Time Is a River

by Mary Alice Monroe

  On her way into town Mia stopped at the scenic overlook and made her usual round of telephone calls. Her first call was to Maddie. They chatted about everything and nothing, as sisters often do. Mia felt her muscles ease just hearing Maddie’s voice and the details of her life with Don and the children. Sometimes Charleston felt so very far away and Maddie was her only touchstone.

  When she hung up with Maddie she returned Charles’s four increasingly strident phone messages.

  “Hello, Charles. I got your messages.”

  “Don’t you ever answer your phone?”

  She explained for the hundredth time how difficult phone reception was in the mountains.

  “What’s up, Charles?” she asked with a roll of the eyes.

  “I’m going to make you a proposition and I want you to think about it before you respond. Take your time, it’s important. But please, don’t take forever and drag down the divorce proceedings.”

  “You’re wasting time with this preamble.”

  “I just want you to think carefully about your answer.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what your proposition is?”

  He paused, then said bluntly, “I’d like to buy the condo.”

  “Our condo?”

  “Of course our condo. I’ve thought about it and decided I’d like to stay here. The location is great and it would be a hassle to move.”

  “And what about my living situation?”

  “Well, do you want to stay here?”

  Mia saw the sleek, marbled entrance to the building overlooking the Ashley River, the brass fixtures on the elevator, the airy rooms with large windows overlooking the water. It was modern and chic, pearlescent in the twilight when friends stopped by for cocktails before dinner.

  “No,” she replied honestly. “But this might get sticky. We should sell it outright.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Charles told her. “That I’ll offer you a lowball price.”

  That was exactly what she was thinking but she didn’t say so.

  “I wouldn’t do that to you, Mia. I know what I’ve put you through and my timing is lousy and you’ll probably never forgive me. So let me do the right thing by you, at least in this one area. I’ll be fair. I’ll be more than fair. Hell, Mia, I’ll be generous.”

  She looked heavenward, saying a prayer for strength. She brought her fingers to her trembling lips as water flooded her eyes.

  “Mia, are you still there?”

  She swallowed hard. “Yes.”

  “Just think about it, OK?”

  “I don’t need to think about it.”

  He didn’t reply but she thought she heard a disappointed sigh.

  “I’ll sell it to you.”

  “Thank you.” His relief was audible.

  “Don’t thank me yet, Charles,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I haven’t agreed to the price yet.”

  It was late in the afternoon by the time she arrived at the Gazette. Nada Turner came rushing from her office when Mia arrived.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “I went fishing.”

  “Oh?” Her expression sharpened with interest. “Where do you fish?”

  She never talked to others about her friendship with Stuart. She enjoyed their privacy and didn’t want tongues to wag.

  “I cast a few into the pool behind the cabin. There’s a big ol’ trout there that flips its tail at me every morning, just to rile me.” She smiled craftily. “But I’m getting better.”

  “See, that’s what impresses me about you. Your persistence. It pays off in fly-fishing.” She shrugged. “And in life, too.”

  “We’ll see. That fish isn’t caught yet.”

  “Reading all these articles by Kate Watkins has got me all fired up to go fly-fishing again. I used to fish a lot when I was young, did I tell you that? But over the years I’ve been so busy with the paper that I just, well, I guess I thought I didn’t have the time. But you know what? I’m going to find time. I’m going to dig out my waders and boots and rod and start up again.”

  “I’m all for that. Tempus fugit.”

  “Exactly!” she said, seizing the topic. “I got to thinking. If reading Kate’s articles got me so fired up to fish, then I’ll bet my last dollar it’ll make others want to fish, too. Women, especially. The articles are timeless.” She looked at Mia with the look of an impending pronouncement. “So I’ve decided to publish Kate’s articles again. I’ll run a special column, ‘On the Fly,’ with her old byline. What do you think? Isn’t that a great idea?”

  Mia was nonplussed and felt a sudden foreboding. “Publish them? Honestly, Nada, I wish you wouldn’t.”

