A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  Common sense was difficult to teach. “Do you have a white shirt?”

  “No.”

  “Any nice trousers?”

  “No.” Ollie smirked.

  “How ’bout a tie?”

  “One, old, ugly one.”

  “You ever fried an egg or made a sandwich?”

  “Aren’t I supposed to be here?” Ollie pointed to the register.

  “I like you, Ollie. You have potential. But your math needs work, your wardrobe needs work, and I don’t think you can cook. I need someone who can run the register and make a decent sandwich.” Trevor grinned as an idea came to him. “I could buy you a nice shirt and a pair of trousers, and you could work it off your bill.”

  Ollie stared at him. “If you want me enough, you’ll buy the uniform.”

  Trevor tried to keep the wince out of his smile. The young man was definitely on the wrong side of the counter.

  Trevor grabbed a felt marker and followed him outside. Ollie straddled a leg over a rusty bicycle and clutched the handlebars while he held onto his fishing rod at the same time. After he’d pedaled a few blocks east, Trevor pulled the marker out of his back pocket. On the line below

  Must make a decent sandwich, he wrote:

  Good hygiene and clean clothes required.

  “Lord . . .” Trevor stepped back to review his work. “Ollie was a pretty quick answer there. I’m feeling a bit like Gideon. If I’m not supposed to hire Mae, would you send someone great to deter me?” He paused and listened to the Holy Spirit’s counsel. He shook his head and sighed.

  “I know . . . you already sent someone great.”

  »»»

  Trevor filled a spool with ten-pound monofilament line for an out-of-towner while other customers waited at the register. Despite the drizzle, fishing had been good.

  An older truck rolled into the last parking space. A few minutes later, Fletcher hobbled inside and flipped back the hood of a dark green raincoat. Mae was right behind him, equally drenched. From his station behind the line counter, Trevor locked eyes with her and nodded toward the cash register where three men stood waiting. While Fletcher grabbed a cup of coffee, Mae made her way behind the counter and shook open a small brown paper bag.

  The line-winding machine made a whirring sound as Trevor finished filling the spool of a baitcasting reel. He swiveled his foot off the pedal and clipped the line.

  “Good luck fishing,” Mae said and then greeted Trevor’s brother-in-law, the next customer in line.

  “Are you new?” Russell held a spin rod below the counter.

  “I help Trevor once in a while.”

  “Oh, kind of like Bob and Jack.”

  She nodded, then rang up and bagged two sinkers and an Eddie Pope Hotshot.

  “That’ll be one dollar and fifty-eight cents.”

  “Russ, don’t forget to tell Mae about the Fenwick,” Trevor said.

  Russell chuckled and raised his right hand, showing her the $24.95 price tag on the Fenwick rod.

  “Don’t worry; my brother-in-law likes to test my part-time help,” Trevor said.

  Wide-eyed, the girl nodded.

  She rang up two more sales before making her way to the coffee counter. Trevor wiped his hands on a shop rag and decided it was a great time to take a break as well. Mae was already seated when he poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “I turn my back, and you’re standing behind the counter like you own the place.” Fletcher’s thick salt-and-pepper brows gathered. Like several of his other customers, he appeared to be enjoying Jack’s chair.

  “I gave her the go-ahead. I needed the help.”

  “You didn’t say anything until she almost gave that guy a free fishing rod.”

  Fletcher was in a foul mood. Maybe he shouldn’t speak with him today about Mae working here. But, he didn’t want to pass up the opportunity.

  “How’d you do fishing?” If he had to guess, Fletcher had been skunked.

  “Went to the Clackamas. As you can see, it was raining cats and dogs there, too, but Mae caught her first springer.” Springer was a local nickname for spring chinook salmon.

  “Congratulations.” Trevor glanced from Mae to Fletcher. “Just one?”

  Fletcher rolled a kink out of his neck. “I hate to admit it, but she out-fished me her first time fishin’ springers. Probably only thirteen pounds, not large enough for your derby.”

