A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “Yes, the ladies’ store next door carries pins and scarves.”

  “Sounds like you shop there often.”

  They were fighting words. Good thing it was close to closing time.

  “No, I was just hoping you’d take the hint.” Jack slid the lures into the bag followed by a carton of boraxed eggs.

  Trevor inhaled deeply and sighed.

  “Thanks, and come again.” Jack closed the register drawer.

  “Hey, I gave you a ten,” Ted said.

  Jack’s face reddened. He opened the cash drawer and handed him a five. “Sorry about that.”

  Hopefully, he’d be able to hire someone soon, before Jack spent any more time behind the register.

  The girl and Jack hung around until closing, and then they both finally headed home.

  Trevor grabbed a marker. Out front, on his Help Wanted sign, below Must be a well-rounded angler, he wrote: Must make a decent sandwich.

  He stepped back to review his work. Boy, he’d have to hire someone soon if he wanted to get in some winter steelheading. He said a brief prayer that the Lord would send someone great, and then he flipped the sign on the door to Closed.

  Chapter 5

  Trevor swept the planked walkway in front of his store and paused to study his Help Wanted sign. A week had passed since anyone had interviewed. Maybe he should draw a line through his latest entry: must make a decent sandwich.

  An older, blue Ford pickup rolled into a nearby parking space. Bob Hawkins hopped out and hollered, “Get the scale!”

  Trevor grabbed the spring scale from behind the front counter. Bob, a retired electrician, was famous for his secret lures, his secret fishing holes, his secrets. He joined Bob and his ten-year-old grandson, Wilfred, out on the walkway. It was a school day, and Bob was proud of his On the River Education philosophy.

  Bob threaded the hook beneath the gill plate of a large steelhead and hung the scale from the square nail in the open rafters. The men watched the indicator settle at seventeen pounds. So far, the bright silvery fish was the leader for this week’s derby, which ended each Saturday at closing time.

  “Where were you fishing?” Week after week, Bob was weighing in some large steelhead for the Willamette Valley area.

  “You know I don’t share.” Bob stroked his scruffy, gray beard.

  “Come on, Bob.”

  “We were fishing the Quah. I’m not telling you any more than that.”

  There was no local river, or lake for that matter, named the Quah. The made-up-name was simply Bob’s way of not sharing his secrets. Trevor locked eyes with Wilfred, hoping he’d give some kind of clue.

  “We were fishing the Quah.” The boy was well trained.

  Most customers entering the derby would provide at least a general location such as Wagon Wheel or Feyrer Park on the Molalla or the Dog Hole on the Clackamas, but not Bob.

  “Did you see my sign?” Trevor nodded toward the front window.

  “No.” Bob stepped closer to the homemade sign.

  Curious himself, Trevor read it again.

  Help Wanted – paid in fishing tackle only

  Must have good math skills!

  Must be a well-rounded angler

  Must make a decent sandwich

  Bob stroked his scruffy, gray beard. “What you need is a wife.”

  “No. I need someone I can trust to leave alone in the store, so I can take a day off every now and again and go fishing.”

  “Kevin Olson might be interested.”

  “He didn’t pass my math test. Everett Griggs is coming in for an interview after baseball practice tonight. The problem with teenagers is they’re still in school. What would be perfect is a retired electrician with time on his hands.”

  Bob shook his head. “My wife and the Quah are more than I can handle.”

  A large, bright steelhead hanging on the scale was always great advertising. They left it and went inside. Using chalk, Trevor wrote Bob Hawkins, 17-pound steelhead, secret river and secret lure on the derby board.

  Trevor ran a hand through his short, dark hair. The time had come to stand up to Bob and his secrets. “I’ve been thinking that I’m going to require entrants to tell what river and exactly what lure they were using—make it a requirement for the derby.”

  “That’s too bad. I’ve been thinking about patenting my lures. I was going to give you first dibs on carrying them. They’d look good on that display right there.” Bob pointed to nearby end-cap. “Already got a name figured out for my company: Bob’s Secret Lures.”

