A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “That’s it!” Fletcher pointed at him. “I couldn’t remember it for the life of me.”

  “It’s pretty simple, Dad, just remember the knob on top of your drag,” Henry said.

  “Fletcher walking in was an answer to prayer; and he did a great job, too,” Trevor tried to reel the story back in. “I haven’t had a chance to tell you this yet”—he glanced at Fletcher—“yesterday, Ollie didn’t show up for work again.”

  Fletcher slapped the table with one hand.

  “Yep. Ollie didn’t show up at 8:00 o’clock, but he showed up, nine hours later—at closing time—to weigh in a twenty-pound spring chinook that he’d caught on the Clackamas.”

  “You’re kidding!” Fletcher chuckled.

  “Ollie has what many call Springer Fever.” Trevor grinned.

  “I hope you fired him,” James said.

  “I had to.”

  “Wow!” Albert’s mouth hung slack.

  “And luckily, I hadn’t gotten rid of my Help Wanted sign. When Ollie didn’t show up for work yesterday, I taped the sign back up. And while we were weighing in his salmon, I pointed it out to him.” Right in front of her father, Trevor’s gaze settled on Mae. “I’m interviewing this Monday and Tuesday and hope to have someone start on Wednesday. This Wednesday. Trout season opened today, and the store’s been busy.”

  Eyes steady, a rosy pink flushed Mae’s cheeks.

  “How many hours does it take to earn an Ambassadeur 5000?” Fletcher asked, resting both elbows on the table.

  Was he taking the bait intended for Mae? Trevor couldn’t quite picture him cleaned up and wearing a tie. “An Ambassadeur runs twenty dollars, and to fill it with 165 yards of 15 to 20-pound test line is another two. You’re looking at twenty-two dollars.”

  “How long would it take a fella to work twenty-two dollars off?” Fletcher asked, a serious note replacing his usual humor.

  “I paid Ollie eighty cents an hour.” Trevor’s gaze returned to Mae.

  Wide-eyed, she stared at the large stone fireplace in the living area. “Twenty-seven and a half hours. And, the job is for three days a week, nine hours a day.”

  Trevor suppressed a grin.

  “So, in one week of working for Trevor, a fella could earn enough for one of those new reels?” Head tilted slightly to one side; Fletcher toyed with an end of his thick salt-and-pepper brows.

  A knot formed beneath Trevor’s sternum. “I’m going to do my best to weed out any future guys like Ollie, who want the job for only a month or less. I’d just got him trained.”

  “One month.” Fletcher’s gaze narrowed. “How much would a nice steelhead rod cost me?”

  Fletcher was indeed interested. “A Fenwick steelhead casting rod runs about twenty-five dollars.”

  “There’s another week. Throw in some lures, a new tackle box… I’m sure I could come up with a month’s worth of stuff.”

  Trevor studied Mae. Was she or wasn’t she interested?

  “How are you going to get there, Fletcher?” She looked over her shoulder at him.

  “I can take Dad on my way to work,” Henry said. “It’ll be a bit out of my way, but it’s only for a month.”

  “I’ll be interviewing Monday and Tuesday.” Could he possibly afford to hire them both? It might just come to that.

  The evening closed with everyone seated in the living area in front of the fire. While Fletcher and Albert tuned their guitars, Mae’s younger sister stood between them, wrapped in a blanket. With her dark hair, she must have her mother’s coloring for she bore little resemblance to Mae or their father. A few chords into the song, Isabelle gripped her hands behind her back and belted out Mockingbird Hill.

  Goosebumps surfaced on Trevor’s arms. He leaned slightly forward. Mae was seated nearby in a padded rocker next to her aunt. Meeting his gaze, her cheeks bunched, and she nodded. She’d given him no warning. No one had. With a voice like an angel’s, Mae’s little sister was going to be famous someday.

  Each week for the past month, Jack had been driving the old logging roads to get here. Between Clara’s, Bob’s, and Fletcher’s renowned cooking, he’d tapped into some of the best dining and entertainment the area had to offer. And he hadn’t said a word.

  Where was the old professor tonight?

