Time Is a River

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Mia sat primly in her chair and smoothed the napkin across her lap.

  Across the table Stuart looked at her and laid his hand flat on the table, but didn’t say anything.

  Her heart quickened at the gesture, sensing that his apprehension matched her own that their friendship was inching toward new ground.

  “I have to tell you. That’s a beauty of a cast-iron stove you got over there,” he said, breaking the awkward silence. “In prime condition. Do you cook on it?”

  “Me? No, I’m afraid of it.”

  “Why? It’s a great oven, bakes like a charm. My mother loves hers. She cooks on it whenever we go to our mountain house.”

  “Do you go there often?”

  “Not lately, but I try. I’ve been pretty busy at the shop.”

  “How are things going at Orvis?”

  “Good.” He picked up his sandwich and took a big bite. “Delicious.”

  “Thanks.”

  While he ate his sandwich, Stuart’s gaze circled the room. “That Kate Watkins had a sense of the absurd, didn’t she?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, feeling protective.

  “The furniture. This grand table, that velvet couch over there. I wouldn’t have picked it myself for a cabin, but seeing it in here, I have to say I like it. It’s unexpected.”

  “I think so, too,” she said, brightening. “That’s Kate for you. I’m getting the sense that she was a woman who did what she liked and didn’t worry if anyone else approved.”

  “A woman ahead of her time.”

  “Yes and no. Don’t forget that was the era when women were chaining themselves to gates of federal buildings to get the vote, and Amelia Earhart was giving Lucky Lindy a run for the money in the sky.”

  “So Kate was giving them hell in the rivers.”

  “Something like that.” She set down her sandwich, barely eaten. “To be honest, I’ve been really bothered by something I learned about Kate Watkins the other day. Apparently she was having a long love affair with a married man from New York. I never thought her capable of that.”

  “Knocked her down a peg from your pedestal, did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “She was only human. Is it possible you made her out to be something more?”

  She took a sip of water, wondering. A few months ago that fact wouldn’t have made much of a dent in her opinion. Now that she was on the other side of the bed, so to speak, the wife betrayed, she found thinking of Kate as the other woman disconcerting.

  She put her glass on the table. “I wasn’t completely honest with you the other day when we were talking in the storm.”

  His face registered mild surprise and he, too, set his sandwich down. He wiped his fingers on the napkin, then waited.

  “I told you I was divorced. I’m not, yet. I’m in the process.”

  “I see.” He leaned back in his chair and asked in a serious tone, “Are you hiding out up here?”

  “No, no,” she said, rushing to correct what he was thinking. “He never physically hurt me. Never would.” She laughed lightly at the thought. “He’s far too civilized for that.”

  “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Where to start? she asked herself. “I got cancer,” she replied simply. “We were sailing along and it took the wind right out of our sails. Because my mother died of cancer I didn’t think I was going to live.” She brought her fingers to her chin, stroking it gently. The memory came as a gush of feeling. “I really expected to die. But I didn’t. Then I went through six weeks of chemotherapy. I had the intense therapy. Not everyone can handle dose-dense therapy, but it offered a slightly higher chance for recovery, so I took it. I’m proud that I got through it. It was hard, though,” she said in gross understatement. “Very hard. After that came a round of radiation, the hair loss, the fatigue. He wasn’t very sympathetic and we grew apart.”

  She sighed, sorry to feel the undertow of the conversation start to drag her under. “Some marriages make it through that.” She shrugged in summation. “And some don’t. I came home one day and found him cheating with another woman. It’s actually pretty embarrassing to tell you that.”

  “He’s an idiot.”

  She glanced up at him shyly, surprised by the fury in his eyes. “Yeah, well, it happens. I wasn’t the first and I won’t be the last.”

  “It doesn’t make it right.”

  “No,” she conceded. “It doesn’t.” She reached out to trace the drop of condensation flowing down the side of her glass. She felt suddenly very exposed, like she was standing naked in the room. She didn’t want to stand alone. “What about you? Are you married?”

