Page 74 of The Ripple Effect

Chapter Twenty-one

“Oof, I’m nervous,” I breathe, watching Jasvinder wave goodbye from the Mystery Machine, a cloud of dust rising under his wheels.

Lyle surveys the unruffled water, dyed a flawless morning blue by the mountain sky; Babe gives me a skeptical doggy eyebrow raise in tandem with her master. “Nervous about what?” he asks, gesturing at the unparalleled level of perfection like he’s thrown open the gates to Valhalla.

Bluebird Lake is the first in a system of wide, calm lakes linked by narrow stretches of whitewater. Navigating whitewater with loaded canoes is a whole different skill, so we’ve chosen friendly waters for the guests’ first expedition. Today and tomorrow are for fun, consolidation of skills, and a long lovely goodbye to our first session.

We’ll cover three lakes today and two tomorrow, plus a surprise detour to a gnarly stretch of whitewater where we hope to see some pros kayaking over a waterfall. Then we’ll pack everyone up and shuttle them to Grey Tusk, where they’ll find bigger beds and better showers, but never again the caliber of foodthey ate with us. Jasvinder is a genius, and if a Michelin-starred restaurant hasn’t scooped him up by next summer, we’ll have to double his pay.

Today I’m hoping hard that there will be a next summer. The guests are excited, loading their canoes with seaworthy barrels of food, roll-top sacks of clothing, foolproof compact tents, even fishing gear. Snatches of laughter and conversation drift back to us from the shore. There’s a feeling of everything and everyone coming together.

We’ve reduced our planned paddling distance so we can stay in a car-accessible campsite with decent cell signal in case of emergencies. Jasvinder and a friend will shuttle the Mystery Machine and trailer to tonight’s campsite, which means the van can haul some of the gear and Lyle was able to clear space for Babe in his boat. This should please the dog no end.

I’m hoping for the best, meaning three couples graduating with plans for lavish commitment/recommitment ceremonies and even more lavish online reviews. Failing that, I’d accept a trip where no one gets hurt or lost or thrown out of the tent by their pissed-off partner.

But I can’t quite shake that lingering sense of doom from yesterday.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” I say, hopping up and down to shake the nerves out. “But it would be good if oneparticularclient had reason to write nice things about us. Not saying who.”

Lyle shakes his head with a soft smile, ginger curls sneaking out from under his paddling helmet. He never looks more at home than when he’s in whitewater gear, paddle cocked like an extension of his arms, flashing an adventuresome grin. It makes me seriously consider fulfilling the cringeworthy Canadian stereotype of sex in a canoe.

“Whitewater rule number one, Stellar J.”

“Yes, yes. Sometimes clients need to go in.”

“Exactly. We’re their guides now. All we can do is show them possible paths. Where they go is up to them.”

As always, he’s managed to gentle my vibrating parts with words that may as well be one long stroke of his hand from my undercut to my lower back.

He heads down to the shore, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Circle up,” he calls, voice communication being a luxury we’ll have for most of today. “Everyone in canoes, come toward shore. Let’s go over the group rules. Each paddler gets to volunteer one,” Lyle says.

“Stay together!” Lori shouts, almost before he’s finished speaking.

“Don’t run any whitewater you don’t want to,” Willow says from the bow of her canoe. She wanted the stern, but a coin toss was all Brent would agree to. It would have been fine if he hadn’t made such a production of winning, but he did, and now her ramrod-straight spine refuses to twist a single degree toward him. Behind her, he’s angling his body this way and that, trying to see around her turned back.

So close, guy, I want to tell him.How can you beso closeand still not get it?But he remains hung up on the persona he’s been defending since the day they walked into camp. In his mind, he’s the strong one, the sensible one, busy living up to his version of manhood. It’s not about Willow at all—and I think she’s figured out how much she doesn’t like that.

“Zipped and clipped in the red zone!” Sloane shouts in the hoarse, husky voice she uses for her worst moment in theNighthawketrailer. Everyone giggles, because the whole point of this trip isnotto have any heroics.

There’s an awkward pause, then Petra breaks in with atentative, “Have fun,” which falls somewhat flat until Trevor steps to her side, puts his arm around her, and echoes, “Yeah!” She smiles up at him, and I feel one notch more optimistic.

“You’ve learned much, apprentices,” Lyle intones, to general laughter. “Here is my final teaching. The point of this trip is to show you where you can go with your new whitewater skills and your new relationship skills. The canoe will feel different when it’s got more things in it than the two of you—could be camping gear, could be jobs and money and family in there.

“How has whitewater changed you, individually and together? Talk to each other, feel the silence with each other, tell each other what you want. Point out what you see. Notice how your partner sees different things or sees the same things differently.”

I have to hand it to Lyle, he’s got a way of making a day of hard work feel downright spiritual.

And actually, it turns out he’s right. The lake system is maybe ten kilometers from downtown Pendleton, yet it smells like we’re a million miles from civilization, the summer scent of warm evergreens carrying on the breeze. The rapids are fun, with narrow, canyon-like passes that feel more dramatic than they are.

Mountains carpeted in fluffy green unroll in luxurious ripples down to velvety blue water. The guests’ chatter is punctuated by laughter loud enough to warn the wildlife for miles around. We don’t spot the moose or bear I know Mitch is hoping for, but we see a golden eagle dive, then pull up a millisecond before it hits the water, a wriggling silver shape in its claws.

We break for lunch near a narrow soaring waterfall. Everyone sprawls on the sun-warmed rocks except Brent. He sits on one end of a log, the rest of it conspicuously empty after Willow declined to join him.

Part of me wants to see him reap what he’s sown. But sometimes it’s better to be kind than right.

For Willow, I tell myself, settling into the space next to him and unwrapping my sandwich from its waxed cloth. “You know, if you want Willow to look at you, the way to do that is to put yourself in the bow.”

Miserably, Brent swallows a mouthful of roast beef on sourdough. “Then she’ll be looking at my back.” He’s a dumbass, but his sad eyes and slumped posture make him almost sympathetic. And Willow married him, so she must have seen something good in him once upon a time.

---