A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “Hello, Mr. Dawber.”

  “Feel free to call me Trevor.” He added a grin.

  She nodded. “You got the day off?”

  “My dad and his good friend stopped by to watch the store for me for a few hours.”

  “Where’d you fish?” She must have noticed his hip waders, rolled to his knees beneath the table.

  “Walt’s Place.”

  “Did you catch any?”

  “A nice steelhead, about ten pounds, which I gave to Walt; and then I missed the one I was hoping to take home.”

  “Downstream or upstream from Walt’s?”

  Like Bob, Trevor didn’t always share his secrets, but he owed the girl. “Upstream—there are a couple of deep pools. Today, I fished the second one. An alder tree hangs out over the water about ten feet. I’ve also hooked many a cutthroat there before dusk in the summer months.”

  She nodded and exhaled softly. “What were you using?”

  “A Cherry Bobber spinner with cluster eggs.”

  Her gaze narrowed.

  “It’s a smooth bodied drift lure.”

  “How much are they?”

  “Thirty-nine cents.” He’d been a fool for not hiring her.

  She cleared her throat, collecting herself. “The Pioneer is today’s special: two eggs, two slices of bacon or sausage, fried potatoes, and toast or homemade buttermilk biscuit.”

  “That’s what I’ll have. Eggs over easy, bacon, biscuit, black coffee—and keep it coming.”

  “Any condiments?” She picked up his menu.

  “Ketchup.”

  While she submitted his order, he peered out the window and spotted her truck in the side parking lot. Unlike Barb, he hadn’t been able to see past her appearance to her circumstances.

  Mae turned his coffee cup over and filled the thick, white mug with the dark brew.

  Now was his chance. “It’s about time I apologize.” He set an elbow on the table and thinking better of it, slid it back, sending the napkin and silverware crashing to the floor.

  She held the glass coffee carafe steady in one hand while she bent down to retrieve them. “I’ll get you a new set.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  When she went behind the long counter, the other patrons looked over at him, empathy and amusement in their eyes.

  “All right, I’m ready.” She set his new silverware beside his coffee cup.

  “Okay.” He cleared his throat. “I couldn’t see past your… uh, being a woman to what a great employee you would have been. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You haven’t been out my way lately. Are you taking your business to Miller and Nelson or—”

  “They don’t compare to your store.” Her gaze roved the parking lot. “To be honest, your buddy Jack has a talent for making a girl feel unwelcome.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked though he already knew.

  She shrugged. “He’s like you. He thinks the only reason a gal hangs around a fishing store is because of a man.”

  He found his gaze taking in the nice curve of her upper lip. Had it simply been on account of the job that she’d hung around? The need to pay off her ticket? Hadn’t there been more to it?

  “I’m sorry Jack wasn’t more hospitable. I thought he’d be, after that egg sandwich of yours.”

  “He was, a bit.” Though his coffee was only an inch and a half below the rim, she refilled his cup.

  A few minutes later, she slid a heaping white platter down in front of him. Beside the bottle of ketchup, she set down a Molalla Bulletin. “There’s a small classified on page eight that you might find interesting.” She proceeded to a nearby table to wait on two huskily-built, middle-aged loggers.

  Trevor flipped through the small local newspaper to page eight. While he sipped his coffee, he scanned the classified section.

  She glanced over. “It’s under Miscellaneous.”

  In the Miscellaneous section, there were only four listings. Custom bathing suits, sewn to your size. Call Tracy… That probably wasn’t it. Firewood, split and delivered Douglas fir $30.00 a cord. Call Ike. Maybe that was the ad she wanted him to see. It never hurt to keep the store’s woodpile stocked. Thirty dollars wasn’t a bad price either. He read the next listing. Hire a poet. Swoon her with words - $2.00. Call Trevor’s Tackle Shop and leave a message for The Professor.

  Jack! Trevor sat up taller in his chair.

  The ad made sense of Jack’s behavior for the last couple of weeks—the numerous times that he’d run to the phone, his dictations and odd sentiments that he’d mumbled to himself. In the middle of the semi-quiet café, Trevor tipped back his head and laughed.

