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it’s in there, there isn’t a way to get it out. No way to remedy the ache when you’re away other than to visit. Or move here permanent.”
    Bryn smiled in confusion. “You make it sound like a disease.”
    “Some might call it that, yes.”
    He was puzzling, this wizened old man. She wondered what it was about Ben that her father had disliked, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure it out. He was a genuine, sweet gentleman. Maybe Peter was afraid Ben would see into his soul as he was seeing into Bryn’s. Afraid that he’d open up to the old guy when he wasn’t ready to open up to anyone. Her thoughts floated until Ben brought another cup of tea.
    They talked of Eli’s blossoming business plans and his parents, about Bryn’s studies, her mother in Newport, her grampa in Boston—it hit her then that Ben reminded her of her beloved grandfather. How she missed Grampa Bruce’s smiling eyes and the way he would trace his old finger down her jaw tenderly when he was telling her something he wanted her to remember forever …
    When their mugs were empty, Eli and Bryn said good-bye, promising to come back the following week to meet his “babies.”
    Eli followed Bryn down to the canoe, allowed her to get to thefront, and then pushed off of a large rock without ever getting his boots wet. As they paddled away, he asked quietly, “What did you think?”
    “About?”
    “About Ben.”
    “I think he’s a very nice old man. I don’t know why my father doesn’t like him.”
    “Why don’t you ask him?”
    “I might.”
    “Want to go fishing?” Eli changed subjects. “I can teach you an old Tlingit tribe method and catch you a passel of trout for dinner.”
    “Yes. I’d like that,” she said. “But let’s stop and get my dad’s fly-fishing rod too. I want to try my hand at it.”
    “You got it.”

C HAPTER T HREE
    E li was showing Bryn how to stand on the logjam and use Ben’s dip nets to try to catch trout the way the natives caught chinook salmon on the Pacific rivers. Ben had handcrafted the nets years before; they weren’t as effective as fly rods with the trout, but they were twice as much fun.
    As Bryn stood spread-eagle over the rushing river, on top of logs that waved a little under her weight, she grinned. It was risky, this. With one misstep, she’d be in the frigid water and heading toward the lake through the small rapids. She couldn’t remember the last time she had the tingle of anticipation running down her back, the relentless smile on her face from pure excitement. A dark form slithered toward her, and she dropped the long net. Too late. She studied the silver water a little farther upstream, hoping to give herself a better chance at dunking the net in time.
    Across the water, Eli whooped with glee. “Got one! He’s nineteen inches long if he’s an inch!” he shouted. “Get to it, ya Californian. If you don’t catch at least one, you don’t get to eat tonight.”
    “I’m working on it,” she tossed back, her eyes still on the water.
There!
She plunged her net downward so hard and so deep the hand carved pole nearly slipped from her grasp. She gave out a little yelp, and Eli immediately responded in concern.
    “Bryn?”
    “I’m okay. Just missed a fish and almost lost the net.”
    “Don’t do that. Ben’ll kill us.”
    She glanced over at him and then did a double take. He was so cute, with his old airman’s cap on backward. His hazel eyes studied her, and she deliberately looked back to the river. “Catch a fish, Bryn, or you won’t eat. Don’t lose the net or Ben’ll kill us,” she mimicked. “I can’t win,” she pretended to whine.
    “You’ll get the hang of it,” he said. She could barely hear him over the water’s rush.
    Five minutes later, after several more failed attempts, she came up with her own prize trout. She hooted with glee, smiling over at Eli, and he grinned back at her. He was scrambling over the old silvered logs to get to her and