  Last night, his prayer group had prayed, and here they were. “Thanks for covering the register for me.” Mae’s lips were blue. She was probably soaked to the bone. “I just hung a mount up in the fly-tying area, a large rainbow trout. Seeing how you’re interested in fly fishing, I thought you might appreciate it.” He nodded toward the back wall. “It’s above the display of fishing creels.”

  She leaned her head to one side, peering down the lure aisle.

  “The Molalla taxidermist, Ben Dickerson, borrowed it for a convention. While you’re back there, pay attention to the red striations on the belly.”

  “Okay.” She brushed past him, carrying a cup of coffee.

  Glad that she’d taken the bait, Trevor inhaled deeply. He hadn’t looked forward to this conversation, and the opportunity had presented itself earlier than he’d expected.

  “Why do I feel like you’re going to ask me for her hand?” Fletcher crossed his burly arms. “If you are, you’ll need to speak with James. Though I am like her second dad.”

  “What do you mean . . . James?” Trevor’s chin fell to his chest. Mae’s father was James Bucknell. He swallowed and caught a glimpse of her near the rear of the store. Eight years ago on a dark, rainy night, her father had lost control of the vehicle he’d been driving and hydroplaned into a telephone pole. His wife had died, and he’d been left paralyzed from the waist down. Out of all the Bucknells in the area, Mae was James’s girl.

  “Yep. James is her daddy.” Fletcher nodded.

  James had been one of the finest fly fishermen he’d ever seen.

  “I’ve decided to hire her.”

  “Who?”

  “Mae . . . for my cashier position.” Trevor tapped two fingers on top of the coffee counter and tried to get his wits about him.

  “She already has a job.”

  “I know she’s working at The B & B temporarily to pay off her fishing ticket, but she interviewed here awhile back.” He met Fletcher’s stare. “The day she stopped in to purchase her fishing license.”

  The lines in Fletcher’s forehead deepened.

  “At the time, she didn’t know much about trout fishing.” Trevor kept his voice low. “But in the six weeks that I’ve had my Help Wanted sign up, she’s been the only applicant who’s aced my math test.” Fletcher still wore a dazed look. “In the beginning, I was against hiring a woman, but now I’ve seen firsthand that Mae’s hardworking, honest—”

  “N-O. We’re going fishing tomorrow and the day after that. The beauty of her not working here is we can fish wherever and whenever we want. If she works for you, we’ll have to fish around your schedule. Just like we have to do right now with her job at the greasy B. And, I guarantee you she feels the same way.”

  Trevor begged to differ. “After her ticket’s paid off, she’ll need new tires.”

  “Her inheritance money from her aunt will soon take care of those. Don’t say another word about it. It ain’t gonna happen.”

  Over the top of the display units, Trevor could just make out the back of Mae’s auburn hair. “She’s great at math, personable, and for some reason, I think she wants—”

  “Nope.” Fletcher rose to his feet and searched the rear of the store. “Come on, Mae, gettin’ close to dinnertime!” he bellowed.

  “Let me, at least, speak to her about it.”

  “Nope. We’re not about to miss out on anymore steelheading just because...” Fletcher’s voice trailed off as Mae strolled the lure aisle toward them. She set her mug amidst the pile of dirtied ones. A lot had happened since she’d left.

  “B
eautiful rainbow.” She glanced at Trevor.

  A wave of empathy rolled through him as he recalled her first interview. For several days, his store had been the place that she’d wanted to work. Was it on account of her father? Word was, he hadn’t been on the river since his accident. Trevor knew several men who fished from wheelchairs. Why not James Bucknell?

  “What’d the guy catch it on?” One finely arched brow lifted as she studied him.

  “I caught it on an Adams fly on the Molalla when I was fifteen. 1947.”

  “An Adams on the Molalla.” Approval sparkled in her eyes. “On the wall, there’s a beautiful old fishing creel…”

  “It belonged to my grandfather.” It seemed only fitting that the thirty-year-old creel hung on the wall next to his finest catch.

  “Come on, Mae,” Fletcher grumbled. “We need to get moving.”

  “Mae . . .” Trevor paused, weighing his words. “Years ago, your dad made quite an impression on me. He could throw a long, tight loop like no other, tell him that for me.”

