The cabin felt like home now, more than her condominium in Charleston ever had. Mia knew that was because of the personal time and effort she’d spent cleaning and tending the old cabin. There was something about scrubbing a floor on one’s hands and knees that bonded you to a place. She hoped that someday Belle would feel the same affection for it. Perhaps once she came to know her grandmother she could reconcile with the cabin.
Before Belle returned, Mia wanted to surprise her with a stone walkway that led from the porch to the parking area. After every rain the front of the cabin became a sea of mud. She’d consulted with Clarence and purchased the stones and equipment to create a simple path. She’d figured if she built it herself, it wouldn’t set her back too much. After all, how hard could it be?
An hour later she had succeeded only in digging up the tenacious grass and bits of gravel and grit to form a rough path from the porch to the parking area. She’d thought she was getting in shape with all her walking and fishing, but her muscles ached from digging and from battles with tree roots the size of her arm. She leaned against her shovel, catching her breath. What was I thinking? she thought as she surveyed the ragged mess she’d made of the front yard. This job was much bigger than she’d thought. As her mother used to say when Mia had piled her plate with more food than she could ever eat, Your eyes are bigger than your stomach.
In the distance she heard the high hum of a car engine coming up the hill. She raised her head and wiped her forehead with her sleeve. Could Clarence be delivering the stone already? She was so far from being ready. A moment later a red Jeep swerved off the road to the cabin. Mia straightened, groaning slightly with stiffness. He would come now, she thought, rubbing the small of her back. She was sweaty and scratchy and her arms and legs were coated with dirt and grit.
Stuart climbed from the Jeep and walked to her side. He was wearing shorts and a black T-shirt that made his hair look as dark and glossy as a crow’s wing. He looked at her, taking his time as his gaze traveled the long path up her bare legs, then at the collection of tools scattered on the ground around the ragged path, then at her again.
“I guess we’re not going fishing today.”
“Today? Were we supposed to?”
“I thought so. Must have gotten our wires crossed.”
“I’m sorry. I’d love to, but I can’t quit midstream.”
He arched a brow and pointed to her cheek. “You…you’ve got some mud. Right there.”
She reached up to wipe her face and only managed to smear more mud from her glove.
“Here, let me.” He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and leaned closer to gently wipe her cheek. He was so close she saw the roughened texture of his skin from hours in the sun and the deep crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Mia held her breath.
“There, that’s better,” he said, inches from her face.
He had a way of smiling at her with his eyes that was a deliciously odd combination of teasing and flirtation. She never quite knew how to interpret that gaze, or if it was intentional or spontaneous. Yet it never failed to beguile her.
Tucking his handkerchief in his pocket, he looked over at the ragged trail she’d dug into the earth. “What are you making?”
“You can’t tell?” she asked, slightly offended. “It’s a walkway.” Then, feeling self-conscious, she added, “It’s nothing fancy. Just something to get from point A to point B without trekking through the slop. I talked at length to Clarence and it seems pretty straightforward.”
“Clarence?”
“He owns the hardware store.”
“Oh, that Clarence.”
She tucked a wayward curl back from her forehead. “Yeah, well, he’s been a great help. It’s just a lot harder than I thought. This isn’t exactly the kind of work I’m used to,” she said defensively. “I mean, how hard could it be to put some stones together. Like a puzzle, right? Well, it took me forever just to get the path dug out.” She looked at her fingers. They were chafed and her nails were deeply embedded with mud. She muttered crossly, “I didn’t think I’d run into tree roots.”
He covered his smile by rubbing his jaw and came closer to inspect her work. “Well, first of all, you don’t want your walk to go near trees, especially not maples. Not only will you run into roots, but new roots will grow close to the surface and destroy your walk.” He scratched his head and said, “I see you’re going for a curved walkway.”
“I thought it was more charming.” She saw his expression, then laughed and admitted, “It does look rather like a snake slinking through the trees.”
