Time Is a River

by Mary Alice Monroe

  The light was dim when she came down the porch steps. Stuart was standing at the Jeep pulling his fishing rod out from the back.

  “Ready?” he asked when he saw her.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, looking beyond at the forest.

  He laced his fingers with hers and they took off, walking along the river. She took a deep breath and clung tight to his hand. To her left was the river. To her right she could only see the towering vertical shadows of hardwoods. Their feet made loud crunching noises as they walked, and small branches and brambles scraped against her legs. She lifted her face to the sky, feeling the silky evening breeze caress her skin. A Carolina moon was a sliver of silver against velvety black. A smattering of stars peppered the sky, creating a dreamy, silvery reflection on the water.

  “It’s beautiful out tonight,” she said.

  “The darkest summer nights are the best time for big fish,” he said. “Trout have excellent vision in the dark and they’re less wary. And listen to those crickets sing. That’s what the big fish are hungry for. If those clouds cover the moon for a while, they’ll be hopping.”

  Before long he stopped and said in a low voice, “This will do.” They stood together at a smooth, mossy bend of the river. Over the sound of rushing water the chorus of insects bellowed, and occasionally she caught the whispered sound of bat wings as they lowered to dip in the water. Over this noise she heard an odd splash, but the river made so many noises she couldn’t be sure. Then she felt a squeeze on her hand and she knew from Stuart’s reaction that her instincts were right and she’d heard the sound of trout jumping.

  He let go of her hand to put a small flashlight in his mouth. She came close to watch him attach to her line a “Woolly Bugger,” the biggest, bushiest black fly she’d ever seen. His lips turned up in a smile around the metal flashlight when he heard her laugh.

  “We’ll start out fishing streamers,” Stuart said. She couldn’t see his face. His deep voice became part of the night. “Just cast down or across into the water, then strip up current.”

  “But I can’t see my fly.”

  “No, but you can see the river. And you can hear. Listen for any odd splash that sounds different and cast at it. And you’ll feel the current, trust me.”

  It was impossible not to hear the river, she thought. In the darkness the gurgles and rushing and splashes all mingled into a roar. And any odd splash she might hear could be made by a fish, a rock, or a bear, for all she knew. But she had to admit it was fun.

  She made a short cast into the water and it was anyone’s guess where the fly landed. But she felt the strong current capture the fly, just like he said she would, and carry it downstream. She was working more with her intuition than anything else and she knew the fish were out there somewhere. Night fishing wasn’t much different from how she’d been spending the past few months, she thought. She was blindly casting her line out to the universe and seeing what took it.

  She squinted and tried to see her woolly fly as it drifted away down the river. When, for no real reason, she felt it went far enough, she stripped it in. Then she cast over the water again, up and over, getting a rhythm, enjoying the tugging of the current, flying blind, feeling merged with the river in a way she never had before. She could close her eyes and still see.

  She cast again and this time she felt a distinct heaviness on the end of her line that was different than the current. Instinct told her to jerk her rod high into the air. There was a firm tug in response.

  “Stuart!”

  He heard her shout and was right beside her, his voice ringing in the darkness with just as much excitement as she felt. “Let go. Give it some line.”

  The fish took off downstream and she stepped into the river, feeling the cold water soak her shoes. She followed the trout, splashing in the water while the line flowed from her reel.

  “He’s a fighter,” Stuart called out. He was ready with the net.

  “I can’t see it!” Mia exclaimed, but she could feel it. The connection was visceral.

  “Bring it in some,” Stuart said, guiding her, speaking low. “Nice and easy. That’s right. You’ve got it.”

  And she did. Mia’s heart was pounding like a drumbeat in the night jungle. She heard the click click click of her reel and the music of the insects on the bank. The big fish tugged and she gave him line; then, in turn, she reeled him in, playing him like Stuart had taught her. She could have danced under the stars with this big trout all night. But her partner on the other end of the line suddenly had a surge of energy and bolted into the current again. Mia felt a powerful tug, then the abrupt release as her line slackened.

