Chapter Four
J ack spooned freshly ground coffee beans into his French press and filled it up with boiling water from the kettle, then gazed out the window at the steady rain beating down on the thick pine forest outside of his house while he waited for the grounds to steep.
His house was a well-built riverside bungalow he’d bought three years earlier from a family of four moving to Ottawa. It sat one hundred feet from the upper Bow River, which flowed from Bow Lake and Banff, snaking down through the Rockies all the way south of Calgary. He had neighbors on both sides, with enough forest in between for everyone to have their privacy but still feel like there were people to rely on if someone needed a cup of sugar or help picking up mail while they were on vacation. This stretch of the river was sandwiched between Sandpiper Springs, a small, gritty lumber town, to the north and Keystone Ridge to the south.
The house had three bedrooms, one of which he used to sleep, another which served as his office, and the third where he kept his bookshelves and a big comfy couch as well as a Murphy bed for when his brother, Caden, came to visit from Surrey with his wife, Julie, and their one-year-old girl, Millie.
There’d been a point when those rooms had been meant to serve a very different purpose. But after Christine had broken things off and left town, he couldn’t bring himself to sell. He liked the quiet of the forest, the way the light trickled through the trees, and the burble of the river at night when he left the windows open a crack.
Every now and then a memory of sitting out on the porch drinking coffee with Christine flashed in his mind, but it had been two years since she’d left and he’d gotten used to having his coffee solo.
It was the perfect home as far as Jack was concerned, but the rising interest rates on his variable-rate mortgage and the steady increase in property taxes that kept up with the area’s increasing popularity meant that if business didn’t pick up soon, he might have to downsize to something smaller in town.
He poured himself a cup of coffee in a travel mug, then whistled for Bodie, his ten-year-old Siberian husky, who leapt from his bed in front of the wood-burning fireplace, panting in anticipation of his morning walk. Only a dog would be that excited to leave a cozy spot in front of the fire to go out in the damp early-spring rain, and lucky for Bodie, inclement weather never phased Jack. He was as happy outside in the snow or sleet as he was on a radiant sunny day. He lived to be outside—another reason why his parents hadn’t been able to convince him to pursue teaching or some other kind of corporate job.
The days he wasn’t working played out the same way: morning walk with Bodie, followed by a trip into town for errands. Then he’d get some chores done at home and do some cooking and listen to a podcast or watch something on Netflix.
His life was quiet and predictable, but it suited him. And he got enough people time from his job anyway—at least when he had customers.
Before leashing up Bodie, Jack opened his laptop and took a sip of his coffee while the machine booted up. He crossed his fingers that the couple hundred bucks he’d dumped into social media advertising, at his brother’s urging, had resulted in a few bookings.
No luck.
Now he was out the cost of two registrations. He grunted in frustration and pushed the laptop closed. “Come on, Bodie,” he said.
It was misty and gray out, but the frigid temperatures had recently been making way for a warmer but damper early spring.
Jack always kept his dog on a leash when they walked. Bodie would love to run free through the woods, chasing squirrels and field mice, but there was always a chance they’d encounter a bear or a cougar, and Jack’s home was empty enough without him losing Bodie too.
When they reached the river, Jack stopped in his tracks. “What in the goddamn hell,” he grunted and gripped Bodie’s leash tightly. The husky must have felt the current of anger right through the leash to his collar, and he started barking at the figure out on the river.
Standing in fresh-out-of-the-box waders and holding a fishing rod was Forrest Halpern, one of the most privileged twentysomethings in the area, who’d recently gotten a huge influx of cash from his daddy to fund the startup of his own wilderness-adventure company. Despite Forrest’s lack of experience as an angler, his company was siphoning clients from Jack as quickly as a frosh with a beer funnel at a frat party.
Jack had heard that he was fully booked all summer, thanks to a series of TikTok and Instagram videos he’d hired a production company to make. Forrest had the experience of Jack’s baby toe, and he couldn’t believe the charlatan was capitalizing on zero training.
