Matt Williams had run Sunny's Bait and Tackle for the last forty years, and nothing much surprised him anymore. He'd hung onto the little shop all that time through hurricanes and dry seasons; found alligators on his deck and had survived three robberies. Being a Navy vet helped; he had a pragmatic approach to life and took things as they came.

He had patience as well, which came in handy whenever vacationers stopped in to pick up snacks or ask about fishing gear rentals. Matt generally liked visitors and did his best to chat and pass out local lore; help young'uns with their first fishing rod or give suggestions about where to get a good dinner or a better deal on a fishing charter. Sunny's did steady business and had a good reputation both with the locals and the tourists.

So when the big fellah and his wife came in during the lull in the late afternoon, Matt looked up and smiled. "How can I hep you folks?"

Had to be ex-military or ex-cop, Matt figured. The man walked with natural-born authority even though he was in a sweatshirt and shorts. His cap had a Giants logo and Matt winced inwardly; Northerner for sure. Nevertheless, Matt kept a pleasant expression.

"I'm looking to rent some fishing gear," the man replied. "And I'd like some advice about surf fishing. Most of what I've done previously is straight dock."

Matt's smile widened. "You've come to the right place then. Matt Williams," he held out a calloused hand. The other man shook it once, smiling back.

"Frank Reagan."

"All right Frank, let's talk rods. I can set you up with a Team Daiwa middleweight pole and baitcast reel along with a surf rig. Where have you fished before?" As he asked, Matt noticed the woman drift off to look at the postcard rack. Long gal with damned nice legs. Probably a second wife.

"Staten Island," Frank replied. "Live bait mostly."

"Live bait works here too," Matt assured him. "Best catch?"

"Ten pound bluefish. Had a spiny dogfish that was bigger, but it broke the line," Frank told him with a shrug.

"Spinys are good eatin' ya know," Matt told him. "Clean 'em right and they're delicious, 'specially pan-fried."

He watched Frank glance at his gal, who looked up from the postcard rack. "You catch it and I'll cook it," she told him with a grin.

Nice. So if the wife was gonna do that, then they'd be fine. "Okay then. What bait do you fancy? We've got minnows and some chunk bait . . . oh! lemme show you the surf rig we use around here . . ."

Within half an hour Matt had them set up, and knocked three bucks off the rental out of goodwill. From the way Frank handled the equipment it was clear the man knew what he was doing, and Matt had faith everything would come back in good shape.

"So here's your five day license and bait," Matt handed over the paper and a plastic bag. "Also a sheet of the most common fish so you can identify your catches. Shop opens at six and closes at nine and here's our website—got some recipes on it, and a couple of coupons you can download. Good luck!"

The wife brought over a few things and Matt approved too: sunscreen; couple of postcards; one of the cheap Styrofoam coolers and a few sodas. As he rang them up he saw her lean closer to Frank.

"Going get some Partagas too?" he heard her murmur.

He didn't answer but he smiled, and Matt took the credit card with a little sigh. He'd seen all kinda couples on vacation from newlyweds to just-on-the-brink of divorcing types and it never ceased to amaze him when he spotted the truly happy ones. From the way the wife was looking at her husband, Matt figured only part of their time here was gonna be spent fishing, that was pretty clear.

"Where you folks stayin? Elizabeth Point Lodge, or the Seaside Inn?" Matt asked.

"Beach house," the woman replied. "Off of Kimberly."

Matt glanced up. "The big one? On Kitty Lane? Oh that's nice place. One of the first one built around here."

"It's comfortable," the woman agreed. "Know anything about the, ah, owner?"

Matt thought back a moment. "Nah, not much. She came by once with the manager long time ago. Not real friendly, but them business types usually aren't."

He watched Frank pick up the cooler and slide an arm around his wife's waist. "Sounds about right. I think we should get going . . ."

The wife nodded, picking up the rest of the goods and Matt enjoyed watching her walk out. Some women were made for wearing shorts and Lord she was one of 'em.

Then Matt went back to loading up the Pennysaver rack, hoping Frank had some good fishing for the next few days.

-oo00oo—

The trail down to the beach wasn't long; maybe a hundred yards all told. Frank led the way trying to keep himself from walking too fast. The problem with being tall was having a long stride, but luckily Briar Rose wasn't having a problem keeping up. The sand dunes were the last hurdle, and once over them, Frank looked out along the beach with a sense of peaceful satisfaction. No one else was in sight, not here in the thin light of dawn. The tide was going out, a slight breeze ruffled the sea oats and the susurration of the waves added to the serenity.

He took in a deep breath, savoring it. "Nice."

Briar Rose came to stand beside him, gazing at the ocean. "Agreed. Lead on, oh Master of Fishermen."

"Scoff all you want; I'm confident," Frank told her, moving down the dune towards the water. Halfway down he found a smooth spot on the cool sand and helped spread the old blanket they'd found in the locker under the beach house. Briar Rose set up the two low beach chairs and promptly parked herself into one, pulling out her cellphone and taking pictures of the sunrise along the shore.

Frank busied himself with the fishing gear: setting out the plastic cutting board, pouring the ice in the cooler, testing the weight of the sinker and baiting the two hooks with bits of thawed shrimp. He caught the mono-filament line and studied the lumps of bait carefully.

"Time to spit," Briar Rose teased him.

Frank shot her a look. "Care to do the honors?" he challenged.

Briar Rose rolled her eyes but leaned forward. "Hold it downwind."

