Page 30 of Grown-Up Second Chance

But the room to breathe in Montana had reminded me there were more things in life than acquiring. So much was available for free. I just had to open my eyes and appreciate it.

The three of us were quiet. I glanced at Joe’s hands on the steering wheel. They were strong and sinewy, like they’d been when we were teens. Capable of managing anything. Now the skin was a little looser around the tendons and the knuckles a bit rounder, but they still looked like they were strong.

How would hands like that feel on my body?

God, why was I thinking anything like that? Granted, Larry and I hadn’t had sex for years before we divorced, but surely I was past all of that now. Didn’t a woman’s libido simply settle down and fade out of existence after a while? Margaret Mead may have believed in post-menopausal zest, but I’d found it to be a huge disappointment.

After my period ended, life went on. A few more hot flashes, but the basic structure was the same.

I took a second look at Joe’s hands, then quickly looked away as we pulled into the parking lot.

The store was a neighborhood hardware establishment on steroids. There were the normal sections of paint, lumber, flooring, electric, pipes, and the like, but there were also areas for all types of gardens, outdoor living, and stuff geared to the tourist looking to haul something “authentic” home with them.

Kathleen asked the employee at the front door for what she was seeking. He immediately pawned her off to another employee who whisked her off to a far section.

Joe led me in another direction. “While we’re here, I wanted to show you something.”

The pizza ovens distracted me for a moment, but soon we were in the fishing section.

“I don’t fish,” I said again.

“Only because you’ve never tried.”

“Of course I have. My father made sure we did all the outdoorsy things: camp, fish, hunt. It only took with Kathleen.”

“Your father taught you cast fishing.”

“Of course. He wanted to actually catch the things, not look pretty doing it.”

Joe chuckled. “Indulge me. I want to see what kind of flies they have.”

He led me to a spot with rows and rows of brightly-colored feathers and fur tied to deadly-looking hooks.

“Does someone actually need all this?”

“No. The best lures mimic what’s happening in a place at that time of year. For example, caddis and mayflies will be hatching soon. So I need a lure that will make the trout think they’re getting a nice fat meal.”

I looked at the lures closely. “Some of them are so intricate.”

“Come over here,” he said. “These are hand-tied lures. Ah, here are some made locally that are what I’m looking for.” He selected a square box with six tiny lures.

“And a fish will go for that?”

“Every time. These are beautiful. I like to buy local hand-tied flies wherever I go. There’s a veteran up our way who does amazing flies. He’s in a wheelchair, but still fly fishes with adaptive equipment. A group called Project Healing Waters got him interested, and now he’s … well … hooked.”

I groaned.

Joe laughed.

“There you are,” Kathleen said, walking up to us. “I got what I needed. Are you done?”

“Soon as I pay for these,” Joe said.

We were soon headed back to the park.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” Joe asked as we drove. “I was thinking of going into the park, seeing if I could catch Old Faithful erupting.”

“What a coincidence,” Kathleen said from the back seat. “That’s exactly what we’re doing tomorrow. Come with us. It'll save gas.”

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