And now he was parading right in front of Jack’s place. It was for sure on purpose. Forrest had hated him since Jack had made a side comment to Forrest’s father at a town meeting about his son’s rumored side hustle. Jack didn’t have any evidence, but word from the guys at the tackle shop was that Forrest was moving cocaine, fentanyl, and methamphetamine around in Sandpiper Springs and the surrounding communities that were also on the rougher side, and he’d figured his dad would want to know.
Kendall Halpern, Forrest’s dad and the owner of the province’s largest logging company, had waved Jack off, but after a local high school kid had OD’d at a bush party and the police had questioned Forrest, Kendall had gotten involved and all charges had been dropped.
Now not only was Jack trying to make up ground for his slumping business, but he was competing with a sniveling douchebag who had infinite resources and was probably snorting any profits in powder form.
“Hey there, Wallace,” Forrest called, giving him an exaggerated wave. “Hope you don’t mind—I’m scouting out some new spots! You’re not using this area these days, are you, bro?”
It’s only my goddamn backyard , Jack wanted to say. Bro. “No. Not much action here, though,” he said. Which Forrest would know if he knew anything about anything.
“I’ve got some Helios I’m looking to sell, if you need anything. Just picked up these new Sage X rods. Sweet, eh?”
Jack’s blood boiled. He did need new equipment, but he’d never give Forrest Halpern the satisfaction of taking his castoffs. He gave Forrest a quick wave and kept walking, but not before noting the rookie cast he made, which was even more embarrassing given the quality of his rod, to the tune of at least two grand. Jack waited until he was far enough away to smirk to himself.
Forrest Halpern was the definition of a hack. Then again, clearly he was doing something right if people were employing his services. But this was the problem with the internet. It was too easy to buy five-star ratings on Google, to get eyes on your product, even when you were selling a load of crap. As long as Forrest could give travelers that Instagram shot, the quality didn’t seem to matter.
Bodie stopped to sniff at what first looked like a pine cone but at closer inspection was the droppings of some kind of animal. “Come on, Bodie,” Jack said. “We don’t put shit up our noses.”
Jack trudged down the path, mind whirling with how to pull his business out of the tank. He was skilled, he was knowledgeable, he knew how to read river conditions and wind patterns and just about any color sky and make a best guess about where to take his groups. Could Forrest do that? Was he really booking as many clients as he was letting on?
There was only one place to find out—where the gossip flew around faster than any hair salon or high school cafeteria.
Jack brought Bodie back to the house, got into his pickup truck, and drove into Keystone Ridge to Hank’s Tackle Shop, where all the local anglers sat out front drinking coffee and trading shit talk. It was time to figure out what the hell was going on.
*
“There he is,” a booming voice called from a yellow Muskoka chair outside of Hank’s. Jack had barely excited the truck but was happy to see Hank Dougherty, tackle shop owner and social convenor of a ragtag group of locals, four of whom were seated in the other Muskoka chairs that formed a circle outside of the shop. “Where ya been? That box of tippet you ordered came in over a week ago.”
Jack didn’t want to tell Hank that he hadn’t been by because his booking calendar was emptier than a dry well. “Caught a bug there for a bit,” he said. “Plus I’ve been teaching a class down at the college.”
“I heard that,” Hank said. “Good for you, Wallace.”
“If you don’t mind spreading the word, I’ve got a couple of spaces left in the class.”
“Will do,” said Hank.
“Hey, how’s business been for you guys? Spring season picking up?”
“It’s been steady,” Hank said. “Lot of these newer companies dropping by, asking for discounts like they’ve been buying from me for years now. Like you. I told them they can ask again after they show me some loyalty.” He took a sip from his coffee. “All I can say is that when I get a call for recommendations, yours is the first name I give ’em. But I don’t know. Everyone’s looking for a bargain these days, and some of these other guys are practically giving away their services. Not sure how much of a profit they’re pulling in.”
