Time Is a River

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Flossie returned and handed her the recipe. “I put my phone number on that, too. It occurred to me that you might not have anyone to call if you need help. You ought not to be so far away without someone to come out if you need.” She smoothed her apron, then asked, “So how are things going up there at Watkins Cove?”

  “Splendidly. No ghosts to report.”

  “My kids will be sorry to hear that. You’re singlehandedly debunking one of the great ghost stories of our town. Speaking of which, I’ve been reading those articles about Kate Watkins. The whole town’s talking about them.”

  “In a positive way, I hope?”

  “Oh, sure. Thing is, though, folks are getting curious. About Kate, you know? Makes us think we really don’t know much about her after all. She was famous once upon a time but most of us only know about the murder. Becky tells me you and Nada are doing some research about her.”

  Mia wondered if this was a misplaced sense of proprietorship the town had for a favored daughter. Or a morbid curiosity over the town’s equivalent of a car wreck—everyone wanted to gawk.

  “Some. We don’t have much yet.”

  “Well, see, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. My mama knew Theo as well as anyone. Better, most likely. Theo being Kate’s daughter and all, she might have a story to share about Kate, too.”

  “Do you think she’d talk to me?”

  Flossie’s cheeks flattened as a smile lit up her face. “My mama will be right pleased that you’ll stop by. She likes to meet new people and she’s been curious about you ever since she heard the old Watkins cabin was opened up. Why not come for dinner sometime next week? Tell you what, say yes and I’ll bake an extra peach pie for you to take home with you.”

  Mia laughed. “In that case, yes!”

  By the time Mia returned to the cabin her car was filled with bags. No sooner did she park than she spotted the red Jeep coming from the road, stirring up dust as Stuart turned off for the cabin. He parked beside her sedan.

  “Perfect timing,” he said as he climbed from the Jeep. “Looks like you need help carting all these into the house.”

  “Are you always so chivalrous?”

  “It’s a genetic trait in MacDougal men. We carry it on the Y chromosome.” He bent to pick up two bags and hoisted them into his arms like they were balls of cotton. “Aren’t the men in Charleston gentlemen? I’d always heard it was the city of manners.”

  “It is,” she replied, closing the car door with her hip. “And they are. Most of them. I’ve always thought having someone carry your bags was a matter of timing. My luck has been that I manage to pull into the driveway with a car full of groceries when Charles is gone.”

  “Charles, is that his name?”

  She jolted at the sound of her husband’s name on Stuart’s lips. “Yes.” She hoisted the bags in her arms, then led the way to the cabin, sidestepping the dug-out, exposed walkway as neatly as the topic of her husband. Inside, she unpacked the groceries and put on a pot of fresh coffee while he put the peaches into the wood bowl. She could smell their sweet aroma fill the air.

  “Try one,” Mia said, handing him a ripe peach. She took one for herself. “I’ve eaten one already but they’re so good I just can’t resist.” She bit into hers. Juice spurted down her lips and her tongue darted to catch the trail.

  Stuart’s eyes tracked the movement and she felt an exchange of kinetic explosions. She swallowed hard and reached up to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Be careful. They’re juicy,” she told him.

  His eyes sparked as he bit into his peach.

  Mia felt a punch of arousal and set her peach on the counter to gather mugs for coffee. While she busied her hands she wondered if she’d ever felt such a pulsing attraction to Charles when they’d started seeing each other. She was excruciatingly aware that Stuart was standing a foot away, hawking her every move.

  “Do you want cream in your coffee?” she asked in a modulated voice.

  “I’ll take mine black, thanks.” He moved over to the wood stove and ran his hand over the enamel. “You know what would taste great with this coffee? Peach pie. I’ll bet you could bake a great one in that oven.”

  “Not me. I don’t know how to use it.”

  “I could teach you.”

  She swung her head around, intrigued. “You make flies, and you bake, too?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve lived alone for a long time.”

