Too keyed up to sit, he strolled to the window and looked east toward his store. Street lamps lit the otherwise dark end of town.
“I don’t think you stopped by to look out the window. What did you think about finally meeting Richard’s sister?”
“She’s pleasant in personality and appearance.” He folded his arms and turned to regard her.
“You don’t appear very pleased.”
“Things are never as simple as you foresee.” He sighed. “She has a little boy. Mike is four, almost five.”
Gladys’s eyes widened and then she slowly nodded. “And the father?”
“He was killed in a hunting accident over five years ago when Beth was four months pregnant.”
“I remember now.” Her eyes remained wide. “One of Richard’s brothers-in-law. They were deer hunting. A good Christian man.”
“I heard about it, too.” It had been a horrible incident of buck fever. Someone in another hunting party had seen movement and pulled the trigger too soon. Trevor sat down in a padded chair less than six feet away from Gladys and for several minutes, they listened to the ticking of the clock on the dusty bookshelf.
“Does Mike look like your boy?”
“No.” He inhaled deeply. “Mike’s eyes are hazel. His hair is darker. Otherwise, he’s about the same size.”
Gladys nodded and toyed with the handle of her cane.
“If I’d accepted the date last year when Richard wanted me to, it would have only been a year after the dream.” But, now there was Mae.
“But you didn’t.” Gladys was his voice of reason.
“Gladys . . .”
“What is it?”
“Before I hired Ollie Sturgis, I almost hired a young woman with Blue-Dun eyes.”
Her dark brows twitched. That was all.
Trevor sighed and then he told Gladys everything about Mae. Everything he’d been keeping from the group for over two months.
“I think I might have feelings for her.”
The yellow lamp light bathed Gladys’s large features in tranquil softness. “Beth may have a little boy, but it sounds like Mae is the one who has grabbed your heart.”
“Why did tonight have to happen?” He slouched in his chair. “The boy asked if I was going to be his dad. If I was going to take him fishing.”
Gladys pulled a handkerchief out of her dress sleeve and wiped beneath her glasses. “I don’t know, Trevor. Do you want the group to pray about this?”
“No, just you.”
He rose to his feet and near the east-facing window, gazed at his store in the pale moonlight. He knew what tonight was all about, the epiphany that had taken place. For the first time in years, he was ready to care about someone again and he had one particular woman in mind.
Chapter 9
Wednesday morning, Trevor went about his morning routine of starting the coffee and then counting in the till. Ollie had a week of training under his belt. From writing licenses to filling spools with line, the teen was trained. Eight fifteen rolled around and then eight thirty and still no Ollie. Trevor gave a one-hour fishing presentation each year for Hal Perkins’s fourth-grade class, and today was the day. He was supposed to be at Scotts Mills Elementary at eleven, and he needed Ollie to cover the store. An hour ticked by, and then two.
Where was Ollie?
It was only too coincidental that on Monday, the teen had collected his first paycheck—an Ambassadeur 5000 baitcasting reel filled with Trilene line—and today he hadn’t shown up for work. Spring chinook fishing was hot on the Willamette below the falls. Ollie didn’t have a vehicle of his own, but he could easily have hitched a ride with someone, maybe one of Trevor’s customers.
Jack strolled in and poured himself a cup of coffee. Trevor sure hoped someone other than Jack would come in. He wouldn’t be comfortable leaving him in charge.
“Where’s Jolly Ollie?” Jack scanned the store on his way behind the front counter.
“Good question.”
“You need someone more reliable. Someone who doesn’t fish.”
He had a good point.
Jack took the little memo book out of his pocket, lifted the receiver and dialed a four-digit local number. “Bob, it’s Jack. The poem’s for Helga, right? Uh-huh. Well… Helga is a difficult word to rhyme with.”
Trevor poured himself a cup of dark brew and lingered in Jack’s vicinity for his morning chuckle.
