Page 22 of Finding Silence
“We didn’t bet on size though,” I remind her. “We bet on speed, both for landing a fish, and cleaning them, which we still have to do, so you can still win your fiver back.”
“You are so on,” she challenges with a playful gleam in her eyes.
This woman is unlike anyone I’ve met before, but damned if I don’t like her.
She wins hands down.
So quick and certain with that thin, sharp blade of her fillet knife, it makes me think I don’t want to ever get on her wrong side.
“So?” she prompts me, her fists planted on those enticing hips.
I take in her eager face and nod. “We’re square.”
Her grin is triumphant and beautiful, and I quickly turn my back to finish up with my fish, and hide my smile.
Phyllis Dubois is turning out to be quite a woman.
At first, I took that prickly sensation under my skin to be annoyance, but I’m starting to think maybe that’s what it feels like when you’re coming alive after being in hibernation for so many years.
“Do you have a big pot?” she asks, as she washes her hands under the outside faucet I installed on the stainless steel cleaning table.
This is where I clean fish and game, maybe the occasional chicken, so having running water out here comes in handy.
“Like a stock pot,” she adds.
“There’s an enameled cast iron Dutch oven on the shelf above the washer and dryer in the mudroom through there.”
I point at the back entrance. Wiping her hands on the seat of her pants, I watch her head for the door and step into my house.
Except for Savannah, of course, there are only a handful of people who have been inside since Marie died. Before last year, that was mainly because I was working ten, eleven, twelve-hour days. Since then, it’s become clear I’m simply too ornery to socialize much, other than poker night.
But I realize I don’t mind having Phil in my space.
I finish up the filets and am about to toss the remains of the fish in the bucket I’ll usually empty upstream on the creek bank somewhere for the critters to snack on, when Phil stops me.
“Don’t throw that out.”
She comes walking up with my heavy pot and sets it on a clean corner of the stainless steel table. Then she lifts the lid.
“Everything but the entrails in here.”
“What are you gonna do with it?” I want to know as I toss a fish carcass in the pot.
“Make stock. Fish stock is great for making risotto, fish stew, Thai stir-fry, soups, chowders, you name it. Can I grab some scallions from your garden?”
She points at the pitiful-looking garden Angus decimated. Apparently, he’s not a big fan of onions, since those are just about the only thing left standing.
“By all means.”
When she walks over and bends down, I force myself to look away. After I wash my hands at the faucet, I focus my attention on getting the smoker ready. Those filets will take at least a couple of hours to smoke.
I’m lighting the wood pellets when I feel a warm hand on my back.
“God, that smells so good already. I can’t wait.”
I turn to find her standing within reaching distance. She’s even prettier up close when she flashes that smile at me.
“Do you mind if I simmer that pot on the stove in your kitchen?”
