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When they finished eating, Alan walked over to Sonoro and returned carrying a fishing rod and a small plastic box. She raised her brows in question.

“Thought if you’ve never seen a trout up close and personal, I’d show you one.”

He led her along the stream until they reached a spot where it widened, forming a small pool, then he dropped to one knee, looking at the water.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking for fish. And see those flies?” He pointed to a bunch of dry grasses hanging over the edge of the stream that had a halo of insects circling their bent tips. “I’m trying to figure out what to use, and they give me a clue.” He opened the plastic box and selected a gray and brown tuft.

“But that doesn’t look anything like those bugs.”

He glanced up at her, raising an admonitory eyebrow. “You mean flies. And it may not look the same to you, but it will to the trout.”

“So it’s all a matter of having a fishy perspective.”

“Are you calling the trout’s viewpoint dubious?” His eyes were amused.

A laugh tickled her throat. “Indubitably fishy.”

He chuckled as he tied the tiny gray tuft—not a bug, a fly—to the end of his line. While he did that, Kathy watched his hands, long-fingered and capable in spite of the bent finger. Panting, Cormac came over and flopped down next to her, and she patted him.

“Come here, let me show you.” Alan held the rod, demonstrating the proper movements, then placed it in her hands.

She attempted a cast, but it was too tentative, and the fly landed at the edge of the stream near her feet. Alan moved behind her and, placing his hands over hers, once again demonstrated the proper motions.

He stepped away, and she tried another cast, still feeling the imprint of his hands on hers. This time the fly almost caught in the rocks lining the far shore. The third time, though, she began to get the idea, and the fly landed with a small plop in the middle of the pool. She was wondering what to do next when it disappeared, leaving behind a patch of ruffled water.

As the rod tip bent sharply, Alan stepped closer and placed his hand over hers giving the rod a quick jerk. “There,” he said. “The hook’s set. Now keep enough tension so you can feel him, but don’t try to overpower him. Slow and easy is better.”

The fish partially surfaced looking much too large to be held by the tiny hook and its gossamer lead. But then she forgot about that as she focused on Alan’s directions and the tug of the trout on the line. When the fish moved away, Alan told her to let out line. When the fish turned toward her, she retrieved line, only to have the trout dance away yet again. As if the two of them were involved in a delicate minuet.

Then, with a suddenness that surprised her, it ended, and Alan was bending down, reaching into the water. “Come take a look.”

Reluctantly, because she didn’t want to see the part where he killed it, she bent over the fish. Cormac came trotting over as well, but at a word from Alan, sat quietly. The fish, beautiful and sleek, fluttered its gills as if panting from its efforts. She looked away while Alan removed the hook.

“See the white edges on his fins? He’s a brookie.”

“Brookie?”

“Brook trout. Here, you can touch him if you want. He needs to rest a minute before I turn him loose.”

“You’re not keeping him?” A relief. She didn’t want to see or hear him kill the fish.

“Nope.” Alan took her hand, dipped it into the water, then guided it gently over the satin flank of the fish. “Feel that?”

The fish felt as soft and smooth as the old velvet of the dress Amanda had insisted Kathy buy.

“They have a mucous covering that protects them. Always wet your hand before you touch one.”

“Glory be to God for dappled things—” Kathy said softly. “For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim.” She paused, looking at the fish, at its speckled side with its faint rosy glow. “You know, I’ve always loved that poem, but I never understood that last line until now.”

Alan moved the fish gently back and forth in the water before loosing his hold on it. The fish lay motionless for a moment, then moved away, gathering speed as it realized it was free.

Kathy watched the swirl of water behind the fish, but she was thinking about Alan’s reaction to the poem. For an instant, his face had held a look of such anguish, she began to reach out to touch him, to ask what was wrong. But then he’d shifted, his face had smoothed out and her hand had stilled.