Sam cleared his throat with a frightened squeak and twisted in his modified Adirondack-style chair. Tony consulted his sculptured nails, gnawed his bottom lip, brushed more imaginary dust off his white shirt, then shot me another questioning look. Clearly, Marla hadn’t been as persnickety a taste-tester as I was turning out to be.
“Goldy?” said Tony. “I like to involve the common folk. A little nine-year-old kid next door told me to buy Clearly Canadian. I did, and made a mint on flavored water. Got another tip from Zane Smythe. Know who he is?”
I nodded. Zane is a local fisherman who teaches fly tying and writes articles on fishing for the Mountain Journal.
“Zane tipped me onto Timberland. I’ve done real well going long on backpacks and water.” Tony lowered his voice. “Things aren’t go