  Chapter 11

  After church on Sunday, Trevor launched his drift boat at the Wagon Wheel ramp. He was glad for Jack’s company and his truck, which they’d parked ten miles downstream near Goodes Bridge to use as a shuttle. The sky was gray and the water a deep forest green. Though they were getting a late start, fishing ought to be good.

  Trevor tied on a silver Hot Shot while Jack opted for a cluster of salmon eggs.

  “Where’d you eat dinner last night?” Trevor asked.

  “Bob’s.” Jack let out line. “Helga wanted me to try her goulash. Have you ever tried goulash?”

  “No, probably on account of the name.”

  “It’s better than it sounds.”

  Five river miles later, neither of them had had a bite. As their boat drifted close to the north bank, one—then two—pinecones bounced in the bottom of the boat.

  “It’s raining pinecones again. That, or the kid’s trying to hit us with them.” Jack mumbled, searching the stand of fir trees overhead.

  “Thomas, meet us at the next hole, and I’ll pick you up.”

  A branch bobbed.

  “Who you talking to, a tree? I swear I never see him.”

  With the oars propped under Trevor’s arms, he held his Fenwick rod in one hand, his thumb on the spool, taking their time through the hole. Around the bend, Thomas, a sandy-blond eleven-year-old, waited for his usual pickup. Trevor rowed to shore, and the youth hopped inside the bow. For a little over a year, it had become routine for the boy to signal with pinecones when he wanted to join their boat.

  With his back to Jack, the boy made his first cast.

  “We won’t fish these holes as long today, Thomas. We had a late start, and we don’t want to reach the bridge after dark,” Trevor said. “If you get your parents down here to meet me sometime, and if it’s all right with them, you can fish with us till the take-out.”

  “It’s all right with them,” the boy said.

  Trevor chuckled.

  “My dad knows who you are. If you ever want to talk to him, we live in the yellow farmhouse.”

  “I’ll stop by some time and get his permission; but, not today.”

  “Is that Dutton?” Jack nodded downstream.

  Trevor scanned the river ahead. “Yep.” Harold Dutton’s wooden drift boat sat anchored off to the right. His teenage son had a fish on while his wife—good woman that she was—stood ready with the net. Sliding the long-handled net into the water, she scooped up a bright steelhead.

  “Way to go, Duttons,” Trevor yelled.

  Harold looked over and waved. “A good eleven pounder,” he yelled. “Put it on your board.”

  “Looks like ten from here.” Trevor grinned. It was always good to see the next generation getting hooked on fishing.

  In the next two holes, no one got a bite. Trevor rowed to shore, and Thomas leapt to the bank. “Thanks, Mr. Dawber.”

  “You two have an odd relationship.” Shoulders hunched, Jack shook his head.

  “I understand his desire to fish the middle of the river.” On several occasions, the boy had hooked quite a few from the boat, but not today.

  As their drift continued, Trevor’s memory returned to Harold’s wife netting the steelhead. Jocelyn had gone fishing with him once. Like a fish out of water, she hadn’t taken kindly to being in the boat. She’d filed her nails, read a book, and was antsy to get home.

  “You haven’t said much about your dinner out at Wilhoit.” Trevor was tempted to say dinners, but he was curious if Jack would tell him.

  Jack shrugged as he thumbed line off the spool. “Fletcher kept apologizing and saying that it was nothing special—fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, peas, pot
ato rolls… There was even a cake for dessert. Nothing special.” Jack shook his head.

  “Anything else stand out about the evening?”

  “There was music after dinner.” That was all he was going to tell him about his evenings at Wilhoit. “Your saying’s right,” Jack added.

  “Which one?”

  “The one about a girl always fishes to catch a man. Whether she knows it or not, Fletcher’s Girl is fishing on account of her father.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He used to fly fish before his accident.” Jack shrugged. “She’s fishing for her fondest memories of him.”

  Trevor thumbed line off the spool. After his grandfather had passed away, he couldn’t walk a river bank without thinking of the man who’d taught him how to fly fish and the seasons of the river.

  “Why do you fish, Jack?” They’d both been so quick to judge Mae.

  “Why does any man fish? The river is my sanity. It’s where I talk to God when no one is watching.”