  He probably shouldn’t be too hard on Bob. The guy was gifted. He’d built Trevor’s line-winding machines from scrap parts and old sewing machine pedals. Before Bob’s machine, it had taken two men to fill a spool with line. One guy would hold the bulk spool on an unsharpened pencil or stick while the other guy cranked the reel handle. Trevor remembered only too well how long it used to take to reel on 150 to 200 yards of line by hand.

  “It was Byron Miller who inspired my lure name.” Bob stroked his beard.

  Byron Miller and his partner, Kenneth Nelson, owned Miller and Nelson in Molalla. Seven miles from Scotts Mills, they were his closest competitor.

  “I was also thinking of telling Byron that he should have free coffee and a weekly derby like you do.”

  Bob was blowing some serious smoke.

  “Now you know, Trevor, I prefer to have you carry my secret lures, ’cause I can walk to your place. But when I think about it, Miller and Nelson’s wouldn’t be so bad. They are on the way to the Molalla.”

  The phone rang.

  Trevor hurried across the aisle to answer it. “Trevor’s Tackle Shop, how may I help you?”

  “Is Bob there?” It was Bob’s wife, Helga.

  “Yes, would you like to speak with him?”

  “Did they catch dinner?”

  “Yes, a nice steelhead.”

  “Good. Tell them to come home.” The line clicked on the other end.

  “Bob, Helga said it’s time to come home.”

  “Did she sound mad?” Bob strode toward the door. Wilfred slid a Flatfish lure back on the peg and hurried after him. “About us being here, not about dinner.”

  “Yes, Bob. I’d say flowers are in order.” Trevor chuckled.

  »»»

  Everett Griggs had said that he’d be at the store for an interview at five o’clock, after baseball practice. Though Trevor usually closed the store at five, he kept it open while he waited for the teen. He killed time at the fly-tying vise near the backroom and tied a Skykomish Sunrise, a popular steelhead fly.

  Five fifteen rolled around and then five thirty.

  At five forty-five, Trevor called it a day. He flipped the sign on the front door to Closed and watched through the upper glass as a beat-up primer-gray pickup rolled into a front parking space. The three fellows in the cab wore baseball caps. As Everett jogged up the front walk, the driver backed the truck out onto Third Street and headed west.

  “Sorry, I’m late.” The lanky teen grinned as the door swung closed behind him.

  “What time did you get off practice?” Trevor met him in the main aisle.

  “Four thirty. Then the fellows wanted to grab a shake at The Y.” The Y Drive-In—famous for their shakes—was located where the road split and was a landmark for anglers heading to Feyrer Park.

  “Ever heard of a phone?”

  “The shake took longer than I expected.” Everett tucked his baseball mitt under one arm.

  Trevor reminded himself that Everett was a decent kid. “Before we get our interview underway, what hours are you available to work?”

  “After school, baseball practice usually gets out at four thirty, so I won’t be able to get here until five. And then there’re game days.”

  Trevor shook his head. “I close at five.”

  “Shoot.” Everett frowned. “What about Saturdays?”

  “I’m sorry; I need someone who can work three days a week and only an occas
ional Saturday.”

  “Wow!” Everett nodded. “Guess it won’t work out.”

  “Check back with me this summer when you have more time.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Trevor followed the teen out front. While Everett walked east on Third Street, he uncapped his felt marker. Near the bottom of his sign, below Must make a decent sandwich, he printed:

  Must be able to work M.W.F. 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.

  He stepped back to review his work. There was only a month of great steelhead fishing left on the Molalla. He prayed that the Lord would send someone great before the run was over.

  »»»

  Fletcher’s Girl hadn’t been in for over two weeks, not since the afternoon she’d made the fried egg sandwiches. Most likely her long absence was on account of Jack. In the meantime, only Everett had interviewed. Word on the river was that Trevor was too picky; Jack had kindly informed him of that.

  The phone rang.

  Trevor rounded the side of the counter to answer it. “Trevor’s Tackle Shop. How may I help you?”

