A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  That was the second time he’d called her Mae.

  “How ’bout steelhead for dinner tonight instead?” she asked.

  “That works.” Fletcher grinned.

  Mae glanced up at Trevor. “If I wasn’t on a budget, Mr. Dawber, what trout lures would you recommend?”

  Now he knew her game. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think you’ve read my sign out front. Take a good look at it before you leave today.”

  “No, I didn’t.” She slid the Apple Knocker back on the peg.

  The girl spent a total of thirty-nine cents for an Indiana spinner and half-a-dozen trout hooks.

  “Good luck fishing.” He handed her the bag. She’d watched every step of the transaction as if she were in training for the job.

  Under normal conditions, Trevor would have followed them out to the walk and retrieved the fish scale. But, he was hoping Fletcher would return it, and from there they could speak in private about the girl.

  While Fletcher carried the steelhead to the truck, the girl paused to read the Help Wanted sign. Afterward, she unhooked the scale from the nail in the rafters and then returned inside.

  “I didn’t realize the job was for fishing tackle only.” She set the scale behind the counter.

  “I should have informed you.” He nodded.

  “I need to pay off my ticket and, if I worked here, I’d need gas money and eventually some new tires.” She paused on the customer side of the counter.

  So it was on account of her fishing fine that she was in dire straits.

  “Well, now you know where I stand on the subject.” The young woman was persistent. He couldn’t give her any reason for hope.

  The corner of her mouth twitched as she studied the smudged glass countertop between them.

  “Have you checked Molalla?” he asked.

  “No, I haven’t; but I will.” She nodded. “Tomorrow.”

  He had an uneasy feeling that his competitors, Miller and Nelson, would be one of the first places that she’d try.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday morning, Mae wore a charcoal-gray pencil skirt and a crisp white button-up blouse as she made her way into Miller and Nelson’s in downtown Molalla. Tires were stacked five high on the right side of the store, and three rows of fishing tackle lined the left. The display of fishing rods near the front window wasn’t even a quarter of the quantity and selection that Trevor’s store carried. There was no coffee counter, sitting area, derby board, or fish mounts on the wall. Miller and Nelson was just as Fletcher had described it: sterile.

  “I heard fishing’s been good at Walt’s Place,” said a customer who stood hunched with an elbow on the long back counter.

  “Yeah, quite a few have been landed there this week,” said the ginger-haired man near the register.

  “Trevor Dawber’s had his eye on that place for years,” the customer said.

  Mae tensed.

  “That’s common knowledge. Between you and me, we’ve had our eye on Walt’s Place, too.”

  In clear view of the counter, Mae pulled an Indiana spinner off an end-cap display and took her time studying the nickel-plated finish.

  “Your store’s more tires than fishing. Isn’t it?”

  “We’re hoping to expand. Walt’s wouldn’t be a bad location for tires. Route 213 gets a lot of traffic. Now, this is just between you and me…”

  Mae pretended interest in the lure while they whispered right in front of her.

  “Walt knows I’m interested, and that I’m willing to pay more. And the old man’s sharp. He doesn’t need me to write my name on the wall to remember it.”

  The two had a good chuckle before the customer tapped his hand on the counter. “I should get going. The missus is out in the car waiting for me.”

  “Thanks for stopping in.” The shopkeeper rounded the side of the counter and joined Mae in the aisle. “How may I help you, today, little lady?”

  Thus far the man was friendlier than Trevor Dawber had been.

  “I was wondering what you’d recommend for trout fishing around here?” she said, curious if his response to a female angler would be comparable to Trevor’s.

  The fellow led her to the back row and reached for an Indiana. He also pulled an orange Rooster Tail off the peg and lastly, a Mepps. “Those are the three hottest spinners.”

  For the next five minutes, she asked questions specific to trout fishing—what weight line to use, what were the best methods and local fishing areas. Then she carried the Indiana spinner up to the counter and pulled her wallet out of her purse. The idea of asking him to work here made her feel uneasy, but she needed to pay off her ticket.

