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I didn’t expecther to be onboard when I asked if she would like to go fishing with me this weekend. Skye keeps surprising me. Saturday looked to be the warmer day, so that’s what we picked. The day is perfect, sixty-five degrees and warm for Early October, even with the breeze. It’s hard to believe that just three weeks ago, when I first met Skye, it was over twenty degrees colder.

The ride to Lake Dillon takes a little over an hour. Twenty minutes of that hour-long drive is through an unmarked dirt road in the woods. And another five-minute hike through the trees.

I don’t expect to see anyone on this side of the lake today. In all the years I’ve been coming here, we’d only run into other people three times.

Most people who fish at Lake Dillon come from the other side, where it has a paved road access and a boat ramp. But that’s about a mile downstream. Lake Dillon is not really a lake, but a river. This spot is actually a cove and just the right size. It’s also very private. It can only be accessed through the road we drove on or via a boat.

“This place is beautiful. Do you come here often?”

I look around. It's the same as I remember. Trees, grasses, and bushes compete for attention in a riot of colors, greens, yellows, and oranges with a touch of red here and there. There’s a small concave beach, about thirty yards wide, that slopes into the lake. Grass gives way to sand and pebbles the closer it gets to the water.

I set the picnic basket and fishing gear down before I answer her.

“I haven’t come down here in a few years.”

I take the large blanket she’s holding against her chest and shake it open on the grass. Skye helps me straighten it. I put the basket on one corner and sky drops her backpack next to it.

“How did you find this place?”

I laugh. I knew this question was coming.

“I’ve been coming here for as long as I can remember. I learned to swim in this very lake.”

“Let me guess. Your grandparents brought you,” she says with a smile.

“Yes. Liam and I spent many days and nights here. We used to camp overnight with our grandparents before we went to Florida for a few weeks every summer, then do it again just before school started.”

“Is it me, or is your grandpa playing wingman again?”

“That would be so like him. If he were here now, he’d be telling you all about me, the most embarrassing but endearing things he could come up with.”

“I don’t know their names.”

She sounds almost sad.

“Bill and Maggie Valentine.”

“Your grandparents’ last name is Valentine?”

There’s a laugh in her voice.

“Yes, it means strong. What’s so funny?”

“Isn’t it a little funny that your wingman’s name is also the name of a holiday dedicated to lovers?”

My eyebrows pop up. And I laugh too.

“I never made the connection between Valentine’s Day and my grandparents’ last name.”

I can almost hear Grandpa laughing at me.

I set up two beach chairs and sand spikes near the water’s edge and prop the fishing poles in them.

“Have you ever gone fishing before?”

“A few times when we were younger. But River and I would make such a racket about killing the poor fish that Dad had to throw them back. After a few trips like that, he decided if he wanted to actually bring the fish home, he’d better not take us with him. Wait! Are you cooking the fish?”