  It was good to hear Jack talk about God.

  “Plus, there’s nothing like the thrill of having a fish on the . . .” Jack jerked his rod sudden and high, but the line was too slack to have set the hook. Shoulders slumped, he sighed. “Being on the river relaxes my soul, helps my words flow.” He held a hand out toward Trevor—an idea had come to him, and it was important not to say a word. “I remember your dreams like they were mine. That’s it!” He pulled a pocket-sized memo book out of his coat, stuffed the cork handle of his rod beneath his armpit, and penned his thoughts.

  “Jack . . .”

  “Shh!”

  Trevor waited until Jack closed his little memo book. “In exchange for new line on your reel and a couple dollars in spinners—”

  “Don’t say another word.” His fishing buddy closed his eyes, shaking his head.

  Somehow Jack knew.

  “You want me to write a poem about Fletcher’s Girl.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Because you’ve gone from not wanting to hire her, to writing must make a decent sandwich on your sign.” Jack sighed. “For the last four years, all I’ve heard you talk about is how you don’t have time for a wife and a river and then you went and wrote that.”

  Trevor didn’t quite follow him.

  “You might as well have proposed marriage.”

  The fried egg sandwich was probably reason enough to propose in Jack’s book. But not in his.

  “I’m not going to write a poem for you.”

  “Well, if you ever change your mind, mention her eyes. And somehow get in there something about a little boy carrying a fishing rod.”

  Jack shook his head. “A little boy fishing rod in hand, walking beside you on a country road, a dog wagging behind. It’s what you call Norman Rockwell cliché.”

  “Don’t put a dog in it. There’s no dog.”

  “I’m not going to write it.”

  “My notes, if you should ever need them, are in the drawer beneath the cash register.”

  “I won’t need them.” Jack tucked the little book inside his pocket.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Even though Trevor had a few ideas for Mae’s poem, he didn’t think he could make it as special as he wanted it to be. He’d need Jack’s help.

  »»»

  Tuesday morning while Trevor counted in the till, Mae’s old Ford truck rolled into a front parking space. The vehicle sported one new tire. Fletcher hopped out of the driver’s side. The cab was otherwise empty. Today of all days, Mae, his fishing buddy, wasn’t with him. Near the door, Fletcher paused to read the Help Wanted sign.

  Trevor tossed the remaining pennies in the drawer and tucked the small tackle box that he used for his cash box beneath the counter. Then he made his way outside.

  Fletcher was spiffed up, wearing a white button-up shirt, thin black suspenders, and a solid black tie. Even his patch of salt-and-pepper hair was gelled back.

  “Morning, Fletcher. Looks like you took care of the tire.” He nodded toward Mae’s truck.

  “Yep. Henry took the tire into Diller and Smelson yesterday, and they said it was beyond repair. Had to buy a new one. Henry dropped me off this morning at Walt’s Place on his way to work.”

  “I see.” Trevor set his hands on his hips. “Did Mae decide to stay on at The B & B?”

  “No, Saturday was her last shift.”

  Too bad he hadn’t simply told Mae in front of everyone when he’d been out at Wilhoit, that he’d pay for four new tires, and she could work off the bill.

  “Is Mae fishing?” He held the door open for Fletcher.

  “No, she had things to do back home.” While Trevor stopped behind the register, Fletcher halted on the customer side of the counter. “Reckon you know I’m here to interview for the Ambassadeur position that you were telling me about.”

  “You mean the cashier position.” Trevor suppressed a grin.

  “That, too.”

  “If you get the job, who’s going to handle the cooking out at Wilhoit?”

  “Elsie said the girls and her would cover for me for the month.”

  He shouldn’t have gone into depth about the Ambassadeur 5000. The entire time he’d been telling Ollie’s story, he knew he’d been tempting fate.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve done shop math, but I’ve always had a knack for it.” Fletcher strummed his suspenders. “Mae told me what was on your sign; and let me tell you, I can make one humdinger of a sandwich.”

  Mae had coached him. Maybe even helped him a bit with math. He felt like he’d eaten a knuckle sandwich. He’d felt certain that she still wanted to work for him.

  “We’ll start with my prerequisite question. You may have heard it before.”