  Chapter 6

  Trevor expected Jack to show up early Thursday morning, like he had all week, for a cup or two from the first pot. It wasn’t until after nine o’clock that Jack’s gray truck finally rolled into one of the front parking spaces. Unshaven and bleary-eyed, wearing an untucked white button-up shirt, Jack strolled straight to the coffee counter. His dress shirts from his professor days were now his fishing shirts, and he wasn’t doing a good job of laundering them.

  “Thought you’d be in hours ago.” Trevor joined him at the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “Stayed up late; fried some leftover steelhead for a leisurely breakfast, and read several chapters of Zane Grey.”

  “Yesterday, my dad and Ron watched the store for me, and I got in a few hours at Walt’s Place. Caught a nice steelhead, and then I headed to The B & B. Guess who’s working there?”

  Jack shrugged his narrow shoulders, a doleful look on his face.

  “Fletcher’s angler girl, Mae.”

  “Good, she got a job.” Jack dropped three sugar cubes into his coffee.

  “I asked why she hasn’t stopped by lately, and she admitted that you have a way of making a girl feel unwelcome.” Trevor crossed his arms and waited.

  Jack’s cheeks turned red beneath his five-day-old beard. “You have to admit that a girl wanting to work here, hanging around…” His mouth bunched. “She only had one thing on her mind, and that was YOU.”

  “I don’t have to ask if you said anything that may have offended her.”

  Jack pulled his wire-framed glasses out of his shirt pocket, breathed on them, wiped the lenses on his shirt tail, and slid them on. He instantly looked more scholarly.

  “What’d you say to her?”

  “I said enough.”

  The girl had stayed away and for good reason.

  “I want you to go to Wilhoit tonight and apologize.”

  “No.” Jack shook his head. “It’s not in me.”

  Trevor carried his cup of coffee toward the front, and in the door’s upper glass, he stared out at the empty street. The girl’s long absence from the store now made, even more, sense.

  “You’re not having dinner here tonight,” he said, turning slightly. “If you get to Wilhoit about five thirty, Fletcher may invite you to stay for dinner. Back in its day, he was a cook at the Aurora Hotel. His cooking’s famous around here. Tell him the truth—that you’re there to apologize to Mae.”

  The hum of the old bait fridge filled the silence while he waited for Jack’s rebuttal.

  “It would be best if you were there, too.”

  “I can’t, my prayer group meets tonight.”

  Jack slouched in the large chair. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “She’s a woman.” Jack bobbed a thumb southeast, toward Wilhoit.

  “I noticed. That’s why I haven’t hired her.”

  “What do you mean, haven’t?” Jack scowled.

  “Come here.” Trevor swung the front door open and stepped out onto the walk. While he waited for Jack, he paused in front of his Help Wanted sign. The cardboard had started to curl, and the black lettering had faded slightly, but the content was still readable.

  “You said she has a job at The B & B.” Jack pulled the do
or closed behind him.

  “She’s probably only working there long enough to pay off her fishing fine. Her truck needs four new tires, and she can work those off here.” Trevor pointed to the first line that read paid in fishing tackle only.

  “You’re already bending the rules.” Jack’s jaw muscle twitched as he studied the sign.

  “She has the best math skills of any of my applicants.” Trevor trailed his finger down to the next line.

  “Oh, for crying out loud.”

  “She went out of her way to learn more about trout fishing, and as you know, she makes great sandwiches.”

  “Anyone can fry an egg.”

  “And did I say her math skills are impeccable? While you’re at Wilhoit, tell Mae that I’d like her to stop by.”

  “She’s casting the oldest bait in the book. Next you’ll be telling me that all her fishing qualities are reason enough for you to marry her.” His beady, gray eyes narrowed. “What happened to my fishing buddy, Trevor Dawber? Can you tell me that?”

  “Clara Chicklesworth, one of the elderly gals in my prayer group, has some camellias in bloom. Stop by her place, I’ll have Clara cut a bouquet.”