  He laughed shortly. “Me? No.”

  “Not ever?”

  “Nope. This is one fish that’s never been caught.”

  She drew her hand back. “Interesting way of putting it.”

  “Sorry. It’s sort of an old family saying. My father’s brother never married and two of my grandfather’s brothers—the wild Scots, we called them—were committed bachelors. I guess it runs in the family.”

  “Being your father’s only son, I’m sure he’s not too thrilled that his prospects for a MacDougal heir are trimmed.”

  He only shrugged.

  “Do you live at the lodge?”

  “Temporarily. They let me live in a furnished condo for the duration of the project. We’re making the carriage house over to be the Orvis shop.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Where I hang my hat, I guess.”

  “I suppose that’s freeing. I mean, to go wherever you want, whenever you want.”

  “I don’t think of it quite like that. It’s more I haven’t found a place that can hold me.”

  She wondered if the genes of the wild Scots ran strong in this offspring.

  He thought for a moment, then added, “That’s not entirely true. The Smoky Mountains…they’re magical to me.” He leaned back in his chair and his voice took on the melodic quality of a southern storyteller.

  “Wherever I roam, whether Tennessee, Georgia, or North Carolina, if I’m in southern Appalachia, I know I’m home. I have the MacDougal blood flowing in me and it’s the blood of a fly fisherman. My grandfather used to say our blood flows like the streams that course through the Smokies and it will always lead us to trout. I’m luckier than most. I don’t work in an office or in a city. I earn my living on the water.

  “Spring to me means caddis and mayflies and stoneflies hatching as thick as the violets that grow wild on the shore. Summer is heading to the backcountry where even the highest mountain streams are warming and I’m alone, bare legged and teasing suspicious trout to the lure. Fall comes and the trout join the explosion of color in the mountains. Their red spots blend with the falling leaves that dapple the water. And winter…” He paused. “Winter is an introspective season. The landscape is as gray as the smoky mists and even though it’s bitter cold I like it because I’m alone—without the nine million kayakers and tubers and anglers who stir the best water in warmer weather. I bring a thermos of hot coffee, wait for the rays of sunlight to warm a few pools, and I’m rewarded with a flash of silver that I know is not ice but very much alive.

  “So, I guess I do have a home. If I was married, it’d be to these mountains and the thousands of miles of trout streams that flow between her ridges.”

  Mia listened, and between the syllables and cadence knew she was falling in love.

  He reached over to put his hand over hers. “Have you ever gone night fishing?”

  She looked at their joined hands. It seemed an inexpressibly intimate gesture. She shook her head. “No. How can you see your line in the dark?”

  “You don’t. It’s different. Would you like to give it a try?”

  “Very much.”

  “All right, then. I’ll take you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along. But I am th
e river.

  —JORGE LUIS BORGES

  The following morning Mia practically flew to town. Stuart was due to come by late morning to help with the walkway, and she had a list of items to scratch off her to-do list before he arrived. She arrived at Becky’s so early she had to wait five minutes before her daughter opened the door.

  “What’s the special today?” Mia asked as she helped carry the large chalkboard out to the sidewalk.

  “Pecan roll with caramel icing.”

  “God help me,” Mia said with a soft grunt as they set down the heavy board. “Can you pack up a half dozen for me? And two loaves of honey wheat?” She slapped the chalk from her palms. “Is your mom in?”

  “You know her. We can’t get her to stay home. She’s in back getting the post office opened up. It’s a bit warm in there. It’ll take time for the air conditioning to catch up with those ovens.”

  “How’s she feeling today?”

  Katherine looked in the shop window to see where her mother was. When she turned back her face was sober. “She’s better today but yesterday she had a hard time walking. The doctor says she’s losing more motor control in her legs and she’s started some twitching. I’m afraid the disease is progressing.”

