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at her lips, she turned.
    Jake Gibb stood smiling, fishing rod in hand, his gear slung over his left shoulder.
    Lilah powered down her player. “Hey.”
    “Hey, yourself.” He sat at her side and opened his tackle box, gathered a golden barbed hook from its plastic case. “Beautiful spot you’ve got here.”
    She checked her reel, to have something to do with her hands. “How’d you find me?”
    “Just prayed for a friendly face.” He shrugged, baited a hook with a wiggling minnow from his bucket. “Guess you’ll have to do.” Jake angled his line with a practiced hand. The bait plopped into the root ball’s shadow, just next to hers—a perfect cast.
    “Nice.”
    “Soda?” He offered a soda from the cooler and cracked one open for himself, his grin acknowledging her compliment.
    They didn’t talk.
    His silence spoke volumes to her soul.
    Lilah observed his profile.
    Strong chin, his hair curled long about his collar, neat but unkempt. He’d rolled shirtsleeves up to three-quarter length. Scabbed knuckles showed he’d been working, faded blue jeans were worn over tattered brown work boots. This wasn’t a man who stayed behind his pulpit or in a stuffy office. He got to know every one of his parishioners. Wouldn’t he be disappointed the next morning, if he expected to see her in the crowd?
    That thought brought a morose, yet satisfied smirk to her lips.
    “What?” he finally spoke.
    “Just an idle thought.” She crushed the can and stuck it in her tackle box. “This’ll be your first Sunday at church. You ready for them?”
    “Not the first time I’ve faced an angry mob.”
    “Angry? About what?”
    “Your grandmother didn’t tell you?” He arched an eyebrow and laughed.
    “We don’t talk much—or, didn’t that translate back at the diner?”
    “I made some decisions about the Revival. Voiced them at the meeting last night. Didn’t go over so well with some folks.”
    “Some folks. Meaning my grandmother.”
    “Her. Others. But this place is desperate for change. They just don’t know it, yet.”
    “Like my specials?”
    “Sure.” He adjusted his grip on the pole. “It’s a lot like fishing, actually. Toss an idea out there for folks to circle around. Decide whether or not they’re interested. Some’ll bite. Others’ll swim right on past, ignoring it, or come back. Strike.” He shrugged. “Or not.”
    “The curse of free will?”
    “Or the blessing. It depends on your point of view.” His mouth upturned a grin. “He’ll get through to them.” Jake played out his line, settled his rod back, and waited. “All I’ve gotta do is show up.”
    “You honestly believe that, don’t you?”
    “I believe…that river fishing’s night and day to fishing off shore.” He tilted his head to where line met water. “Cast, and wait. No seaweed, no pull of the tide. Just…wait.”
    “Off shore? I meant to do that, but—just never got around to it.”
    “I used to go with my dad. But, his work took off—kept him busy every weekend.” He exhaled and picked up his rod, slow, keeping the line slack where it met the rippling water. “Last time, I was about twelve. I caught a barracuda trolling in a sailboat, off Malibu.”
    “Lots of bones.” Lilah’s thoughts drifted to the best way to serve up fresh barracuda, grilled in olive oil, salt, with chopped tomatoes, red onion, garlic. She licked her lips and grinned. “Good eating, though…”
    Jake’s line tugged, silencing any reply. The rod tip bowed down to the water. He gave a cautious, achingly slow spin to his reel. Within moments, the fish swallowed the bait. He gave the line a confident jerk, setting the hook. They stood, side by side, as he played out line, then drew back in with a swirl of the reel. “Good size, you think?” Grin splitting wide, he nodded to the rod’s tip, practically touching the surface of the water in a tight arc.
    “Maybe a one pounder.” Lilah grabbed the net and, barefoot, squished into