  Nada’s face fell. “But whyever not? I thought you’d be wild for the idea.”

  “I’m not. Not at all. I never intended to bring her story back in the public eye like this. To get folks talking about her.” She looked over to where Missy was sitting at the reception desk, very quiet. She leaned over and said in a whisper, “Can we go downstairs?”

  Nada glanced at Missy, nodded in understanding, then led the way to the microfilm room downstairs.

  “What’s got you so hot and bothered?” she asked Mia when they got there.

  Mia leaned against the table. “Not what. Who. It’s Belle Carson. She’s the granddaughter of Kate Watkins.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then you also must know that when her mother left town she didn’t look back.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “According to Belle, Theodora wanted to escape any communication with her mother so that when she left Watkins Mill she could start a life of her own in Virginia, without the smear of scandal. Nonetheless, Kate left the cabin and the land around it to Theodora when she died and Theodora passed it on to Belle. Now Belle is making her first tenuous steps back into town.” Mia took a breath. In that space of time she said a prayer for absolution for her own part in uncovering Kate’s story.

  “Belle asked me to keep a lid on anything that had to do with her grandmother. She doesn’t want me poking around and stirring things up. The last thing she wants is to have Kate’s story brought back in the town newspaper. She’s hoping the story died with the two women.”

  Nada crossed her arms. “So why did you dig into it?”

  “Well,” she began, dodging the real reason. “Kate Watkins was an extraordinary woman. I’m impressed not only by her achievements and skill in fly-fishing but by her courage at smashing the image that women don’t fish. She broke a barrier for women, like Amelia Earhart. How can I not admire that?”

  Nada narrowed her eyes. “Your research goes a little deeper than admiration, seems to me.”

  Mia puffed out air and looked at her feet. “You’re a good reporter, do you know that?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Mia sighed. “I’m not sure why this means so much to me. And that’s the truth. At first it was an interesting story, a puzzle to work out in my spare time. The more I heard and read about her, the more I dug, and the more the stories didn’t fit.

  “Somewhere along the line, it got personal. I saw Kate as a mentor and a role model. Her words inspire me and her choices remind me what I could be doing with my life. I have this gut feeling that I owe her. Belle told me not to stir up the mud, but I can’t help but think her reputation has been smeared by it. If I don’t at least try to find out the truth…” She shrugged. “Who else will?”

  “That’s what a reporter does. She digs deep to find the details that shape the whole picture. For me, the story is paramount to everything else. And this is a good story.”

  “But we don’t know the real story yet, do we? All we have is rumor and speculation. My God, Nada, Phillip Pace tells me Kate never killed anyone. That it’s all a lie! Is that possible? Aren’t you reporters supposed to get the facts?”

  “I thought that’s what you’re doing.”

  “I’ve barely scratched the surface. It’s like s
ome mystery and I’m trying to unravel the clues.”

  Mia went to the table and sat down, taking a piece of plain white paper. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pen. Meanwhile, Nada came to sit beside her.

  Mia tapped her pencil against the paper in thought. “Innocent until proven guilty. As far as I know, we still hold to that in our country, right? So, do you know who Kate was supposed to have killed?”

  “Someone from out of town. Her lover. What was his name? Delaney? Darcy? No, it was French sounding. Come on, brain…”

  “I first thought she’d killed Lowrance Davidson.”

  “Good heavens, no. He was killed in World War I. Everybody knows that.” Nada snapped her fingers. “DeLancey. That’s his name. Theodore DeLancey. He was some society fella from New York.”

  Mia wrote the name in her notebook. “When did this DeLancey die?”

  “I’m not sure. Likely before nineteen thirty. After that she went to live in the cabin.”

  “But that doesn’t necessarily mean that’s when the murder—or rather, the alleged murder—took place.” Mia smoothed out the piece of paper and began to draw a chart. “I’m going to start a timeline. That way we can see what we do know for sure. Then I can weed out what is only rumor. OK, let’s start with Kate. She was born in nineteen hundred, which means she was in her midtwenties when her first article was printed.”