  “Any chance you need help—cashiering… dusting… stocking?” She chewed on her lower lip.

  “Nope.” His cheeks bunched before the man shook his head.

  “Are there any other fishing stores in town?”

  “Nope.” One ginger brow lifted higher than the other.

  “In a ten-mile radius?” She knew Trevor’s store was only seven miles away.

  “Nope.” He shook his head.

  She thanked him for his time.

  Across the street at the Molalla Bulletin, she bought a newspaper and asked if there were any other fishing stores besides Miller and Nelson in the logging mill town. The fellow behind the counter shook his head.

  “Wait a sec, there’s a little gas station on the edge of town that carries fishing supplies.” He pointed east. “Across from The Y.” The Y Drive-in was a local landmark, famous for their platter-sized burgers.

  She thanked him for his time and then sat out front in the sunshine and scanned the classified section of the paper. There was a waitress position open at The B & B Café, and Danielson’s Thriftway needed help in produce. Still, she favored a job that had something to do with fishing over one that didn’t.

  Mae stopped at the gas station. One three-by-three section of fishing paraphernalia spanned the side wall. After speaking with the elderly clerk about what trout spinners were hot in local streams, she settled on a twenty-five cent Mepps. While he bagged the spinner, she bolstered courage.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be hiring?”

  He shook his head, grinning.

  “Someone to dust, merchandise, pump gas?” It was official; she was getting desperate.

  “No sirree.” He eyed her white blouse and skirt.

  The edge of town felt like the end of her rope like she wasn’t supposed to look anymore today, and that was God’s answer.

  “A lovely girl like yourself who likes fishing,” he nodded toward the bag, “might have a shot working at Trevor’s Tackle Shop. If you’re willing to travel to Scotts Mills.”

  Her heart stopped for a moment. Was it a sign?

  “He’s a fine Christian man, unlike some other shop owners I know.”

  Was he referring to Miller and Nelson?

  “Thank you. I’ll try Trevor’s.” She nodded.

  “Tell Trevor that Jasper Haggerty says hello,” Jasper grinned. “And that my wife and I used those crab pots he sold us awhile back when we went to the coast. Caught our limit of Dungeness with them.”

  “I will. Thank you, sir.”

  Mae drove south of town a couple of miles toward Wilhoit before taking the side road to Scotts Mills. Small farms with fields of ankle-high wheat and occasional stands of timber dotted the rolling hills. If Trevor didn’t hire her today, she was going to stick around and drink coffee at the counter like his regulars did. And when things got busy for him, she’d show him what a great help she could be.

  »»»

  The store had been busy all day, which was expected during peak fishing season. In between customers, Trevor saw Jack outside reading his Help Wanted sign. Was it the first time he’d noticed it?

  The bell jingled.

  “What’s with the sign?” Jack hunched his narrow shoulders under a gray wool jacket.

  “The sign’s been up for four days; surprised you didn’t
already notice it.” Then Trevor recalled that the day before, Jack had carried the chair in backward.

  Jack poured himself a cup of dark brew, dropped in three sugar cubes, and stirred it with a spoon. He rarely shaved, and his two front teeth overlapped enough that probably only his mother had ever referred to him as handsome.

  “Why didn’t you just ask? I already work part-time for free, so, of course, I’ll work for merchandise. I’ve had my sites on a pair of new waders for months.” Jack sat down in the store’s new chair.

  He’d been the last person Trevor intended to hire or expected to apply. Since Jack’s retirement from teaching, his daily goals were to fish and have somebody else make dinner.

  “You’re hesitating. I can’t believe it!”

  “No, you haven’t taken my math test.” Trevor tried to put the fear of God into him. The times that Jack had stepped in to cashier had been accompanied by a string of mishaps. Twice he’d left the cash drawer open, and once he’d counted back five dollars too much in change.

  “Would you like me to start now? This shirt’s clean enough.” Jack took off his jacket.

  “Get behind the counter and I’ll have you take the test.” Jack would never pass it; but, Trevor knew better than to argue with him.

