A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “I understand exactly what you’re saying.” The next couple seconds of silence felt like minutes. He couldn’t very well ask to speak with Mae now that her father thought he’d called to invite him fishing.

  “I work six days a week, James; so, if you’d like to try drift fishing with me, it would have to be some Sunday after church. And, I’d feel better about the situation if we had another fellow in the boat in case we run into issues.”

  “Fletcher will go with us in a heartbeat. He’s standing right beside me, nodding. You just tell us what Sunday, and we’ll meet you there. Wagon Wheel to Goodes Bridge?”

  “Okay, then . . . um . . . meet me at Wagon Wheel. This Sunday’s spoken for, so it would have to be the next.” He’d already promised Jack they’d fish the Molalla.

  “Next Sunday, we’re having family over,” James said.

  “How ’bout three Sundays from now, then?”

  “Yeah. That gives me time to work on my casting arm.”

  Trevor nodded “A good way to get in shape, James, is to take the tip section of a fly rod, about four to five feet in length, and then tie on about 10 to 15 feet of some fat yarn.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Rope’s too heavy. If you have some of that fat craft yarn, braid it until you have a rope about…” Trevor curled his forefinger to the knuckle of his thumb, “about a half inch thick.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then just practice casting in that meadow area of yours. It’s a great way to rework and stretch the muscles that you haven’t used for a while.”

  “I’ll do that when Mae’s not home. I want it to be a surprise, you see. If she drops by your place in the next couple of weeks, don’t mention it to her.”

  “I won’t.” It didn’t sound like Mae was there anyway or at least in the same room. After their goodbyes, Trevor hung up the phone and reflected on what had just taken place.

  In three Sundays, he was taking Mae’s father fishing. James Bucknell.

  Chapter 8

  Drizzly, gray afternoons in April often proved to be big weigh-in days for local fishermen. Trevor was stuck inside. If his eyes didn’t deceive him, a cleaned-up Ollie Sturgis stood out front reading the Help Wanted sign. Trevor finished packaging a steelhead rig before the bell above the door jingled.

  Dressed in a white button-up shirt that appeared two sizes too large, dark trousers and a noticeably drab tie, Ollie’s attire was a sharp contrast to his first interview. The teen had showered and even trimmed his choppy hair—maybe all by himself.

  “What can I do for you today?” Trevor asked though the reason he was here was all too clear.

  “Thought I’d take another shot at that job of yours.”

  A knot formed beneath Trevor’s sternum.

  “I brushed up on my math; you’ll see.” Ollie pointed at him with a confident flair. “If I get the job, I’ll even make sandwiches.”

  He’d finally determined that he wanted to hire Mae, and here was Ollie—all spiffed up and shined. It would be a shame to turn him away now; that is, if he passed the math test.

  “Get behind the counter and we’ll take another crack at it.”

  Trevor pulled a couple of Lazy Ike salmon plugs off a peg and grabbed a handful of Okies while his memory drifted to Mae. She’d looked great behind the register. Hmmm… what would do this young man in? He added a fishing creel on the counter for an extra percentage-off item.

  “The creel’s 30 percent off today, and the Lazy Ikes and the reel are 20 percent off. The hooks are—”

  “Wait a second.” Ollie held up a hand. “I better write this down.” He found a pen behind the counter and scribbled on the back of a paper bag. “Okie dokie.”

  “The hooks are twenty-nine cents a dozen, and the Okie Drifters are sixty cents a dozen.”

  The phone rang.

  He rounded the side of the counter and picked up the receiver. “Trevor’s Tackle Shop, how may I help you?”

  “Is the Professor there?” asked the male caller.

  “Not at the moment; may I take a message?”

  “My gal’s birthday’s coming up and—”

  “Scale!” Someone yelled from the front of the store. Bob stood dripping wet in the doorway wearing a hooded, dark green raincoat. Trevor grabbed the scale from behind the counter, handed it to Ollie, and then pointed toward the door.

  “Uh-huh,” he said into the mouthpiece.