“Are you going to be hauling groceries and luggage along this path?” When she nodded he said, “Then the fewer curves the better. Here, let me show you.”
With great relief, Mia stood back and watched as Stuart picked up the ball of string and laid it on the ground to create a simple walkway with only one smooth curve and a distance from any tree.
“Will this design work for you?”
“It’s very nice.”
“Do you have a garden hose?”
“No, sorry. No call for it, considering there’s no spigot. Is there something else we could use?”
He thought a moment, then went to his Jeep. He came back with a can of spray paint. “It’s bright orange, but it’ll do the job. Now you go make sure the path is three feet in width. You do have a measuring tape?”
“Yes!” She silently blessed Clarence as she trotted indoors to get the measuring tape from her toolbox. While she measured the width he corrected the string position. When they were done, the outline looked ready to dig. She felt hopeful for the first time since she started the project.
“Do you have the sand and stone?” he asked.
“Clarence is delivering it later today.”
“Great,” he replied, rolling up his sleeves. “Then let’s get started.”
“Stuart, you don’t have to help me. I…I can’t pay you.”
He turned his head and his eyes blazed. “I’m not asking you to.” He paused. “Are you always so skittish about people offering to help you?”
Mia looked at her feet. “Lately, yes.” Then she looked up, hoping he’d forgive her rudeness. “I’m working on that.”
“Good. Now go measure.” He started shaking the paint can. “Move over, da Vinci. I’m about to paint my masterpiece.”
Stuart was no stranger to hard labor. He worked methodically, and as on the water, he was careful and sure. The morning heat rose with the sun, and sweat caused the black cotton to cling on his back like a second skin. His back was long and his muscles clearly defined. When he bent with the shovel, his shirt lifted and she could see a span of tanned skin between shirt and belt. She turned away from the distraction to focus on the task at hand. Yet while she raked the grounds smooth she surreptitiously glanced over to watch Stuart dig. His arms were very strong. The spade dug deep with each thrust, making clean edges in the dirt. In the same span of time that it took her to scratch the surface, Stuart had carved a complete and defined walkway.
When they were done they caught their breath and surveyed their work. Stuart looked at her and nodded with satisfaction, and in that gaze she felt again the heady sense of camaraderie they shared on the river. Sweat formed on his forehead and he brought his arm up to wipe his brow with his sleeve, leaving a mud streak across his brow. Mia snickered. He looked at her askance. “What?” She pointed to his face. Immediately he understood and pulled out the handkerchief to duty once more, catching her eye and laughing lightly.
“It’s getting hot,” he said. “The breeze is gone.” He went to his water bottle and turned it upside down. “So is my water.”
“Let me get you some. I’ll put ice in it.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have a beer?”
“No, sorry, I don’t drink beer. I have wine. Diet soda?”
“No, thanks, water will do me fine. Sometimes a cold beer hits the spot.”
She made a mental note to buy some
. As she led the way up the porch stairs, Mia felt a sudden déjà vu and wondered if he’d come indoors—or if she wanted him to. Then she recalled the many hours they’d spent together on the water, his kindness with the walkway, and she knew in that instant that the old nervousness and awkwardness existed only in her mind.
On the porch she slipped out of her muddy boots.
“If you like, I’ll just sit out here,” Stuart offered. “I don’t want to track mud into your house.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re welcome to come inside and clean up.”
“You’re sure I won’t mess your floors?”
“I can always clean them up again. It’s the least I can do to repay your kindness.”
“In that case…” He kicked off his boots, then slapped them together over the railing to shake off clots into the bushes. When finished he put them neatly by the front door.
He stepped inside and looked around the cabin, his eyes gleaming with appreciation as he turned around to take in the space. She couldn’t help but follow his gaze and see the place as he might.