  “Sure.” Jack pushed up the sleeves of his old, white professor shirt and rolled his neck around like a boxer seated in the corner of the ring.

  Trevor grabbed a tray and set inside it: seven swivels, nine brass hooks, a couple of red-and-white bobbers, and a Mitchell 300 spin reel that was on sale. His stomach growled. Today he needed a sandwich more than he needed an employee.

  The bell jingled as Fletcher’s angler girl entered. She wasn’t in her fishing tucker, and she wasn’t with Fletcher. Not a good sign.

  “I’ll fish in the mornings and be here by noon,” Jack said.

  “The hours are 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.” Of all the interviews for the gal to witness.

  “When did you cook all this up?” Jack’s sparse brows gathered.

  “I need help at the register, so I’ll have time to sell. I hope to get in more steelheading than I did last year. If I can get a fellow trained soon enough, I’d like to get some spring chinook fishing in, too.”

  “You need help?” Jack addressed the girl.

  “Jack!” He’d spoken to him several times before about his blunt sales approach. “Rule number one, you never ask do you need help? Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a new customer, or someone who’s only been in once or twice, will say “no.” And once they say “no,” they won’t feel comfortable coming back to ask you about anything.”

  Trevor turned his attention to the young woman and for Jack’s benefit, addressed her in a pleasant manner. “How are you today?” He met her gray-blue eyes.

  “I’m well, thank you, and yourself?” She clutched the wooden handles of her purse in front of her.

  “Good.” He nodded. “Now, at this point, Jack, if she doesn’t ask me a question, I’ll give her some space, and let her shop for a while. But at least, we’re off to a comfortable start.”

  Instead of meandering off to explore the store, the young woman remained nearby and cleared her throat.

  “On account of my greeting, Jack, do you see how she feels comfortable enough to linger?” He held a hand toward Mae. “So… this is when you’d ask the customer where they're going fishing.” Trevor turned toward the girl. “Where are you going fishing?”

  “The Willamette, tomorrow with Fletcher.”

  “I see.” Trevor nodded, looking at Jack. “Now, you’d make a recommendation such as—” He held a hand toward the nearby end-cap display. “Red Flatfish have been really hot on the Willamette lately. Only yesterday, Harold Dutton, a good customer of mine, landed a nice-sized chinook below Meldrum Bar on one of these.” He slid a red Flatfish off a peg and handed it to the girl.

  “Jack, do you see how beautifully this approach works?”

  Shoulders hunched and eyes glazed, Jack didn’t appear impressed.

  “The reason I’m here,” Mae Bucknell handed him back the lure, “Is I was hoping to retake the trout-fishing portion of your interview.”

  Trevor half-closed one eye.

  “Who in the Sam Hill is she?” Jack picked up the boxed spin reel.

  “The young woman that got the fifty-dollar fine for fishing the Molalla without a license.” He had to remind the girl of at least one of his reasons for not hiring her. “Mae Bucknell, meet Professor Johnson.”

  Mumbled hellos were exchanged.

  “Jack used to be a literature professor at Willamette University.” Trevor crossed the aisle to the line counter, an old L-shaped kitchen unit with speckled Formica and lower cabinets.

  “Word on the river is you played a nice steelhead to shore right in front of the warden,” Jack said.

  “I did, and I have a fifty-dollar ticket to prove it.” Her chin lifted.

  “Jack, the reel’s priced $14.99, and it’s on sale this week for 20 percent off.”

  “I’ll start with something easy.” Jack set the reel off to one side.

  With the line counter between them, Trevor returned his attention to Mae. He’d already told her he wouldn’t hire a woman. Why was she here? Was it purely on account of her ticket, or was there more to it?

  “What pound test line would you use for cutthroat on the Molalla?” Trevor asked.

  “Six,” Jack interrupted.

  “I wasn’t asking you.” Trevor locked eyes with him.

  “You have cabin fever. That’s your problem, you know,” Jack spouted.

  “Six is probably ideal for around here,” Mae said, thanks to Jack. “Berkley and Dupont both came out with lines last year that are revolutionizing the industry,” she added.