  “I want something real pretty. Something about summer dreams—”

  “What’s your number?” Trevor hated to be abrupt with anyone almost as much as he hated being Jack’s answering service. After writing down the fellow’s number, he taped the message to the top of the stapler and then joined the men out front.

  Bob’s bright steelhead hung on the scale and at eighteen pounds was by far the largest weigh-in for this week’s derby.

  “Where is the Quah?” Hands on hips, Ollie looked at Bob.

  “Well . . .” Bob studied the overhead rafters. “You know the logging road that runs along the upper Molalla?”

  Trevor knew where this was going and rolled his eyes.

  “Sure.” Ollie crossed his arms.

  “You drive up that road about eight miles, and then you find a place to put your boat in. About a mile downriver, you’ll run into the hole I call the Quah.”

  Bob was blowing some serious smoke.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Trevor said. “Where he’s talking about, the river’s so narrow and rocky, you couldn’t get a drift boat through if you tried.”

  Bob had a good laugh.

  Wherever he was fishing, he was tapping into some large steelhead.

  “Where is the Quah, then?” Ollie asked.

  “There is no Quah. Bob doesn’t share his secrets.”

  They left the steelhead on the scale and went inside.

  “What were you using, Bob?” At the derby board, Trevor grabbed a piece of chalk.

  “You know I don’t share.” Bob poured himself a cup of coffee and then joined Trevor at the line counter.

  “This is the third Saturday in a row that you’ve shown up with the largest fish of the week.”

  “Yep, when I’m ready to launch my lures, I’ll have quite the following.”

  Bob had a good point. Trevor wrote Bob Hawkins 18 lb. steelhead, secret river and secret lure on the board.

  “Five swivels at thirty cents a dozen comes to fifteen cents,” Ollie said.

  He was in a hurry again.

  “Is it thirty cents for ten of them or a dozen?” Bob asked.

  Too bad Bob wasn’t interested in working for him; he’d be handy to have around.

  “I meant thirteen cents. Sorry about that,” Ollie said.

  “Write your answers down and I’ll review them at the end.” Trevor unwrapped the repair ticket from around a baitcasting reel.

  Harold Dutton, who’d been in the store awhile, set a tray full of items on the front counter.

  “I can ring you up,” Ollie said and stashed the items for his interview off to one side.

  Trevor contemplated the situation. Even though the teen was trying, he couldn’t be an answer to last night’s prayer, because . . . he’d finally reached the monumental decision that he’d hire Mae.

  “Looks like you hired someone,” Harold said over his shoulder.

  “No, we’re still in the—”

  “An Ambassadeur 5000 is the first thing I’m going to buy,” Ollie said.

  Without a doubt, Ollie wanted the job, but Trevor wouldn’t let himself feel swayed one way or the other until he had a good look at his math test.

  Coffee cup in hand, Bob neared the line counter. “What you need is a wife.”

  “I don’t have time for a wife and a—”

  “Heard that one a hundred times.”

  Trevor poured a dab of solvent inside the reel case. “There’s a reason God created four times as much water as—”

  “Heard it!” Bob tapped a hand on top
of the counter.

  “All I need is a cashier. Out of the handful of people that I’ve interviewed, believe it or not, the best candidate is a woman.”

  “A woman would ruin the place.”

  He’d known Bob’s response would be along those lines.

  “I’m done.” Ollie waved the brown paper bag.

  The moment of truth lay before them. Trevor rounded the end of the glass counter and scanned Ollie’s chicken scratch. “You need to round up a penny instead of down,” he said. Other than that he’d surprisingly got every answer right. “Your math’s improved.”

  “My uncle’s a math whiz. He coached me last night through percentages.”

  “I see.” Maybe he wasn’t supposed to hire Mae. He ignored the knot in his gut and took a fresh look at Ollie. There was a soiled spot the size of a quarter on his drab tie; otherwise, the teen had tried hard to appear presentable.

  “Can I start now?”

  “Yes.” As soon as he said it, Trevor felt a wave of employer’s remorse.

  “Sheezam!” Ollie drove a fist into the air.

  “For starters, I’ll have you put that stuff away.” Trevor nodded toward the items on the counter.

  “Sure thing.”

  “You’ll get eighty cents an hour toward merchandise.”

