There was an awkward pause after which he looked off at the river again. “Well, I see the fish are biting. I’ll leave you be. See you, Mia.”
“Wait,” she called out. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”
He put his hand to his heart in mock pain. Mia laughed and said, “Your full name, Stuart.”
“Stuart MacDougal.”
“Well, Stuart MacDougal,” she said, repeating his name to cement it in her brain. Since chemotherapy, proper nouns had a way of slipping through her mind like water through a sieve. “Please don’t run off. I’d like it if you stayed. Watching you fish I might actually learn a thing or two. If that’s OK with you,” she quickly added.
His smile came slow and easy. “I’d like that. Mia…”
She cracked a smile. “Mia Landan.”
For the next hour they fished the pocket, or rather, Mia fished and Stuart gave her pointers. He was, she discovered, an excellent teacher. Belle had told her that each guide has his or her own style, and she found this was true. Belle was enigmatic and encouraging. She had watched Mia’s every move and was right there to correct her. Stuart was laid-back and his voice was never sharp or frustrated, even when she did what she knew were some incredibly bad casts.
They fished till it got so dark they could barely see the fly on the water, but Mia didn’t want to stop.
“Stuart, I can’t stop now. I’m just getting the hang of it and I haven’t caught a fish yet.”
“That’s why it’s called fly-fishing, not fly-catching.” He chuckled as he reeled in his line. “Some days are good ones and some days you have to accept you’re going to be denied. Fly-fishing to me is just showing up. It’s about being here—your head, your heart, your senses—all of it.”
“Listen to the river,” she said halfheartedly.
“Exactly,” Stuart said in all seriousness. “Whether or not you catch a fish today is not important.” He reached out for her hand and helped her up the bank. “I can see you’re going to be one of those fishers who’ll need to be dragged from the water.” He stretched his shoulders and took a deep breath. “As for me, I caught fish this morning and fish this evening and I’ve got a long, fast walk out ahead of me. Time to call it a day.”
Mia looked toward her path home. The woods were already dark. “I didn’t realize how late it was getting.”
They stood side by side on the bank packing up gear. The twilight deepened around them. Mia shouldered her backpack, then stood looking at the path with worry etched across her face.
“I didn’t bring a flashlight,” she said.
“How far is it to your cabin?”
“Not too far, but the path goes through the woods.” The path was as steeped in black as tea. She looked up. “The moon hasn’t risen.”
“Do you want me to walk you back?”
She turned to face him. Once again he was a silhouette in the dark.
“Would you mind?”
“No, I will.”
“When we get there, I’ll drive you to the lodge.”
“You don’t have to. The road is well marked.”
“It’s a long walk and I’d feel better if you let me drive you. Deal?”
He laughed softly. “Deal.”
They didn’t talk on the trek back. She was apprehensive about missing a marker on the trail or falling down or not seeing where a copperhead might be lying along the dark path. Their footfalls sounded heavy in the night as they crunched and cracked across the forest floor.
Stuart kept up with her as she led the way along the river. When they passed a narrow bend Mia came to an abrupt halt. She felt Stuart come up close behind her and heard his intake of breath. Ahead, a fog of insects was swarming over the water. The fish that had been sitting quietly with an occasional sip were now thrashing at the surface.
“Stuart, what is that?”
“A hatch!” His whispered voice was heated with excitement.
“I’ve never seen one before.”
“It’s the hatching of insects over the water. The fish go wild for them. Follow me. And don’t spook ’em.”
They made a beeline to the river’s edge. The air was alive with insects. Stuart tied a nymph fly to her line with swift fingers.
It was a magical, mystical evening. Mia wouldn’t remember how many fish they caught but she would always remember the spontaneous outbursts of laughter and whoops of joy as the fish leaped at the flies, taking whatever they offered in their frenzy. When the hatch finished and the water quieted, their laughter subsided into silence. A surreal calm fell upon the river.
Stuart came closer and took her hands in his. He was a dark shadow. She couldn’t make out his eyes.
“Your hands are cold.”
“The water was icy.”
Her gaze was trained on him as he lowered his mouth to her hands and blew on them. She felt his warm breath on her skin. She closed her eyes and felt her blood warm.
He pulled back slowly. “We should head back.”
“All right,” she replied, breathless, and turned to lead their way along the path. She walked in a daze, filled with the heady euphoria of the evening. Before too long, she saw the broad outline of the cabin sitting dark and shuttered across from the green pool.
“There it is. Watkins Cove.”
Coming closer she saw it as he would. The moon was rising and the sloping metal roof mirrored its silver light. The still water of the pool beside it was a reflecting pond.
“See, I was right,” Stuart said as they drew near. “Those old fishermen always claimed the prettiest spots.”
Mia felt a surge of pride for the little cabin, though it wasn’t even hers. By virtue of her relationship to Belle and Kate, she claimed a bond. They walked across the spit of land to the other side of the river where a flight of wood stairs led to the front porch. Mia began walking up.
“What would you say to a cup of coffee?” she asked in a companionable way.
Stuart stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, his hand on the railing, and deliberated. Mia turned her head, perplexed.
“Thanks. But I’d better head right back.”
