Chapter 2
Crystal Grant looked up as the singing bass over the front door went off, but relaxed as she saw who it was. “Hey, Ashlynn.”
Her long-time best friend wrinkled her nose and sniffed audibly. “Are you eating fish again?”
“Fresh-caught brooky. Nothing better.”
“Crystaaal.” Ashlynn drew out her friend's name as she stomped over and leaned against the oak slab counter with her hip, arms crossed. “You mixed it with rice, didn't you?”
Crystal hid the offending bowl from view with a hand. “I like fish and rice.”
“Fess up. How many times have you eaten it this week?”
Crystal ignored her and shoveled in another bite. While customers of her fly-fishing shop wouldn't mind the smell of trout—in fact, it often helped fuel sales—she did try not to eat when customers were in the store, so she needed to finish up before the rest of Eureka Springs hit their lunch breaks. Lunch hour and the hour when everyone else first got off work were always her busiest.
“You eat rice and fish when you're broke.”
“Not broke,” Crystal said around a mouthful, then swallowed. “Completely.”
Ashlynn rolled her eyes, her best-friend equivalent of a good old Southern, “bless your heart.”
Crystal and Ashlynn had been friends ever since they'd moved next-door to each other in third grade, and proximity had helped maintain that friendship through the rocky years of middle school when Ashlynn had developed a mature figure and started wearing makeup while Crystal was even now often referred to as a “stick,” and still wore her dad's old floppy-rimmed fishing hat more often than she dabbled with mascara.
Fortunately, in the fly-fishing business, the floppy hat did more for her image than curves and makeup. Even still, as a woman in a “man's business,” it was sometimes hard to get people to take her seriously.
The bass over the door began its tinny singing again, and this time Crystal stayed standing as a short, bald man ambled his way over, hands in his pockets as he eyed the room.
“Hey, Frank. What can I get for you?”
Frank nodded at Ashlynn, then at Crystal. “Some more woolly buggers and a few midges. Maybe a hopper, too—I've got a couple of trips booked for this week.” He grinned. “Business is still good, even with how hot it's been.”
Crystal glanced down at her own calendar behind the counter, and all the empty white boxes stared back at her. The problem with running the only local fly shop and guiding fishing tours was that she had to sell to her competition, and Frank, especially, liked to make sure she always knew how much better his business was than hers.
She walked around the counter and over to the wall, where she began filling a bag from the shadow-box-style trays that held the flies she tied. Frank didn't object—he knew she was too proud of her work to try giving him anything inferior, so he never bothered hand-picking them. Grabbing at little tufts of fur and feathers to avoid pricking herself on the hooks, she filled his order and walked back to the counter to ring him up.
“While you're at it, ring me up for the Crystal Bugger.”
“They’re over on that wall,” Crystal said, nodding her head without looking.
Frank leaned on the counter with his arms crossed. “You know what I mean.”
Of course she did. But while most people assumed the shop was named after the fly of the same name, Frank knew very well her dad had named it after his daughter. This was her shop, and she wasn't selling, no matter how often she ate fish and rice for dinner.
“Cash or card? She held up the bag of tiny lures.
Frank straightened and chuckled condescendingly. “One of these days you'll meet some nice man and settle down, have a few kids. You'll be ready enough to give the place up then.” He looked over at the cracked window she'd had to put a piece of cardboard in until she could afford the repair. “Just don't wait so long that it all falls apart. Your dad would’ve hated seeing it like that.”
Crystal bit the end of her tongue to keep from saying anything she'd regret later. Frank might be a misogynist, but his business helped keep the shop afloat, and his rivalry with her dad had always been friendly. She would keep it that way too.
Ashlynn stuck her tongue out at the door Frank had just left through. “I guess now is not the time to ask if you want to join me for a double date, huh?”
“Really?”
“It was worth a try. Well, before he walked in, anyway.”
Every few weeks Ashlynn would try to set Crystal up with someone—a tourist, an old friend of hers from college, someone she’d met at a club, or work, or... It didn't really matter. As far as Crystal was concerned, Ashlynn dated enough for both of them.
It wasn't that she never planned to date... maybe even settle down with a couple of kids like Frank had said. But she'd taken over the Crystal Bugger after her dad had passed away three years ago, and there was no way she was letting go of the shop.
Crystal held up her now-empty Tupperware container that had held her left over trout and rice. “The only fishy lips I plan on making are the ones in my frying pan.”
“Liar.” Ashlynn crossed her arms again. “I know you take the heads off before you cook them.”
“Yep. I pull their guts out too. Think what great dinner conversation we could have if I came along on a date.”
Ashlynn pretended to gag and threw her hands up in defeat. “I'd better get lunch before I have to get back to work.” Her forehead wrinkled in concern. “Hey, if you need to borrow any money...”
Crystal waved her off, and her friend left the shop. Crystal turned to the pile of mail she’d been neglecting. An envelope with the town hall address caught her eye, and she pulled it open, her stomach dropping like it was full of sinkers.
A quick scan was enough to confirm her fears.
She’d been informed the month before that as a public building, The Crystal Bugger needed to be brought up to code. This had a list of exactly what that involved, and it included more than just fixing her busted window—she needed a ramp up to the door, the crack in the foundation fixed, and more.
Eating fish and rice might turn into just fish, soon. Thankfully, those were free.
Crystal turned and looked up at the framed white lure on the wall—a crystal bugger tied by the inventor himself. On the framing mat, a black pen scroll dedicated the gift to her father.
Jim Grant had always claimed the shop was named after his daughter, not the fly, but he never admitted to her whether she had been named after the fly first. He had once been a sought-after fishing guide, and his name still carried weight in this part of the country.
As long as Crystal could remember, it had been just the two of them, out on the river or sitting across from each other at the folding table here in the shop with their clamps, spindles of thread, and bags of pheasant feathers or patches of fur.
When she did decide to look for a man, she wanted to find someone like him—patient, soft-spoken, at home on the water. Someone who could understand why she loved this area so much.
Someone who didn't mind the smell of fish.
Smiling at the thought, she turned to clear away her lunch supplies, but stopped when the phone rang.