Page 19 of Misadventures With My Fake Fiancé

“They're Alex's favorite. For some reason, he likes them better than regular hot dogs,” Banks added. Mike's cousin was in his late thirties, nondescript and bland. I had been sitting across from Banks for ten minutes and I probably wouldn't be able to pick him out in a line-up. Although with General Lee sitting at the same table that was easy to believe. Banks wore a wrinkled, gray T-shirt with a cartoon bird of some kind on it that I assumed was a college mascot. His dark hair was uncombed and he looked as if he'd just rolled out of bed, clothes and all. Maybe he had. Whether he'd showered recently was definitely questionable.

I plotted Mike's family tree in my head. Banks wasn't Uncle Bob's son—Mike had said he hadn't had kids—so I assumed one of Mrs. O's other siblings wasn't visiting. I didn't plan to ask after this mystery person because I had enough family at the table to handle.

Mike handed me a bowl of coleslaw. I hadn't eaten since my turkey sandwich on the way to Wal-Mart so I was starved. I placed a big scoop on my plate. Next came the pickles and I took a spear. The way Uncle Bob was working through them it might be my only chance to get one.

“No bun, Mommy,” Alex said. He appeared to be five or so, a little younger than my first graders. He looked like a miniature version of his dad, although he wore a striped shirt and a red cape. I wasn't sure which Superhero he was intending to be, but the look was cute.

Trish placed the unwanted bun on her plate and put a hot dog on top. She was a living, breathing Malibu Barbie. It was the first thing that popped into my head when I met her and it stuck. She had long blonde hair, a round face perfectly made up, full-sized breasts with an unrealistically small waist. She was model worthy and I couldn't figure out why she married a slob like Banks. “What do you think of the great weather?” she asked mewith a smile. Her voice was high and soft. “I thought Minnesota had a rough climate, but this is downright depressing.”

The rain hadn't let up all day and the only word for outside was dreary. “I hear there are mountains out there. Somewhere. So far, I've seen from here to Ship Creek and back. Probably not the most scenic part of the state.” It was my turn for the platter. I forked a hot dog onto my bun and passed the platter to Mike. I grabbed the mustard.

Uncle Bob's nephews sat across from me. They'd been talking in hushed voices to each other and darted glances at me once in a while. I couldn't hear what they said, but it was clear I was the topic. Leaning toward Mike, I whispered, “What are the twins talking about?” I wanted verification because I felt a little uncomfortable.

Mike tilted his head toward mine conspiratorially. “I think, you. But I can't say for sure. They don't speak any English.” He didn't seem too keen about the way the brothers were looking at me.

I looked back at the duo. If Goldie were here, she'd call them hot-stuff-times-two. They filled the tall, dark and handsome romance look to a T. They had black hair, long enough to curl over their identical brows, and blue eyes to make one think they were Dark Irish and not French. Identical five o'clock shadows made their jaws look square and very rugged. Knowing they were foreign only added to their mysteriousness. The fact they were twins only added to their magnetism.

“No one speaks French?”

Mike shook his head. Weird of Uncle Bob, having distant relatives visit but not being able to converse with them. Strangely, no one seemed fazed by it.

“I heard you didn't catch anything today,” Mr. O said as he squirted ketchup onto his roll.

“No luck. People all around us were reeling them in,” Mike replied. He took a swig of his beer.

“Maybe it's the lure,” Uncle Bob said, waving his fork in the air in one hand. “The Flashtrap Spinner seems to work for me, although we only caught two Reds between the three of us. No Kings.” He took a bite from his second, or maybe third, pickle spear.

“I used the French Blade Minnow,” I told him. “It's heavy and helps me cast farther. With Ship Creek being so fast moving, I needed all the time I could get.”

Uncle Bob stopped chewing and smiled broadly. He pointed the pickle spear at me. “Mikey, whatever lure you used to catch this one, it's a keeper.” He chuckled at his own joke. “Anyone who knows their ass from their elbow about fishing shouldn't be tossed back.”

I raised my eyebrows and nodded my head. So I knew my lures and tackle, could probably survive in the woods like a Boy Scout if required. I also always wore make-up when leaving the house. There was a compliment in there somewhere.

“We must have just missed you at Ship Creek.” Uncle Bob licked the pickle juice from his fingers. “Jean-Luc, Marc and I were out there for about two hours.”

At the sound of their names, both men looked at Uncle Bob. He pretended to cast a line with his hands and the twins nodded and replied in rapid French. They really were amazing to look at. And the accent. My mind veered to steamier thoughts and I couldn't decide which one I would pick. Goldie would be proud of my wayward thoughts. They really did look identical. That said quite a bit, being an identical twin myself.

“Fishing,” Uncle Bob shouted at the twins, as if talking louder would make them understand. He smiled and nodded, too, as if they were slow-witted, not language impaired. I wasn't sure howUncle Bob communicated with the men while they were visiting, but he clearly didn't speak French.

After minoring in the language in college and spending a year abroad in Paris, I did. But I didn't want to let on that I understood the men and their talk about catching a fish but having to put it back. I had visions of being the family translator for the remainder of my trip.

Moments later, my translation was confirmed when Uncle Bob added, “Marc snagged a Red, but he tossed it back.”

A snagged—and illegal—fish is when the hook is caught anywhere but in the mouth. I had no doubt Fish and Game ticketed anyone who tried to keep one.

“Listen, Violet. If you catch any fish, don't worry. I've got all the stuff to get them cleaned and into vacuum sealed packages. You can take a box of frozen fish home with you to remember the trip.”

I smiled at Uncle Bob. His personality was a little over the top, which made me forget he was dressed up for the Battle of Bull Run. “That would be great. Thanks.”

Fishing in Montana was often catch and release. But salmon, which I loved to eat, and since they were dying anyway as the final part of spawning, were worth catching and keeping. Besides, I'd love a freezer full of fish.

“Did you bring me a present?” Alex asked me. He had ketchup on his cheeks.

“A present?” I asked.

“Everyone brings me presents in a suitcase.”

I remembered back to when I was a kid and Alex did have a point. Usually people with suitcases also came bearing gifts. My grandparents used to go to the beach in Mexico every January and they brought me and my sister something different every time. Looking back, they were silly trinkets, but we just loved them and always tried to guess what the present would be.

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