Jack considered. “Well, I appreciate that, Hank.” The truth was some of them, like Forrest, were probably pulling in profits in different ways, but he wasn’t going to be seen spreading rumors in a group like this. “Can I settle up?”
He followed Hank inside to the small tackle shop. The walls were lined with rods and reels, spools of line, apparel and every manner of hooks, weights, and tackle. Behind the counter was a wall full of photos of Hank and his staff members and customers holding trophy catches. The shop connected directly to Ronnie’s Diner, which was owned and operated by Hank’s wife, Veronica.
While Hank clicked on his computer, Jack glanced over to the diner’s busy space, which, as always, was full of a mix of locals and tourists.
The enticing aroma of coffee grinds and bacon no doubt lured many visitors from the tackle shop, and despite the fact that he’d already had two coffees, Jack was considering plopping down at a table for Veronica’s famous spinach-and-Monterey omelet.
He scanned the room for an empty table and stopped when his gaze settled right in the middle of the room, at a table with three women. Apparently someone had just said something very amusing because one of them was laughing so hard her head was buried in her hands, her shoulders convulsing in laughter.
When she looked up, Jack took a sharp breath in. It was Celeste McCarthy, with a wide grin on her face and tears of laughter in her eyes.
“That’ll be two-eighty-two forty-nine,” said Hank, sliding an invoice toward him. “I knocked 15 percent off.”
“You didn’t need to do that,” Jack said as he slid his credit card across the counter. The last thing he wanted was people’s charity. But still, he appreciated it. “Hey, uh, I’m just going to grab a quick bite. I’ll pick everything up in a few minutes.”
“I’ll leave it by the door for ya. Thanks, Jack.”
Jack tucked the receipt into his pocket and passed through the narrow doorway between the tackle shop and the diner. Celeste and the other two women appeared to be discussing something serious now. He almost turned around, not wanting to disrupt their conversation, but Celeste looked over and stopped midsentence, then sat up and smiled at him.
“Hey, Jack,” she said.
He approached the edge of their table and nodded at Celeste and the two other women who, he could tell now that he was closer up, must’ve been her sisters. “My star student,” he said. “Sorry you won’t be joining us again.”
“Actually,” Celeste said, tilting her head to the side slightly and flashing him another grin, “I changed my mind. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Jack tried to mask his surprise, but knowing Celeste was sticking around in his class was…unexpected. “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” he said. He looked at the two other women. “Jack Wallace.”
“Sorry—that was rude of me,” Celeste said. “These are my sisters, Elodie and Quinn.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jack said.
They both had Celeste’s bright eyes, but Elodie’s hair was lighter and Quinn looked like she’d just stepped out of the 1960s, with a fringed leather vest and some kind of hippy-looking flower headband.
“I’m the one who tagged you on Instagram the other day,” Quinn said. “The post is getting so many likes.”
“Is that right?” Jack said. He liked the sound of that. Free publicity. “Well, you’re welcome to come by the class too, if you’d like.” Nothing wrong with getting a little more exposure on social media. Quinn appeared to be in her twenties and probably knew a whole hell of a lot more about it than he did.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Celeste shoot Quinn a look. “Really?” Quinn said. “I’d love to take some photos. As a follow-up post. Maybe with, like, a step-by-step of whatever you’re making?”
“Absolutely,” Jack said, flipping his keys in his hand. He noticed Celeste shift in her seat. “All right, well…”
“You’re welcome to join us,” said Quinn.
“Appreciate that. I’m just going to grab some takeout. Enjoy your meal, ladies,” he said. He looked at Celeste. “See you in class.”
“See you then,” she said.
It was still gray and rainy outside as Jack made his way back to his truck, but suddenly the day felt a lot lighter.
*
As soon as Jack was out of earshot, the teasing began. “Someone has a crush,” said Elodie.
