It was an hour past dawn, and he wondered whether Hope was awake. In the morning glare, it was impossible to tell if any lights were on, but there was no sign of her on the deck. He thought about her boyfriend and shook his head, wondering what the man was thinking. Despite a life spent mostly in the bush, even Tru knew that the wedding of a close friend pretty much mandated attendance on the boyfriend’s part. It didn’t matter how well they were getting along, or even if they were temporarily on the outs, as she’d put it.

Despite himself, he found himself imagining how she looked in the morning before getting herself ready for the day. Even with hair askew and puffy eyes, she’d still be beautiful. Some things just couldn’t be hidden. When she smiled, there was a gentle light about her, and it was easy to get lost in that accent of hers. There was something soft and rolling to it, like a lullaby, and when she’d been recounting stories about Ellen or telling him about the manatee, he’d felt like he could have listened to her forever.

Despite an overcast sky, the morning was warmer than it had been the day before, and the humidity had increased. The breeze, too, had picked up, all of which meant that Hope had been right about the possibility of storms this weekend. In the days leading up to rain in Zimbabwe, the air had a pregnant charge that felt much the same.

There were already half a dozen men fishing from the pier by the time he started toward the steps, and he watched as one began to reel something in. It was too far away to make out any detail, but he took it as a good sign. He doubted whether he’d keep anything he caught; there was too much food in the refrigerator as it was. Nor was he in the mood to clean anything, especially since the knife in the tackle box seemed dull. But catching something was always a thrill.

Entering the shop, he saw shelves filled with snacks and drinks crowding the center aisles; along the back wall was a grill that offered hot food. Assorted fishing gear was perched on racks and hung on pegs; near the door was a cooler, with a sign advertising bait. Tru plucked out a couple of containers of shrimp and brought them to the register. There was a fee to fish from the pier as well, and after receiving his change, Tru strolled out the door, past a pay phone, and down the pier. Despite the overcast sky, the sun had broken through momentarily, glinting hard off the water.

Most of the people were clustered near the end, and assuming they knew more than he did, he took up a spot in their vicinity. Unlike the tackle box, the fishing pole was in like-new condition, and after baiting and weighting the line, he cast out into the water.

In the corner of the pier a radio was playing, something country-western. Strangely, Andrew was a fan of Garth Brooks and George Strait, though Tru had no idea how he’d ever encountered their songs. When Andrew had mentioned their names a few months back, Tru had stared at him blankly, at which point Andrew had insisted that Tru listen to “Friends in Low Places.” It was catchy, he had to admit, but nothing could touch Tru’s loyalty to the Beatles.

Whether consciously or subconsciously, Tru had selected the side of the pier that allowed him a view of Hope’s cottage in the distance. He reflected on their dinner and walk, realizing that she’d made him feel at ease the entire evening. For all their heady attraction, he’d seldom felt that way with Kim; all too often, he’d felt as though he was disappointing her. And even though they were now friends, there were times that he still felt as though he was disappointing her, especially when it came to the time he spent with Andrew.

He’d also been taken with the way Hope had spoken about her friends and family. It was clear that she genuinely cared for all of them. She was naturally empathetic, not just sympathetic, and people like that struck him as rare. He’d sensed it even when they’d spoken about Andrew.

Thinking about his son, he now wished he had postponed leaving for the trip, given that he wouldn’t see his father until Saturday afternoon. It was odd that the man hadn’t called to explain, but it irritated Tru only with regard to Andrew. He had awakened in the morning missing his son, and resolved to give Andrew a call from the pay phone he’d passed. It would have to be collect and the charges would be substantial, but Kim would let him reimburse her when he returned. With the time difference, and knowing Andrew was in school and had homework, Tru figured he still had a couple of hours to wait. He was already looking forward to his flight home on Monday.

Except…

Raising his eyes toward Hope’s cottage again, he smiled when he saw her trailing after Scottie as he trotted down the walkway, then the steps. At the beach, she bent over, releasing Scottie from the leash, and the dog took off running. There were no seagulls nearby, but he’d find them; of that Tru had no doubt. As he watched, he wondered whether Hope was thinking about him, and hoped that she’d enjoyed their evening together as much as he had.

She drew farther from the pier with every step, her image growing smaller. He watched her anyway, until he registered a light movement on his line. When he felt a tug, he jerked the tip of the rod upward, sinking the hook, and all at once, the pull on the line intensified. He lowered the tip and began winding the reel, keeping just enough tension on the line, and was struck again by how strong fish were, no matter their size. They were all muscle. But he played the game, knowing the fish would eventually tire.

Continuing to work the reel, he watched as a strange-looking fish eventually emerged from the water at the end of his line. He swung it to the pier, having no idea what to make of it. It was flat and oval, with two eyes on its back. Using the toe of his boot to keep it from flapping, he plucked a glove and pair of pliers from the toolbox and began to remove the hook, trying not to damage the fish’s mouth. As he was working, he heard a voice beside him.

“That’s a helluva flounder. Big enough to keep, too.”

Tru glanced up and saw an older man with a baseball cap, wearing clothes that were several sizes too large. He had a gap where his front teeth should have been and his accent, much heavier than Hope’s, was difficult to understand.

“Is that what it is?”

“Don’t tell me you ain’t never seen a flounder before.”

“This is a first.”

The man squinted at him. “Where you from?”

Wondering whether the man had ever heard of Zimbabwe, he simply said, “Africa.”

“Africa! You don’t look like you’re from Africa.”

By then Tru had removed the hook, and setting the pliers aside, he grabbed the fish and was about to toss it over when he heard the man speak up.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“I was going to let it go.”

“Can I have it? I ain’t had much luck yesterday or this morning. I’d sure appreciate some flounder for dinner.”

Tru debated before shrugging. “Sure.”

The man reached over and took the fish, crossing back to the other side of the pier, where it vanished into a small cooler.

“Thank you,” the man called out.

“You’re welcome.”

Tru readied his line again, casting out a second time. By then, Hope was nothing but a smudge in the distance.

He recognized her anyway, and for a long time, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

* * *

Hope kept watch over Scottie, calling for the dog to come whenever he approached the dune, not that he ever seemed to listen. Hoping that Scottie would suddenly begin to obey was an exercise in futility. Of course, it fit perfectly with how her morning was already going.