The cabin looked clean and cheery in full light. On the stone fireplace’s wood mantelpiece, she saw four of the wildflower porcelain plates she’d placed in stands. To the left was the bookcase filled with Kate’s first editions with their gorgeous leather and gilt covers that dated from the turn of the century. A glass vase filled with fresh wildflowers graced the dining table, and in the kitchen a large wood bowl filled with fruit sat on a small white-legged work table covered with an oilcloth.
Stuart was drawn to the wall where thirty rectangular papers, each with a painting of the river, a local wildflower, a bird, or a line of calligraphy were tacked up in an attractive display. Mia’s breath caught in her throat and she froze. In her spontaneous invitation she’d forgotten about them. She hadn’t meant for anyone to see them. She cast him a wary glance. An appreciative smile turned his lips as he studied them. He then walked to the great armoire and admired the stag’s head at the apex. When he turned around he put his hands on his hips. “What a great cabin.”
She sighed, proud of the place. “I can’t take any credit.”
“Oh, but you can. I see your touch everywhere. And the watercolors have to be yours.”
Mia felt her cheeks burning, glad his back was to her. She felt so exposed. “Oh, those…”
“They’re very good.”
She couldn’t speak as the blush deepened. The compliment struck too deep.
“You know, the wildflowers remind me of some paintings I saw on the wall of one of the bedrooms at Watkins Lodge. They were done long ago. More a mural, I think.”
Mia’s attention sharpened. “You mean the paintings are still on the wall? In a bedroom? My God, they weren’t painted over?”
“Apparently not. Why? Do you know the artist?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed, still stunned and thrilled. “They were done by Kate Watkins when she was a little girl. How wonderful that they’re still there. Can I see them?”
“I don’t see why not. I can bring you over if you like.”
“Would you? I’d love that. I can’t begin to tell you how much it would mean to me to see them.” She was beaming. “When?”
“Well, first I’ll have to see if the room is taken by a guest. That’s easy enough. We won’t finish the walkway till tomorrow, that is if the stone gets here. So, maybe the next day, or the day after?”
“You’re going to help with the walk tomorrow?”
“I don’t see how you’re going to get it done if I don’t. The stones can be heavy.” When he saw she was going to protest, he looked sternly at her and said, “I thought we’d settled all that.”
Mia took a breath. “Thank you.”
She walked toward the kitchen, feeling his gaze on her back. “I’m forgetting my manners. You wanted some water. In the meantime, the bathroom is right over there, by the kitchen. Please, help yourself.”
At the big farm sink Mia lathered soap in her hands and scrubbed beneath her nails to get the tenacious dirt out. Her khaki shorts were splattered with mud and her cotton blouse was sweaty. What she really wanted right now was a bath. She unbuttoned the top of her blouse and splashed cool water on her face and neck. Droplets of water streaked across her chest. She looked down and saw the softly mounded breast on her right and the padded bra on her left. Beneath, the scar was pale against her skin.
Mia heard a noise, and looking over her shoulder she saw Stuart emerge from the bathroom. His face was scrubbed and the short hair framing his forehead was damp. In a panic she lurched for a towel and patted her face, keeping her back to him while she quickly buttoned her blouse.
“I’ll get that water,” she called out.
“Thanks.”
She had an inspiration. “We worked pretty hard out there and I’m starving. Can I make you some lunch?”
“You don’t have to go to all that trouble.”
“Now who’s not letting someone be nice?”
“OK then,” he said, spreading out his hands in mock defeat.
Mia felt a surge of satisfaction as she scrounged through the fridge. The pickings were slim but thank goodness she had some of Becky’s crusty whole wheat bread, a wedge of sharp cheddar cheese, and some ripe tomatoes. “How does a grilled cheese sandwich sound to you?”
“Like heaven,” he called back from the main room.
She was still smiling as she began slicing thick pieces of cheese. She added butter to the big cast-iron skillet and turned on the heat. As Mia cooked on the stove, Stuart walked around the main room. After a length of silence she stepped back a few paces to look over at him, curious about what caught his interest.