“Come on, can you blame her?” Quinn said. “That man is Hollywood hot.” She fanned herself with her hand and pretended to swoon.
“Shut up, both of you,” said Celeste. “What are you, middle schoolers?”
“If I were into men, I’d have to agree with Quinn,” said Elodie, grinning.
Celeste shot her a look. Normally Elodie could be counted on to act mature, but Quinn was a bad influence.
“We need to figure out what you’re wearing to class on Monday,” said Quinn.
“I can dress myself, thank you very much. And you’re not coming,” Celeste said.
“Of course I’m coming! This is valuable content for my socials.”
Celeste rolled her eyes and sat back in her seat. She loved her sisters, but they were pests.
“He’s so into you,” Quinn whispered excitedly. “He was practically undressing you with his eyes.”
“Shut up,” she said again.
Oscar, their usual waiter, a sixtysomething-year-old man with a tidy handlebar mustache, approached their table, notepad in hand. They’d been going to Ronnie’s since they were kids, and Oscar had been there just about as long. “Ready to order, ladies?”
“Two eggs, over easy, hash browns, bacon, whole-wheat toast, and a black coffee,” said Celeste, not bothering to look at the menu. “Maybe I should get decaf. I’ve already had two coffees this morning.”
“Oh, no. Don’t do that. Haven’t you heard decaf has methylene chloride in it? That’s a carcinogen,” said Elodie, a horrified look on her face.
“You’re such a hypochondriac,” Celeste said. Elodie was always on the lookout for things that could kill her. “Fine, I’ll have the caffeine.”
“I’ll have the mango benny, double espresso, and a waffle on the side,” said Quinn. “And a cup of ice water to pour over my sister’s head. She’s all steamed up.”
“Quinn,” Celeste hissed.
Oscar paused, then looked at Elodie. “And let me guess—huevos migas, sub chips for the tortilla,” he said. “And an Earl Grey tea.”
“We love you, Oscar,” said Elodie as Oscar left to put in their order. Hopefully it would be quick. After a late-night call to fix a running toilet, Celeste hadn’t been able to get back to sleep and was now starving. With the lodge fully booked and both their parents flitting around the property, they’d decided to get off-site so they could dissect the situation without Jeannie and Everett overhearing them.
“I hate the idea that they’ve been unhappy just because they worry about upsetting us.”
“I’d have been okay with them holding on a little longer,” Celeste said. She was trying to focus on the conversation, but all she could think about was the interaction with Jack. His perfectly fit blue jeans and his heavy work coat and his tousled hair poking out from the edges of his wool toque, which only added to his rugged charm. That glint in his eyes, like a sudden spark waiting to ignite, that switched on a part of her that had been ignored for far too long.
When he’d emerged from the tackle shop, caught her eye, and waved, her stomach had just about bottomed out.
There was no denying she was attracted to him. But his type was all too common in the area, and even though the desire was undeniable, they were in no way compatible.
Celeste took after her mother in her level of interest in the outdoor-granola lifestyle, a level hovering at zero. Was it so wrong that she preferred a climate-controlled room and her down comforter over sleeping on rocky, uneven ground, with the threat of a bear attack always in the back of her mind? That she liked eating well-cooked food from sanitized dishes at a level table rather than gross camp food from a tin plate balanced on her lap?
Jack was exactly the kind of guy who looked down on people like Celeste. And even if he wasn’t, she had one job right now, and that job required all her spare time and headspace.
“Earth to Celeste,” Quinn said, waving a piece of waffle on a fork in her face.
“Fine, you can come to the class with me,” she said. “But if you do anything to embarrass me, you’re never borrowing my car again.”
“I’ll behave. Scout’s honor,” Quinn said. She grinned. “But I was asking you to pass the ketchup.”
Celeste’s cheeks burned as her sisters erupted in laughter. “All right, laugh it up,” she said and tossed a sugar packet across the table at Quinn. “You can pay for your own breakfasts.”