  “Is it hard to bake in that thing? It looks so unwieldy.”

  “Not at all. This ol’ girl has cooked up countless meals. If you’ve got some wood, I could fire it up for you. It takes a while to get good and hot. But once you got her going, she stays warm for a long time.”

  Mia felt like some besotted schoolgirl. Even the most everyday discussions carried some sexual innuendo in her sex-starved mind. If Maddie were here they’d exchange a glance and likely burst out laughing. His comment did, however, provide a perfect opening to ask him for dinner.

  “I was wondering…When we’re done with the walkway, would you like to stay for dinner? I could make that pie.”

  “I’d like that.”

  She smiled and bit her peach. Everything came easily with him. There was no formality between them, as there had been when she’d first met Charles. He was a man of pretenses. He enjoyed witty banter over expensive Scotch and important names casually dropped into the conversation. The makes of shoes and watches were observed and noted.

  After coffee, Mia changed quickly to jeans and an old T-shirt, more appropriate for digging than her khakis. She went back outdoors to find Stuart already laying the larger rocks into position in the lined and excavated path. They argued and laughed but finally settled on a pattern. It took several hours to set the stones and add the gravel and sand.

  Mia looked at the gently curving stone path that wound around the front of the cabin and it was exactly like the one she’d drawn on a napkin at Becky’s. She turned to him. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow and she was tempted to wipe them away with her palm.

  “Thank you, Stuart,” she said with feeling. “I love it.”

  “Looks natural, like it was here as long as the cabin. In a few weeks’ time the grass and moss will grow and you’ll never be able to tell it wasn’t. I’m thinking you could plant some of those wildflowers you like so much alongside it. Maybe violets.”

  “Belle will love it.”

  He cast her a side glance. “Do it for yourself.”

  She looked sharply up, catching his profile as his gaze returned to the walk. He was striking, she thought, with his straight nose over that full lower lip. A warrior’s profile.

  They finished off the project by pouring buckets of water from the river over the stones to settle them. En route they began splashing each other with the cool water, laughing until each was thoroughly soaked. Stuart removed his shirt and shoes, walked into the shallow section of the river, and lay back on his elbows against the stones.

  “Come on, Mia,” he called to her as she stood watching from the bank. He was smiling and waving her in. “The water’s perfect.”

  There were days not that long ago when she would have readily joined him. In those days she didn’t have a prosthesis or scar for him to see. She shook her head and leaned against a tree, flapping her damp shirt in the air, content to watch the racing water wash over the breadth of his shoulders and down his bare chest.

  “I hope you have some dry clothes,” she shouted out to him.

  “In the Jeep,” he called back.

  “I’m going inside for a more conventional shower,” she called out to him with a wave. She turned and walked back to the cabin, all the while knowing that his eyes were watching her as she had been watching him.

  Inside the shower she let the warm water sluice over her, washing away what felt like acres of dirt from her body. She washed her hair, too, and when she emerged she took care to apply her favorite lavender-scented cream to her skin. She
didn’t rush. She dressed carefully in a long peasant skirt that fell down her legs to skim her ankles. Over her head she slipped on a scooped, loose-fitting blouse in the Mexican style. Standing before the mirror she flounced the collar and turned her body left, then right, checking to see that it hid any imperfections of her breasts. She tugged the sleeve down so the elastic would stretch over her shoulders, showing off the delicate collarbones that set off her long neck. Reaching up, she took out the clip and let her hair fall to dry in loose curls around her face and neck. She saw her skin glowing from the exertion. Mia couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at herself in the mirror and actually liked her reflection.

  When she emerged from her room he was already inspecting the stove, dry and dressed in khaki shorts and an olive green T-shirt. He wore leather sandals and appeared infinitely cooler than he had an hour ago in his sweaty jeans. He straightened when he saw her and she felt his gaze rake over her.

  “You look very nice.”

  She blushed self-consciously. “So do you.”