Stuart was standing at the bookcase with his back to her, reading. A fissure of warning coursed through her. She’d not hidden the diaries. With deliberate calm she turned off the stove and walked to his side, clenching and unclenching her fists. Stuart was completely captured by the book and didn’t hear her approach. She glanced around his shoulder. Her worst fears were realized. In his hands was Kate’s fishing diary. The brilliant colors of her glorious watercolors seemed to leap off the pages.
He sensed her presence beside him and looked at her. “This is unbelievable,” he said, his voice tinged with awe. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Look at the detail on that rainbow trout. And there,” he said, pointing to a pencil sketch of a trout leaping from the water. “She’s got it exactly right.” He turned to Mia, the soft hairs of his arm brushing hers. “Who did this? Kate Watkins?”
Mia froze, her secret uncovered. She reached out to carefully take the diary from his hands, her own hands trembling. She closed it, then went to the bookcase and placed it back into its box. She rested her fingertips on the leather, her back to him, knowing he stood watching her, waiting for an answer. Mia thought through the possibilities. Stuart would innocently mention the diary to someone at Watkins Lodge, and of course they’d want to see it. They’d be mad for it and the inquiries would begin. Everyone would know about the diaries and she’d have no choice but to turn them over. Her only hope was honesty.
Mia wrapped her arms around herself and, mustering her trust, told Stuart about her obsession with Kate Watkins. She began slowly, describing her arrival at the dirty, empty cabin. She explained how she sensed Kate’s presence in the cabin from the start, how she’d found the treasures in the armoire. His eyes widened when she mentioned the Payne split bamboo rod, but he didn’t interrupt. He listened patiently when she told him how she’d found the child’s diary, then later the two fishing diaries. How she’d come to feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, and that now she was in this whole new world and how, like Alice, she was chasing her white rabbit—Kate Watkins’s mysterious history.
He seemed genuinely moved by her story and took his time responding. “And you don’t want me telling anyone about these diaries.”
It was more a statement than a question and she appreciated that he understood. Mia nodd
ed, enormously relieved. “They belong to Belle, I know that. I’m going to give them to her when she returns. But I knew if I gave them to her when I first found them she would have taken them away. It would have been her right, I know that. It’s just…I wasn’t ready to let them go. It may sound strange, but I needed them. Kate’s words, her spirit—even her fly-fishing tips—have been healing for me. I feel—” Mia stumbled with words, trying to explain what she didn’t completely understand herself. “I feel connected to her somehow. Anyway, what started out as idle curiosity about her turned into a quest.”
“So, you’ve stolen a bit of fire, have you?”
“Yes,” she replied, delighted with his analogy. She looked up at him with appeal in her gaze. “Please, I’m asking you to keep all this between you and me. I feel I can trust you.” She paused. “Can I?”
“I think you know the answer to that, or you wouldn’t have told me.”
Mia exhaled heavily, feeling her tension slide out on a plume of air. “Stuart, thank you.”
“Hey, I love a good fish tale as well as the next guy. I’d like to know more about this lady myself. Anyone who could create a fishing diary like that…” He shook his head. “My hat’s off to her.”
“Her father has one, too. Though not nearly as gorgeous or elaborate. I’ll show it to you after lunch. Come on, I can smell the grilled cheese. I’m starving.”
She hurried to the kitchen, where the smell of cheese and butter was tantalizing. Sunlight poured in from the row of four windows. She picked basil leaves from the small pots of herbs on the counter, then went to the cabinet to gather plates. He came beside her to take the plates from her hands. Then he reached up to grab glasses and carried them to the table.
“Tableware?” he asked.
“Over there,” she replied, pointing to a drawer. He laid out the forks and knives, then filled the glasses with water. They worked in tandem. Mia carried the skillet to the table and served the two sandwiches, which were warm and oozing cheese. Then she cut thick slices of tomatoes, topped them with fresh basil, and set some on each plate.
Time Is a River Page 20