A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “You take 20 percent off,” Trevor said. For some reason, Mae was still at the coffee counter and unfortunately, she had a great view of Jack.

  “Let me see . . .” Jack studied the overhead lights. “Fifteen dollars divided by twenty percent. Seven goes into fifteen two times, and another fifty cents makes it about even. Let’s see $7.50 divided by two…” For the next ten minutes, Jack labored out loud over primary math.

  Because Jack had retired early, he needed to live frugally. However, first and foremost, he wanted to fish—and eat supper at Trevor’s place as often as possible. He might need the job, but he didn’t want it.

  “Fifteen dollars times 20 percent . . .” Jack mused out loud.

  “What’s ten percent of fifteen, Mr. Johnson?” Mae’s voice was pleasant enough.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “She’s right, Jack.”

  “One dollar and fifty cents.” He huffed. “Am I right?”

  “Yes, now double it,” Mae said.

  Trevor met Jack’s gaze and nodded.

  “Three dollars. Do I get the job?” Jack held both hands palm up and shoulder high.

  “No, but there’s hope. When you can ring this sale up in two minutes,” Trevor glanced at the clock on the wall behind the register, “instead of twenty, the job is yours.”

  The bell announced Larry, Trevor’s favorite regular. Larry leaned his fishing rod near the door; and Rags, a white-haired, short-legged little dog, followed the boy as he approached the line counter.

  “Today’s my birthday, Mr. Dawber, and my granny gave me twenty cents and said I could buy anything I want.” Larry pulled two dimes from his pocket and set them on the counter. His smile exposed a gap between his two front teeth and his white-blonde hair stood straight up in the back.

  Trevor leaned forward and setting both elbows on top of the line counter, gave into a smile.

  “How old are you now, Larry?”

  “Eight. I’m fishing Butte Creek today, and I’d like to catch a big one. I was thinking if I bought myself a big lure… bigger fish would bite.” Larry lifted his pale brows, waiting for his response.

  “As you know, Butte has a few big trout, and once in a while, a nice-sized steelhead can surprise you. As a matter of fact, a nice one was landed there this week.” Trevor rounded the side of the counter and headed for the lure aisle with Larry and Rags in tow behind him. Before he could point out spoons and spinners, Larry grabbed a large wobbler with a treble hook on each end.

  “This will catch big fish!”

  “Yes, in the Columbia River.” Trevor chuckled. “Little creek, little fish. The Columbia is a huge river with huge runs of salmon. That’s a salmon lure, Larry, and a very good one.”

  “This little lure, right here,” Trevor pulled an Indiana spinner off the peg, “is one of my favorites. I had several when I was your age. Now if you’re careful casting, you should be able to catch many trout with this one little lure.”

  “How much?” Larry leaned his head against Trevor’s arm.

  “Today, they’re on special for twenty cents.” He slid his thumb over to cover up the thirty-nine cent price tag.

  Larry pursed his lips. “I wanted to get new line on my reel, too.”

  “Let’s take a look at your line.” Trevor suppressed a chuckle and headed toward the front of the store. Near the door, he picked up the boy’s old steel trout rod. A red-and-white bobber dangled near the end of the line. The spool was almost threadbare, just enough line around it to cast twenty feet.

  “What happened to your line?”

  “We had to cut it.” Larry shrugged his shoulders and peered down at his dog. “Didn’t we, Rags? At the creek, my hook got stuck on a log, and I didn’t see it till we reached the park. Line was everywhere—in the bushes, even wrapped around Rags.”

  “And you didn’t feel it tugging?” Trevor suppressed a chuckle.

  Larry shook his head.

  “Your drag’s way too loose if you didn’t feel it tugging.”

  “What’s a drag?”

  Trevor chuckled and started back to the counter. “The line will be a birthday present from me. Tell your grandma that it wasn’t charity, that it’s a present.” He unscrewed the drag knob and pulled the spool out of the reel. Then he clamped it into position on the line-winding machine. After he’d filled the spool with the six-pound line, he ran the line through the rod guides. To make sure Larry had a good start, he tied on a hook and clipped on the red-and-white bobber.

