A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “You’re not funny,” she whispered. “You say one more word and… I’ll throw that tackle box into the river.”

  Fletcher’s gaze narrowed. “Is everything all right?”

  Shoulders heavy, she shook her head. “I’m ready to go. Trevor will be another hour, and I don’t want to wait.”

  “Okay, then.” Fletcher lifted his new tackle box by the handle. “We’re leaving, Trevor.” He waved on their way to the door.

  “Take a look at the photo board on your way out,” Trevor said.

  Near the door, they studied the new black-and-white photos on the board. “There’s my 35-pounder.” Fletcher pointed to the picture of himself holding a large bright chinook. His head was cropped mid-forehead in the photo, but he didn’t appear to mind. “Caught it right below the falls in Oregon City. What a beauty. And there’s the one of you with your steelhead, and here’s the one of us. Trevor finally brought his film in.”

  They were all good photos of better times. Mae glanced over her shoulder. Trevor was still in the lure aisle. She needed to speak with him about the poem, Walt’s Old Place, and so many things, but she knew she couldn’t handle the pain.

  »»»

  There were no customers in the store when Trevor sat in Jack’s comfy chair near the coffee counter. Walt’s Place had sold. He’d spent the last four years saving for and investing in a dream that had been taken from him in one phone call. He stared at the pile of Field and Stream magazines on the side table, rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

  “I’m sorry, Lord, but I feel so defeated. Help me to handle this.” He inhaled deeply and rising from the all-too-comfortable chair, strode to the phone and dialed Gladys’s number.

  “Hello.”

  Just the sound of the dear elderly woman’s deep voice eased his spirit.

  “Gladys, it’s Trevor.”

  “What is it, Trevor? Did Mae say no?”

  “No, I didn’t post the sign. You were right. Too many people might see it before Mae. It’s something else.” He cradled a hand to the back of his neck and sighed. “I just found out from a very reliable source that Walt’s Place sold.”

  “Oh, Trevor . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “Supposedly, he tried to call me. But I wasn’t here at the time.” It would only make Gladys feel worse if she knew he'd been at her place.

  “We all felt so certain.” A long pause followed before she sighed. “You must be very disappointed. I’ll call the girls, and we’ll pray for you, dear, dear Trevor.”

  “Thank you.” Her empathy brought a wave of emotion.

  The blasted bell above the door jingled.

  He pulled himself together and turned to greet Oscar Bennett.

  “It’s good to see you, Oscar.” Trevor rested his hands on his hips and managed a grin.

  “You have any red Flatfish?” Oscar held the door open for David—his four-year-old son.

  “Sure do. Where are you headed?” Trevor led Oscar halfway down the lure aisle.

  “The Clackamas.”

  “Red has been the hot color, lately.” And fortunately, there were still two pegs of red left.

  “Are you taking him with you?” Trevor nodded toward David.

  “No, but he thinks he’s ready.”

  Trevor felt the boy was ready, too. He could hold a fishing rod, and reel in with his Daddy’s help. Put a life jacket on him and they could have a wonderful day together.

  A shy smile crept across the boy’s freckled baby face as he peered from behind his father, up at Trevor. For a moment, he thought the boy remembered his last visit here, a couple of months back, but then the lure aisle and its thousand shiny contraptions appeared to grab the little guy’s attention.

  Trevor handed Oscar a metal tray. “Let me know if you have any other questions.” He rounded the side of the front counter to finish a task he’d started earlier in the day—pricing Ford Fenders, a popular lake troll for trout. Alone with his thoughts, the heart-wrenching news resurfaced: Walt’s Place had sold.

  Near the corner of the end-cap display, David paused to stare wide-eyed at him.

  The boy did remember.

  It was for times such as this that Trevor kept the spin rod behind the register. He flipped back the bail and cast the rubber plug about twenty feet—halfway down the second aisle. He spun the handle enough to close the bail, and then walked around to the customer-side of the counter and waited.