  Mia saw the fear in Katherine’s eyes. She moved forward to hug her and felt the girl’s two strong arms around her, holding tight, a signal that there was a lot of worry behind her all-too-ready smile.

  “How long do you think she’ll keep working?” she asked when they pulled back.

  “As long as she can. You know Mom. We hired on another baker and I’m working the front of the store. She’s finally accepted that with her legs she can’t man the bakery counter. The post office is easier for her because she can sit. She’ll hang on as long as she can. I can’t imagine her not being here. She’d miss the people.”

  “She’d miss the gossip,” Mia teased.

  “That, too.”

  Mia was glad to see Katherine’s reluctant smile. “How’s your dad holding up?”

  “Aw, he’s strong and he loves her. He tells her that every day. Everyone has been so supportive. Like Mama says, you gotta have hope.”

  Through the front window Mia saw Becky opening the post office window. “There she is. I’ll go in and say hey.”

  “I’ll bring you some coffee.”

  As she walked into the bakery, it was with new humility that Mia realized she could count herself among the fortunate to have had breast cancer that was caught in the early stages. Everything was relative. She recalled those early days after diagnosis when she’d felt profound fear. Hope, she’d learned, was a gift.

  She put her smile firmly in place before approaching Becky at the post office counter in the back of the shop.

  “You’re here early,” Becky said.

  “I don’t know how you can avoid not eating everything that comes out of the oven. The minute I walk in here and smell the goodies I’m ready to sign over my soul for a doughnut.”

  “Discipline, my dear. Pure and utter discipline,” Becky replied archly. Then she stealthily pulled a plate out from under the counter to reveal a pecan roll. “Want one? They’re still warm.”

  “I’ve ordered a half dozen to go,” she said, then quickly added, “but don’t get up. Kath is already getting them for me.”

  Becky delivered a skewered look. “Has Kath been talking to you?”

  “About what? I only just arrived.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Hey, I’m feeling fine. My leg’s acting up is all. Oh, you got something here in your box.”

  “I do?” Mia asked with surprise. She’d secured a post office box for the summer. To date she’d only collected the Gazette and junk mail. “Hey, Lennie,” Becky called out. “Can you bring me the contents of box thirty-four?”

  A thin, young man with his blond hair pulled neatly back in a ponytail, dressed in a white baker’s uniform, walked by to hand Becky a large, padded envelope.

  “Thanks,” she called out. Then handing the envelope to Mia, she said, “Here you go. Looks important. I’m guessing it’s from your lawyer.”

  Mia took the large, white envelope with the return address of Charles’s law firm.

  “You don’t serve any hard liquor back there?” she asked.

  “Nope. But I do have some rum cake.”

  “I’ll take one—and hold the cake.”

  “Aw, go on,” Becky said with a wave of her hand.

  Mia walked to a small table and sat down, staring at the envelope.

  Becky came around the counter, using crutches. Mia was sorry to see it. She sprang to her feet to pull out a chair for her and would have helped Becky sit except that Becky waved her off.

  “What you got there?” she asked when she was seated.

  “It’s from Charles. They’re my divorce papers.”

  “Don’t you sign anything without a lawyer looking at it first.”

  “Charles is a lawyer.”

  “Yeah, but he’s also the guy who is drawing up the papers. You can’t trust him.”

  Katherine came by with coffee for Mia and a glass of ice water for her mother. “Do you want your roll now?”

  “No thanks. I’ll eat it later. I’m kind of in a hurry.” Mia put the envelope on the table and sipped her coffee.

  Becky’s eyes were trained on the envelope. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “Nope. I don’t want to think about this today,” she replied. “I’m too happy.”

  Becky’s brows rose. “Oh? What’s got you so chipper?”

  “I’m almost finished building my stone walkway at the cabin.”

  Becky’s face fell. “Oh. Thrills.”

  “And…Stuart MacDougal is coming over this afternoon to help me finish it.”

