Page 75 of The Ripple Effect
“No, guy.” I’m just a guide; where he goes is up to him. “Thenyoucan turn toher. Put your wife first for once, and see if that doesn’t land you somewhere different.”
He freezes halfway through another bite, comprehension dawning in his brown eyes. I pat him on the shoulder, businesslike. “I’m going to go sit with the group. Maybe you’d like to join us.”
Around midafternoon, Lyle slides his canoe into position beside me and Sloane, angling his head at Willow and Brent. She’s in the stern, happily steering; he’s turned to face his wife with a tentative smile. “Sometimes…”
“Yeah, yeah. Sometimes they need to go in,” I say, reaching out to snag his gunwale and bring him close enough to kiss.
“What wasthat?” Sloane says when he paddles away. She’s abusing her sisterly authority to tease me about Lyle every time he paddles by, which is often. “My acting tips were good, but notthatgood.”
“Quiet, oh my god! Sound carries over water. I’ll tell you later,” I hiss, as she laughs.
The group falls silent as we paddle past a mountainside of blackened trees, a relic of the fires from new, hotter summers.
“It’s so sad,” Lori murmurs. Behind her, Mitch silently wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand, but she’s watching Lori, not the forest. Though we try to hold on to them, the things we love are fragile. Sometimes beauty is lost. Sometimes one tree burns and the one right next to it remains standing, and even then, you don’t know which of the ones that were spared will still be standing a year from now.
Sometimes you can hold on, though. I mentally tighten my grip on every beautiful thing I’ve found over the last two weeks: Lyle, my sister, the Love Boat. Liz was right when she said I needed something, and now that I’ve found my somethings, I won’t be letting them go.
By end of day, we’ve covered a lazy eleven kilometers. We make a quick portage, then paddle across a neighboring lake to our new campsite, where the Mystery Machine awaits.
I occasionally catch the faint hum of the highway in the distance, but apart from that, it’s every bit as good as the campsite Lyle originally booked. Our rainbow of boats looks so fantastic on the sandy beach, I roll my pants up to my thighs and wade into the water to take photos for the Love Boat’s website, after arranging the paddles in a pretty row against a stand of trees.
“Feeling better?” Lyle asks softly, walking out to wrap his arms around me from behind.
“Okay, fine, you were right.”
He laughs and then buries his face in the crook of my neck, breathing me in. “I know.” His smile tugs at the tender skin of my neck, telegraphing promises for later. I catch Lori watching from shore and brace for lovebirds-based teasing,but it doesn’t come. Instead, she smiles and turns to add a few more items to the laundry line Brent put up while Willow pitched their tent.
With the shorter paddling distance, we have some time to relax before dinner. Lyle strings a hammock between two trees, perches his glasses on his nose, and settles in with his field journal to make notes. Mitch declares her intention to take a canoe out and see what’s biting; Sloane decides to tag along. It’s a good sign that Mitch feels comfortable leaving Lori in camp. The two of them seem relaxed and peaceful, able to enjoy the trip even through the bittersweet knowledge that they’re doing something for the last time.
Sloane turns out to be excellent at fishing, much to the annoyance of Mitch, who had to teach Sloane how to bait a hook but didn’t get a single bite herself. For dinner, we grill fat rainbow trout on the fire-safety-compliant portable stove.
Sloane accepts the ceremonial first serving of buttery fish paired with a big scoop of rice from the preseasoned packets we stashed in the barrels—like any proper camping food, it’s fast, easy, and doesn’t weigh much. She takes a bite and chews reverently, eyes closed. “This isn’t better than Jasvinder’s food, but somehow… it is?”
Wordless sounds of agreement echo around the firepit as we fork up the freshest fish we’ll ever eat.
After dessert—camp coffee and squares of dark chocolate—people linger at the firepit, speculating about tomorrow’s surprise expedition.
I sneak off for a quick dip in the lake. I towel off my hair while standing outside the golden circle of light from the portable lantern Lyle situated in the firepit. Babe sprawls on the sand nearby. Our problem children, Brent and Willow, sit side by side on a bleached log, his arm around her. He’s listeningwithout a singlewell, actuallyas she chats to Sloane, Mitch, and Lori.
Whatever kind of article he writes, I don’t think it will be the one he imagined.
Trevor and Petra sit apart from the main group. Despite this morning’s détente, they lean away from each other, their bodies stiff. I can’t hear them, but I can see Petra talking rapidly, gesturing at the other guests, then falling silent as Trevor talks over her. She clasps his hands, making an obvious appeal; he won’t meet her eyes. Finally, he stands and pulls away from her, heading toward the clearing where we’ve pitched the tents.
A cool finger of this morning’s dread draws a line across my heart.
I drape my towel over the clothesline, then head to where Lyle’s double-checking the boats, making sure they’re drawn up far enough from the water.
“You busy?”
“Nope,” he says easily, pulling his canoe up last. “But you’re very far away. I can hardly hear you.” He scoops me up in the crook of one arm and plants a quick kiss at the corner of my lips.
My hand flies to my mouth. “Did you just give me apeck?”
“That I did,” he says with lazy satisfaction. “It’s what engaged people do.” He stretches his neck upward to do it again, lingering this time.
I haven’t seen him from this angle since last year, at the concert. So much has changed since then, but my heart recognizes both images, layering them—one over the other—into a single picture.
Lyle.
