On the main floor of the old hotel, one long dining table sat off to the left. Padded rocking chairs flanked both sides of a massive stone fireplace, and a dark brown sofa bordered the grouping of chairs.
“Make yourself at home, Jack,” Fletcher bellowed from behind the swing doors that half hid the kitchen area.
There were plenty of folks in the warm, cozy room. After Jack had been introduced to everyone, he decided he might as well get a good seat. He positioned himself at the center of the table with a good view of the fixin’s. The low glass chandelier, white linen tablecloth, and folded napkins provided the ambiance of dining at a country inn. In its heyday, the old hotel had quite the following. Now, its large, old retired menu hung framed on the wall.
Albert—Fletcher’s youngest son, tall and lean and a senior at Molalla High School—poured glasses full of Wilhoit mineral water. The copper and gold flecks danced in the water like a Christmas globe gently shaken.
No one appeared to be watching, so Jack lifted a tea towel off of a nearby basket. The aroma of warm, yeasty Parkerhouse rolls teased his senses and made his mouth water. The rolls alone were worth tonight’s apology.
“Time for the blessing!” Fletcher carried a platter heaped with fried chicken to the table.
Tonight’s menu was mashed potatoes, herb-flecked gravy, steamed baby peas and carrots, the rolls—of course—and crispy, golden fried chicken. The comforts of heaven.
James, Mae’s father, rolled his wheelchair to the end of the table and said the blessing. Then the dishes were passed clockwise.
“Jack brought flowers for Mae tonight.” Henry, Fletcher’s oldest son, nodded to the daffodil-filled Mason jar in the center of the table.
Ruby, Henry’s girlfriend, sat directly across the table from Jack. Her dark hair was styled in one of those hairspray sculptures high on top of her head. She was an exceptionally pretty gal. Although it had taken him a while, he finally pegged where he’d seen her before. She was the reigning Buckeroo queen for Molalla’s annual rodeo. Countless times over the past year, pictures of her had been in the local newspaper.
“How did you and Mae meet?” Ruby asked, looking at him.
“Let’s see . . .” he peered down the table at Mae, “we met at Trevor’s Tackle Shop in Scotts Mills.” Mae’s wide-eyed expression was proof that she didn’t want him to elaborate further. The girl had clearly not informed her family of how often she lollygagged at Trevor’s store.
“Was it love at first sight?” Ruby asked.
“I think it was for Mae.” He nodded. The girl simply had that swept away look when she’d been around Trevor.
“Jaack!” Mae sounded like she’d snagged her finger with all three points of a treble hook.
“Mae . . .” Her father’s cutlery clattered to his plate. “What’s going on here?”
It was just as he’d foreseen, the girl’s favorite tackle shop was not family knowledge.
“Jack’s joking. He doesn’t even like me. Tell them, Jack!” Wide-eyed, she pleaded with him. “Tell them that the only reason you’re here is for dinner.”
Truth be told, she was right. But she’d forgotten the main reason that had got him here. “Don’t tell me you already forgot my apology.” He reached for and grabbed the last chicken leg from the platter.
“I’m confused.” Ruby looked up from buttering a roll. “If you don’t even like Mae, why’d you bring her flowers?”
Though everything was delicious, Jack paused to stare at the young woman. She appeared to be serious. “The flowers aren’t from me. They’re from Trevor. Trevor Dawber.”
Red crept up into Mae’s cheeks. She’d even stopped blinking.
“Is there something you haven’t told us, Mae?” Concern paled her father’s face.
“No, Dad.” She sat stiffly back in her chair, staring at Jack. “You know, you didn’t explain that right. Trevor sent you here to apologize. Because…” She turned to meet her father’s gaze. “Jack assumes that any woman who shops at a fishing store is only there because of a man.”
Why was she bringing that up now?
“What man are you going there for?” James asked.
The room stilled, and everyone’s attention was drawn to their end of the table.
“You, Dad . . .” Tears filled the girl’s eyes. “I’d give anything to see you fish again.”
Shoulders heavy, Jack lowered the chicken leg to his plate. She was indeed fishing for memories.