  “Twenty-five,” Nada said, checking the printed article date.

  “We know she lost her house after the stock market crash. So that’s nineteen twenty-nine.” Her memory jogged. “Wait a minute…” Mia pulled out her notebook and leafed through the pages to the information she’d learned in the library. “Here it is. Walter Watkins died in nineteen twenty-nine, too.” Her pencil tapped the paper. “I wonder what month.”

  “That’s easy enough to look up.”

  “OK, she lost the house but she must have kept some land and the cabin to live on. Belle inherited eighty-some acres. In all likelihood, there wasn’t anyplace else for her to go. It might have been less of a retreat than a practical decision.”

  “She may have felt hounded, too, by the press and the townspeople after the scandal of a murder investigation.”

  The timeline began to sink in and Mia knew a profound sadness for Kate. “That poor woman. She lost her fortune, her home, and her father all in one year. Then she was accused of murder. That’s a lot for even the strongest woman to bear. I wonder if she didn’t go a little bit crazy.”

  “The Gazette must have covered the case,” Nada said. “It was a huge event for the town.” She looked at Mia with a slanted gaze. “So, I’m guessing now you want me to dig up that microfilm, too?”

  Mia smiled. “Please.”

  Nada leaned back in her chair, considering. “We’re digging into a can of worms.”

  “We have to keep digging. Which is why I don’t think it’s time to publish anything about Kate Watkins yet.”

  Nada took a deep breath and considered this. “Sorry, Mia, I disagree. I’m going to go ahead and print Kate’s fly-fishing articles. They’re timeless. But I won’t run a story on her. Yet. I can stick in some byline info about her being a well-known fly fisher in the nineteen twenties. I’ll keep it vague.”

  Mia shook her head with regret. “Belle is still going to kill me.”

  “No she won’t. The articles will get folks remembering the good about Kate Watkins and not dwell on the old scandal. How could she be upset about that? Look, I admired Kate Watkins. I won’t sensationalize her. It’s time the town got to know who she really was. Not some hermit or some ghost. The fly-fishing articles will whet the appetites for the true story after all these years.”

  “Therein lies the rub. How do I get to the true story? Other than newspaper articles, Mr. Pace and Mrs. Minor are the only ones alive who knew Kate. How can you interview the dead?”

  Nada’s face eased into a self-satisfied smile. “You go to the original sources.”

  Mia looked up, intrigued.

  “Diaries, correspondence, newspapers, photographs—those are the real treasures of the past. It brings history alive. Honey, you came to the right place.”

  Chapter Twelve

  April 18, 1925

  Dear Miss Watkins,

  Theodore DeLancey is traveling to Asheville to fly-fish your beautiful rivers and streams. How I wish I could accompany him. In my absence, I am giving him this note of introduction to you. He is a very great friend and our families have been connected for many years. He is an experienced fly fisher, well mannered, and I should add, won our club’s tournament for long distance casting. I’ve taken the liberty of expounding to him your great talents as a guide. I hope you will enjoy meeting him.

  With kindest regards and best wishes to your father,

  Very sincerely,

  Woodrow Nelson

  Mia drove along a small road behind Main Street. Her car climbed sharply up the mountainside and past houses ranging from large Victorians to small cottages. Mia stopped her car before a small, pale green cottage with a faded, white front porch and trim. It was modest but tidy behind a cheery perennial border flanked by tall hollyhocks. Mia checked the address she’d written in her notebook. She’d gone directly from lunch to Shaffer’s to ask Becky for Mrs. Minor’s address and phone number. She glanced at her watch. It was three o’clock. She was right on time.

  A little orange Pomeranian dog was chained to the front porch and yapped shrilly while she walked up the steps. “Hush now, shhh,” she said as she lowered her hand to the dog in greeting. The petite dog bared its teeth and pumped up its incessant barking. “So don’t be friendly,” Mia snapped back.