  “Oh, too bad,” Stuart said. He pulled the line close to find the fly still at the end.

  “No, I’m glad he got loose,” Mia replied. “It’s so dark I would have had a hard time getting the hook out. He danced with me. That’s enough.”

  Mia stood still and watched the dark water for a moment, wondering where her trout had gone to.

  When she lifted her gaze she gasped with surprise. The long line of towering hemlocks formed the silhouette of a bold, black mountain range in the distance. Dancing among them, glistening like twinkling lights, were thousands of fireflies. She’d never seen so many. It was like watching the fairy lights on a row of Christmas trees all come alive. She’d heard fireflies were disappearing from the landscape. But here they were, dancing in the dark, showing the world they had survived.

  She looked downstream to where her fish had slipped under the black water to become one with the river again. Standing in the river with the water rushing at her ankles and the light of fireflies in her eyes, she, too, felt part of the river’s enduring flow. She heard the gurgles and splashes as the voice of the river and she closed her eyes, listening. Let go and follow me.

  “Are you OK?”

  She opened her eyes, dazzled yet reassured to see Stuart’s face inches from her own. “I’m so much more than OK. This might have been the best day of my life.”

  She heard him breathe in with satisfaction. “Even though the big one got away?”

  “Especially because he did. I’ve never tried to explain this to anyone else but I think you’ll understand. I feel truly safe in the river. Like I belong here. Kate Watkins wrote once how we needed to feel part of the river. I’m beginning to understand what she meant.

  “Stuart, I know what sickness is. That’s where I’ve come from. And I know what it’s like to be healthy. To not live under the shadow of cancer. That’s where I want to be again. For the longest time I didn’t know how to get from pain to well. I was stuck in this dark place, numb with fear.

  “But when I’m in the river I’m living completely in the moment. Not in the past, not in the future, but in the now. Time swirls together like the water at my feet and I am standing in time and time is a river and I am the river.”

  He stepped closer and held her shoulders. “I think you’re very brave.”

  “Brave?” she asked, looking into his face. “What choice did I have?”

  “The choice to not merely survive. But to live.”

  The moon had risen higher in the summer sky and her silvery shine was captured in his eyes. They smiled in mutual understanding of attraction, trust, and something more they dared not speak of. The river flowed around their heels, rushing over rocks, music in their ears. He leaned closer so that their foreheads touched. Mia felt his warm breath on her face, the restraint in his tight grip.

  “Mia,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Kiss me.”

  Her breath escaped in a rush. She heard the pulsating river build to a crescendo in her head. She lifted her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his, hip to hip, chest to chest, and with a breath, lips to lips. His scent enveloped her, musky like the earth, tangy like the river’s bottom.

  Mia was the river. She was water melted from glaciers. Silt and stone dust dredged in her veins. Her current coursed to mingle with his, flooding the bank
s like the river after a spring rain, racing downward to settle in the delta.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Shooting line is the releasing of fly line during the cast to allow the line to be carried out by the momentum of the rod. It’s all in the timing. It’s about knowing when to let go.

  —STUART MACDOUGAL

  Asheville seemed such a big city after the small-town lifestyle in Watkins Mill. Mia reserved a table at one of her favorite restaurants to meet Maddie. Inside it was like an old tearoom with white-linen-covered tables, dark wood, lush potted plants, and black-and-white photographs of Asheville’s people and places. The sun was out and the humidity was low, so Mia chose a table on the covered patio where she could watch the hustle and bustle of the colorful summer crowd.

  She ordered two sweet teas and stirred her straw in the ice, the anticipation of seeing her sister again bubbling inside her after nearly two months. In some ways, it felt like she’d lived in Watkins Mill for years. The life she’d carved for herself there was as lush as the mountains that surrounded it. Meanwhile her world in Charleston had receded into foggy memories. Only Maddie remained a bright touchstone to that other world beyond the mountain ridge.

