News of my darling grandchild reached me—and such news! Geraldine Rodale came to tell me that you had a daughter and named her Isobel after your grandmother. Thank you for asking her to let me know. I planted a tree for dear Belle and whisper hello to her every time I pass it. It is a magnolia because I remember that was your favorite tree. It sits prettily beside the river where you and I used to fish. I pray that someday you will bring my granddaughter to Watkins Cove to meet her grandmother. I would so love to share with my granddaughter my love of fly-fishing. She carries in her a long, proud legacy of fly fishers. Oh, Theo, I have so much I’d love to teach her!
It is in this spirit that I write to you tonight. Not to ask for forgiveness but for understanding. For with understanding comes compassion. So often you asked me why I chose to live at Watkins Cove and why I would never leave. I was asked countless times why I kept my silence after DeLancey’s disappearance. It is my intention to explain that to you in this letter. To once and for all purge myself of the memories that have both sustained and haunted me these many years.
I hardly know where to begin. “Begin at the beginning,” my father used to tell me. Oh Theo, what is the genesis of this story?
It must begin with Love.
I have loved and been loved in my life, Theo. What more can anyone hope for? A woman does not need to live among many people to be content. She needs but one true companion, one soul mate with whom to share this long journey we call life. I have known one great love and it has sustained me through the years.
My youth was filled with great moments. Much has been said about my achievements in the sport of fly-fishing. In my twenties the town that now scorns me celebrated my fame. I was called confident, headstrong, determined—descriptions which, in my time, were usually attributed to a man. Women before me have made great advancements in the sport and women after me will continue, ending once and for all the misconception that women do not fish. I admit, one of my greatest pleasures in life was breaking down that male barrier. If life were a river, men would shuttle women off to fish the riffles of small streams. I’ve always sought the deeper, fast-moving water.
I tell you this so you know who your mother was the day she met your father.
From the moment I first locked gazes with Theodore DeLancey I felt the universe move into alignment. It was not something I’d planned or even wished for. I’ve come to accept it was our fate. Or, perhaps, it was ill fated. I was caught in the current and I surrendered to it, body and soul.
Theo, I loved your father with an all-consuming love. And he loved me equally. This is the bedrock of our story and the seed of your conception. There is no shame in love.
There are, however, regrets.
We were discreet. I knew he was married and committed to his wife and children. I never sought to disrupt that sacred union. Nor did I care a whit for his fortune. He came to Watkins Cove in the spring and fall and I never demanded more. We might have gone on for years in this manner but fate had other plans. First was the stock market crash of 1929. DeLancey had speculated with his fortune, and with mine. We gambled and lost. Second was you.
Teddy came to see me one night early in November. Outside a storm was raging, and inside Teddy raged too. I’d never seen a man so desperate. His marriage was a facade. He had nothing to go back to. He kept telling me again and again how much he loved me. How I was his life. Despite his pain, I confess I was overjoyed.
I cared nothing about my lost fortune or his. Quite the contrary, I was thankful for the stock market crash. I thought it freed him from his obligations. I had girlish dreams that we’d be happy living a simpler life together at Watkins Cove. Even as I write these words the old woman of experience in me shakes her head at the folly of innocence. But forgive my naïveté. I was pregnant, emotional, and prone to mood swings. I chose not to tell him that night of my pregnancy. He was too indisposed.
The following night we ate dinner at the inn. The storm continued and the road to the cabin grew dangerous. DeLancey secured a room at the inn and I planned to go home to the Manor House. I was filled with my news and waiting for the best moment to tell him. During that dinner DeLancey told me, with a calm that was chilling, that he could not live the life that now lay before him. I could not grasp his meaning until he held my hand and called me his Francesca. The blood drained from my face. Instinctively my hand went to my belly.
Looking at DeLancey that evening, his eyes wet with tears and his face slack with emotion and drink, I fully understood that I was stronger than he was. I was repelled that he would rather end his life than give up the lifestyle he’d lived in New York. And I was so very hurt and angry that he could care so little for me—for us. I rose from my seat and threw my locket at him, ending it. I said words to him that to this day fill me with shame.
I left the restaurant alone. Had I known how violent the storm would get, I might have returned to the Manor House. That night, however, I was bereft. My one thought was to return to the cabin. It was a miracle that I made it safely. The roads were more stream than road and there were many times my wheels slid perilously in the mud.
That night was the worst night of my life. The heavens unleashed their fury. The devils howled and the angels wept. Trees bent to the wind and branches banged against the cabin like fists. I huddled on the sofa, struggling to keep the fire lit, and waited for DeLancey. Despite everything, I prayed he would come to his senses and return to me. I kept vigil for him all night, rehashing every line spoken at that horrid dinner. I prayed as I’d never prayed before.
