it was almost six thirty when I was in the shower, head down under its raging stream, trying to let its heat loosen the stiff muscles at my neck and back.

My last day of fishing had been basically a bust. I'd tried a new spot six miles upstream from the Beckford Reservoir west of town. But I hadn't gotten a bite all day.

Yet even with the lack of success, it had been a grand day, hadn't it? I thought as I reluctantly squealed off the hot water. Fish or no fish, just being out all day on the wide, sunny, sparkling river watching it slide around me with that pure river smell in my nostrils and the wind for a soundtrack was about as refreshing a day as possible. At least in my fishing-addicted book.

After scrubbing myself raw with a towel, I came out of the bathroom in my robe and headed straight for the tiny kitchen. The fridge was one of those '50s-style vintage ones and when I cracked open the door of it, I smiled.

On the way back from the river I'd hit the village's sole package store, and I took out the icy six-pack of Stella Artois I'd purchased there and ceremoniously placed it on the counter next to an old New England Patriots bottle opener I'd found in a drawer.

After I opened a beer, I carefully placed the cap of it between the thumb and middle fingers of my right hand. The cap shot across the room like a mini turbo Frisbee when I snapped my fingers. I groaned as I watched it ricochet off the wall, barely missing the garbage pail left.

Oh, well. Can't win them all , I thought as I took a long incredibly satisfying pull of my beer.

The Airbnb I was renting in Beckford was on the top floor of an old four-story building. Even for a studio apartment, it was pretty small which made me think that it had maybe once been a unit in a rooming house. What I liked most about it was its tall windows and beautiful wide-plank yellow pine wood floors that I crossed in my bare wet feet to the window.

I took another hit of my Stella as I looked down on the quaint village. On my right was the package store roof and across the road from it, there was a canoe rental place that abutted the river. Dead ahead before me was the town's tiny post office and beyond that next to a bridge over the river was a little restaurant called The Forge that I had eaten at almost every night in the two weeks I'd been here.

The reason I couldn't get enough of this place wasn't just because it was in walking distance to my rental but also because of The Forge's famous hot wings. The wings were fried and sauced twice with a special hot sauce that was so ridiculously good they actually sold it in separate bottles. Being a true sucker for a good hot wing, I had become hopelessly addicted to these bad boys at first bite and since then I'd basically eaten my weight in them.

Behind The Forge restaurant and actually jutting out into the bend in the river was an extremely large brick building that looked like an antiquated industrial complex.

A running path plaque I had read explained that the curious structure was the remains of the Beckford Tool Factory which had been a sort of nineteenth-century version of Black and Decker. The company and town founder, an industrialist and inventor named Horace V. Beckford, had diverted the river through an ingenious array of man-made waterfalls, canals and sluices to power water turbine paddles that spun the factory's lathes.

Beckford axes and machetes had helped settle the West, the plaque said, and when the Civil War came, it made weapons for the Union Army. The vast wartime wealth old Horace had accumulated had prompted him to found the fussy liberal arts college down the river that bore his name to this very day.

The old mostly abandoned factory structure was now an antiques shop, I knew. I was actually planning on sticking my head in it before leaving tomorrow. I wasn't big into antiques, of course, but who knew. Maybe like my son, Declan, I thought I might discover another wonderful fishing book about another secret hidden gem of a trout river out there somewhere. Then I could just keep going from magic fishing hole to magic fishing hole across America, catching fish and eating award-winning hot wings and drinking beer forever and ever and ever.

"A man can dream, can't he?" I said, smiling out at the darkening New England town as my phone rang.

That was funny, I thought. I hadn't even given Declan my newest burner phone's number. Was it a spam call or something?

Then I suddenly smiled as I saw the name on the caller ID.

"Colleen!" I said, picking it up.

"Mike," she said. "Sorry for calling so late. I'm still up here for work running around like a nut. Is your dinner offer still on?"

"Are you kidding me?" I said. "Of course, Colleen. Bucket list stuff stays on there until you get to check it off or you die. Where are you staying? Can I come pick you up?"

"No need," Colleen said. "I'll meet you. Where do I go?"

"How about the place by me here in Beckford?" I said as I looked at it out the window. "It's just pub grub stuff, but the food is actually quite good. And there's a great microbeer menu. That sound up your alley?"

"Perfect," she said. "Especially the microbeer part. I've had a long one. What's the name of it?"

"It's called The Forge."

"Got it. The Forge, Beckford. Say eight?" Colleen said.

"Eight it is," I said.

After I hung up, I stood there, staring at my phone.

I thought about life. How crazy it really was.

When I was a teenager, I had been in love with this girl. I mean, I had yearned for her. Coming back from the bars, I'd always walk past her house and stare up at her window, hoping the fates would somehow align.

Then life had happened. War. Marriage and fatherhood.

Now here we were again out of the blue.

A date with an angel , I thought as I stared down at the floor in wonder.

"Wow," I said.