  “I’ll be worth every penny.”

  Outside on the front walk, Trevor set his hands on his hips, and studied the Help Wanted sign for the last time. He’d finally hired his first employee. The experience felt bittersweet. Peeling the duct tape off the window, he recalled Mae’s first visit when she’d clutched the wooden handles of her purse and said, I’d like to interview for the job, too. She’d been nervous; he realized that now. He tucked the weathered sign beneath his arm and sighed.

  He’d owed Mae a chance, and he’d messed up. Now he owed Ollie one.

  »»»

  Friday evening and meeting Richard’s sister, rolled around all too quickly as far as Trevor was concerned.

  The Nielsons’ home sat two miles north of Scotts Mills at the end of an old logging road. The acreage had recently been clear cut. The land at the foothills of the Cascade Mountains rolled off into an expanse of old growth timber. Richard was a handyman of sorts. The outside of his home looked like he’d collected building material from several different job sites. A goat was tied to a wood cookstove near the driveway. Lumber piled as high as the windows lined one side of the house. An old kitchen sink sat to the right of the front door. Though they’d attended the same church for years, and Richard wore the same striped tie each Sunday, Trevor didn’t know him all that well.

  He took off his hat and knocked two times. Roberta, Richard’s wife, opened the door and smiled warmly. She carried a smudged-faced toddler under one arm.

  “Come in, Trevor. Richard’s in his busy season, so you’ll have to excuse a few projects.” She laughed, her round face a soft pink. “Having company over for their first time is always hard for me.”

  He followed Roberta down the hallway. The doors were without molding, and the stairwell was void of spindles except for four at the bottom.

  Richard stepped out into the hallway and greeted him with a hearty handshake. “You’re right on time. Beth’s here, too.”

  “I’ll work on dinner,” Roberta said, retreating.

  A slender, pretty gal sat on the sofa in the living room. Her dark, shoulder-length curly hair was the same style as Mae’s.

  “Trevor, meet Beth,” Richard said.

  The young woman rose and shook his hand.

  “Hello, Beth.”

  “It’s nice to finally meet you.” Her eyes met his with somber clarity. Hopefully, her brother told her that he’d had reservations about tonight.

  He took a seat in a wooden rocker situated next to the couch and recalled the nervous sparkle that had been in Mae’s eyes the first time she’d interviewed. What was he to think about her?

  “That chair used to be our grandmother’s,” Beth said, drawing his attention to the present. “She’d sit in it and knit for hours.”

  The seat was worn, comfortable. He cleared his throat. It all came back to him why he’d never blind dated before. He knew they’d be difficult; one had to start from scratch.

  “Richard said you’re a Christian,” Trevor said.

  “Yes, I usually attend the Baptist Church in Molalla with my parents.”

  Now that he was here, he just wanted to dwell on Fletcher’s Girl and her genuine interest in fishing.

  An uncomfortable patch of silence followed.

  Beth wrung her hands in her lap. “Did Richard tell you that I lost my husband in a hunting accident a little over five years ago?”

  “No.” The heaviness of her situation settled deep.

  “I was four months pregnant with our first child when the accident happened.” Her gaze lowered to the apple-green floral linoleum between them.

  “I’m sorry.” Had she lost the child?

  “Little Mike’s around here somewhere.” Her voice brightened. “Do you like children?”

  His chest knotted. “Of course.”

  Lord, You didn’t prepare me for this.

  “I’ll find him, introduce the two of you.” She stood up.

  “No.” Trevor rose halfway then sat down. “That can wait. Let’s talk.”

  Beth sat down and clasped her hands in her lap.

  Lord, You didn’t prepare me for this. He glanced at Beth’s hazel eyes.

  “Richard said you own a fishing store in Scotts Mills.”

  “Yes. Fishing is my only hobby.” He nodded. “What are your hobbies?”

  “My hobbies . . .” Beth glanced toward the hallway. “My son has become my hobby. We live in a little cabin on my folks’ property, a couple miles outside of Marquam. They sell honey. Sometimes I watch their business for them.”

  Marquam was only a few miles from Scotts Mills.