  “Remember to tell your grandma that the line’s a birthday present, not charity. Say that for me.”

  “The line’s a birthday present, not chair-it-tee.” Larry propped both elbows on the counter. “Who’s she?” The boy’s nose twitched as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder at Mae, who for some reason or other remained seated at the coffee counter.

  Even the boy knew that women were a rarity in his store. “Her name’s Mae. Now…” Trevor waited for the boy’s gaze to return. “The drag controls the tension of the line.” He held the reel forward, and had Larry give the line a good tug. “See how loose it is? I’m going to adjust the drag so when you get a bite, the line will be just the right tension to set the hook and haul your next fish in.”

  He had Larry tug once more. “See the difference?”

  “Sure do, Mr. Dawber. Thanks!” The boy grabbed his rod and waved as he ran to the door, with Rags at his heel. “Grandma’s making me a cherry pie!”

  Trevor chuckled and made his way to the register.

  Still seated at the coffee counter, the girl cradled a mug with both hands. Why was she hanging around? If she didn’t leave soon, Jack would think the implausible.

  “Larry lives here in town with his grandmother.” Trevor tossed the two dimes in the cash drawer. “He’s often in need of male company.”

  “You were good with him.”

  Was she insinuating that he hadn’t been good with her? Maybe it was his guilty conscience that was troubling him. Bottom line, he wouldn’t hire an attractive young woman to handle his cash flow.

  »»»

  Even though Miss Bucknell sat only a few feet away, Jack didn’t attempt small talk. He appreciated the fact that she hadn’t interrupted their golden silence either. She flipped the page of the Field and Stream magazine in her lap, pretending interest in an article. There was always a reason that pretty girls fished, and most often it was on account of a man. Usually, Trevor’s divorced status kept the females away, but apparently not this one. To feel better about the situation, he needed to ask a few questions.

  “So, how long have you been interested in fishing?” he asked.

  The girl glanced over at him, and her mouth bunched thoughtfully.

  Would she admit that her interest in fishing began the day that she’d met Trevor Dawber? He didn’t think so.

  “The last couple of years.” She nodded like the lie sounded believable.

  “And it’s on account of your fellow that you’re . . .” Jack’s voice trailed off.

  “No, my father used to fly fish.” A faraway look entered her eyes. “That’s what I’m the most interested in learning, but Fletcher said I should learn to spin cast first.”

  “Fletcher?” Jack suppressed a smile.

  “Yes, Fletcher Gleinbroch. He’s the cook at Wilhoit.”

  “He’s about fifty, Jack,” Trevor said, in passing—on his way to greet another customer.

  Trevor had apparently overheard part of the interrogation. “How old were you when your father died?”

  “He’s still alive. Eight years ago, he was in a bad accident,” she appeared to catch her breath, “and is in a wheelchair now.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame.” The girl was fishing for memories. Ooh, that was a good line. Jack took the little pen and the mini memo book out of his shirt pocket and jotted down fishing for memories. He didn’t want to hear about her childhood. He wanted to know why she was hanging around here, bugging hi
s best friend.

  “So . . . what do you think about Trevor?”

  “What do you mean?” Her dark brows gathered.

  “I mean exactly that.” Jack scratched at the four-day stubble on his cheek.

  “Well . . . Fletcher and Henry have told me repeatedly that Trevor’s the nicest guy I’ll ever meet.” She set her coffee cup on the side table between them. “But that hasn’t been my experience.”

  “And why do you think that is?” Jack bit both sides of his mouth.

  “After I interviewed last week for his cashier position, he told me he wouldn’t hire a woman.”

  “Yes, he’s bitter beyond his years.” Jack could no longer suppress a smile.

  “Wouldn’t you be, Professor?”

  Hearing his old title reminded him of the positive sides of teaching, the esteem and respect that went with the coveted position. When he renewed his ad in the Molalla Bulletin tomorrow morning, he wouldn’t go by J. Johnson; he’d refer to himself as The Professor.

  “Though I passed his math test and answered several fishing-related questions correctly, he told me no.”

  “You passed his math test?” No one passed Trevor’s math tests.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he throw the thirty-three-and-a-third one at you?”