  When David reached his side, Trevor hoisted him up and set him between the register and the pile of lake trolls. Then he nestled the fishing rod between the boy’s knees and the stem of the reel between the middle and index finger of his right hand.

  “Now, slowly reel in,” Trevor said.

  Bright-eyed, David cranked the handle several times.

  “Now, remember when a fish bites, your rod’s going to bend. When that happens, you’ll want to jerk. Like this…” He demonstrated by holding his elbow near his waist and then quickly lifting his wrist shoulder-high.

  The boy reeled in a little more line. Like their previous lesson, Trevor tugged and held onto the line, six feet from the tip, imitating a fish’s strike. David jerked, raising his forearm to an upright position. The line went taut, and the rod bent in a tight arc.

  “There you go. Now, what do you do next?”

  The boy slowly lowered the rod, but forgot to reel on the way down. The line went slack.

  “Remember to reel on the way down. If your line goes slack like that, you’ll lose the fish every time. Lift again.”

  The youngster lifted the rod and, this time, remembered to crank the reel on the way down. “There you go!” The boy was a natural and so determined.

  “You ever thought of remarrying?” Oscar set several lures down on the counter.

  “As a matter of fact, I have.” Trevor lowered the boy to the floor. “I hope the Lord gives me another chance at it.” He leaned the rod against the wall, and then he rang up and bagged Oscar’s lures.

  “I was watching the two of you, and you’re right,” Oscar glanced down at his boy, “he is ready.”

  “I’m glad you see that.” Trevor grinned. “And when the time comes, I want to hear all about it.”

  “Thanks, Trevor. The mercies of God are new each morning,” Oscar said, and then lifted his son and nestled him on his hip, “and, we get another chance to try and get it right.”

  A hard knot formed in Trevor’s throat and he nodded.

  “Bye, Mr. Bobber.” David waved over his father’s shoulder.

  “Dawber,” Oscar corrected him.

  Trevor managed a small wave and remained behind the counter near the window. Oscar’s truck headed west before it disappeared into the tree-lined bend.

  Each morning was new with another chance to get it right.

  The Lord had given Trevor a dream about a boy and a river. He was still young; who was to say Walt’s Place might not ever come up for sale again? He and Mae would marry and someday, with prayer, the place could still be theirs.

  Like a Skykomish Sunrise steelhead fly, he let the thoughts sink deep. The Lord’s mercies are new each morning, and we get another chance to get it right.

  Chapter 21

  Mae parked near the barn at Walt’s Old Place and carried her fishing rod and an old brass lamp Elsie had given her toward the house. As she walked toward the house, she recalled the dreams Trevor had shared with her the afternoon they’d fished together. Was she included in his dreams? Or was Beth who he loved?

  The front door creaked closed behind her. It needed oiling and a good scrub. The house smelled musty. She walked through the kitchen and living room and opened every window that wasn’t painted down. Then she sat down on the old dark brown couch that Walt had left and gazed sadly around her. What had overtaken her that day? She should have tried and reasoned with Walt more, gone and found Trevor. But the elderly man had seemed so rushed.

  Her limbs felt heavy as she forced herself off the couc
h and into the kitchen. Walt had left almost everything, including years of grime on and in the cupboards.

  She found a bottle of Pine Sol beneath the sink and filled an old enamel bucket with hot sudsy water. Then, she climbed on top of the gold-speckled laminate countertop and started scrubbing the knotty pine cabinets. Her back was to the nook area when someone knocked on the front door.

  She froze.

  Whoever it was could see directly into the kitchen, see her standing on top of the counter. After she climbed down, she turned and in the door’s upper glass, she saw the scruffy bearded face of Bob Hawkins.

  Her insides felt like an elevator shaft as her stomach plummeted.

  Trevor would soon know.

  She wiped her hands on the back of her Levis and pulled open the door. “Hi, Bob,” she managed.

  His gaze narrowed.

  She glanced past him to Jack standing on the lower porch step. He looked at her with an equally dim-witted expression.

  “The new owner here?” Bob frowned and brushed past her inside. “We didn’t want to feel like we’re trespassing when we’re walking the property.”