“We’ve already been through this,” James said. The man’s shoulders were twice the size of his own. Why wasn’t he fishing?
“Please pass the gravy,” Jack locked eyes with Isabelle, Mae’s younger sister.
The little dark-haired beauty frowned briefly at him and then handed the bowl to Mae.
“Trevor’s divorced, isn’t he?” James asked under his breath.
Mae nodded. “That’s what Fletcher said.”
“Trevor’s ex-wife was unfaithful,” Henry said. “The divorce wasn’t his fault. The way I’ve heard him word it is, ‘his wife left him for a man who doesn’t fish.’”
“I don’t want you spending too much time there, Mae,” James said.
He wasn’t the only one.
“Dad, he’s one of the few people I know who knows anything about fly fishing. And, you won’t show me.”
“I don’t want you hanging around his store.”
Color mottled the girl’s cheeks as she stared down at her plate.
“I’m confused. Who is Mae in love with, then, Jack—Trevor or you?” Ruby looked across the table at him.
“Neither!” Mae said.
“But—”
“Leave her alone, Ruby,” Henry said.
Wide-eyed, Miss Buckeroo sat up taller in her chair. “You know why I’m upset, Henry. Mabel’s been home for three months; and all this time, you led me to believe that she’s as old-fashioned looking as her name.”
Was it the first hiss of a cat fight? Jack glanced at Mae.
“’Cause I knew you’d act like this.” Henry threw an arm behind Jack’s chair.
Tonight must be the first time the two young women had met. Hmm… there was only one serving left of the mashed potatoes. Jack reached for the orange Fiesta Ware bowl and scooped the remaining portion onto his plate.
“Jack, have you told them that you used to teach Shakespeare at Willamette University?” Mae did a beautiful job of changing the subject.
“An English teacher?” Fletcher slapped his knee, looking at Albert. “Did you hear that? Jack’s an English teacher.”
With a dull look on his lean face, Fletcher’s youngest son nodded.
Jack brushed crumbs from the corner of his mouth. “I used to teach Literature 101, then one afternoon when I was subbing for a Shakespeare professor, the dean walked by the classroom. I’d been reading a sonnet aloud, and it was something about my quirky voice reciting… shall I compare thee to a summer’s day thou art more lovely and more temperate that caught his ear.” At his poetic departure, the young women on the other side of the table appeared to slip away into a little hamlet with thatched roofed cottages and yellow roses.
“After that semester, I was officially the Shakespeare professor.” He shook his head at the distasteful memory. “I am a Zane Grey man myself; but for seventeen years, I kept my Shakespeare fishing rod in the corner of the classroom and told my students that it was my sanity.”
Fletcher patted the table. “You wouldn’t by chance be open to helping Albert with high school English?” He nodded toward the dark-haired teen seated at the far end of the table. “He’s supposed to write long papers, and he doesn’t seem to have more than a paragraph in him.”
“I don’t understand why it has to be three pages long if I can fit it in one paragraph?” Albert said.
“You’re a minimalist.” Jack grinned. The opportunity to make himself a regular at their dinner table had presented itself earlier than he’d expected. “I’d be glad to help in exchang
e for supper once a week.” The evening had surprisingly worked out in his favor. With a lift of his chin, he spied one last yeast roll in the bottom of the basket.
“That’s great!” Fletcher slapped the table with a flat hand. “When can you start?”
“Tomorrow night.” Jack grinned.
Chapter 7
Freshly brewed coffee, and something sweet—almost cinnamony—teased Trevor’s nose.
“I set the blueberry buckle I made this morning in the oven on low,” Helen said.
Dessert. Jack didn’t know what he was missing.
Though Gladys's front room was usually too warm, he always enjoyed their Thursday night get-togethers for prayer and fellowship.
Gladys cleared her throat and bowing her head, waited for the three other ladies’ voices to wane before she began in prayer. “Thank you, Father, for this evening of fellowship. Help our words, thoughts, and actions to glorify you. Amen.”
“What’s new?” Helen asked Trevor from across the room.
