“I called Clay. He left out a few poles for us,” John said.

Gordon, dressed in tan nylon fishing pants and a brown T-shirt, lifted one of the poles lying on the dock and inspected it. He turned to John and said teasingly. “I think this was one Hemingway used.”

John laughed, looking down at his own olive-green fishing pants. They were both dressed for a day on the water with ball caps, sunscreen, and wicking shirts.

“Yeah, well, Clay’s getting up there. I’m sure he has his own rods that he keeps aside. These are freebies, so you know what they say about beggars and choosers.”

“Check this out,” Gordon said, lifting the rod to show the hook dangling from the line. “There’s a petrified worm on this rusty hook.”

John struggled to keep a straight face. “Wow, look at that.”

“You really spare no expense. I didn’t know you were a serious fisherman. When was this used last? The Civil War?”

“Going fishing was your idea, Einstein.”

“I wanted to thank you for allowing me to rent your loft. For an exorbitant price. I thought a bit of male bonding was in order.”

“Sure. We both know Linnea ordered us to go out.” He scratched his head. “Look, I know this isn’t first class, but we’ll be fine. There’s a hook. You put bait on the hook. The fish bites the hook. How hard could it be?”

“So, what you’re telling me is that you don’t know how to fish either.”

“You mean you don’t?” John asked. “I thought all Brits fished.”

“I thought all lowcountry men fished,” Gordon fired back.

John looked out at the water and shrugged. “I was always more of a surfer.”

“Now that we’re done with stereotypes, let’s say we figure this out.”

John picked up one of the poles. He had to admit, it was in pretty bad shape. “I didn’t know fishing poles could rust.”

“Most of it is the salt,” Gordon said with enviable knowledge. He squeezed a hook between his thumb and index finger. He didn’t look at all surprised when it cracked in half. “Perfect. Do you have a spare?”

“A spare?”

“You did bring hooks?”

“You didn’t?”

“I don’t suppose you brought bait, either.” Gordon bent to open the cooler.

“Nope. All beers in there. I took care of packing the serious provisions.”

“Fantastic.” Gordon looked annoyed. “One of us has to go to Harris Teeter. They’ve got bait and hooks there.”

“I nominate you,” John said, tossing Gordon his car keys.

Gordon caught them on the fly. “You idiot. They could’ve fallen into the creek.”

“I trusted you. The first rule of fishing. Trust your partner. My car’s in the driveway. I’ll be on the end of the dock, tipping a cold one. Drive safe.”

Gordon looked fed up with the whole expedition. “Very well. At least grab the poles. Would you do that? Please?”

John grabbed both poles with one hand. “All done. Thanks.”

John watched Gordon walk back down the precarious dock and felt a twinge of guilt. Sure, he wanted to stick it to him. Gordon was lording his man-of-the-house presence at the beach house, never missing a chance to put an arm around Linnea or, his personal favorite, kiss the top of her head whenever John walked into a room. John tipped back the bottle and took a long swallow. He couldn’t deny it was killing him. He couldn’t sleep at night, knowing that guy was in bed with Linnea. There wasn’t enough alcohol to quench that burn.