  “I will.” She almost smiled. “Thanks for the coffee.” She followed Fletcher to the door.

  Coffee must have been the only reason they’d come in today, as they hadn’t purchased anything. Trevor tied the magazine area and tried to come to grips with the news.

  The truth tightened like an anchor rope about his chest. From day one, he’d been too hard on James Bucknell’s girl.

  »»»

  Friday evening at Walt’s Place, Trevor walked the well-worn path through the willows and spotted Jack at the bend in the river. His spinner whizzed through the air, reflecting the evening light.

  After selecting a nice riffle, Trevor sharpened his hook and cast the orange Okie drifter upstream. He let the pencil lead bounce along the bottom through the tail-out, hoping for the subtle pickup of a steelhead.

  Customers still appeared to be reading his Help Wanted sign, yet an entire week had passed without an interview. Maybe Scotts Mills was too small of a town to be picky. The idea of hiring Mae continued to intrigue him. At first, he’d wanted Fletcher’s approval; but now that he didn’t have it, it no longer seemed important. He cast again upstream. Fishing the tail-out of the pool often proved to be some of the best holding water for steelhead.

  The idea of Mae working for him no longer seemed daunting. Each busy day that she didn’t proved far more challenging. The next time she was in, he’d take her off to the side, and tell her that he’d reconsidered. Let it be her decision.

  Empty-handed, Jack walked the riverbank toward him. “I’m getting hungry. Did you bring anything to eat?”

  “No. But, I have venison steaks thawed for dinner. Before we leave, I’d like to check in with Walt.”

  “See if he’s changed his mind since last week?” Jack nodded.

  “That, and he doesn’t mind the company.”

  At dusk, they walked downstream toward the old farmhouse visible through the trees. Situated well above the water, Walt’s Place appeared to be safe from any future twists the river might take. Trevor knocked on the wood framed screen door. Walt was seated inside on a worn, dark brown couch.

  “Walt, Jack and I were both skunked.”

  “Come in.” Walt, a hunched, lean man with wispy, gray hair, waved his cane.

  They left their gear on the porch, and like they usually did, took a seat at the kitchen table. Walt put a kettle on the stove and pulled a sleeve of Ritz Crackers out of a knotty pine cupboard. “My nephew Richard’s here. He said you go to the same church.”

  “Yes, we have for years.” Trevor chewed on his lower lip. Richard was bound to be a problem. He should have left right then, but Walt had already put the kettle on the stove.

  Jack slid four Ritz Crackers out of the waxed-paper package, and when Walt wasn’t looking, cast Trevor a look that said: I’m still counting on dinner.

  “Any more interested buyers since last week?” Trevor asked.

  “No, your name’s still the first on my list,” Walt said.

  Trevor rose from the table and, with his arms folded in front of him, studied the names written in black ink to the left of the phone. His name and phone number were still at the top. Below his name was a Raymond Saunders, and then a Charles Rasmussen, and the last entry was new—his direct competitor, Byron Miller. Shoot! Four prospective buyers in all. Pretty good for a piece of property that wasn’t even on the market.

  “My son thinks I can get more than ten thousand. Thinks that I should hold some kind of auction when the time comes. May even get twelve.”

  He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  “I told him, Trevor’s first on my list,” Walt said.

  “You know, I’ll buy it from you now and let you live here.” Trevor returned to the table and sat down.

  “I like you, Trevor, but I don’t like you that much.” Walt chuckled and shook his head.

  “Hey, Trevor,” Richard Nielson carried a small toolbox into the front room, “I thought I heard your voice.”

  “Hi, Richard. How are you?” For the last couple of months, he’d avoided Richard at church since the fellow persistently badgered him about meeting his sister.

  “Uncle Walt’s plumbing issue was providential.” Tall, wiry-built and middle-aged, Richard stopped beside Walt. “Beth visited our church last Sunday and saw you from a distance. I was finally going to introduce the two of you, but then you disappeared.”

  “I was in a hurry to meet Jack at the boat launch,” Trevor said.