Seated on the sofa beside him, Evelyn patted his hand.
He cleared his throat.
“Yes, Trevor, is there anything new?” Clara asked, turning in her chair for a better view of him.
He cleared his throat.
“Jack Johnson.” Helen looked at her notebook. “How is Jack?”
“He’s well.” He managed to get a full sentence in. “He had other places to be tonight; otherwise, I would have invited him again.”
“And what about you, Trevor?” Gladys was not going to let him off the hook so easily.
“Well, there have been a few applicants for the cashier position. Pray that I hire the right person.”
“My husband used to say that he had a gut feeling about people,” Clara said.
Trevor wondered what all Jack had told her about Mae.
“Any gut feelings?” Helen asked.
“No.” If he remembered correctly, the only gut feeling he’d had about Mae was that she had gumption. He nodded; that had been it.
“You’re preoccupied about something tonight, Trevor. How can we pray for you?” Gladys knew him too well. He resisted the urge to tell them about Mae’s interview, how she enjoyed fishing, and that she had Blue-Dun eyes. He wondered what these sweet, elderly prayer warriors had been praying; yet, deep down, he knew.
“I’m curious what you’ve been praying for me in regards to the dream.” He leaned back into the worn couch cushions, trying to prepare himself.
Silence enveloped the cozy room. He loosened his tie and the top button of his dress shirt. The woodstove was pumping out enough warmth to comfortably heat four elderly women.
“Do you mean the dream God gave you about a boy and a river?” Gladys regarded him.
She’d never worded it that way before. No one had. It was a spin-off of his favorite saying, and he didn’t like it.
“What have you ladies been praying in regards to the dream?”
The room hushed, and the ladies—even Evelyn, seated beside him on the sofa—avoided his gaze by looking at the Oriental rug, the clock on top of the bookshelf, or out the window that overlooked Third Street.
Gladys drew in a deep breath. “We pray daily for you, Trevor. Sometimes on the phone with one another; and, often when we’re together. Our prayer is simply… that your heart will soften.” She took off her glasses and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “So when you meet the boy’s mother, your heart will be open to her.”
His throat burned, and his mouth felt so dry that he could barely swallow.
“And of course, we pray that you get your river house.” Evelyn patted his hand.
“Has something happened? Anything out of the ordinary?” Helen studied him.
It was his turn to look at the Oriental rug, the clock on top of the bookshelf, and then out the window. He hadn’t even told his dad about Mae.
Evelyn patted at her heart. “You’re killing us with the suspense.”
“I’ve interviewed several, uh . . . applicants for the cashier position. I’d like prayer that I hire the right one.”
If Mae accepts the job, I’ll tell them, he vowed to himself. I’ll tell—
“Does everyone remember Trevor’s dream?” Gladys interrupted his vow. With a slow turn of her head, she looked about the group. “Trevor, would you mind retelling it for us?”
She was stalling. Usually, he valued her insight, but tonight it wasn’t in his favor. Gladys was trying to get him to remember the little boy. Didn’t she know he thought about him every day?
Evelyn patted his hand, quietly encouraging him.
Across the room, Helen smiled softly.
Anticipation filled the warm room.
“Well . . .” He leaned slightly forward, his forearms to his knees. “As you all know, it will be two years… this June.” He nodded. “June’s always a busy month for me. I was working overtime and fishing every possible chance I had. And due to sheer exhaustion, I was sleeping well.”
As a seasoned angler studies the water and the light before deciding on the lure and color, he contemplated the dream’s best delivery.
“Trevor, can you remind us of the dream’s setting?” Gladys asked.
He agreed that was a good place to start. “When you’re heading north toward Oregon City, as soon as you cross the bridge over the Molalla, Walt’s Place is on your right. A two-story farmhouse right on the river. The location would be great for a store and residence.” Though his pulse noticeably quickened, he managed to keep his voice steady. “As you all know, I’ve tried to buy it from Walt Schoenberg for years.”
“I remember . . .” Helen gazed at him over the top of her spectacles. “In your dream, you were walking from the river toward the house.”
He smiled softly and nodded.
