“You have a flat tire.”
“Oh, that’s what the knocking sound was on the way here. I don’t have a spare.” Her shoulders rounded, and she sighed. “And the day was feeling so perfect.”
He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past three. “I don’t want to spend the next two fishing hours driving you to town. You’re going to have to wait until Monday to get it to a shop in Molalla.” He handed her a blue Enamelware mug of steaming coffee.
“Okay.”
“I’ll take you home afterward, but we’ll have to talk to Walt about leaving your truck here over the weekend.”
“Thank you.” She nodded. “If you don’t have plans, Fletcher’s making chicken pot pie for dinner.”
“Sounds good. How’re Fletcher’s math skills?”
She laughed. “I should warn you that Jack might be there tonight, too.” She eyed him over the top of her cup.
“Jack?” He chuckled.
“Yes. He’s been helping Albert, Fletcher’s son. Al’s struggling with senior composition. Jack comes to dinner at least once a week.”
“Jack.” Trevor shook his head. “He used to have dinner at my place three, four nights a week. Just here lately, it’s been whittled down to two.” For a moment, he studied Mae’s gray-blue eyes. Should he offer her the job or kiss her? It had to be one or the other. Though he wanted to, he couldn’t do both.
“Fletcher would probably work for fishing tackle.” She turned her profile to him. “I’m not sure if he’d pass your math test, but you could always quiz him tonight when you’re there.”
“Why are you turning red?” He asked, curious. Did she like him?
“Why’d you bring two cups to the river?” She shrugged, keeping her profile to him.
Even though she hadn’t answered, he felt encouraged.
“Have you heard that I hired my first employee?” He tried to sound matter of fact.
“Yeah.” She nodded. “One of Barb’s customers said there was a young man wearing a tie behind your counter.”
“Ollie wasn’t as quick at math as you. Well, he was quick." Trevor chuckled. “But, he wasn’t always accurate. He came in for a second interview all spiffed up and sporting a new crew, and I felt I owed him a chance. You see, I felt guilty about not hiring you.”
“Makes sense to me.” Her chin lifted slightly as she studied the river.
His logic didn’t make sense at all. He leaned forward and using the tip of his boot turned over a milk jug-sized rock. Ants milled in the damp dirt. “If you want to be a good fly angler, you need to be aware of insects, what the fish are eating, what bugs are hatching and hovering.” She leaned forward to study the freshly exposed earth. “Mayflies will be plentiful the next couple of months.” He nodded toward the river. “They’re the ones that look like little copper boats with sails when they’re on the water.”
“Sailboats.” Her voice brightened.
“A Caddis fly resembles a mayfly. When gutting trout, some guys will study what the fish ate to determine what type of fly to use. When in doubt use a Caddis or an Adams, and one of my favorites is a Blue Dun.” He looked past her downstream. “Have you heard that I’ve been trying to buy Walt’s Place?”
She nodded. “When I was at Nelson and Miller’s, the man behind the counter said they’re interested in buying it, too.”
“I’ve heard that way too many times.” He sighed “Being right off the highway, it’s a great location for a store. There’s plenty of room for parking and this section of river is some of the best fishing on the Molalla.”
“Why doesn’t Walt sell?”
“He wants to stay here as long as he can. You can’t blame him.” He gazed at the river and taking his time, sipped the steaming hot coffee. “If I had his place, I’d build a deck off the back of the house to take in the view. I’d be able to fish before or after work.” His mind rambled to building a covered sitting area and—
“Would you still wear a tie?” Her gaze traveled from the knot of his striped necktie to his eyes.
Was she flirting or just comfortable with him?
“You know, Fletcher calls you the gentleman angler.” She studied the water. “I thought it was because of your hat.”
Fletcher’s comment didn’t surprise him. He’d been razzed plenty of times before about wearing a tie to the river. “I’m usually in too much of a hurry to get to the water.”