  A blond woman in a pale pink summer dress and a white linen jacket was walking up the sidewalk glancing at the sheet of paper in her hands and checking the address on the building. Mia leaped to her feet and waved ecstatically, calling out, “Maddie! Over here. Maddie!”

  Maddie’s head bobbed up and her face broke into a wide grin of recognition. “Mia!”

  They both bolted, and in another moment they had their arms around each other and were laughing and squeezing tight. In that moment time was suspended and Mia could have been eight years old, or sixteen, or sixty. The bond she shared with her sister was ageless.

  “Let me look at you!” Maddie exclaimed, pulling back. Her blue eyes were open wide as they devoured Mia. “My God, you look great!” she said with pleasure mixed with shock. “I was expecting some depressed, thin ragamuffin that I was going to rescue and bring home with me. But look at you,” she repeated, shaking her head. “I haven’t seen you look so healthy since…well, in a long time.” She stepped back and surveyed her sister while Mia stood blushing. “You’ve filled out, your skin is positively glowing, and your hair. Mia, you’ve got so much hair! It’s grown inches and the curls are adorable. I can’t get over it. The mountain air really agrees with you.”

  Mia’s chest puffed at the compliments. She’d heard precious few in the past year. She knew from her peeks in the mirror that she was looking better but to hear the accolades from Maddie, who was always her most honest critic, sent her over the moon. Meanwhile, her own gaze was capturing every nuance of her sister’s appearance.

  Tall like Mia, Maddie had gained some weight to soften her lean edges. Her sister was beginning to look the mother role she’d taken on since she was nineteen. Maddie had cut her long blond hair to chin length and wore it tucked neatly behind her ears, where large pink tourmalines sparkled in the lobes. She’d always been a conservative dresser—knee-length hems; white shoes and white purse; a light jacket to cover bare arms in public; and at her neck a pretty necklace, usually a strand of pearls. Pale pink lip gloss at her lips and blush on her cheeks were her only makeup.

  “Oh, Maddie, I’m so happy to see you. I didn’t realize how much I missed you until I was sitting here waiting for you to show up.”

  “Well I certainly missed you every single day.”

  “You called me on the phone most every day,” Mia teased.

  “And got your darn answering machine.”

  “I called you back!”

  “Eventually,” Maddie said; then she wrapped Mia again in an impulsive hug. “I’ve been so worried about you.” She pulled back. “But I see I shouldn’t have been. You look so…happy.” She said the word with a tone of surprise.

  “That’s because I am,” Mia replied, realizing how true that was. “Come on, let’s have some lunch.”

  They feasted on southern comfort food. Mia had fried green tomatoes with goat cheese and a spicy grilled catfish. Maddie ordered shrimp and grits in a roasted red pepper sauce, and for dessert they shared some old-fashioned banana pudding. After lunch they linked arms and sauntered along the colorful streets of Asheville, chatting about everything and nothing as they shopped the countless boutiques, steering clear of unpleasant subjects. They both understood without saying the words that this was a special afternoon of sisterly bonding. Mia bought flowers and a quilt. Maddie bought yarn for a sweater, a handcrafted necklace for her daughter, an Asheville T-shirt for her son, and two bottles of North Carolina wine for her husband.

  Later, when their feet were tired and their arms were filled with their purchases, they headed back to their cars. Mia led the way from Asheville to the southwestern mountain region and her cabin. As she drove she recalled her first trip down this same road months earlier. That frightened, insecure, pitiful woman was entirely someone else compared to the woman who drove this same car today, she realized. As she ambled along the winding road, Mia knew exactly which turns to take and where she was headed.

  She reflected on how in the past weeks her life had expanded in a new dimension. Stuart had eased his way into her life like the professional fly fisher he was. He’d courted her not with short, erratic bursts of attention but with a series of backward and forward casts, fluid and with care, fully understanding the role of tension in hooking, playing, and landing the fish.