  “If you had free time, how would you spend it?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I mend or sew clothes for Mike. We have a border collie that we take for walks. My life’s pretty simple.” She looked at his leather work shoes. “What happened with your first marriage?”

  “She left me for a man who doesn’t fish.” Trevor rolled a kink out of his neck. “So, you have a dog?”

  “Yes, two dogs.” She looked at him uneasily. “Do you like dogs?”

  “Sure. I’m not particularly fond of them in the house.”

  “One dog, Gretel, is a big, fat, fluffy thing. She’s in the house with us; and so is Nipper, our border collie. He used to nip Mike on the back of his leg, trying to round him up.” She smiled.

  “Any cats?”

  She nodded. “Just two, and they’re outside until they want to come inside.”

  Trevor rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Are you allergic to animals?” She was observant.

  “I used to have a problem with cats.” He tried not to rub his right eye.

  “Quite a few people do.”

  “Dinner’s ready,” Roberta said from the doorway, where she stood untying her apron. A small boy with a mop of brown hair scampered past her into the room. He glanced at Beth on his way toward Trevor. After coming to an abrupt stop, he set two dirty hands on the knees of Trevor’s slacks.

  “What’s yer name?”

  Trevor paused from breathing to study the boy’s sparkling hazel eyes.

  “Trevor. What’s yer’s?”

  “Mike.” Mike held forth his dirty right hand.

  Trevor shook it firmly.

  “Very nice to meet you.”

  Trevor grinned. “It’s nice to meet you, Mike.”

  “Now Trevor needs to wash his hands, too.” Beth whisked Mike under one arm and carried him down the hallway.

  After Richard said the blessing, Trevor noticed there was a bow in the solid oak table on the far end. The table sloped downhill toward Kathy, Richard’s oldest daughter. “Slide the potatoes to Kathy will you, Trevor,”
Richard said, with a smile.

  After dinner, Beth and Trevor were again left alone in the living room. Little Mike joined them from time to time. “What’s Auntie doing?” Beth asked Mike.

  “Auntie’s rocking, and Uncle’s playing.” It was a good assessment as Roberta was rocking their little girl while Richard played with pots on the kitchen floor with their youngest boy.

  “See if you can get the box of blocks.” Beth shooed Mike into the kitchen and then she looked at Trevor. “It’s been a nice get-together; but, I can tell you’re not interested. Maybe because of the animals.”

  “I’m okay with outside animals.” He should never have come. His mind was elsewhere.

  After a brief reprieve, Mike returned to the room. He set his elbows on the top of Trevor’s knees and gazed up at him. “Are you going to be my dad?”

  The earnestness in the boy’s eyes made him blink. “I’m sorry, Mike, I—”

  “Uncle Rich-erd said you’ll take me fishing. Will you?” Mike searched his eyes.

  “I like to take little boys fishing when they turn five. Then they’re big enough to hold the rod and listen well.”

  “I’m big.” Mike set his chubby hands on Trevor’s knees.

  “You are big for four.” Trevor ruffled Mike’s dark brown hair. He tried not to think about the dream. Instead, he remembered Mae and her gray-blue eyes.

  He wondered if Fletcher had ever told her that he’d wanted to hire her?

  “I can listen real good.” Mike tapped Trevor’s knee.

  Trevor looked to Beth for help, but she just watched with deep sadness in her eyes.

  »»»

  During his drive home, Trevor decided that if Gladys’s living room light was on, he’d stop and see if she were up for a chat. Sure enough, a table lamp lit her front room. Even though it was almost ten o’clock, he parked in her gravel drive.

  Because of a hip-injuring fall that she’d had before Christmas, Gladys no longer locked her front door. He knocked a couple times and nudged the door open a few inches. “Gladys, it’s Trevor. Are you up for company?”

  “Yes, I’ve been thinking about you. Come in.” She tossed a Molalla Bulletin to the floor, then lifting up her glasses, rubbed at her tired eyes. Gladys was a large-boned woman, with wide shoulders and large hands. She often said that she’d been the one to carry her late husband Ernie over the threshold on their wedding night; and though people laughed, Trevor believed her.