“The Molalla’s almost as hard to rhyme with as Helga. What’s your favorite meal that she makes? Goulash? Hmm…” Jack rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “No, be quiet, I’m trying to think. How ’bout when I am on the river, I crave your goulash dinner?—No. That’s just the start. No, you don’t have to pay two dollars for that.” Jack sighed and ran a hand through the back of his wavy gray hair. “One more question, Bob.”
Trevor knew which one was coming.
“How do you feel about Helga?”
That was the one.
“Let me word it differently. How does she make you feel?” It was about as gut-deep as a fellow could get with another. “Hungry…? Bob, I can guarantee you that she isn’t going to like reading that in a poem.”
Trevor agreed with him.
“Okay, tomorrow it is.” Jack hung up, glanced at the little book, and began dialing again. “I have one more call to make if that’s okay?” He glanced at Trevor.
“Go right ahead.” Trevor officially needed to leave in twenty minutes.
Jack dialed his next Swoon her with words client. “Is this Ike? This is The Professor. Yes, uh-huh, uh-huh.” Head bowed, he took notes. “Yes, there are plenty of words that rhyme with honey... There’s money, funny, tummy. Tummy is what you call a near-rhyme. Okay, I won’t mention anything about her tummy.” Jack hung up and then spent the next few minutes jotting down notes.
“People are coming out of the woodwork. Maybe I’m not charging enough.”
“Sounds like you have a gift for it.” The memory of Jack not closing the cash register came to mind. Trevor couldn’t bring himself to leave him in charge of the store for the next hour and a half. Please, Lord, send someone—he was teased by the word great, but he knew that was asking a lot on such short notice. Please send someone who’d be glad to help me in a pinch. That ruled out Jack.
Five minutes passed before Jack shrugged on his coat and headed for the door.
“Thank you, Lord,” Trevor whispered.
The next customer hadn’t shopped at his store before, so it was probably best that Trevor just flip the sign to Closed and add a note: Be back in 90 minutes. He always felt bad closing the store in the middle of the day, but emergencies happened.
An old Model A Ford truck with four bald tires rolled into a front parking space. It couldn’t be! He hadn’t seen Mae for over two weeks. As he strode toward the front, he saw Fletcher climb out of the otherwise empty cab.
Still . . . Trevor felt like hugging him. He met the heavy-set man at the door and slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s great to see you!”
Like a deer caught in the headlights, Fletcher nodded.
“Thought you’d be mad at me.”
He must be referring to his last visit when he’d been so adamant about Mae not working here.
“I need a favor.” There was no time for trivialities.
“So do I. You have no idea.” Fletcher ambled toward the coffee counter. “I dropped Mae off at the Greasy B this morning, and from there I went to Feyrer Park—”
“I’m surprised you don’t fish Walt’s Place.”
“I’ve only fished Walt’s Place one time, and it happened to be with Ed Hoyde the day Walt caught him keeping too many. Said we could never come back.” Fletcher shook his head and poured himself a cup. “So, there I was at Feyrer Park playing a nice steelhead to shore. When I bent over to net it, believe it or not, the little star-shaped thingamabob on top of my spool fell off—plop into the water.” Fletcher pulled a Mitchell 300 spin reel from his coat pocket that had seen bet
ter days.
“The drag knob.” Trevor nodded.
“Heck, if I could find it. As blind as a bat and as broke as one, too.”
Hands on hips, Trevor glanced at the clock. “I need to be at Scotts Mills’ grade school in ten minutes. My new help didn’t show up today, and I have fifteen students expecting me to teach a fishing class. If you watch the store for me for the next hour and a half, I’ll fix that reel of yours, plus throw in some spinners.”
“No kidding!” Fletcher set his reel down on the repair counter. “I stopped at Diller and Smelson in Molalla. They said they didn’t fix reels, only sell them. You were my only option. I thought you’d be madder at me than a wet hornet, but instead”—Fletcher rubbed the back of his neck, grinning.
“You’re an answer to prayer.” Trevor meant it. After giving Fletcher a few instructions on running the store, he gathered his things. At the door, he glanced back at his temporary employee. He wore a pair of rolled down hip waders, an old Dickies quarter-zip, pin-striped shirt, and red suspenders. Standing behind the register, Fletcher held up a cup of coffee and nodded good-bye.