  “Yes.” She nodded.

  “A percentage-off question?”

  “Yes. After I’d answered each one correctly, he told me he wouldn’t hire me.”

  Hmmm . . . She must be a math whiz. “Sounds like Trevor. He doesn’t trust women—you know, on account of his ex-wife. She was a real looker, and one man’s attention was not enough. He almost lost the store on account of her creative bookkeeping. He’ll never marry again.” Jack resisted the temptation to elaborate further. Wow! The girl had aced Trevor’s math test.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” She inhaled. “You’re just like Henry Gleinbroch and Trevor Dawber; you think that the only reason a woman fishes is to catch a man.”

  Trevor was still in the fishing rod aisle, too far away to overhear. She’d cut to the chase, and so would he. “Then tell me why a young woman interested in fishing wouldn’t be interested in Trevor Dawber?”

  Wide-eyed, she shook her head. “A woman doesn’t just like a man because he owns a tackle shop… though it’s evident that you think highly of him.”

  “A simple yes or no will suffice. Are you or are you not interested in him?” Leaning back in his chair, Jack glanced toward the front of the store. Good, Trevor was still busy in the rod aisle.

  “No, Professor, I’m not.” Her profile was crimson.

  “I’m glad you feel that way.”

  A wife had happened to too many of his buddies. Getting married could and often did change long-established patterns. At the entrance to the chapel, most guys left their fishing buddies behind. Jack’d been through all that once before with Trevor, and he vowed to himself it wouldn’t happen again.

  »»»

  In the middle of repairing a Shakespeare spin reel, Trevor glanced at the clock. It was three fifteen. He’d missed lunch. Jack’s sour mood was a sign that he probably had, too.

  “Jack, go upstairs and make a sandwich?” Trevor often made lunch for them both, but the parts to Ron Kessler’s reel were strewn across the counter.

  Jack leaned out one side of the green upholstered chair, and wide-eyed, pointed back at the girl. Simply put: Jack didn’t want to leave the two of them alone in the store.

  “Okay, well . . . if you don’t mind waiting until five thirty to eat something.”

  “You mean five o’clock. I’m stopping by Bob’s tonight. He said dinner’s always ready between five and five fifteen.”

  “What does Helga think of your arrive at the dinner bell philosophy?”

  “She hasn’t caught on yet.” Paper rustled as Jack flipped through a magazine.

  Once a week, Jack was getting a home-cooked meal at Bob’s.

  “Hey, you . . .” Jack cleared his throat. “Can you crack an egg, and pop bread into the toaster?” he asked the girl.

  Jack’s appetite usually got the best of his good manners.

  “Yeess.” She sounded hesitant.

  “Would you . . . I mean, how about making fried egg sandwiches? Two sandwiches total. Trevor’s with mayonnaise and mustard. Mine with just mayonnaise.”

  After today, he wouldn’t have to worry about Mae Bucknell wanting a job at his place. Jack would see to that.

  Mae returned the magazine to the side table, and glancing at him, approached the line counter.

  “I live above the store.” Trevor poured a little solvent inside the baitcasting reel case, and then he took an old toothbrush and cleaned out all of the old grease. The girl watched as he regreased the gears and closed up the case. It was as good as new. “In the backroom, go up the flight of stairs. At the top, you’ll see the kitchen. Make yourself something, too, while you’re at it.”

  “All right.” Though she sounded hesitant, she started down the main aisle.

  Keeping an eye on the girl, Jack stopped near the line counter. “What’s going on around here? Help Wanted sign…” He held a hand toward the front windows. “A woman hanging around. Don’t tell me that you’re thinking of hiring her.”

  “I’m not hiring her.”

  “She’s determined, and now she’s in your kitchen.”

  “That was all your doing.”

  “I couldn’t very well leave the two of you alone.” On tippy-toe, Jack watched the backroom.

  The phone rang.

  “I’ll get it.” With good energy for Jack, he hurried behind the front counter. “Trevor’s Tackle Shop, this is Jack Johnson speaking. Yes, that’s me.” He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket. “Yes, I’ve been working on it. Roses? What color? Uh-huh.” He appeared to be taking notes. “I’ll meet you at The B & B Café tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

  Was Jack dating? He’d always been so opposed to marriage.