  “Prerequisite? Like if I don’t pass it, I don’t continue?”

  Trevor nodded.

  “Mae didn’t tell me about the prerequisite.”

  “I didn’t word it that way with her, but she got it right.”

  “I see.” Fletcher tugged on the knot of his tie and cleared his throat. “Okay, I’m ready.”

  “If . . . thirty-three and a third is one-third of a dollar, what’s one-third of a dollar and a half?”

  “Mae said you had a tough one.” He peered overhead at the hanging lights. “Let’s see… a third of fifty cents is 16 and two-thirds, and 16 and two-thirds plus 33 and one-third is 50. Oh, I see, you tricked me.” Fletcher shook his head, grinning. “The answer’s fifty cents.”

  “Wow!” Trevor mumbled. “You’re correct.” Fletcher was good enough at math to figure it out the long way. He hadn’t seen anyone do that before.

  “Do I get to go behind there now?” Fletcher pointed to Trevor’s side of the counter and grinned like a kid about to enter a candy shop with a pocketful of change.

  “You sure do.” Trevor rounded the side of the counter and grabbed a boxed Ambassadeur 5000 spin reel and a Fenwick casting rod, seven hooks, nine swivels and—because Mae would most likely hear about the interview in detail, a carton of night crawlers.

  “Pick me out a nice tackle box, too, while you’re at it,” Fletcher said.

  Wouldn’t that be something if Fletcher passed his math test? He knew plenty about fishing, and people liked him. Trevor set an Umco 1000 jade-green tackle box with copper trim on the counter. He flipped open the lid and folded back the cantilever trays.

  “How much?” Fletcher stared wide-eyed and swallowed. The box was a salmon-steelheader angler’s dream.

  “It’s regularly priced eighteen dollars, but today it’s 15 percent off.”

  “Let’s see . . .” Fletcher strummed his lower lip. Eighteen dollars minus $2.70 is—”

  The bell above the door jingled, and Jack strolled in with his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his wool jacket. “Any calls for me?”

  “Two. They’re taped to the stapler.”

  Jack froze mid-stride, staring at Fletcher. “Don’t tell me you’re...”

  “You
ever seen me wearing a tie before?” Fletcher patted the top of the tackle box. “Does fifteen dollars and thirty cents sound about right for this beauty?”

  “Yes.” Trevor tugged on the knot of his tie. Fletcher had a strong knack for math. If Mae interviewed like he hoped she would, he had some tough decisions ahead of him.

  Chapter 12

  When it came to working for Trevor, Mae found out the hard way that Fletcher didn’t want competition. That morning as they were all leaving, the men hurried ahead of her to Henry’s truck. She hadn’t seen anything suspicious about that, or Fletcher turning his head back over his shoulder to ask if she’d grab his coat from the house. He often forgot things. Then, just as she was making her way up the porch steps, the two had driven off without her. One of them had even honked the horn twice as the truck turned left onto Wilhoit Road.

  Probably Fletcher.

  With her arms deep in hot sudsy water, she scrubbed the roasting pan from last night’s dinner, venting some of her frustration.

  Fletcher wanted that Ambassadeur 5000 fishing reel enough to cheat her out of what she rightly deserved—an interview. And, he wanted it enough to be tied to a working man’s schedule for a month. A rarity for him.

  Trevor’s new employee would start work tomorrow, and it wouldn’t be her, unless somehow, someway, she could hitch a ride to town. If it came to that, she’d walk a couple of miles and thumb a ride at the Leabo Road junction. In the meantime, she was tempted to call Trevor and tattle.

  Would he hire Fletcher? He was surprisingly good at math. Or would Trevor wait on her before making his decision?

  The other night, when he’d mentioned another round of interviews, Fletcher’d sworn that Trevor had locked eyes with him. But she remembered—all too clearly how Trevor’s soft gaze across the table had made her ribcage feel tightened in a clinch knot. This time around, he might actually want to hire her because she was a woman.

  She rinsed the pan and reached the decision that she’d call Trevor’s store. Hopefully, it wasn’t too late.

  “Mae, you have company.” Isabelle carried a hamper full of clothes into the kitchen.