Trevor had no idea if he could add or subtract, but he sure hoped he’d remember to close the cash drawer.
»»»
“Trout fishing season opens on what day?” Trevor asked Hal Perkins’ fourth-grade class.
“This Saturday!” bellowed Wilfred, Bob Hawkins’ grandson, from the third row.
“Raise your hand, Fred, and wait until you’re called upon to speak.” Hal tapped a wooden ruler on top of his desk, in the front right-hand corner of the room.
“Fred’s correct.” Trevor looked about the class. “Trout fishing opens each year in Oregon, on the fourth Saturday in April.” He sure hoped Ollie showed up for work on Friday. He’d told him numerous times that he needed him to work the Friday before and the Saturday of Opening Day.
“Can anyone tell me what the daily limit is for trout?”
At least ten little kids raised their hands.
Trevor pointed to a huskily-built boy in the front row.
“Six.”
“No, that’s a little low.” He scanned the room. Bob’s grandson waved his hand back and forth excitedly, but Trevor pointed to a cute, little, redheaded girl with braided pigtails.
“Seven?”
“No, but you’re getting closer.”
Fred continued to wave his hand high in the air.
“Fred, what’s the daily limit for trout in Oregon?” Trevor asked.
“As many as you can catch,” Fred said, loudly.
Maybe he’d misunderstood the question. “No, Fred, what’s the legal limit for how many trout you can keep in one day?”
“As many as you can catch. Honest, Mr. Dawber.” The boy grinned.
He was Bob Hawkins’ grandson, so, of course, he knew.
“Fred, what’s the legal limit?” Trevor lowered his chin and locked eyes with the youth.
“As many as you catch . . . Honest.” Fred’s eyes widened. “We hide ’em in the hip boots, tackle boxes, under the floorboards, in the bait cans...”
A cough, half-smothered laugh escaped Hal.
To cover his own surprise, Trevor grabbed a piece of chalk and turned toward the board. Bob! What in the world was he thinking? He suppressed a laugh, and printed: Oregon’s daily legal limit for trout on the board and turned to face the class.
“Okay, kids, I need to address something important here. You can legally only keep ten trout per day per person in Oregon. If you keep more than that, you are breaking the law.” He glanced at Fred and then wrote “10” on the board in large print and circled it.
“Does anyone know what would happen if a game warden caught you keeping more than ten trout?” Trevor returned the chalk to the tray and dusted off his hands.
Wide-eyed, the little redhead inched up her hand.
“Yes,” Trevor called on her.
“You’d get a ticket?”
“Yes. Does anyone know how much your ticket or penalty would be?”
This time, no one raised their hand.
“If you were caught keeping more than ten trout, the game wardens or the police could confiscate your boat, rods and reels, and fine you forty dollars,” Trevor said.
“What does confiscate mean?” asked the huskily-built boy.
“Kenneth, remember to raise your hand,” Hal said.
“I’m glad you asked that. Confiscate means that they could take away your boat, rods, and reels and all the fish you were trying to hide.”
“Holy smokes!” Fred bellowed, rising halfway out of his chair. “I’m going to have to tell Grandpa!”
“Remember to raise your hand, Fred,” Hal said.
»»»
Trevor entered through the backroom of his store. While he put away his fishing gear, he heard Fletcher on the sales floor. “When you want to fish deeper pools, this Panther Martin is a great little spinner. It sinks deeper than a Mepps, and the current helps spin the spinner’s blades, you see.”
Fletcher was a natural.
Trevor poured himself a cup of coffee and watched his temporary employee add a hook file onto the sale. After Fletcher rang up the out-of-town customer, he even walked him to the door.
Fletcher soon joined Trevor back at the coffee counter and poured himself a cup of the dark brew.
“How’d it go?” Trevor asked.
“Great. At one point, there were three shoppers in the store. Lucky for me, they didn’t have too tough of questions. Oh, and your phone rang once. The fella wanted a poem for his blue-eyed angel. I thought it was a prank. But then he asked for the Professor. Is that Jack?”