“You’re like Fletcher. The other day when we got to the Clackamas, he forgot to shut the truck door. I can’t fish with a fellow who’s wearing a tie.” With her profile to him, the dimple in her cheek deepened as she suppressed a smile. “Makes it feel too much like a date.”
Her blush made it feel like a date.
He loosened his tie and yanked it free, then undid the top button of his white dress shirt. “I didn’t mean to make you feel underdressed.” He rose and grabbed his fly rod from the brush and returned to sit beside her.
“Are you up for a fly casting lesson?” He nudged up the brim of his hat.
“Yes.”
He tied on a Skykomish Sunrise, one of his favorite flies for winter steelhead, and filed the point of the hook until it was sticky sharp. “If you keep your thumb on top of the handle, like this”—he pointed his thumb straight up the cork grip—“and wrap your hand around, it will be difficult to break your wrist when you’re casting.”
“What do you mean break my wrist?” She laughed softly under her breath.
“You want to keep your wrist stiff like your wrist and forearm are one. If you don’t, if you break your wrist, it causes a poor cast.”
“I see.”
He left her side and waded out a comfortable distance in the slow moving current. Several yards downstream near the water’s edge, she cupped both hands above her eyes to watch him.
“Watch how my arm and wrist move together.” He pulled about twenty feet of line off the reel, and holding the line snugly in his left hand, cast the line out in front of him. And, just before the line hit the water, he began his backcast; bringing the rod back until it was pointing slightly behind him. He waited for the line to almost completely unfurl before he began the forward motion again. This method known as false casting helped to get an ample amount of line out and set up the cast. He delivered the fly at a forty-five-degree angle upstream. The line landed softly on the water before sinking, taking the fly with it.
It was his first time using Scientific Anglers’ new sinking line, and he quickly learned that he had to strip the line almost all the way to the rod tip before lifting it out of the water.
Knee-deep in the river, he waved for Mae to join him. Fly fishing was an art form difficult to teach even the most astute student in an afternoon, but it was on her heart to learn. The current was slow moving, manageable as she carefully wedged her footing between rocks. Her rubber hip waders insulating her from the cold. She reached his side, obviously pleased with her accomplishment.
He handed her the rod. “Keep a firm left hand on the line.” For starters, it was best to let her muddle through, try and establish a rhythm. He stepped away, a few feet downstream from her.
She held the fly rod vertical at first, then reached back and then leaned forward. The fly slapped the water behind her and in front. Though her first attempts were painful to watch, he told himself to be patient, not to critique just yet.
“You made it look so easy and beautiful, just like my memories of my dad…” Her voice trailed off.
“One of my customers, Bud Hatchett, fishes out of a wheelchair.” Bud hadn’t been in for a while. He was mainly a summer angler and fished off the docks at various lakes.
“My dad won’t convert to baitcasting. He’s as stubborn as Fletcher about some things.”
“Baitcasting is also referred to as conventional fishing.” If she ever worked for him, it would be something he’d want her to know. “There’s no reason your father couldn’t still fly fish. Out of a boat on a lake would probably be best. Detroi
t Lake would be a great place for him to try or even the Molalla.”
She nodded, thoughtful.
“Don’t bend so much at the waist and don’t break your wrist. That’s all I want you to focus on.”
Her next cast, she leaned too far forward, following the line. He’d told her one thing too many. The line and fly hit the water together in a miserable heap. The second follow-through she corrected herself.
“Much better.”
“I’m keeping you from fishing,” she said.
“Jack and I are fishing tomorrow after church.”
“I feel clumsy.”
“You’re doing fine. Rarely does anyone pick it up immediately. It’s an art form.”
Her wrist action improved, but her movements remained mechanical instead of graceful.
“Trevor . . .” She glanced over her shoulder at him.
“Yes.” He set his hands on his hips.
“My father used to have me stand in the crook of his arm. I’d hold the fly rod with him.” Wide-eyed, she looked vulnerable, like the admission had been difficult, and then she turned to face the river, leaving him to stare at the back of her hair that shone like root-beer in the sunlight.