  “You’ve lost your mind. You’ve officially lost your mind.” Jack walked in a tight circle in front of the door. “All those sayings of yours, and the first pretty girl who comes along claiming to like fishing, and you lose your mind!”

  “Stop by Clara’s place before it gets too dark. She’s elderly, and makes pretty good cookies.”

  Jack squinted through one eye at him. “I can’t believe you wrote sandwiches on there.” He nodded toward the sign. “Oldest bait in the book, and you fell for it: hook, line, and sinker.”

  Jack seemed to forget that he’d been the one who’d asked her to make sandwiches.

  “I’m not going to tell the girl to stop by. If you want to hire her, you’ll have to call her yourself.”

  Trevor didn’t look forward to calling Wilhoit; but if it came to that, he would.

  »»»

  Freshly shaven and wearing his cleanest shirt, Jack stopped by the little, old lady’s house to pick up the bouquet that Trevor had ordered. Instead of camellias, a mason jar was filled with bright yellow daffodils. Clara Chicklesworth was a tiny woman with short, curly, paper-white hair. She topped out near his shoulder, and he wasn’t a tall man himself.

  “Do you have time to come in for tea and snickerdoodles?” She gazed up at him.

  “I wish I did, but I’m hoping to have dinner at Wilhoit.” Jack glanced at his watch. If he didn’t leave soon, he’d show up after the dinner bell. The odds of staying for supper vastly improved if he arrived before prayer. “I should get going.”

  “Stop by again sometime.” The elderly woman patted his arm and her kind look made his insides feel like mush.

  “I’ll do that.” He nodded. What was it about little old ladies that made him feel all choked up? With the jar of flowers wedged in the boot of one of his waders, he drove through the timbered hills toward Wilhoit Mineral Springs, a local landmark.

  He had to speak with Fletcher before he spoke with the girl. The girl wouldn’t invite him to stay for supper. He’d met Fletcher a time or two in Trevor’s store, and they’d hit it off well enough.

  Situated at the end of Wilhoit Road, amidst towering Douglas fir and cedar trees sat the twenty-two-acre resort. It was just as he remembered it—rundown, like the owners were on a shoestring budget. He parked in the gravel area across from the white, two-story hotel, which from the looks of it, needed a fresh coat of paint. The evening air was chilly, so he grabbed his jacket before closing the truck door behind him. At the turn of the century, the resort had been quite the destination spot, with its hotel, campgrounds, cabins and world-famous mineral water. His grandmother, who’d raised him, had fond memories of picnicking at Wilhoit.

  When he was halfway to the porch, the unforgettable and embraceable smell of fried chicken greeted him. He almost did a two-step in the gravel driveway. He was right on time. Five thirty.

  “We charge two bits for entering the park.” Seated in a wheelchair on the porch, a beefy shouldered man pointed toward a five-gallon metal milk jug. Most likely he was James Bucknell.

  “I’m here to speak with Fletcher or Mae. I’m not here for water.” Jack switched the jar of flowers to his left hand and walked to the far end of the porch. “I’m Jack Johnson.”

  The man eyed the daffodils and firmly shook his hand. “Give it a good rap. One of them will answer.”

  As he approached the screen door, he knew his dinner plans might not evolve if… Crud! Mae passed by, no more than fifteen feet away, carrying a butter dish, and she’d seen him. Wide-eyed, she took a step back. A what-in-the-world look crossed her face before she continued toward the table.

  Maybe he should turn around and head home. But his stomach told him no.

  Empty-handed, the girl made her way to the door and stopped on the other side of the screen. She wore a dark green waitress-type dress with a crisp white collar. The B & B uniform.

  “I thought it was you, Jack.” The dimple in her cheek surfaced when she frowned.

  “I shaved. You probably didn’t recognize me, at first.”

  She nodded. “And your shirt’s tucked in.”

  “These are for you.” He held up the jar of flowers.

  Wide-eyed, her features froze.

  “I’m not courting,” he added, a little too late.

  “I’m glad.”

