Amy looked repulsed.
“I’m not putting any worms on a hook. And we’re not keeping anything we catch,” Amy said.
“But what if we catch a beauty? It could be our dinner,” Patrick said.
Amy closed her eyes and shook her head. “First of all, I prefer my fish to be served to me on a plate, in a restaurant, thank you very much. I am not about to bring one of those smelly things into our cabin and gut it myself.”
“I’ll gut it. It’ll be—”
“Second, I doubt there is anything living in that man-made lake that can even remotely pass as being edible.”
Caleb looked up at his father. Patrick looked back down and rubbed the top of his head. “Don’t listen to her, champ. We’re gonna catch a million of ’em.”
“A million of what is the question,” Amy said.
“Can Oscar come?” Carrie piped in.
“Sure, why not?” Patrick said. “I’m fairly certain he’ll eat anything we catch. He’s like a fuzzy garbage disposal.”
Carrie burst out laughing. Patrick leaned over and kissed the top of her head. He then asked, “Who’s coming to the bait shop with me?”
“Me!” Caleb yelled.
Carrie shook her head. “I want to play with Oscar some more.”
Patrick looked at Amy. “Do you mind staying here with her, honey?”
“Not at all. You go buy your slimy worms. Besides I want to make some final arrangements with Lorraine and Norm.” She looked at Carrie and Caleb. “Are you guys excited to go to the movies with the Mitchells tonight?”
Both kids nodded.
“Are they taking us to dinner too?” Carrie asked.
“Yup. Dinner and a movie. Sounds better than the plans your father and I have. We’re just doing dinner.”
Carrie laughed. Caleb offered his mother and father to come along to the movie. Patrick and Amy exchanged an our-son-is-so-freaking-adorable look, and took turns telling him how thoughtful he was to consider them, but, regrettably, they would have to decline.
“Alright, brother-man,” Patrick said to his son. “You ready to go buy some worms?”
14
For a brief moment Patrick wished his four-year-old son could read for all the wrong reasons: along the road’s edge, leading into the white-graveled lot of the bait shop, a signpost stood tall, announcing one large and crudely painted word to all who drove by.
BAIT.
He couldn’t resist saying it anyway. “Think this is the place?”
Father and son locked eyes in the rearview mirror. Caleb shrugged at his father, wide-eyed and innocent.
Patrick smiled back. “Nevermind, buddy. This is the place.”
Caleb leaned forward in his child seat in order to get a solid look at the bait shop. Patrick pulled left into the gravel lot, glanced back and caught his son’s curious expression. He appeared to be taking his father’s sarcastic joke quite literally; Patrick felt sure Caleb’s wary brow was declaring that this didn’t look like any store he had ever seen, Dad.
The place was a weathered one-story home that doubled as a bait shop. A white wooden porch led to a screen-door entrance. On either side of that screen door were two cloudy windows, each displaying an array of lures that dangled and glimmered from fishing line above the window’s pane like tiny puppets with jewelry.
To the right of the entrance a rusted porch swing designed for two—likely capable of holding none—swayed lightly from side to side, each sway giving out a metallic groan, as if warning all it would not be held responsible for those crazy enough to deem it fit for sittin’ and, God forbid, swingin’.
Patrick had expected nothing less from such a place. In fact he’d counted on it. He loved these rustic mom-and-pop spots, and it was the precise reason they were visiting Crescent Lake as opposed to being stretched out on a sandy beach somewhere, sipping margaritas.
The screen door screeched metal against metal as father and son entered. The interior of the shop had a sharp smell of burnt wood and heavy dust that immediately made Patrick feel like picking his nose. He looked down and spotted Caleb already going at it. “Digging for gold?” he asked his son. Caleb yanked his hand away from his face and shook his head. Patrick smiled and bopped him on the top of the head.
The layout of the shop was basic. To the right were three rows of shelves that held all things fishing, and to the left was a wooden counter top. Behind it stood an old man who Patrick guessed to be at least eighty. He was short, thin, stoop-shouldered, and wrinkled from head to toe. His head was covered