“I could help—if you’d be comfortable with that?” Her head bobbed slightly. He took off his hat, pitched it to shore, and watched with bated breath as it landed in the rocks, several feet from the water’s edge. Then, with his left hand, he took the line from hers. He’d never taught someone to fly fish before like this. Luckily, his technique was almost innate.
Without breaking his wrist or hers, they false cast. Back and forth, the line danced overhead. The fly grazed the water’s surface. “The line we’re using is a sinking fly line, a new product for me that just came out this year. Usually, I fly fish with a floating line, and the fly stays above the water. But, winter steelhead aren’t surface feeders; you have to get the fly right down to the bottom and in their face.
“This line’s designed to sink, so you should lift no more than ten feet of this type of line out of the water to start your cast.” Using his left hand, he pulled the line towards them until he had about ten feet out of the rod tip. “With a floating line, you can lift three to four times that amount.”
The smell of fried bacon, probably from The B & B, lingered in her hair. Time slowed, rippled in shadows and the lap of the water. With the fly rod motionless by his side, he hoped she’d turn around and face him.
“Thank you. Fletcher always has dinner done by five thirty. Maybe we could call and let them know we’re going to be late,” she said.
“We should get going, then,” he said though he wanted to stay right here. Have their first kiss be here on the river—at Walt’s. His breathing remained shallow as she lingered in the crook of his arm. The faintest of sniffles escaped her.
Jack was right; she was fishing for memories. Memories of spending time with her father when he’d been young, able, and a fly fishing purist.
“Fletcher wants my dad to take up baitcasting so they could fish out of a boat, go fishing again together. But, Dad says he won’t ’cause fly fishing was his first love; and he’s not settling for less.”
While he longed to comfort her, he had a secret to keep.
“A surprising number of anglers feel that way; not just your dad. They’re either fly fishermen to the core or conventional anglers.”
“Yes, but there’s so much more to fishing than the type of rod you’re using.” She sniffled. “He’s still my hero. He’ll always be my hero. I’m just a little mad at him; that’s all. Thanks for showing me.” She stepped away and made a few strides to shore.
What Mae perceived as narrow-mindedness was passion. His grandfather had also been a fly fishing purist.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll make a few more casts and try and catch one for a friend of mine,” he said over his shoulder.
“I don’t mind.”
Once she was out of harm’s way, he delivered the fly at a forty-five-degree angle upstream, and then mended the line a couple of times upriver, trying to get the fly to sink deep.
The river’s dark green depths were a steelheader’s favorite color. Fishing ought to be good. “One more cast,” he told Mae for about the eighth time.
In the middle of his next drift, he felt a soft tug. He held the line firmly in his left hand, and lifted the rod skyward with his right, setting the hook. “When steelhead fishing, you have to set the hook immediately,” he said. Upstream from him, she watched as the bright silvery steelhead, one of the best fighting fish in the Northwest, danced above the water. Playing one on a fly in front of Mae was a privilege.
»»»
The unpainted porch steps of Walt’s farmhouse creaked, and so did the screen door that Trevor held open for Mae. Inside, the window above the sink was cracked open a few inches. The house sat close enough to the river to hear the music of running water.
“Walt, do you know Mae?” Trevor asked, loudly.
The elderly man nodded and from where he stood in the kitchen, didn’t turn to acknowledge her hello. “Trevor, you still wanting to buy my place?” he asked.
“Yes, whenever you’re ready.”
“Had a fellow here the other day, one of the owners of Miller and Nelson, can’t remember which one. He wants to buy my place, too, you know. Said he’d pay me ten thousand dollars.”
“You know, I’ll pay that, too,” Trevor paused near the phone and read the names scrawled with black ink on the wall. Byron Miller’s was still the last entry on the list.
“I told him I’ll be ready when I die.” Walt set a sugar bowl on the table.
“Was he a ginger-haired man?” Trevor asked.
Walt nodded.
“Then it was Byron Miller.”