Then, very late in the night, the storm abated. The quiet was intense in contrast to the roar of the storm. Of a sudden, I had the overwhelming sensation that DeLancey was with me. It was so strong that I stood up and called his name. As God is my witness, DeLancey’s presence was in the room with me. I shuddered as a cold breeze went through me and the room was filled with his scent. I knew it so well—sandalwood and lime. I was cold and went to stand by the fire’s warmth. A pale light glimmered not six feet away from me. It was not the flickering light of the fire or the flash of lightning from outside. Nor was it a ghost. But I knew without doubt it was him—my DeLancey—circling near, saying good-bye.
The storm returned in full fury and my howls matched the wind. I knew in my heart that he was dead. I threw myself upon the sofa and cried till the storm passed and there were no more tears left in me to shed.
The following morning I rose early. In the light of day I doubted what I’d seen the night before. I got in my car, desperate to see him. I drove only partway to town when I saw that the road had been destroyed by a mudslide. It was three days before I could make it down the mountain to town.
I never saw my DeLancey again. I stayed in my room for days, eating only out of obligation to my child. Some time later Sheriff Dodds paid me a visit and informed me that Mrs. DeLancey had come to town in search of her husband. She was making some dangerous charges and he hoped I could set her straight.
Theodora, I have kept my silence for years not to be obstinate or headstrong, nor to snub the town or his family. Quite the contrary. My silence was to protect DeLancey and his family. I believe Theodore DeLancey, your father, committed suicide the night of November 9, 1929. He died and his soul came to me to ask my forgiveness. It is I who beg his forgiveness. I knew I was stronger and I blame myself for not helping him through his depression. If I had but shown compassion and not scorn, perhaps he would not have felt so desperate. I believe he would have found his path again, even if that path led away from me. That terrible night he was holding tight to the one thread that held him to this earth—our love—and I threw it back at him.
My anger and my pride killed him. My shame and my guilt silenced me.
I vowed I would not destroy his family’s faith in him nor his reputation. Had I voiced my belief that he had committed suicide the insurance company would not award his family the money they so desperately needed.
My father alone knew the stand I wa
s taking and he supported me in this as in all things. My dear darling father…I fear he gave the last of his strength to me, for he died soon after the horrid investigation trampled the proud Watkins name, sullying it forever. I shall carry the burden of that disgrace to my grave.
Before he died, my father held my hand and told me how he, too, had been devastated after my mother died. He couldn’t look at anyone or anything that reminded him of her. Not even his infant daughter. He told me how at his lowest point he’d turned to a favorite psalm—Psalm 23. Reading it, he said, was like hearing the voice of God.
The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul.
“Kate, go to the cabin,” he told me. “Go lie beside still waters. Listen to the river. It will bring you peace.”
I’ve always trusted my father’s advice. I packed up a few cherished treasures, negotiated to keep Watkins Cove, and moved from the Manor House. I knew I could never return so I never looked back.
That, Theodora, is my story. It is not a sad one. Tragic, perhaps, but not without hope. My love perseveres. You are the living symbol of our love. And now dear Belle lives on as well.
The river calls to me now. I hear her voice and soon the time will come when I will lie down in her embrace and she will carry me to join DeLancey and my father and my mother and Lowrance and all who have gone before me into the current. I will do as I’ve always done. I will follow the river home.
If you should choose not to visit me, or if something should keep you away, I understand silence better than most. The bond between mother and daughter can never be broken. Love is stronger than death. So if I should pass before I see you again, please know that I will be standing in the river of time, waiting with open arms for you to join me, dear, darling Theodora.
With greatest love,
Kate
Chapter Twenty-five
A hatch is a cycle in which insects emerge from eggs and swim to the surface to dance on top of the water. They fly up to swarm in a mating frenzy, then drop eggs over the water. During each stage of the dance the fish join in to feed. It is the circular dance of nature, the complete cycle, as old as the river.
—KATE WATKINS’S FISHING DIARY
The air held that astonishing freshness of a morning after a storm. Mia thought it was as though God took the mountain, gave it a good washing, shook it out, then set it out to dry in the sun. The trees stood taller, the leaves of shrubs and plants rose higher as though in thanks, and the birds were chirping and jumping from branch to branch with relief as much as joy.
Around the cove, broken branches and leaves littered the ground like confetti. The river had overflowed its banks to within feet of the house. There was a tangy odor in the air of drenched and soggy soil. Mia was relieved that she’d parked her car on the high ground in back of the cabin—until she’d seen the tree that had fallen on it.
The memory of the thunderous cracking and falling played again in her mind and in one breath she thanked God that the tree hadn’t fallen on the cabin. Then, in her next, she cursed her bad luck while she pulled branches and leaves aside to check the damage to her car. Her little sedan sat nestled in a blanket of green but was miraculously spared serious damage. Only the tips of the maple cloaked her car, scratching it at best, denting it at worst. As long as it could drive, she thought as she began tugging away broken branches.
The echo of someone calling her name distracted her. Turning her head she saw a man hiking up the road in a red baseball cap and a black backpack. As he drew near she recognized his long, lanky form.
“Stuart!” she called, waving her hand in an arc over her head. She trotted down the driveway and waited at the edge of the gravel.
He trudged through the sea of mud and water, his blue eyes blazing and fixed on her. When he reached her side he swooped low to gather her in his arms, press her tight against him, and kiss her profoundly.