“You were walking the willow-lined path from the river up to Walt’s,” Clara said.
She’d remembered it clearly.
“Yes.” Gladys nodded. “Twigs snapped underfoot, and there was a rustling in the brush ahead of you. A breathless young boy who was maybe four or five years old, emerged, holding an old steel trout rod.”
Gladys had recalled his wording perfectly.
“You said he was beautiful,” Evelyn whispered, patting his hand.
A hard knot formed in his throat. The room felt heavy with memories.
They’d all recalled far more than he’d expected them to.
“And when he saw you . . .” Gladys paused, trying to prepare him, “he caught his breath, smiled, and said…‘Dad.’”
Trevor bowed his head, pinching the inside corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
“And in your dream you asked yourself, ‘What color are his eyes?’” Clara said. “If I remember correctly, you wanted to rule out the possibility that the child could be Jocelyn’s. You had to concentrate to get past how much sparkle there was in the little boy’s eyes, to see that they were a blue—”
“You, ladies, are amazing. Amazing prayer warriors, amazing friends.”
Evelyn patted his hand.
“Trevor, you’ve purposefully let us leave out an important detail,” Gladys said. “The first time you told us the dream, you referred to the boy’s eyes more descriptively. Not just blue.” She leaned forward to look at him, setting both hands on her cane. “There was another word you’d used.”
“Blue Dun,” he said.
“Blue Dun,” Evelyn said thoughtfully. “What is a Blue-Dun again?”
“It’s a type of dry fly for trout fishing. It’s a light gray-blue color,” he said and tried not to think of Mae Bucknell’s eyes.
»»»
The next morning, Ollie Sturgis, a local teenager, leaned his fishing rod near the door. He strolled to the front counter and set his soiled baseball cap on top of the glass.
“Catch any?” Trevor set a rag and spray bottle off to one side.
“No keepers.” Ollie looked around the store. No one else was in. “Hey, I heard you were still
looking for someone to work for you.”
“Yes, I have been.”
“You know me.” Ollie picked at something between his front teeth. “I know plenty about fishing. I know every inch of the Molalla, Butte Creek, Detroit Lake… the Clackamas used to be my backyard.”
“Did you hear the job’s only for tackle?”
“That’s all I’d use my money for anyway.”
“How are you at math?”
“Great.”
Trevor’s chest expanded. If Ollie has decent math skills, he’s it! He wouldn’t have to hire the girl. There wouldn’t be inevitable dissension with Fletcher or ribbing from customers… or Jack or Bob.
“Ollie, if you’re selling salmon hooks for fifty-nine cents a dozen, what do you charge for three?”
Ollie’s face scrunched up as he narrowed his eyes. “Eighteen cents.”
“I just made too much money.” Trevor sighed.
“Did you say ten or a dozen?”
“I said fifty-nine cents a dozen.”
“Oh, I thought you said ten.” Ollie scratched the back of his scruffy hair.
Ollie was a teen. Teenagers often didn’t have the best hearing.
What’s the price of a $16.99 trout rod that’s 20 percent off?”
The teen stared at the overhead lights. “Seventeen minus three dollars and twenty cents is… $13.80.”
Trevor frowned. “Ollie, your math is not great.” But, there was potential. “Stand behind the counter.” He grabbed a carton of night crawlers from the bait fridge and a couple of Ford Fenders off a nearby end-cap. “Pretend I’m a customer. Pretend to ring me up.”
“Sure thing.” Ollie quickly moved behind the register. “Hi, Trevor. How you doing today?”
“Good.” Trevor’s stomach knotted. Ollie’s T-shirt had night crawler slime on the front of it, and his dark, oily hair needed a trim. A sharp contrast to Fletcher’s Girl.
“Night crawlers are twenty-five cents, and the lures are forty-five cents each.” He pretended to push down the numbers. “That’ll be a dollar and a quarter.”
“A dollar and fifteen cents. The bag, Ollie.”
“Sure thing.” Ollie shook open a bag and dropped the lures inside, followed by the carton of night crawlers.
A Wife and a River - A Christian romance Page 7