shallow and filled with rocks. A footpath runs along the banks, and Will follows it upstream, toward the tall mountains, blue against the low late-afternoon light, the sinking sun on the far side. He can’t hear any sounds other than natural ones, the rushing water and the birds, a goat in the distance, a braying horse.
His mind drifts back to Elle, to that overpowering sense of infatuation, of mutual attraction, of an uncontrollable force that one day isn’t there and the next day suddenly appears, undeniable, irresistible. What is it that makes one person love another? Is it the shape of her face, the elegant curve of her long neck, the purely physical? Is it the arch of her eyebrow, the way she leans forward to listen, the dimples when she smiles? Is it the dimples themselves? Why the hell would anyone love face indentations?
Is it what she says, or how she says it? Is it the things she believes, or the things she knows, or how she reconciles the difference? Is it her jokes? The music and books she likes, how she dances? Who she thinks she is, who she wants to become? Is it any of those things? What
is
a person, and why does one fall in love with another?
Will stumbles, distracted, the path narrow and uneven and difficult to manage, especially when it veers along the rocky banks of the meandering river. He’s afraid of falling in. He picks up a waist-high branch, strips it of twigs and leaves, and starts using it as a walking stick. The light is nearing the golden hour, and the sky is coming alive with the birth of bugs in clouds, and the murmurations of starlings, and the call-and-response of bird conversations. He stops to snap pictures, to jot notes, to focus on being here.
The stream tumbles down a modest rapids. At the bottom is a wide pool where a white-haired man is standing in waders, fly-casting. Will watches the guy cast, a long graceful arc of filament, the man-made midge landing on the water with an inaudible plink, pulled across the surface in hops, attracting ripples from trout underneath, but not a nibble. The man casts again, an exact replica of the previous, with exactly the same result. And again.
“¡Buenas dias!”
Will calls out.
“Yo soy Will Rhodes
.
Yo—”
“You’re American?”
“Yes,” Will says. “I am. Are
you
?”
The man nods. He begins to wade toward the bank, through water that Will can now see is moving faster than he would’ve thought. The man takes a tentative step in unpredictable footing, then another, then holds out his hand.
“Taylor Lindhurst. Nice to meet you, Will. You’re a tourist?”
Will shakes his head. “Journalist, sort of. I’m a travel writer.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do. Are the trout biting?”
“Well, not in the past couple minutes, since you showed up and started making a fuss. But yeah, in general. I catch my dinner here most nights.”
“Not a bad diet. You live here?”
“Yes sir. Retired out here.” Despite the white hair, this guy doesn’t appear to be retirement age. Or if he is, he’s very well preserved. Lean, strong-looking, forearm muscles rippling, straining the collar of his tee shirt and fishing vest. He removes a pack of cigarettes from one of the pockets of his vest, then a shiny gold lighter, out of character with the rest of the getup.
“And you?” the guy asks. He exhales a long plume of dense smoke. “This is off the beaten path, ain’t it?”
“I hope so. Otherwise someone’s written about it before. Know what I mean?”
“Yes I do. Have you been to town?”
“Had a sit-down with old Rinaldo, holding court in the café. And went out to see Monsieur Larozze’s goats. Interesting combination of Spanish and French and Basque up here, isn’t it?”
“That’s one of the things that appealed to me. The border is right over yonder a couple klicks.” The guy indicates with his rod, fold after fold of scrub-covered hills leading to the rocky peaks of the high mountains.
“It’s awfully
His mind drifts back to Elle, to that overpowering sense of infatuation, of mutual attraction, of an uncontrollable force that one day isn’t there and the next day suddenly appears, undeniable, irresistible. What is it that makes one person love another? Is it the shape of her face, the elegant curve of her long neck, the purely physical? Is it the arch of her eyebrow, the way she leans forward to listen, the dimples when she smiles? Is it the dimples themselves? Why the hell would anyone love face indentations?
Is it what she says, or how she says it? Is it the things she believes, or the things she knows, or how she reconciles the difference? Is it her jokes? The music and books she likes, how she dances? Who she thinks she is, who she wants to become? Is it any of those things? What
is
a person, and why does one fall in love with another?
Will stumbles, distracted, the path narrow and uneven and difficult to manage, especially when it veers along the rocky banks of the meandering river. He’s afraid of falling in. He picks up a waist-high branch, strips it of twigs and leaves, and starts using it as a walking stick. The light is nearing the golden hour, and the sky is coming alive with the birth of bugs in clouds, and the murmurations of starlings, and the call-and-response of bird conversations. He stops to snap pictures, to jot notes, to focus on being here.
The stream tumbles down a modest rapids. At the bottom is a wide pool where a white-haired man is standing in waders, fly-casting. Will watches the guy cast, a long graceful arc of filament, the man-made midge landing on the water with an inaudible plink, pulled across the surface in hops, attracting ripples from trout underneath, but not a nibble. The man casts again, an exact replica of the previous, with exactly the same result. And again.
“¡Buenas dias!”
Will calls out.
“Yo soy Will Rhodes
.
Yo—”
“You’re American?”
“Yes,” Will says. “I am. Are
you
?”
The man nods. He begins to wade toward the bank, through water that Will can now see is moving faster than he would’ve thought. The man takes a tentative step in unpredictable footing, then another, then holds out his hand.
“Taylor Lindhurst. Nice to meet you, Will. You’re a tourist?”
Will shakes his head. “Journalist, sort of. I’m a travel writer.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do. Are the trout biting?”
“Well, not in the past couple minutes, since you showed up and started making a fuss. But yeah, in general. I catch my dinner here most nights.”
“Not a bad diet. You live here?”
“Yes sir. Retired out here.” Despite the white hair, this guy doesn’t appear to be retirement age. Or if he is, he’s very well preserved. Lean, strong-looking, forearm muscles rippling, straining the collar of his tee shirt and fishing vest. He removes a pack of cigarettes from one of the pockets of his vest, then a shiny gold lighter, out of character with the rest of the getup.
“And you?” the guy asks. He exhales a long plume of dense smoke. “This is off the beaten path, ain’t it?”
“I hope so. Otherwise someone’s written about it before. Know what I mean?”
“Yes I do. Have you been to town?”
“Had a sit-down with old Rinaldo, holding court in the café. And went out to see Monsieur Larozze’s goats. Interesting combination of Spanish and French and Basque up here, isn’t it?”
“That’s one of the things that appealed to me. The border is right over yonder a couple klicks.” The guy indicates with his rod, fold after fold of scrub-covered hills leading to the rocky peaks of the high mountains.
“It’s awfully
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