“
Carrington was busy spreading a thick layer of glue on the last of three strips of wood that would be joined and fastened to the top edge of the skiff as a gunnel. I had to smile at the sight of Gage crouched beside her, murmuring instructions, holding back one of the braids that threatened to drag through the glue.
“. . . and then at recess,” the girl said, squeezing a huge bottle of wood glue with both hands, “Caleb wouldn’t let anyone else play with the basketball, so Katie and I went and told the teacher—”
“Good for you,” Gage said. “Here, put more glue on the edge. Better to use too much than not enough.”
“Like this?”
“Perfect.”
“And then,” Carrington continued, “the teacher said it was someone else’s turn to play with the ball, and she made Caleb write an essay about sharing and cooperation.”
“Did that fix him?” Jack asked.
“No,” came Carrington’s disgusted reply. “He’s still the terriblest boy you could ever meet.”
“They all are, honey,” Jack said.
“I told him you were going to take me fishing,” Carrington went on indignantly, “and you know what he said?”
“That girls aren’t good at fishing?” Jack guessed.
“How did you know?” she asked in amazement.
“Because I was a terrible boy once, and that’s probably what I would have said. But I’d have been dead wrong. Girls are great at fishing.”
“Are you sure about that, Uncle Jack?”
“Of course I— wait a minute.” Together Jack and Gage lifted the assembled wood strips and fit them to the edge of the boat.
“Sweetheart,” Gage murmured to Carrington, “bring that bucket of clamps over here.” Carefully he placed clamps along the gunnel, pausing to adjust the wood strips when necessary.
“What were you saying, Uncle Jack?” Carrington pressed, handing him some paper towels to wipe up dripping glue.
“I was about to ask you: Who is the fishing expert in this family?”
“You.”
“That’s right. And who’s the expert on women?”
“Uncle Joe,” she said, giggling.
“Joe?” he asked in feigned outrage.
“Humor him, Carrington,” Gage said. “Otherwise we’ll be here all day.”
“You’re the expert on women,” Carrington told Jack promptly.
“That’s right. And I’m here to tell you, some of the best anglers in the world are women.”
“How come?”
“They’re more patient, and they don’t give up easy. They tend to fish an area more thoroughly. And women can always find the spot with the hidden boulders or underwater weeds where fish are hiding. Men, we just look right past those spots, but women always find ’em.”
As Jack spoke, Carrington caught sight of me in the doorway, and she threw me a grin. “Are you gonna take Miss Ella fishing?” she asked Jack, who had picked up a Japanese saw and was cutting off the protruding end of the gunnel at an angle.
“If she wants to,” he said.
“Is she gonna catch you, Uncle Jack?” Carrington asked slyly.
“She already did, darlin’.
”
”