  “How about coming over for dinner this Thursday?” Richard was his persistent self.

  “The prayer group I belong to meets on Thursday nights.” Trevor couldn’t help but think that was providential.

  “How about Friday, then?”

  Jack kicked his shin hard beneath the table.

  Trevor frowned at him and then returned his attention to Richard. “Thanks, but I’ve… uh…”

  “It’s been over a year since you told me that you’d like to meet her.”

  The man wasn’t exaggerating, it had been last February. The steelhead run had come in strong on the Molalla, and the store had been packed the afternoon Richard had showed up. It had been one of those days when Trevor could have kept four employees busy. In between chaos and customers, Richard had finagled, no swindled, a yes from Trevor to meeting his sister.

  “I’m starting to think you’re giving me the run-around.” Richard set his hands on his hips.

  Walt glanced toward the phone—probably to the left of it.

  Trevor had always been a man of his word, and he didn’t want Walt thinking any differently. “Have you informed her that I’m divorced?”

  Jack kicked him again. Tired of it, Trevor kicked him back—and hard.

  “Yes, and she’s still interested. Plan on five o’clock sharp this Friday at my place.” Richard popped a Ritz into his mouth and grinned.

  “Five o’clock.” Trevor nodded as a lead anchor settled in his gut.

  »»»

  Monday afternoon, Trevor peered around the store. No one, not a single customer, was in sight. For two days, he’d felt nudged to call Mae Bucknell. He’d written down to a T what he was going to say, how he was going to word it. She could simply take his job offer or leave it. Either way, he wouldn’t take it as rejection. He wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his trousers and glanced around the store one more time. He’d call now while he didn’t have an audience.

  He pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket and read through his notes. I’m not certain if you’re still working at The B & B, but I know that your tires are in pretty sad shape. If you’re still interested in working in a tackle shop, I’ll pay for four new tires. You could work the bill off at my store. Oh, and by the way, you’re the only one who aced my math test.

  The ending might be a little lame, but if he inflected his voice just right, maybe it wouldn’t sound too pitched. He picked up the receiver and inhaled deeply.

  Please, Lord, don’t let
Fletcher be the one to answer. Trevor took a deep breath.

  The phone rang four times, then five, before someone picked up. “Wilhoit Mineral Springs, this is James.”

  James . . . He hadn’t expected James Bucknell to answer.

  “Hi, James, this is Trevor Dawber.” He cleared his throat. Though he’d seen him fly fish years ago, he’d never officially met the man.

  “Trevor . . . Trevor Dawber?” There was a hint of antagonism in his voice. Perhaps Mae had told him about the interviews.

  “Yes, this is Trevor.”

  “Hmmph . . . my daughter’s been talking to you, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes, on occasion.” He nodded.

  “She told me what you said, and I have to admit, it gives a man a hankering to try fishing again when he hears that kind of praise.”

  Trevor smiled, relieved. “I saw you fishing the Molalla once when I was about fifteen. My grandfather was with me at the time, and I asked him how I could learn to cast like that? He said, ‘James Bucknell has a gift.’”

  “And don’t I miss it.” The man sighed. “Everyone wants to make a spin angler out of me. Have me sit in one spot on the bank or a dock. I’d be bored as a canned sardine. I told Mae that I’d try fly fishing out of a drift boat if we could somehow jerry rig a lawn chair over the bench seat and strap me in.”

  “You know, drift boats are pretty easy to flip. Every fellow I know who owns one has a story to tell. I have a couple myself.”

  “A couple of stories or a couple of drift boats?”

  “A couple of stories.” Trevor chuckled. “I only own one drift boat.”

  “That’s good to hear. Yep, half the time, I just sit around here wishing I was fly fishing. So, I’d rather take the chance of flipping while strapped to an old lawn chair than not fly fish at all.”

  Did James think he’d called to invite him fishing? He’d never taken a wheelchair-bound man in his drift boat before, much less strapped to a lawn chair.

  “Mae said she’s going to buy me a boat—if she gets enough money from her estate, that is. But, I told her I’d like to try fly fishing out of one before she spent that kind of money on me.”