  Oh, he was playing her, she thought with a demure smile as she steered her way home. Give and take, give and take…she couldn’t stop thinking of him. His kisses had ignited her; she felt afire, counting the minutes until she’d see him again. So far, they’d shared only kisses…long, lingering, soul-depleting embraces…nothing more. She was still skittish, afraid of more intimacy. She knew he was shooting her line, allowing her to decide the moment to completely let go.

  When at last she made the final turn off the main road, she checked in her rearview mirror to make certain Maddie was still behind her. She smiled when she saw her sister’s turn signal flashing. A few minutes later she was pulling up along the freshly graveled driveway she’d had Clarence install the previous week. It covered the perpetually muddy terrain and led to a parking area at the side of the cabin. Every time she drove on it she’d thought it was money well spent. Opening her car door, she heard the familiar rushing and splashing of the river. It sounded in her ears like it was calling out to her, Welcome home!

  “Oh, Mia,” Maddie exclaimed with feeling as she stepped from her Volvo wagon. Her hand was still on the door frame as she turned her head left to right. “This is the cabin in the woods I’ve always dreamed of!”

  Mia burst into a wide grin of pleasure, remembering the dirty, dark cabin she’d arrived at that first rainy night in June. She followed Maddie up the new walkway, lugging the suitcase while her sister carried a big cardboard box filled with goodies from Charleston. All was ready for Maddie and she was eager to show off what she now considered her home. Stuart had stopped by to help her replace the cracked porcelain sink in the bathroom and hang the cheery trailing plants along the porch. He had taught her how to clean ashes from the grate and replace washers in the faucet.

  “I love it!” Maddie exclaimed when she stepped inside. She set the box on the floor and took a quick walk around the room, her mouth open in a wide grin. “And look, did you paint those?” she asked, making a beeline for Mia’s watercolors.

  The dark walls of the cabin were lit with the brilliant watercolors. A second section of twenty watercolors and select phrases had been tacked on another wall, bringing the total to over fifty. The new ones included the birds that Mia had begun identifying. Their showy plumage mimicked the joy Mia had felt these past weeks.

  “You started painting again. Oh, Mia, I’m so glad. I was so sorry when you stopped. They’re wonderful. Just beautiful.”

  “They’re only on paper,” Mia replied, embarrassed
by the praise. She began putting the flowers in a glass vase and filled it with water.

  “Can I have one? To bring home?”

  “Of course. Take two or three—however many you want.”

  “I’ll have them framed. They’ll help me remember this fabulous place.”

  Mia’s smile slipped, for she suddenly realized that there would be an end to her stay here. This wasn’t her permanent home, no matter how much she imagined it was. She’d have to remember that.

  “Where did you get those porcelains?” Maddie asked in a high voice, hurrying to the fireplace mantel. She reached out to carefully pick one from its stand to investigate. “It’s absolutely exquisite. The work is so fine.”

  “They were here when I arrived. I’m not sure, but my guess is that Kate Watkins commissioned them for the main house and took them with her when she came here. There are a few things here that belong in a grand house.” She pointed her finger. “Like that sofa, the pedestal table, and the armoire.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice. I thought Belle was maybe an eccentric.”

  “Come take a look.” She led Maddie to the armoire and swung open its carved wood doors. “There’s a set of twelve plates, each one of them different.”

  Maddie pulled out the china one by one from the felt lining, exclaiming over each design, holding it up and drawing attention to the almost translucent quality of the porcelain. Next Mia showed her the set of silver rolled in pieces of green felt. Maddie untied the raggedy ribbon and opened a bundle.

  “This sterling is hardly rustic tableware,” she remarked, clearly surprised. She carried the green felt bundle over to the dining room table and spread it open. She picked up a silver fork. It was graceful and sleek, almost modern in design, with the tip pointed and turned slightly under. The initials KW were stamped in simple, bold letters, not in the traditional swirling script. Turning it over, Maddie gasped. “My God, Mia, this is Stone silver.”

  Mia bent over the silver, as if by getting closer she’d understand what Maddie saw. “What’s that?”