  “Well,” he said, turning back to the old stove, “it’ll take me a while to check this old girl out.”

  “I’ll start the pie.”

  In short order the counter was dusted with flour and she was having a wonderful time rolling out the crust and slicing the peaches. While she baked and he tinkered with the stove they shared amusing stories about their childhoods and old friends and families, innocently seeking out clues as to who each other was, where they’d lived, went to school, went to church. Or, as her mother used to say, “Who their people were.”

  It all felt so domestic. As she laid the pliable crust in the pie plate, tamped it down, and filled it with the peaches and cinnamon, she wondered if this comfortable companionship was usual for married couples. She and Charles had spent their Sundays reading the newspapers for hours and drinking cappuccinos but rarely discussing the news. Later she might go shopping on King Street or visit a favorite art gallery and he would play golf. In the evenings they’d go out to dinner with friends or maybe a movie. On summer days she might go to the beach or sit by the pool. He would golf or sail. She couldn’t remember a time they ever did simple household chores together, like building a walkway or preparing a meal.

  She thought of the divorce petition papers in the envelope lying on her bed. She would sign them, she decided, and post them in the morning.

  A loud bang brought her head around. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing down there?” she asked teasingly. Stuart was on his back pounding with the palm of his hand.

  “I just have to get this stubborn pipe back into place. Wanted to check to make sure all was in order.” He pounded the metal back, then slapped the ash and dirt from his hand.

  “You’re going to need another shower.”

  “It was actually very clean. This old girl looks good. Except you’ve got a loose tile here…under the leg. See how it wiggles? You ought to fix that. You got some grout handy?”

  “No,” she said with a short laugh. “I don’t think the stove is likely to budge. It weighs a ton.”

  “I can come by and fix that one of these days.”

  “OK…” She turned back to her pie, feeling grateful to the old stove for getting him to offer to come by again.

  “I’m ready to light her up,” he told her. “Come watch so you learn how.” When she came close he put his arm casually around her shoulders. “The best way is to start with a base of newspaper and small pieces of dry kindling, like that, see?”

  She nodded.

  He let go of her shoulder to get matches from his pocket. She found she could breathe easier. He struck the match and put it to the newspaper.

  “Once you get this burning, add a few pieces of clean, well-seasoned firewood. It’s important that the wood you burn has been split and dried properly.”

  “Oh, I can guarantee mine is. Clarence was very particular about that.”

  He shook his head and snorted. “Clarence.”

  “Do you have a problem with Clarence?”

  “No,” he replied, and he bent to adjust some wood on the fire. “He just seems to take a proprietary interest in you.”

  Her lips twitched as she watched him stoke the fire.

  As the oven heated they sat on the porch and drank the cold beer she’d bought especially for him. He talked about his plans for the new fly-fishing shop. His blue eyes intensified as he emphasized and punctuated his descriptions, and she wondered if Stuart was as passionate about the people in his life as he was about fly-fishing.

  When the beers were drunk and the mosquitoes began to hum in their ears they moved back inside for dinner. She put the pie in the hot oven and crossed her fingers, then laughed when he teased her for having so little trust in her formerly rusted friend. While the pie baked and filled the cabin with its sweet aroma, they dined on cold shrimp and pesto with thick slices of ripe tomatoes.

  And still they talked. The sun began to lower and they set the pie out to cool. She brought out candles and lit them. He poured more wine. In the flickering light of flames she told him stories and anecdotes about her job in public relations—the foulmouthed, short-tempered restaurateur who didn’t understand why he needed public relations; the ego-inflated musician who expected Mia to accompany her on her tour; and the exciting array of international talent that came through Charleston for two glittering, glorious weeks of the Spoleto Festival. He never let his eyes stray from her face as she talked, and she wondered if he was always this attentive, or if perhaps he was as entranced watching the shifting expressions on her face as she was watching his.

  She only stumbled once, and that was when she blithely mentioned Charles again. This time, he seized on it.