  “Is the Professor in?”

  “No, Jack’s fishing right now. May I take a message?” He readied his pen.

  The caller provided his name and number and ended by saying, “It’s for our anniversary.”

  “I’ll let him know.” Trevor taped the third note for Jack that day to the top of the stapler.

  Jack swore up and down he wasn’t delivering roses. For the last couple of weeks, people had been calling his store asking for the Professor. While Jack was fishing, Trevor was his answering service.

  A familiar white Dodge Dart rolled into one of the front spaces. He strode to the front as Helen, who was Larry’s grandmother and a member of Gladys’s group, carried a foil-wrapped plate up the steps.

  Helen’s gray hair was pulled into a low bun. Her spectacles pinched the tip of her nose as she ambled past. “I was just at Gladys’s, and she said to drop by and give you this leftover cake from our get-together.” He followed her to the coffee area, where she set the plate down on the glass countertop.

  “Thank you. How’s everyone?” Trevor poured himself a cup of the dark brew.

  “We celebrated Evelyn’s seventy-sixth birthday today.” Helen folded back the foil, revealing a pink frosted sponge cake.

  “I need to call her.” Trevor usually gave the ladies a slab of smoked salmon or steelhead on their birthdays. “I haven’t gotten in the fishing I was hoping to.”

  “She’ll understand.” Helen waved a hand as she started for the front. “Gladys said to bring the plate back on Thursday.”

  “I’ll do that. Anything new I should be praying for?” He hurried ahead of her to hold open the door.

  “No, we’ve got it covered.”

  Halfway to her car, the elderly woman glanced back at him. “I should have asked you, Trevor; is there anything new we should be praying for you?”

  Now was his chance to voice something that had been nagging at him for days. “So far, I’ve only had one applicant with hirable math skills, but they weren’t quite right for the job.”

  “You want us to keep praying.” Helen nodded and slid behind the steering wheel. “I forgot my umbrella, and it looks like everyone is still there.” She glanced west toward the two vehicles parked in front of Gladys’s bungalow. “I’ll go back, and we’ll be sure and pray that the Lord sends the perfect person.”

  She glanced up at him while he waited to close her door for her.

  “You need to go fishing, Trevor. It’s like your soul’s all dried up because you haven’t been to that river of yours lately.”

  “I hope to get there soon.” He smiled.

  She turned the key in the ignition as he firmly closed her door. Then, she backed the car into the empty street.

  “Thank you, Lord.” He watched Helen drive three blocks west. “There is a woman who understands my heart.”

  »»»

  The next morning, Trevor flipped the sign in the front window to Open and studied the gray sky. Conditions were perfect. It had rained hard for two days in a row, and then yesterday had been overcast and drizzly. Today, the Molalla and other local rivers would be ideal levels for steelhead fishing. Without a doubt, several fish were going to be weighed in today.

  He went about his morning routine of counting in the register and starting the coffee. His dad’s gray Chevy truck pulled into one of the front spaces. Ron Kessler, his father’s good friend, was seated on the passenger side. When the two were together, they acted more like teenagers than the grandfathers they both were.

  Ron made his way to the coffee counter. “We’re thinking of giving you the morning off,” he said. “I want some of that new Trilene line, and your dad wants a few things himself.”

  “Sounds good to me.” The two occasionally watched the store for him in exchange for merchandise. Their offers were always random and unexpected, but he never passed up an opportunity to go fishing.

  “Anything we should know about?” His dad slapped him on the shoulder as he walked past.

  “There is.” Trevor nodded. “If Redhead Ted stops by with a weigh-in, be sure and examine the fish. A couple of days ago, when he weighed in a spring chinook it slipped out of his hands, and two cannonball sinkers rolled out of the fish’s mouth. Come to find out, he’d tucked five of them inside.”

  “You’re kidding!” His dad shook his head.

  “No. Even though the weekly prize is only a dollar in merchandise, I wouldn’t put it past Ted to freeze the fish and try again sometime in the near future.”