  She made no move to open the door, and he couldn’t very well give her the flowers if she didn’t. From the hotel interior, he heard the crackle of chicken frying in hot oil. His mouth watered. What would Fletcher team with it… mashed potatoes, gravy, peas, rolls? His grandmother used to call such cooking the comforts of heaven. He swallowed and focused on Mae.

  “If you’re not courting,” she looked past him to his truck, “why are you here?”

  “To make a formal apology.” His chin itched from shaving.

  “Who is it?” Fletcher bellowed from the kitchen.

  “Jack Johnson. Trevor’s friend.”

  Fletcher walked through the lobby area and, wiping his hands on a half apron, joined her at the screen door. “Nice to see you, Jack. What brings you out our way?”

  “I came to apologize.” He swallowed some pride. “I was a real horse’s rear to Mae the other day at Trevor’s store, and an apology is in order.”

  “Oh, I see.” Fletcher eyed the bright yellow bouquet and then, chuckling to himself, returned to the kitchen.

  He thought he was courting!

  Shoulders low, and head tilted slightly to one side; Mae waited. Past the entry, a silver-haired elderly woman and a teenage girl seated in the front room, leaned forward and appeared to wait for him to speak as well.

  “Trevor wanted me to apologize.” Jack cleared his throat. If he wanted a fried chicken dinner with all the comforts of heaven, he better make this good. “I’ve thought about what I said to you at the store the other day, and it comes down to this: For the last eight years, I’ve been Trevor’s best friend, and I don’t want any female getting in the way of that.”

  “Jack . . .” she moved closer to the screen, “I already told you I’m not interested. So stop worrying.”

  For a moment, he considered the remote possibility that the girl might be telling the truth.

  “Good.” The first floor of the old hotel smelled delicious, and his stomach growled loud enough for them both to hear.

  “You forget, Jack, that I know about your arrive at the dinner bell philosophy.” She stepped away from the screen and reached for the main door behind her.

  He hadn’t shaved, passed up Clara Chicklesworth’s cookies, and driven all this way to simply apologize. He had another card to play. He stuffed his free hand in the back pocket of his wool trousers and inhaled deeply. If he took long enough, Fletcher might come to the door again.

  “A little of my animosity is also because I’ve o
ffered to work for Trevor several times, and my math’s not good enough. Not like yours. I taught English at a university level, but I can’t pass his math test, and you did.”

  Her eyes brightened, but not her smile. “I’m not tutoring you if that’s what you’re getting at.” She stepped back and the door began to close.

  “I wasn’t proposing any such thing. The reason I’m here...” He had to use his last resort card, the one he didn’t want to play.

  She opened the door just wide enough for him to see her frown and lifted brows.

  “Um . . . Trevor said that he wants you to stop by.”

  “Stop by?” Her dark brows gathered.

  “Yes.” Jack rubbed his chin. “He’s under the impression that I’m the reason you haven’t been to his store lately.” He let his voice rise a little. “That’s the reason I’m here apologizing.”

  “What do you mean stop by?”

  “He wanted you to stop by, probably to buy something.” It wasn’t a lie. Trevor always wanted customers to buy something.

  “Tell him that we’re going fishing tomorrow morning and Wednesday. Depending on how late a start we get, we may not have time to stop by.”

  Telling Trevor that the girl was going fishing two mornings in a row would be the same as casting two fistfuls of dirt upon his grave of bachelorhood.

  Fletcher mumbled something from the kitchen. Mae brushed a hand away from her side, probably some sort of sign for the ladies in the front room. Fletcher wanted him to stay for supper, and the girl was trying to thwart it. He again heard Fletcher’s voice, low and indecipherable.

  The girl inhaled deeply, frowning. “Would you like to stay for supper?” Wide-eyed, she shook her head like a pendulum. “It isn’t anything special.”

  “We may have different opinions about special.” Jack swallowed. “I’ve never been a picky eater. What’s on the menu?”

  “Just, um . . . chicken, and for dessert… my sister made the worst-looking cake you ever saw.”

  “Mae, I’m a bachelor who, for the most part, gets by on fish and canned vegetables. Variety is a luxury.” He suppressed a grin and reached for the door handle.

  »»»