Page 35 of Love In Translation

“How can we help you today, Fletch?” Sam asked, clearly trying to be professional.

Fletch appreciated the effort. “I want to hire you guys for a solo climb sometime early next week. I’d like to try Devil’s Crack.”

Mick walked to the counter where their computer sat and opened their booking program. He gave Fletch a date that suited him, then told him a bit about the route and what he could expect.

After a minute of Mick’s prepared speech, Fletch cut him off. “You can tell me later. Now, what’s the problem?”

Mick and Sam exchanged uneasy glances.

“We have a party coming in tomorrow,” Mick explained, sitting on the edge of the desk. “It’s a big party, and a booking we can’t afford to lose.”

It sounded good to him. “And?” he prompted.

“They’re from Brazil. Some of the country’s best paddlers. They want to kayak the Little White Salmon.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Their translator is ill with appendicitis, and he can’t accompany them tomorrow. If they don’t have a translator, we can’t do the safety drills, explain the route, the dangers.”

“We’ll be forced to refund them, and we can’t afford that,” Sam stated, sounding grim.

“And for some of them, this is a dream trip, one they saved money for years to do,” Mick added.

“And nobody in their group speaks English?” Fletch asked.

They shook their heads. “One or two of them speak enough to order lunch or hail a taxi, but not enough to get across the finer points of kayaking one of the most dangerous rivers in the world.”

“Google Translate?”

“Again, it’s not accurate enough,” Mick gloomily stated. “And nobody in town speaks Portuguese. We’re just going to have to cancel and take the hit.”

Mick pulled his phone out of his pocket, his face as long as a Siberian winter’s night, and Fletch shook his head. “Hold on, I think I can get a translator for you.”

“Seriously?” Mick asked.

“Mmm-hmm.” Yep, he knew Portuguese was one of the languages Rheo spoke. And if he could get Rheo to translate, he could not only save their trip, but he could maybe restore some of her confidence in her ability to translate.

“When are they arriving?”

Mick reached for a file on his desk and flipped it open. “Tomorrow. We’ll pick up the group at their hotel and be at the river by six. If you could find us a translator, we’d owe you big, and give you reduced rates for the rest of the season.”

Fletch laughed. “There’s no need to go that far,” he said. “Let me talk to my friend and I’ll give you a call. Probably within the next hour.”

Fletch headed home—when did he start thinking of the Pink House as home?—considering how best to approach Rheo.

She’d say yes, of course she would. It was a simple job and a good way for her to dip her toe back into face-to-face translating.

“No.”

Rheo looked at Fletch, horrified at his suggestion.

No way could she translate a safety briefing, not when people’s lives were at stake. What if she made a mistake and told them to go left when they should go right? What if she told them to slow down when they should speed up? She knew nothing about kayaking!

“Absolutely not,” Rheo stated, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. She’d just finished wiping the surfaces of the kitchen cabinets, a delaying tactic to avoid another translating module. There was nothing she wanted to do less.

Except translate for a group of Brazilian kayakers.

“If you don’t, their holiday will be ruined and they will have wasted their time and money,” Fletch said, putting his hands on her hips.

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