  “What in the world was that all about?” It was Trevor’s to ask questions. “Are you dating someone?”

  “No.” Jack scowled. “I’m working on something. I’ve been a little low on cash. I had to get creative.”

  “Doing what?” Was he delivering roses?

  “A little side work, that’s all.”

  Hmm. He wasn’t going to tell him.

  Ten minutes later, Mae set down on the counter beside him a plate with a toasted egg sandwich. Then she delivered Jack’s.

  The fried eggs’ crispy edges peeked out the sides of golden-brown toast. Trevor wiped his hands on a nearby rag and took off the top bread. One fried egg per half. Mayonnaise and a layer of mustard coated the underside.

  “Thank you,” Jack managed to say.

  “Thanks, Mae.” Trevor picked up half a sandwich and took a generous bite.

  “Just the right amount of mayonnaise,” Jack said.

  “Sorry, Mae. Midafternoon, Jack often gets a little short. Getting skunked and being hungry is never a good combination for him.”

  “Sometimes Fletcher gets the same way.” The girl grabbed a dust rag and the bottle of vinegar spray and headed down the hook aisle. She was taking it upon herself to dust and didn’t appear in any hurry to leave.

  “I hope you don’t think you’re getting paid,” he said.

  “I don’t.”

  The afternoon rush hit at four o’clock. Jack’s nose was buried in a Field and Stream magazine when two customers lined up at the cash register. Trevor was in the middle of filling a spin reel with Trilene line, when out of the corner of his eye, Mae stepped into view and cast him a questioning look. He nodded. And, just like that, he’d given Miss Gumption permission to step behind his counter.

  Trevor couldn’t hear a thing above the whirl of the line-winding machine. When he’d finished filling the spool, he took his foot off the pedal and glanced across the aisle.

  “Good luck fishing,” Mae said.

  “Did Trevor hire you?
” Harold Dutton asked.

  “No, I’m just filling in.”

  “This place could use a pretty face.”

  “Thank you.” Smiling, she turned to greet the next customer in line.

  Trevor’s stomach knotted. While the girl made allies, he met Oscar Bennett in the front aisle. Oscar was a sawyer with Avison Lumber Mill in Molalla. The smell of freshly sawn logs accompanied the burly man like cologne. Trevor handed him a nice St. Croix. With each paycheck, Oscar inched closer to buying his dream spin rod.

  “Heard you were looking for help.” Using his wrist, Oscar bounced the St. Croix. “I’m surprised you hired a woman.”

  “I haven’t hired her.”

  “What’s she doing behind the counter, then?”

  “She’s killing time.”

  “She looks like a natural.”

  “I won’t hire a woman.” He looked over the top of the five-foot displays and watched as Mae slid Ray Schroeder’s lures into a paper bag. “Good luck on the Molalla,” she said with a smile.

  “Seems friendly enough,” Oscar said.

  Ray grinned at Trevor on his way to the door.

  “If you want, I can toss your Help Wanted sign in the trash on my way out,” Oscar said.

  “Don’t. I wouldn’t be able to leave a woman alone in the store. Have you taken David fishing yet?” he asked, attempting to change the subject. A few weeks back, Oscar had been in with his four-year-old son.

  “No, I’m gonna wait until he’s older. I wish I had the patience you do. It’s been a prayer of mine.”

  Trevor would also make it one of his. The little guy was ready. Kids who started fishing at a young age were usually hooked for life. He glanced across the store. Still immersed in the magazine, Jack appeared oblivious to the smooth flow of traffic. Hopefully, the girl was trustworthy.

  When there was finally a lull, Trevor swept behind the line-winding machine. Ted Lewis, also known as Redhead Ted, carried his items to the counter. Jack hurried ahead of the girl and positioned himself behind the register.

  “Doris’s ladies’ store is next door,” Jack said, ringing up a Flatfish lure.

  “Are you talking to me, Professor?” Mae carried the spray bottle and a rag toward the coffee counter.