“Oh,” she stumbled out. “OK.”
“Maybe another time.”
“Sure. I’ll just get my keys.”
Mia’s head was spinning as she dropped her gear at the door and went inside to grab her purse. She felt a fool for inviting him in for coffee. Did he think she was making a move on him? She was just trying to be polite.
She came back out quickly, locked the door, and walked swiftly to the car where he was waiting. They climbed in wordlessly. The doors closed and immediately she felt an odd tension settle between them. Mia fired the engine and shifted into gear. The gravel crunched noisily under the tires as they took off, her high beams revealing the dirt road and tall, rugged trunks of trees in a ghostly light.
The night air was cooler and they rolled down their windows. The compartment felt fresher and the tension between them eased somewhat. They’d fished together so companionably, she thought. This new awkwardness confused her. It was because of her invitation for coffee, she scolded herself. He wasn’t interested in her. Not in that way. Of course he wouldn’t be. She’d misread his kindness.
The road to Watkins Lodge was a straight shot down over the mountain ridge. In ten minutes she saw the beautifully elegant roofline of the great old house atop a grassy hill. She pulled up in front of the low, sweeping portico of the main house.
“Thanks for the ride,” Stuart said.
“A deal’s a deal,” she replied with a tight smile.
He climbed from the car and closed the door. Then he leaned against the car and looked through the window at her.
“I was thinking,” he said with hesitation. “I’m going to check out a stretch of the Green River tomorrow morning that sounds promising. It wouldn’t be for long. Would you like to come along?”
“Why would you want me to come? Wouldn’t I just get in your way?
”
A small smile eased across his face and in the brighter light of the lodge she saw the faint shadow of stubble across his jaw. “You did pretty good out there today. But I thought you could use another lesson.”
She laughed shortly. “That’s pretty obvious.”
“Come on. You can be my test case. I can evaluate how a classic beginner does on that strip of water.”
It wasn’t a date, she realized with relief. They would simply be helping each other out. “Well, that’s me. A classic beginner,” she said with sarcasm. Then she met his gaze and said, “All right. Where do we meet?”
“I’ll swing by tomorrow morning. Seven sharp.” He rose to a stand, tapped the top of her car with the flat of his palm, and waved her off.
Though the night was warm, Mia lit a fire in the cabin’s hearth. She heated pots of water on the stove and poured them into the claw-footed tub. After her bath, she moistened her skin with perfumed lotion, taking special care with her scar. Clean and scented, she wrapped herself in her robe and walked barefoot into the main room. It was dark but the fire cast a rosy, sensual glow. The royal velvet of the mahogany sofa was inviting and the jagged points of the stag’s antlers on the armoire cast long shadows across the floor.
Mia still felt the sting of Stuart’s rejection to come into her cabin. She understood what he was telling her with his invitation to fish tomorrow. He was setting up the boundaries of their relationship on his terms. He wanted a friendship on the water, not a personal relationship behind closed doors.
Mia closed her eyes and took a long breath, absorbing this, accepting it. So be it, she thought. Charles had looked at her as damaged goods. Her weakness was that she saw herself through his eyes. She would never do that again.
She slowly untied the sash of her robe and let it fall open. She rolled her shoulders and let the fabric slide down her arms to puddle on the floor. Opening her eyes, she looked down at her naked body.
Mia saw her long, lean legs and arms; her flat stomach; her one small breast on the right and the flat, pale scar on her left. She had filled out some in her weeks here. Her muscle tone was more defined from physical work and fishing. Her skin appeared rosy in the firelight. Bringing her hands to her hair, she scratched her scalp and let her fingers comb through the curls. Her hair was growing longer, healthier.
This was her body. And this, she thought as she looked around the small room, was her sanctuary. This small space in the mountains was her private world.
Mia went to the armoire and pulled out the pile of watercolors she’d painted on artist’s paper. On fourteen sheets she had painted the river in different lights. On six of these, she saw that her focus had sharpened, including trees, wildflowers, and birds in her work. Next she went to the kitchen and found the pack of tacks she’d purchased. She felt bursts of excitement as a plan began to form in her mind. She turned the gas on the teakettle, then went to collect her watercolors. The cool night breeze whisked in from the windows but the fire kept her naked body warm as one by one Mia tacked her watercolors up on the wood wall of the cabin. She relished the freedom of her nakedness. This, she thought with a small laugh, was what it must mean to be comfortable in your own skin. When she was done, she stood back and, with her hands on her hips, surveyed her work.
Something was missing. She went to gather her calligraphy pen and ink and some scissors, and spread more paper on the table. Humming now, she gathered Kate’s diaries and also brought them to the table. She’d read the diaries so many times she knew exactly where to look for phrases that played in her mind. She chose the ones that most inspired her. Working quickly now, she copied the words verbatim on paper. She started copying down Kate’s words, afraid, scared, timid…
She stopped, then in a rush crushed the paper in her hands and tossed it aside. It was time for something new. She spread out a new sheet and wrote: strong, audacious, courageous, artistic, fearless, brave. She smiled, deciding these were the words she would say aloud every day. She collected this and the other papers with Kate’s words and tacked them on the wall with the dozen watercolors, rearranging them until she was satisfied with the design. By the time she was done the kettle was whistling on the stove like a wild bird.