The fact that his wife could manage to make spitting look elegant amused him, and Frank swung the line away from her once the deed was done, flashing her a grin. "Now the burden of the catch is on you, Brat. We'll see if anything bites."

"Just remember I bite," she shot back before settling back in the canvas chair.

He walked down to the water's edge and stared out, looking for the perfect spot in the blue. Once he had it, Frank cocked the reel and snapped the rod, sending the weighted end of the line zinging out in a beautiful arc over the water, watching it 'plunk' into the spot he'd picked.

A quick quarter turn to set the tension, and Frank widened his stance, settling into a comfortable wait.

Fishing. Fishing was the fairest form of hunting, as far as he was concerned. The prey had the choice, and a fighting chance to get away, which Frank felt was more interesting than heading into the woods with a rifle. Fishing gave you time to set your mind at rest, or chew on an issue until you had it unraveled to your satisfaction. Fishing let you drift while being fully aware of everything around you.

He let himself slip into the simple contemplative state, enjoying the scent of the sea and the beauty of the small waves curling up to break and stretch out along the pale sand, feeling at peace.

A few tiny tugs on the line, but nothing substantial. Frank figured it was probably a crab, and reeled in a few clicks. He felt Briar Rose's presence as she came over to him, her sunglasses shading her eyes but her smile sweet. "Need anything?"

"Nope, got it all right now," Frank assured her. "Piscatura veritas."

"Latin. You just quoted something in Latin at me," Briar Rose snickered.

"In fishing, truth," Frank translated. "Elegant and profound."

"Two can play at that game," Briar Rose replied. "Qui piscator erat, amica mea."

Frank puzzled on that, and as he did so the tip of the rod bounced hard; he braced his grip on the butt end, and began to reel in, feeling the tough jerks vibrating down the line.

The fish fought, and with a LOT more resistance than he was used to.

Cranking the reel slowly, Frank managed to bring the fish into the shallows where it struggled, splashing in the shallows, fighting hard.

Briar Rose moved into the water and carefully wrapped the sleeve of her hoodie around her hand before grabbing the line and lifting it. Writhing on the end was a large, annoyed fish, flexing back and forth as she made her way back up onto the sand, straining to carry it. "Frank! This thing's huge!"

He agreed with her, realizing his catch was nearly the length of her forearm. Frank took over, setting the fish on the cutting board and resting a foot on it while he worked the hook free from its lower lip. With a quick little prayer to St. Francis, Frank uncapped the icepick from his pocket and made the humane jab into the brainpan, dispatching the fish within seconds.

"That was fast," Briar Rose murmured faintly. "Wow."

"Ika jime," Frank told her. "Best way to end things for a fish. Pass me the knife, will you?"

He gutted the fish, rinsing it in the water before carrying it up and laying it in the cooler on the ice. "Sea bass," Frank told Briar Rose. "Three pounder I'd guess."

She laughed. "My spit brings all the fish to the hook."

An hour later they trudged home with the sea bass and three medium redfish in the cooler. Frank was quietly elated; this was the best day fishing he'd had in a long time. When they got to the beach house, Briar Rose carefully cleaned the catch, showing dexterity with a blade that he hadn't seen before as she scaled and filleted the fish before wrapping them in paper towels and refrigerating them.

"Well there's dinner," she assured him. "Nicely done sweetheart—let's go find a grocery store and pick up some lemon and butter."

-oo00oo-

The next three days were among the best Frank had ever had. Fishing in the morning, walks on the beach, afternoons exploring Fernandina and the nearby towns including Waterwheel Cigar in Amelia City. He and Briar Rose made good use of the beach house, making love in nearly every room, and enjoying time together and apart.

And they had conversations.

"So . . . you don't want to try and find your birth mother?" Frank murmured. They were sprawled in the living room on the tropical print overstuffed sofa enjoying a lazy afternoon. Frank had tried to get back into the biography but hadn't succeeded.

"I don't think so," Briar Rose replied from the other end, her bare feet in his lap. "I mean what would be the point? I had a mother, and a very good one. I can live with the idea that my birth mother gave me up for my own good. I don't need closure because I never had any knowledge of her prior to a few months ago."

Frank chewed on that. "All right," he agreed. "I can see your reasoning and I think you make some good points. I'm sorry and I always will be that your family wasn't upfront with you about this, though."

Briar Rose sighed. "Me too," she admitted. "And it pisses me off that my aunt was so spiteful about it all. I worked at loving her because she was family . . . or so I thought."

He played with her toes, distracting her for a moment. "The wicked witch in your fairy tale. Still . . . this property is a nice consolation prize. What are your thoughts about this place?"

"A living trust," Briar Rose replied without hesitating. "We'll sit down with an attorney and work out the rules, then turn the management back over to Langdon and Erin, I think. She'd be good at keeping track of it all."

Frank nodded. "So we'd be able to schedule using it among us, and divide the income from the rentals equitably . . . sounds like you've thought about this."

"Don't tell me you haven't," Briar Rose grinned at him, wiggling her feet a little at his touch. "If Fernandina Beach is doing good for you, imagine what it would do for Danny, or your dad. Jamie and Eddy could use time down here too."

Frank nodded. "True. I can vouch for the decompressive charms of the place. George would love it too."

"We'll bring him next visit," Briar Rose grinned. "In the meantime, I believe you and I have a little unfinished business with a bottle of Redbreast, some latex and a black lace nightie, Beloved."