An image of his mother floated up from his thinking. His mother, early in the morning, outside, kneeling in the grass, letting her hands sweep over the dew clinging to grass blades, then lifting her hands and rubbing the dew across her face, tasting it with the tip of her tongue.

He blinked and the image of his mother vanished. The night-sounds were shrill around the Lake of Grief.

He thought of Hoke Moore, how Hoke Moore had said the valley was a place to find rest and to fish. He had liked seeing the lake called the Chatuge and thought he would fish it before moving on, though, like Hoke Moore, he had always preferred small lakes or rivers, or creeks running into rivers. There were speckled trout in the creeks and the small rivers, especially where the water was cold. He liked fishing for trout, liked the taste of them. Had never used a fly rod, but wanted to try one, even if the casting seemed a mystery the way the line whipped over the water like an unraveling of the alphabet letter S. He had done well enough with his bait caster and with the three flies taken in trade from a fisherman somewhere in Tennessee. Three flies for two bass. He remembered the grin of the fisherman—the grin of a man who thinks he has gotten the best of a deal. “These are old,” the man had said of the flies. “Don’t know if there’s any catch left in them, but I’ve had my share of luck with them.” Noah had caught many trout with the used flies—letting the flies drift on top of the current like a water bug taking a water ride—and considered the trade one in his favor. Other fishermen had said to him that he couldn’t catch trout the way he did, but they were wrong. He had done it and it was not luck. Maybe it was what his mother had said it was—a gift. If it was that, he was glad he had been trusted with it.

He was also glad Hoke Moore had pointed him in the direction of the valley. It had good people living in it from what he could tell. In his travels since leaving his home, he had not met people so quickly, had not been invited into their company with such ease. He knew that Taylor Bowers was the cause of it, having the same kind of friendly nature Marvin Linquist had had. If it had not been for Taylor, there wouldn’t have been a second supper at the home of Eleanor Cunningham. People like Taylor always took the edge off the awkwardness that seemed to cast a spell among strangers.

Thinking of Taylor caused a smile. Taylor had his eye on Eleanor, for certain, and it seemed as though she had a fond feeling for him. Still, it had not been long since the death of her husband and she would not be disrespectful of his memory. Taylor would have to be patient—more patient than he had been as a fisherman. He had the good bait of his nature, but it would take more than being lively to attract Eleanor Cunningham’s attention. She was a woman with a strong mind, a strong will.