Mia felt a fluttering of elation as she made a pot of tea, then returned to the armoire and pulled out two place settings of the exquisite, hand-painted china and two settings of silver, and set the heads of the table. Then she carried all five candles to the table and lit each one, enjoying the way the flickering light played upon the creamy paleness of the porcelain plates. She brought cheese and crackers and a fresh peach and placed some on each plate, then poured tea into the two cups. When all was ready, she returned to the armoire and slipped the long, white scarf around her neck. The silk grazed sensually across her skin when she moved. Finally, she carried the blue taffeta gown and very gently laid it across the chair at the head of the table.
Taking her seat at the opposite end, Mia placed her hands upon the arms of the chair and sat far back, settling herself firmly. The wood felt cold and hard against her bare skin as she squared her shoulders. Mia felt like a queen overlooking her realm.
Across the room the dark wood walls had come alive with her colors. They seemed to dance in the flickering light of the fire. She searched out one paper, a stanza from a poem by William Ernest Henley that she’d found written in Kate’s fishing diary. She’d copied this selection for her wall because it had spoken to her. She read aloud.
Out of the night that covers me
Black as the Pit from pole to pole
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
Once again she sensed a presence in the room. Nothing she could identify. Perhaps nothing more than her alter ego. She reached for her teacup and raised it in a toast to the empty chair across the table with the blue gown draped over it.
“To us.”
Chapter Eleven
In fly-fishing, flies are created to look like real aquatic insects and are used instead of bait. A dry fly floats on the water’s surface to imitate an adult insect. A wet fly sinks below the surface. Nymphs and streamers are wet flies.
—KATE WATKINS’S FISHING DIARY
In mid-July a heat wave settled in the south and everyone and everything was sluggish, including the fish. But the tourists came to the mountains in droves. Shaffer’s bakery was standing-room-only in the morning, and the other restaurants were doing a brisk business the rest of the day. Watkins Mill was in the thick of the summer season.
After a light lunch on the porch Mia packed her notebook and shopping list and headed for town. She passed the deep pool outside her cabin, as was her habit, to see if she could spot Mr. Big. Most every day she’d walk over to the edge of the pool and look for that monster trout. Every once in a while she’d catch sight of his nose rising from the depths to sip an insect. He was a magnificent rainbow trout, long and fat and brilliantly colored. Her fingers itched for her rod whenever she spied him. Nothing she cast his way caught his interest. Again and again she was refused. It didn’t bother her, though. He was her ultimate challenge. Sometimes she felt Mr. Big knew that.
As she looked into the pool, her mind reflected on the past two weeks she’d spent trying out different rivers and streams with Stuart. He’d come for her that first morning in his red Jeep Wrangler and then several more times after that. He never led her to believe he was anything more than her guide and fishing buddy. The bulk of their conversations had been about how they liked their fishing rods, what flies to use, the fish they’d caught in the past few days, and the fish they hoped to catch in the next few.
Through his eyes, she came to experience the joy of fly-fishing. Each fish caught he declared beautiful, incredible, a miracle. Each moment spent outdoors in the water was treasured. His joy in the sport was like a boy’s, and when he smiled his eyes seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.
At other times, they stood a short distance from each other in the wate
r and fished in a companionable silence. Neither felt the need to speak, yet she felt sure he was as aware of her presence as she was of his. On occasion she would look over, content to just watch him cast, feeling the wonder one experiences when watching a great bird soar in the sky or a glistening fish leap into the air.
Mia couldn’t help but compare this relationship with the one she shared with Charles. They’d never found something they enjoyed doing together—not a sport or a hobby. They each had their own separate interests and pastimes. If people mentioned the Landans they’d remark how happy they seemed, even how great-looking they were as a couple. Mia and Charles had talked together about their work, the bills, and their families, and when they were with friends they laughed and chatted in a group. But they never talked about their hopes and aspirations, either their own or as a couple. They never focused their gazes on each other.
Looking into the fathomless pool, Mia tried to remember why she’d married Charles in the first place. When she saw in her mind’s eye the woman of twenty-eight who had married Charles after a long courtship, she seemed impossibly young. And Charles, he never really wanted to get married in the first place. At thirty-two, it seemed time to commit. Once they’d made up their minds to marry there was no stopping the wedding. The union of two old Charleston families was the wedding of the season. Mia couldn’t pinpoint the first time she’d suspected it was a mistake. By the time the cancer was diagnosed and the treatments commenced, however, deep inside she knew. Someday, when she and Charles could talk about it, she’d have to ask him whether he knew he’d wanted to leave before the cancer, or if the disease merely made the decision clear.
A long, silver shape caught her eye. It was that granddaddy of a rainbow trout cruising around the pool, looking for a bug as if she weren’t even there. She’d read somewhere that the life span of a rainbow trout was six years. That behemoth looked double that, maybe more. To her mind Mr. Big was as ancient as the river he swam in, wise and wary. At what price wisdom? she wondered. Had that big trout ever felt the prick of steel in his mouth?
Time Is a River Page 16