Fishing With RayAnne Read Online Free PDF Page A

“Well, then I’d buy another, and before you know it I’d need a bookcase.”
    “To own a copy of The Wayward Bus ?”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “Not really. Just get a Kindle.”
    RayAnne hugs the books to her chest. “Not there yet.”
    Cassi scans the book titles. “You were like, something else once? Before fishing?”
    “Almost. I majored in journalism, then worked at a crummy weekly, but . . .”
    “But what?”
    “I was kind of terrible at it. I’d be assigned these human interest stories and wind up sort of . . . enhancing .”
    “What, like fabricating? Like that New Republic guy?”
    “More like what my gran calls spit-shining. Giving people’s stories slightly better spins and angles.”
    “But in journalism?” Cassi squints.
    “I know. It wasn’t for me. Facts aren’t nearly as compelling as people, and people have so few facts.”
    “Maybe you should have considered fiction.”
    “Tell me. Hey, should you even be out here?”
    “I’m wearing SPF 90. Wait’ll you see my getup for Location—like a beekeeper. You know they make sunproof fabric?” Cassi slings her bag and heads toward a red Ford Fiesta that looks as though it might have been painted with a brush. RayAnne opens her mouth to ask if it has air bags, thinks better of it, and waves her off, saying, “Drive safe.” Which she hopes is heeded as don’t text .
    Once in her own car, she juggles her phone uncertainly, then, assuming he won’t be answering, since he rarely does, speed dials Big Rick. She expects to leave a message, but is startled when he picks up on the first ring.
    “Hey, Baby Ray.”
    “Dad. You knew it was me?”
    “I got this caller ID gizmo. Gotta love that—now I only talk to your grandmother when I feel like a lecture.”
    “C’mon, Dad, she only nags when you . . . never mind. I should call her myself.”
    “How’s it going up there in TV land?”
    “It’s okay. Mostly.” She can hear the glug of liquid over ice and looks at her watch. It isn’t even eleven a.m. yet in Arizona where Big Rick has recently retired with his latest wife.
    “What’s that noise?”
    “Ice. For lemonade .”
    “Only asking.” Unable to keep the names straight, she asks, “How’s the bride?”
    “She’s working out okay. At her golf lesson right now. So, you get another season?”
    “I’m on again, it seems—with a few conditions. Let’s see—they want a pink cancer ribbon on my trolling motor, forget that they’re already embroidered on every life vest. I get to ride a fiberglass trout in some parade, and they want me to call guests ‘girlfriend’ like Oprah does. Oh, and I have to stand around at the Rod & Gun Expo for two days doing promo.”
    “So, you signed a contra—”
    “No, Dad, no contract.”
    “I told you to go cable, Ray.”
    Big Rick fished the pro circuit for years and still refers to RayAnne as a “faux-pro,” though she’d taken more trophies in ten years than he had in twenty. Oddly, he’s more enthusiastic about the program even though his own fishing show, Big Rick’s Bass Bonanza , lasted only six episodes. He’s hopeful when he predicts his little girl will hit it big and be able to take care of her old man, buy him a new double-wide to park in his “yard,” a square of concrete painted grass green on the outskirts of Scottsdale.
    “It’s just so frustrating, Dad.”
    “Listen, Ray. You’re better off on television—even public television—than you ever could be out on the circuit.”
    “But I placed second in the Heineken Tourney last year!”
    “Ex- actly , you were smart to get out while you were on top.”
    “Dad, I’m not sure I’ll be here through another whole season. I mean, what if this bombs?”
    “You couldn’t bomb if you tried! You got a face for TV, and if you’re not gonna use it to get a husband, you might try to snag a fu—freaking contract with it.”
    RayAnne remembers that the current wife is trying to wean her father off