Mia wrapped her arms around the breadth of his shoulders. He smelled of soap and sweat, tangy mud and green leaves. His lips were as cool as the morning when they touched hers, but heated with the lingering kiss. When he released her he leaned back and cupped her face in his hands and his gaze devoured her for a long minute.
“What?” she asked breathlessly.
“Last night I wasn’t sure I’d see this face again,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’m enjoying the view.”
“Stuart, I…”
“Wait. And listen. I’m going to stay in Watkins Cove. I’ve made up my mind. I know you’ve got to go back to Charleston, but not for forever. I’m going to be here waiting for you to come back. Do you hear me?”
Mia’s smile trembled as she stepped back, trying to take it all in. “Yes.”
“Good.” His face relaxed and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, then looked around the cabin. “Looks like the cabin held up OK. I’d feared the worst.”
“How bad was the storm out there?”
He looked incredulous. “You couldn’t tell?”
“Well, yes, sure, but this cove protects the cabin from the worst of it.”
“Nicholas packed a punch. They’re saying it dumped between twelve and sixteen inches of rainfall over twenty-four hours and triggered at least twenty isolated landslides. Highways are blocked, houses are damaged or destroyed. And you know that bit of road with the overlook you’re so fond of?”
Mia nodded her head.
“Gone.”
She blinked, not sure she understood. “Gone?”
“Yep. The whole side of road slid right off the mountain. If you were sitting there on that bench, you’d be in Tennessee about now.”
“Oh, no,” she said with a soft moan. “I loved that little spot.”
“It’s a goner. That’s why I hiked over the ridge from Watkins Lodge. It’s the only way in or out of the cove. The state bulldozers are already clearing up the mud so they can open up the road and that’s the only road that leads to Watkins Cove. It could be days before you can drive out of here.”
“You can say that again.” She looked over her shoulder and lifted her arm toward her car buried under green. Bits of silver peeked out from the dense green.
Stuart released a sinking whistle as he walked toward the car. He poked through and lifted branches to get a better look at the damage. They flung back with a shudder when he released them. He wiped his palms on his shorts. “You might’ve gotten off lucky. Looks like a good chainsaw and some muscle will set things to right. We can come back with tools when the road is clear. But for now, mountain girl…” He curled his fingers with hers. “Pack up a few essentials in a backpack and put on your boots. It’s going to be a muddy hike.”
Hours later they cleaned up and headed to Shaffer’s for coffee and news. Main Street was filled with locals milling about and Mia assumed they were all in town to pick up supplies at Rodale’s Grocery and Clark’s Hardware after the storm. Everywhere, she saw signs of damage. Yellow tape blocked off the western edge of Route 9 that led to the overlook and Watkins Cove. A high-pitched hum contrasting with the low growl of engines rent the usual peace of the small town as bulldozers, dump trucks, and other state machinery worked at clearing the roads. Even state troopers had their lights flashing as they blocked traffic from approaching.
Shaffer’s was full of townspeople talking excitedly. A long line traveled all the way to the door. Becky was ringing the register while Katherine and even Skipper manned the busy pastry counter. Mia and Stuart took a place in line, and she heard snippets of conversation from the people in the shop as they moved slowly forward. “Lost that purty maple in my backyard.” “I prayed to Jesus all night long.” “I was a-scared, all right. The river, it come lappin’ at our door.” When she heard someone say something about “bones,” she turned her head.
She felt Stuart’s hand on her back and he bent to say in her ear, “Look back t
here. Your friends are waving.”
Mia looked over to where he was pointing and saw Phyllis Pace and Nada Turner waving her over. Nada jumped up to snatch two spare chairs from empty tables and bring them over to their small circular one. Mia smiled and nodded in acknowledgment, thinking as she did so that it was the first time she’d heard these women described as “friends.”
When she finally got to the counter she heard Becky call, “Mornin’, Mia! Sure is good to see you this morning. We were worried the river was going to wash that cabin away like it did the road.”
“Nope. Still here,” she called back. She was glad to see Becky so full of energy. “Sure is busy this morning.”
Skipper came up and smiled his hello. “It’s all the excitement.”
“About the road?” Stuart asked from behind her.
Skipper looked surprised that they hadn’t heard. “No. About the bones!”
“What bones?” Mia asked.
From the table in the back Mia heard Nada call out, “Quit holding up the line. Come on back here and we’ll fill you in.”
Mia looked behind her with a guilty eye to see a long line waiting for a chance to grab a coffee and a pastry. Sorry, she mouthed, and the people smiled kindly in response. Lennie came in with a fresh tray of hot, iced cinnamon buns, and her knees almost melted when she caught their sweet scent. She ordered two with two large coffees and slapped bills on the counter before Stuart could grab his wallet.
“It’s standard pay for rescues,” she told him as she snapped her wallet shut.
They carried their buns and coffee to the table and squeezed into the tight space. Stuart’s jeans rubbed against hers under the table.
Time Is a River Page 33