  The front door swung open before Mia had a chance to knock. Rising, she peered through the screen to see a wiry woman in jeans and a T-shirt with her black hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Uh, hi. I’m Mia Landan. We spoke on the phone?”

  The woman narrowed her dark eyes. “You the lady who come to talk to my grandmother?” She spoke in a heavy rural drawl.

  “Yes, I am. And you’re Mrs….” She forgot the name.

  “Just call me Lucy,” the woman said, opening the screen door. “You hush, Angel,” she said, bending at the waist to swoop the dog up in her arms. Angel kept growling, her bulging eyes staring at Mia menacingly.

  Angel? More like little devil, Mia thought.

  “Sorry about that,” Lucy said, jiggling the dog in her arms to settle it. “She just gets testy with strangers.”

  “Is this a good time for Mrs. Minor?”

  “It’s as good as it’s going to get,” she said, letting the screen door slam. Outside, Angel mercifully stopped barking. “Grandmamma’s had her lunch so she’ll likely be a little more lively. If she’s gonna talk it’ll be now. ’Fore she takes her nap.”

  Mia stepped into a darkened living room with weary, large furniture. The old sofa was covered with a crochet throw and a curios cabinet was crammed with statues of angels.

  “I’ve brought some flowers,” Mia said, handing the bouquet of cheery summer annuals to Lucy. “And some pastries from Shaffer’s.”

  “My, but Grandmamma will be happy to have these. Flowers and sweets,” she murmured, smiling.

  “How is she feeling?”

  “She’s ninety-two and lived a simple life but a good one. She’s not doing so good right now, though. Not eating much. It’s like she’s just dwindling away. But she’s a sweet old girl and I don’t want anything upsetting her.”

  Mia heard the warning. “That’s not my intention.”

  Lucy accepted that. “She asked to watch her stories. That’s always a good sign. And she’ll surely perk up once she smells cinnamon.”

  “Lucy, how did your grandmother know Kate Watkins? Were they neighbors at Watkins Cove?”

  “Yeah. But they knew each other before that. Her mama used to work for the Watkins family, back when they were at the big house. She was the family cook. That’d be my Great-grandmamma Minni
e.”

  “And they moved out to the cabin with her?”

  “I don’t know what happened, exactly,” Lucy continued. “That was a long time ago. I only know that when Miss Kate lost her house and moved out to the woods she gave Great-grandmamma Minnie some land so she and her husband could build a place of their own. That was the first land my family owned outright. It was a right and moral thing to do, that’s what my grandmother always says. She says when the chips were down, Miss Watkins could be counted on to stand with you.”

  Mia followed Lucy down a short hall. They stopped at a closed door to a bedroom and Lucy faced her.

  “She might want to talk. It’d be nice to hear one of her stories again. But she might not. Most of the time she just sits in her wheelchair and laughs and sings and mumbles so I can’t figure out what the heck she’s trying to say. Then out of the blue she’ll look at me and know me and we’ll have a nice chat. I sure don’t understand it. That’s all I can tell you.” She opened the door. “She’s in there.”

  Mia stepped into a small, lavender bedroom. It was heavily shaded by overgrown yews alongside the house but someone had been kind enough to cut back the dense foliage from one window to allow a shaft of sunlight to pour through. An old woman sat in this sunlight. She seemed to sink into the deep cushions on her wheelchair. Her black skin was chalky and wizened, and fine gray hair covered her scalp like goose down.

  “Grandmamma, this here’s Mia Landan, the lady I was telling you about. She wanted to meet you.” She stepped closer to the old woman and took her hand. Then she waved Mia over. “Say hi to Ms. Landan.”

  The old woman turned her head toward Lucy. Her dark eyes were clouded with glaucoma and she looked up uncomprehendingly.

  “Do you want to tell her one of your stories about Kate Watkins? Grandmamma?”

  Mrs. Minor’s shiny, dark eyes peered over her shoulder at Mia like a crow.

  “Hello, Mrs. Minor,” Mia said with a smile.

  The old woman scowled, then turned her head to look out the window.

  “Grandmamma?”