  “You don’t talk much about him,” he said.

  “Why would I?” she replied defensively. “We’re in the middle of a divorce. Hardly a happy topic.”

  “I’m curious, is all. We’ve been talking for weeks but until recently I didn’t even know if you were married.”

  “Nor I you. I thought we had some unspoken agreement not to get personal out on the river.”

  “It’s kind of a code. The water is neutral territory. Keeps it from getting chatty out there. That’s why you always want to be choosy about who you go out on the river with. You don’t want to be stuck out on the water with a whiner.” He looked at the river. “But we’re not on the river now.”

  “I don’t like to talk about him.” She averted her eyes and felt the dreamy quality of the evening slipping through her fingers.

  “Were you so unhappy?”

  “No,” she replied a bit sharply. “I was happy. Charles can be very charming and romantic. I won’t make him out to be some ogre. But talking about him now only makes me feel bad. I’m done with that. I’m looking to my future now. He’s part of my past.”

  “Not yet. When is the divorce final?”

  “I’m not sure. Soon, I expect. I’ve got a packet of papers I picked up today if you’d like to review them. Do you have any more questions?”

  “Just one. Do you still love him?”

  Her mouth slipped open in a silent gasp. She hadn’t prepared for that one.

  “I did love him,” she began. “Very much. I loved our life together. That world I was describing earlier, our life in Charleston, was exciting. When I got cancer—” She lifted her shoulders. “Everything changed. I changed. I wasn’t the beautiful, outgoing trophy wife who could help him entertain his clients and achieve his goal of becoming partner in his law firm. Instead I became sick and drew inward. I didn’t go out at all. Then with chemo…Well, you can imagine. He just couldn’t handle it. He tried. I have to give him his due. But I wasn’t the woman he married. He wanted the better, not the worse. He wanted out.”

  She reached out to pick at the melting wax that dripped from the candle. “Perhaps if we’d communicated better…” She shrugged. “I was angry and hurt at first. Of course. But up here I’ve had time to reflect and I
’m trying to get to the other side of this. I’ve come to see that the change might just be for the better and I don’t blame him anymore. So, the anger is gone but I’m still dealing with the hurt.”

  “Do you still love him?”

  She dug deep for an honest answer and was awash with relief to discover that she truly did not. “No.”

  He reached out for her hand.

  She looked at it, wondering what he was offering. For a wild second she thought he was going to lead her to her bedroom. She wanted him, oh yes she did. But she was afraid. Even terrified. It had been so long since she’d had sex, and she’d never undressed before a lover with her scar. She hesitated, unconsciously drawing back.

  “Come on,” he said, coaxing, as though talking to a skittish animal. He wiggled his fingers.

  With an intake of breath, she took his hand.

  He stood and helped her from her chair. “Where’s your rod?”

  She released a puff of air. “My fishing rod?”

  “I seem to remember a promise to take you fly-fishing at night.”

  “But the pie…”

  “It’s not going anywhere, is it?”

  Nonplussed, she went to the closet where she stored her fishing rod and equipment.

  “You won’t need your waders. We’ll stay on the bank. You won’t need flies, either. What you will need is a long-sleeved shirt and some mosquito repellent. We aren’t going far but there’ll be brambles and mosquitoes. I’ll meet you at the Jeep.”

  Mia walked in a daze to her room, still confused as to the sudden shift in mood. She’d been about to ask Stuart if he’d ever been in love. Maybe it was best she didn’t ask, she thought as she slipped her fishing shirt over her pretty top. Doing up the buttons, she recalled his tale of his wild Scottish bachelor uncles. Her answer may well lay there.

  She changed once more, this time out of her skirt into a pair of fishing pants, and she changed her sandals for tennis shoes. Seeing her reflection in the mirror, she laughed, thinking she certainly didn’t expect the evening to end in this manner. She sprayed a bit of repellent, then, feeling like an explorer, went outdoors to join him.