Walt nodded again and didn’t appear to care one way or the other.
“We don’t have time for coffee today, Walt. Mae’s truck has a flat tire out near your barn, and we wanted to see if it’s all right to leave it here over the weekend. We’ll be able to pick it up on Monday.”
“That’s fine,” Walt said as he ambled back to the kitchen.
“May I use your phone, Mr. Schoenberg?” Mae asked.
“Go right ahead.” He waved a hand.
With her back to the room, Mae dialed the Wilhoit number and spoke into the receiver. “Fletcher, it’s Mae. My truck has a flat tire at Walt’s Place. Trevor’s going to bring me home. Yes, Trevor Dawber.” She paused, bowing her head. “He caught a nice steelhead. I didn’t have a bite.”
Chapter 10
Seated on the passenger side of Trevor’s truck, Mae found herself surprised by the events of the afternoon—Trevor showing up at Walt’s Place, the flat tire, coffee on the riverbank, the fly casting lesson... She peered out her side of the cab, hiding a smile.
“Now that I know you better, I have to admit I’m surprised you ever fished without a license.”
“I am too,” she laughed softly. “When we first reached the river, I was so mad at Henry about not stopping for a license that I stewed in the truck for over half an hour. Then the view of the early morning sunlight glistening on the river was too much for me.” From there, she recalled her hike down the hillside, rod in hand.
Trevor nudged up the brim of his hat. “I agree; there’s just something about sunlight on the river in the early morning.” Instead of driving the quickest route home through Molalla, he stayed on Route 213 heading toward Silverton and took a left at the Scotts Mills junction. He probably wanted to make sure Bob Hawkins had locked the front door, and turned off the lights and the coffee machine. As he drove past his store, they both scanned the dark front windows.
“I need to swing by Clara’s and drop off the fish. She’s from my prayer group.” He took a right on a pothole ridden side street and no more than two blocks from his store, parked in front of a picket fence. A white bungalow was visible through the porthole of a wild-rose covered arbor.
“This will just take a second.” He f
lashed Mae a smile.
“Aww . . .” She scooted forward in the bench seat, her hand on the dash. The woman’s yard was a parade of springtime color—tall, blue delphinium, purple foxgloves, columbine, and lilacs.
“Get out if you want to.” His truck door swung closed behind him.
Mae wanted to meet this woman, who put a little extra spring into Trevor’s step. At the back of the truck, he hoisted the steelhead over the tailgate, and then she followed him up the brick walkway toward a cluttered porch.
“The Saturday before Mother’s Day, Clara and the three other ladies from our prayer group cut flowers for bouquets. I sell them at my store.” He nodded toward the boxes of jars on the porch. “They charge a dollar a jar, and then they use the money to bless a family in our church.”
“Do you sell very many?” She couldn’t picture jars of flowers on Trevor’s front counter, or any of his regulars buying them for that matter.
“We sold thirty last year. A lot of my customers don’t get to Molalla very often.”
“You mean the town not the river?” She suppressed a smile. “It’s kind of sad, the idea of you moving your store to Walt’s Place and leaving this little town and your prayer group behind.”
“I won’t be leaving my prayer group.” His eyes were a sea-green. She’d been trying to peg the color, and it only seemed appropriate that the shade of Trevor’s eyes reminded her of water. To the left of the door, he tugged on a leather cord that rang a small cast iron bell.
“But you’ll be leaving Scotts Mills and this sweet little tradition that you’ve started here.”
“If the Lord blesses me with Walt’s Place”—he glanced over at her—“He’ll help me with the rest.”
This man was such a contrast to the Trevor she’d first met.
The door opened and Clara, a tiny woman with short, curly, white hair, gazed up at him. “Trevor! Come in.” She reached her arms up for a hug as he stepped into the entry.
He held the fish off to one side and leaned down to wrap an arm around her. “I finally brought you the steelhead that I’ve been promising for months.”
A Wife and a River - A Christian romance Page 11