  Jack leaned his rod against the siding and scooted past her, as well.

  “What are you doing here?” Bob paused near the couch, studying the room. “Looks like Walt didn’t take a thing.”

  She closed the door. “Would you guys like a cup of coffee? I think Walt left everything.” In the cupboard to the right of the stove, she reached for the tin that she’d seen Walt’s son, Gordon, pull down only a few days ago.

  Wooden chair legs scraped the floor behind her, and the two men sat down at the round table.

  The glass percolator sat on the stove with old coffee in it. She dumped the grounds in the trash can beneath the sink and rinsed out the pot. Then she filled the lower half with cold water and the upper metal filter half full of coffee and returned it to the stove. While the water came to a boil, she leaned back against the counter, crossed her arms, and with a heavy sigh met Bob’s then Jack’s unblinking gaze.

  “I’m the one who bought Walt’s Place,” her voice wavered only slightly.

  Both men stared at her.

  Bob shook his head. “No, some old, heavy-set fellow and a young gal bought this place.”

  “Fletcher’s not old. He went with me to the title company, but that’s all. I know what you’re thinking—that I bought Walt’s Place out from underneath Trevor, but that’s not what happened.” She inhaled deeply and waved a hand toward the phone. “I’d brought a cinnamon roll for Walt. He was on the phone, so he had me sit there.” She pointed to where Jack was seated. “He was trying to call Charles Rasmussen, but he wasn’t in. So then he tried Trevor’s store. And Trevor wasn’t in either. You answered, Bob.”

  Wide-eyed, he nodded. “Yep, Trevor was at one of his old girlfriends.”

  Probably Gladys’s.

  “Walt was going to call the next person on his list. His son was here, and they wanted to sell the house that day. Wanted money in their hands that day, too.

  “I thought he loved me, and now I’m not so sure.” Mae covered her mouth with one hand, smothering a sob.

  “Walt?” Bob asked.

  “Trevor!” Jack scowled and shook his head. “What are you saying, Mae?” His elbows dropped to the table.

  She shook her head too emotional to speak.

  “I think she just said . . .” Bob’s voice filled with awe, “that she bought Trevor Dawber the best fishing hole on the Molalla.”

  She nodded and prayed it wasn’t a decision that she came to regret.

  »»»

  Hal Perkins set three Rooster Tails spinners on the front counter. “What do you think is Bob’s Secret River?” Hal asked.

  “You mean the Quah?” Trevor tried to remember if Wilfred had mentioned the Quah the day he’d visited their class. He felt certain he hadn’t.

  “Yes, the Quah.” Hal nodded.

  “It’s hard to say. All I know is he's been weighing in some large steelhead for this area.” Trevor rang up and bagged the spinners.

  Hal nodded and slid a dollar bill across the counter. “I had my class write a story about their favorite sport. Fred, you know, Bob’s grandson, raised his hand and asked if fishing could be considered a sport, and I said, ‘Yes.’

  “Come to find out, in Fred’s paper he wrote about the Secret River.” Hal paused to fold over the top of the small paper bag between them.

  Trevor glanced to his left and then his right. No other customers were in the store. “Did Fred give the name?”

  “No.” Hal smirked and shook his head. “But, he did write that the Secret River is located 28 miles north of Vancouver, Washington.”

  Trevor suppressed a chuckle. The Quah, Bob’s secret river, was the East Fork of the Lewis River. To bring home his derby-winning steelhead, Bob was driving well over an hour and paying for an out-of-state fishing license, too.

  “Thanks, Hal. You just made my day.”

  “I want to know, too. What’s the secret river?” Hal set an arm on the counter and like Trevor kept an eye on the front door.

  “The Quah is the East Fork of the Lewis River,” Trevor whispered.

  »»»

  There were no customers in the store at 4:40 p.m., so Trevor flipped the sign over to Closed and locked the front door. The small corner grocery store had the same hours of operation as his place and made shopping a juggling act for him. He hurried in and purchased a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs, and a jug of milk. Then he started back to reopen his store for the final fifteen minutes of the day.