  Now her eyes rounded. “Oh? Thrills!”

  Mia laughed. “Becky, you’re an incurable romantic. You’ve seen too many movies.”

  “I’ve seen your Mr. Stuart MacDougal. He tends to put me in a romantic mood.”

  “He’s not my Stuart MacDougal.” Yet she couldn’t disagree he’d put her in a romantic mood. Since yesterday she found herself singing—in the shower, and while doing dishes, and along with music on the car radio. Suddenly the lyrics to songs had great meaning.

  Mia told Becky the condensed version of how Stuart came by the day before, how they’d had lunch together, and how he was coming by later that afternoon to help her finish. She couldn’t have asked for a more appreciative audience. Becky leaned forward with her chin cupped in her palm, and her eyes widened in appropriate places of the story.

  “After we finish work, I thought I might make him dinner. If he’ll stay, that is.”

  “Oh, he’ll stay,” Becky said with feeling.

  “I hope so,” Mia confessed in a soft voice. She wished she could be as confident as Becky was about Stuart’s feelings. “I’m going to Rodale’s after this to pick up some food. Just in case.”

  They talked a few minutes with the fervor of young girls about what she might prepare for dinner. When Katherine came over to freshen Mia’s coffee, Becky told her daughter to pack up a rum cake to go.

  “It’s my gift for dessert,” Becky said. “It’s a winner, I promise you. You just take your hand out of your purse. This cake is on the house, hear? It’s no use arguing. This is my shop and I’m still the boss here. All I want in return are the details. No holding back.”

  Mia left Shaffer’s with a rum cake, pecan rolls, and loaves of bread. As she walked down Main Street she saw Clarence in the hardware store. On impulse, she stepped inside and waved at him.

  “Just wanted to say the walkway is turning out beautifully. Thank you!”

  Clarence hurried over. “Hey, glad it’s working out. Real glad. Next I’d recommend adding gravel to the side of the cabin where you park the cars. I’ll make you a good deal. Won’t put you back much.”

  “I’ll think about that and let you know.”

  He coughed, then said in a lower voice, �
�I was surprised to see Stuart MacDougal at the cabin yesterday when I delivered the stone.”

  “Oh?” she replied. “I can’t imagine why. I told you, he’s helping me build the walkway.” She smiled sweetly and waved. “I’ve got to go. Just want to say thanks again!”

  She escaped smoothly and walked quickly to Rodale’s.

  “Come see what came in yesterday!” Flossie called out to her when she walked into Rodale’s. She led her to a large basket in the front of the store and held forth her arms. The sweet scent of peaches enveloped Mia before she reached them.

  “The best of the season. They are goooood,” Flossie said with a roll of her eyes. She reached in the basket and pulled out a ripe peach and handed it to Mia. “Try one.”

  The fruit was warm in her hand. She bit into the soft lushness and almost swooned.

  Flossie laughed with pleasure. “If I don’t stop eating them there won’t be none to sell. But they are good, aren’t they?”

  “I’m starving, so my judgment may be askew, but I do believe that’s the best peach I’ve ever had in my life.”

  Flossie laughed, nodding her head with approval. “I wait all year for them and when they get here I feast. I make peach pie, peach jelly, peach chutney, peach salsa, and canned peaches to last the year. Be sure to get enough to bake yourself a pie. There’s nothing better. You still could use a little meat on those bones. A man likes a woman who has something to hold on to, you know? Do you need a good recipe? ’Cause I’ve got one my mama gave me and it’s the best there is. You go on and do your shopping and I’ll write it out for you.”

  As Mia filled the bag with peaches she thought how nice it would be to bake a pie again. She used to love to bake, but while she was working, it always seemed she never had the time. She added more peaches in her bag, realizing that time was the one thing she did have now. Life was too short to squander. This was her time to do the things she loved but had put off. Fishing, painting, gardening…why not baking?