  “Trilene and Stren monofilament lines.” He nodded.

  Near the register, Jack stood frozen like a block of ice.

  “Size four hooks are thirty cents a dozen,” Trevor informed him and then returned his attention to the young woman’s Blue-Dun eyes. “What are some good spinners to use on the Molalla for cutthroat?” He needed a visual diversion, and sprayed WD-40 on the level-wind of an Ambassadeur 5000, cranking the handle a couple of times.

  “Black or brown Rooster Tails, a Mepps with a silver blade. Some other choices might be night crawlers on a bronze size eight baitholder hook; Mike’s cheese eggs on a size ten gold egg hook or an Adam’s dry fly…” She expelled an uneasy breath.

  The girl had done her homework, and some of it outside of his store. Maybe she’d spent the last couple of days studying South Bend catalogs? She knew he wouldn’t hire a woman.

  “What size fly rod would a fellow use for trout fishing?” He wondered if she’d spoken with James Bucknell? Or if they were related? Before his accident, the man had been one of the best fly anglers in the area.

  “Fly fishing isn’t all that big around here.” She glanced toward the rear of the store where his fly-tying vise gripped the edge of a folding table. “I mean, you only carry a couple different brands.” She must have scanned his selection of Montague and Fenwick fly rods. “And, your selection of fly fishing gear isn’t even a quarter of an aisle.”

  “The sport is growing in the area and its knowledge that you’ll need to know. I’ll have applicants who’ll be able to answer everything I dish out.” He should have just reminded her up front that he wouldn’t hire a woman.

  “An eight and a half foot, six weight fly rod is probably best for trout fishing around here.” Eyes steady, she met his gaze.

  “Hey . . . I appreciate the great lengths you’ve gone to, but I need to remind you that I won’t hire a woman.” Especially an attractive one; but of course, he wouldn’t admit that.

  “Why?”

  “Once I get someone trained, I plan to take some time off to go fishing. I wouldn’t feel right leaving a young . . . gal here alone. This is a men’s store, and not all of my customers are gentlemen.”

  “Why didn’t you just
say that to begin with?” She inhaled deeply, looking around. “Miller and Nelson’s doesn’t even compare.”

  “So you stopped there, too?”

  “Yes. They’re not hiring.”

  For the first time in her presence, he relaxed. She liked his store. He recalled her first visit and her look of fascination.

  “Let’s see . . . they’re thirty cents a dozen, and there’s six of them.” Jack had apparently been listening.

  “Nine, Jack,” Trevor said.

  “Okay, nine. Twelve divided by three is four. Four goes into thirty—seven times, with two left over. Seven times nine is… sixty-three cents,” Jack said with emphasis.

  “Is that your answer?” Trevor bit the inside of his cheek.

  “Yes.”

  “Jack, a dozen hooks is thirty cents.” He wouldn’t look at the girl, or watch her for that matter, as she strolled toward the coffee counter.

  “I missed a step. Where was I?” Jack peered at the ceiling.

  “Oh, and Jasper Haggerty wanted me to tell you that he and his wife caught their limit of Dungeness with the crab pots that you sold them,” Mae said, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  Jasper was one of his favorite old-timers. “You’ve had a busy afternoon.”

  “Yes. Jasper’s not hiring either.”

  The girl had gumption; he’d say that for her.

  Trevor joined Jack behind the front counter and looked out the only west-facing window in the store. Sure enough, Helen’s white Dodge Dart sat parked in Gladys’s side gravel drive. Whenever any members of the prayer group gathered, the women prayed.

  Informing the ladies that he was interviewing for a cashier had opened wide the flood-gates of their imagination. They were undoubtedly praying; better yet, they were petitioning for a young, pretty gal with exceptional math skills and Blue-Dun eyes to interview for the position.

  And God appeared to be adding a few interesting details of his own.

  Chapter 4

  “The reel’s priced $14.99. I rounded it to fifteen. Now, what do I do?” Jack held the boxed reel in one hand.