  “It’s guys like Ted who give us fishermen a bad name,” Ron said. And, then walking past the bowls of Corkies, he stuffed a handful—at least fifty cents worth—into the lower pocket of his flannel coat.

  “I saw that, Ron. Put ‘em back.” He tried to sound stern, but it was tough with Ron. He was like a big kid. “Keep track of him for me, Dad.”

  “I will.” His father poured a cup of coffee. “Be back before noon. I promised your mom I’d get around to a few things.”

  “Sure thing.” Trevor grabbed a carton of cluster eggs from the bait fridge and then headed to the backroom for his hip waders, spin outfit, and tackle box. In his old Ford pickup, he drove west of Scotts Mills and took a right at the 213 junction toward Molalla. Gently rolling fields of freshly sprouted wheat lined both sides of the road, and occasional oak trees dotted the landscape.

  He couldn’t help but attribute the change in plans to Helen stopping by, and the ladies’ prayers. “Thank you, Lord, for those dear elderly women.”

  Walt’s white, two-story farmhouse sat on the north side of the river across from Wagon Wheel Park—one of the best fishing holes on the river. Trevor parked on the west side of Walt’s unpainted barn and changed from his dress shoes into his waders and placed his dark brown fedora on his head. No reason to loosen his tie. After fishing, he’d check in with Walt, let him know how many fish he was taking home. Walt had a friend with Oregon Fish and Wildlife, who liked to keep stats. Then before he headed back to work, he’d grab a bite to eat at the little ma-and-pa diner up the road—The B & B.

  He held his fishing rod upright as he walked the well-worn path through the willows. For over two years, the ladies in his prayer group had prayed for him regarding Walt’s property. On several occasions, Trevor had spoken with Walt about buying his place, yet the elderly man was in no hurry to sell and wanted to live there until he died.

  He couldn’t blame him.

  In the meantime, the list written on the wall to the right of Walt’s phone kept growing with names of folks wanting to purchase the place. Trevor knew the elderly women’s prayers calmed what could easily become an anxious heart.

  He made his way upstream over silt-covered, gray river rocks. The leaves of the towering cottonwoods lining the river rustled in the light breeze. Four years ago, he’d thrown his wedding ring into this section of the river. It had only been a few months after his wife had left him for a man wh
o owned a restaurant in Canby, and he’d been hurting.

  As he’d foreseen, the rain had brought the river level up, and undoubtedly cooled the water temperature. Conditions were perfect for a great morning of steelheading.

  »»»

  Two hours later at The B & B Café, Trevor glanced up from the menu. Either his eyes deceived him, or the waitress three tables away bore an uncanny resemblance to Fletcher’s Girl.

  She wore the uniform—a dark green short-sleeved dress with a crisp white collar. He still wasn’t certain it was her until she turned to face him. Looking downward, Mae tore a page from her order book as she strode toward the counter.

  She’d taken his advice and found a job in town and, lucky for her, it was close to the river.

  “How long’s Mae Bucknell been working for you?” Trevor asked when Barb, the owner, stopped near his table. Barb had short, permed hair with dark penciled brows. She swiveled slightly to peer over the top of her cat eye glasses at the girl.

  “A week. She’s good for business. The only problem I have with her is she’ll only be working here a couple more weeks.”

  “I’m surprised you hired her for such a short sprint.” Trevor glanced at the menu.

  “I had pity on her plight. She has a hefty ticket, and was scared she’d go to jail for not paying it.” Barb tapped her order pad with her pencil. “She got caught fishing without a license.”

  “I heard.” He nodded.

  “Do you want me to take your order? Or her?” Barb asked.

  “Her.” Trevor grinned. “She’s a customer of mine. I sold Mae her first fishing license.”

  “Oh . . . you made an honest woman out of her.” She turned, grabbed a dishcloth, and wiped down a nearby table. “Mae, table three, when you can.”

  The girl was good for business. Barb and Burt liked her. He felt slightly sick to his stomach.

  Mae flipped her order book to the next page. As she approached his table, her sunny disposition went behind a cloud.