“Yes, I should have warned you. Jack has a little side business—he writes poems. He must be pretty good at it since folks call here all the time.”
»»»
Ollie didn’t show up for work the Friday before or Saturday, the Opening Day of trout season. Trevor ran the store alone as he had for the last six years. Business was steady until late afternoon. He rang up Bob Hawkins’ items: a reel full of new monofilament line, a dozen hooks, and a carton of boraxed salmon eggs. Steelhead fishing was tapering off on the Molalla while spring chinook fishing was at its peak on the Clackamas and the Willamette right below the falls. Trevor set the carton of eggs in the bottom of the bag.
“That’ll be $3.59. Did Wilfred tell you about the trout fishing class I taught at their school on Wednesday?”
“Sure did.” Bob’s brows gathered as he stared inside his wallet. “Wilfred, what happened to my five?” he bellowed across the store.
“Grandma grabbed money for milk,” Wilfred said from the second aisle. He was either checking out tackle boxes or in the cricket area.
“Helga!” Bob’s hefty shoulders sank as he stared at Trevor. “We’re going fishing in the morning.”
Trevor suppressed a grin. “If you’ll watch the store for me the rest of the day, we have a trade.”
Bob huffed. “Guess I don’t have much choice.”
Bob knew how to run the line-winding machine since he’d been the one to build it. He had solid math skills and knew everything there was to know about local streams and species. Trevor couldn’t believe his luck. He wrote a short list of closing instructions for Bob. Then, antsy to get in a few hours of fishing, he rounded up his gear and left.
When he drove across the bridge, he thought about driving a quarter of a mile further up the road to see if Mae’s truck was at The B & B. He resisted the temptation, and took a right at Walt’s Place, instead. Fir trees lined the west side of the gravel drive, creating a small barrier between the busy two-lane road and the property. Near Walt’s old barn, sat Mae’s Ford pickup. He parked beside it, and chuckled at his luck.
In the expanse of his open door, he slipped out of his leather shoes and into hip waders, and then he donned his old fedora. His grandfather had given the hat to him at the age of ten when Trevor was becoming an angling enthusiast. The hat was more sentimental than
lucky, for it was his grandfather who’d taught him to fish and the seasons of a river. He grabbed both his spin outfit and the one-piece bamboo fly rod that he’d packed specifically for today’s outing and closed his door. It was then he saw that Mae’s old Ford was crippled on one side. The front passenger tire was completely flat. Maybe he wouldn’t be fishing as long as he’d intended. She’d need a hand.
Queen Anne’s lace, sword ferns, and knee-high thimbleberry bushes flanked the well-worn pathway down to the river. Four-foot-high willows lined the last stretch of the trail before the river came into view. The water mirrored the blue sky with its puffy clouds, and cottonwood trees lining the bank. He made his way upstream, in the direction he felt certain that Mae had ventured.
He rounded the second bend and slowed. Up ahead, dressed in a checked shirt and hip waders over dark jeans, Mae cast toward a nice little riffle. He’d been thinking round-the-clock about her, and here she was. He inhaled deeply, and sketched the scene before him on the postcard of his heart.
Upon his approach, her movements stiffened slightly, and then she glanced in his direction again. “Hi, Trevor.” She cast him a smile. “You brought your fly rod.”
“I also brought coffee.” He sat down on a log behind her and opened his satchel.
“Did you bring two cups?” There was humor in her voice as she reeled in.
“Yes.”
“Who’s watching the store?”
“Bob Hawkins, a regular of mine. He ended up a few dollars shy at the register, so we did a trade.”
She laughed lightly as she stepped past and propped her rod in the brush behind him. It was a perfect ending to a crazy day. As she sat down on the limited space beside him, her arm brushed against his. He took his time pouring the dark brew from his green plaid Thermos; so he wouldn’t have to acknowledge the hesitancy in her eyes, the red in her cheeks.
A Wife and a River - A Christian romance Page 10