  Two blocks away, a small boy and a young woman peered in the front windows of his shop. Crud! Before he could slip between buildings, Mike pulled on his mother’s dress and pointed at him. Then, Mike raced toward him.

  “Mike!” Beth called after him.

  What few vehicles were in the area, were parked alongside the street, still Trevor did the right thing. He hurried to the next block of shops so the child wouldn’t need to cross the street.

  “You’re here! I knew you were here.” The exuberant little boy soon reached him. Head tilted back; Mike stared up at him with sparkling eyes.

  “You look excited to see me.” Trevor grinned.

  “We was afraid you weren’t home.” Mike turned and waited for his mother to reach them. “Trevor’s home, Mom; see, I told you.”

  Beth smiled a greeting. “Here, let me take that.” She reached for the jug of milk and the loaf of bread which she handed off to Mike.

  “I usually don’t close up like this,” Trevor said as they walked, “but the grocery closes at the same time I do.” He fumbled his key in the lock, opened the door and flipped the sign.

  “We wanted to stop in and say Hi,” Beth said.

  “Let’s look at your bugs.” Mike pulled on Trevor’s hand and swung the bread by the wrapper as he started toward the crickets.

  “Mike, Trevor needs to work,” Beth called after him.

  “It’s all right.” Trevor followed the boy to the cricket bin and crouched down beside him. A lightbulb heated the shallow, screen-topped cage. Though crickets were a popular bait for trout and panfish, he wasn’t sure if carrying them was worth the odor they brought to the second aisle.

  “They stink.” Instead of his nostrils, Mike pinched the tip of his nose.

  “I need to show you something important in life.” Trevor suppressed a chuckle. “When something smells as bad as these crickets, pinch your nose right here.” He showed the boy the more efficient method.

  With his thumb and forefinger pinching his nose, Mike looked like he was about to jump into a deep pool of water as he leaned over the box. “They don’t stink no more,” he said in a nasal voice.

  “Any more,” Beth said in the background. “Is Mae working today?” she asked.

  “No, not today.”

  The front bell jingled.

  “Another fine day on the river,” Bob’s voice boomed across the store.

>   Trevor walked out of the cricket aisle. Still plugging his nose, Mike trailed behind him.

  “I just met the owner of Walt’s Old Place.” Bob nodded toward the door. “Nice gal, you’ll like her.”

  “How are they about letting people fish there?” He could always fish the Wagon Wheel side of the river if he had to, but he preferred Walt’s side. Mike slid his hand up into Trevor’s where he’d rested it on his hip.

  “Fine. Real friendly. She made coffee for Jack and me.”

  “Good.” Trevor nodded.

  “Is she your sister?” Bob tilted his head toward where Beth stood near the front counter.

  “No, Bob, have you met Richard Neilson’s sister, Beth?”

  “Can’t say I have.” Bob’s gaze narrowed and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I have in-laws coming tonight, so I won’t be in or fishing tomorrow.” He started toward the door, set his hand on the knob and then turned. “I saw Mae at the river, too. She sure is a nice gal. Ought to make one lucky angler a fine wife one day.”

  Sounded like Mae had won Bob’s approval. “Did she catch any?”

  “Dunno.” Bob shrugged.

  At closing time, Beth and Mike didn’t appear to be in any rush to leave. Even though the boy had begun to complain about being hungry, the two stayed put. Trevor started his evening routine of closing out the till and had Mike flip the sign on the door to Closed. Beth offered to help, so he had her wash the dirtied coffee cups in the backroom.

  “Do you have any crackers?” Mike asked while Trevor was in the middle of counting ones. He paused between bills and wrote 15 on a nearby paper, so he’d remember.

  “No, but I have bread.”

  “Are you going to make me a sandwich?” Mike asked.

  “What kind of sandwiches do you like?”

  “Jelly on toast.”

  Trevor smiled. There was a jar of his mother’s raspberry jelly in the fridge.

  “I’m hungry,” Mike said.