A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “Do you remember what happened after I sprayed it on mine?”

  Wide-eyed, Ruby looked from the tiny bottle to her worm. As she held the line above the slowly spinning night crawler, she misted it with Chanel Number Five.

  “I can’t believe I just did that.”

  After her second cast, Ruby frowned. “It’s probably all washed off by now.”

  “Try near that log again.” Mae pointed toward a fallen alder tree close to the opposite bank.

  “I can’t believe I sprayed Chanel Number Five on a worm.” Ruby slowly reeled in. “Wait… Something felt a little bit funny. Maybe it was just a twig.” She looked over at Mae.

  “Test it.” Mae raised her fist, reminding Ruby how to jerk.

  Lifting her arm, Ruby watched the water. “There it is again… a little tug!”

  “Lift and reel. Lift and reel.”

  About four feet from shore, Mae spotted about a five, at the most six-inch cutthroat. By law, trout had to be at least six inches in length to keep. For a brief moment, she contemplated the idea of letting Ruby weigh in hers. Then, Ruby started hooting and hollering.

  “I caught a fish for the board!”

  She’d left out “little.”

  “It’s awfully small.” Mae grabbed her needlenose pliers and bending low, held the fluttering little fish in one hand. If she could get the hook out cleanly, she’d release it and let Ruby weigh in her fish instead. It wasn’t to be; the hook was stuck, deep in the gut. If the fish was six inches, it was just barely.

  “Your first cutthroat.” Gripping the fish in one hand, she held it out toward Ruby. “See these orangey-red slashes by its lower jaw?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s why they’re called cutthroat.”

  “What . . . ? It’s so pretty; they should have called it Spots or Flipper.”

  “Now, find a rock and knock it on the head.” For some reason, Mae knew Ruby could handle the rock part.

  »»»

  Trevor poured himself a cup of coffee. Jack had stopped by and was seated in his comfy chair, his face hidden behind the latest Field and Stream magazine. The day had been unseasonably warm, and the front door was propped open for air when Ed Hoyde hobbled inside. The open door was a blessing as year round, the old timer smelled like he’d rolled in dead fish. In his grip, Ed carried an old carton of night crawlers. Not a good sign.

  “Good afternoon, Ed.” Trevor rounded the front counter and inhaled deeply before the elderly man drew any closer.

  “We have a serious problem.” Ed set the carton of worms down on top of the glass and pried off the wax lid. “Had my nephew’s boy over the other day at the pond. We opened up these worms you sold me, and they were all dead. Every last one of ’em. They were all dried up, not a wiggly one in the bunch.”

  Trevor peered inside the carton. “Looks like you left them in the front seat of your pickup again in the hot sun.”

  “Would I do a thing like that?” Ed raised a thick, dark brow. “Been fishing all my life. I know trout like fresh, wiggly worms, and I ain’t about to drive all of the way to Molalla for a carton of crawlers.” Ed maneuvered his upper denture back into place. “I’ve always thought of me and you as best friends.”

  Without a doubt, Ed smelled worse than the carton of dead night crawlers. Trevor opened his mouth slightly to breathe, but it was just as bad.

  “Are you saying I knowingly sold you dried-up worms?”

  “Perhaps not knowingly.”

  “You know my only guarantee on night crawlers is that they’re wiggling when you leave here.”

  “I’m not gonna fight you over a carton of worms.” Ed sighed. A suspender strap slid off his shoulder; he didn’t bother to shimmy it back up. “I’ll just tell everyone I see on the river not to buy any worms here or anything else here. Selling a carton of dried up worms to an old widower should be against the law.”

  Trevor chuckled and reached across the counter to pat Ed’s lean shoulder. “How are you doing, old timer? It’s been a while.”

  “Spring’s hard for me, you know.” Ed smirked. “Arleta’s birthday was in spring. We got married in spring. Apple trees start budding in spring. It’s a sad time of year for me.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” He tried to remember when he’d met Jocelyn. Hmmm… That’s right, it had been fall Chinook season.

  “Only thing that gets me out of bed these days is the thought of fishing; and then I open a carton of worms like these.” Ed pried off the wax lid again and held forth the carton.

  Trevor chuckled. “Have a cup of coffee on the house.”

  “I’ll do that. Get me a carton of the best, liveliest worms ya got.”

  Trevor tossed Ed’s old container into the nearby trash and then grabbed a fresh carton from the bait fridge. When Ed returned with a cup of coffee and a quarter, Trevor took the lid off and ran his finger an inch or so deep through the worm bedding to show him they were lively.

  “Do you see them? Plenty of action in there.”

  Ed chuckled. “Night and day better.”

  “Remember, my only guarantee on night crawlers is that they’re wiggling when you leave here.”

  “I’m going to check them again as soon as I get to the truck.” Ed waved on his way out.

  Trevor chuckled and glanced toward the front door. Mae stood before the threshold, holding a nice 12-inch cutthroat and grinning ear-to-ear. A vision. His heart thumped hard in his chest.

  “We caught two,” she said.

  “Nice cutthroat.” He strode to the door. He hadn’t told Jack that he’d hired Mae, and he wasn’t in any rush for him to hear the news.

  “Looks like you had good luck on Butte.” Only Mae stood out front while Ruby remained in the driver’s seat of a pale green sedan in the far-left parking space.

  “My only bite, but it’s a keeper.”

  “That’s a good 12-incher—nice for Butte.”

  “Ruby caught a small cutthroat.” Cupping a hand over her eyes, she met his gaze.

  “What’s going on with Henry and Ruby?” Was Mae really on the girl’s side?

  “They had a tiff.” She shifted her stance a bit on the walkway, her back to where Ruby sat in the sedan, probably in case the girl could read lips. “I can’t see how it can last for long. Henry’s crazy about her.”

  How could an outdoorsman like Henry be in love with a girl like Ruby, when he was living out at Wilhoit with a girl like Mae?

  “He’s having Jack help him with a poem that she’s supposed to find next week. A real nice poem.” Mae’s cheeks bunched.

  “Oh, that’s all it takes is a poem?”

  “If it’s a good one. It’s probably best that you don’t mention the poem to too many people.” She smiled, glancing at the fish. “Can you do a girl a favor and write it on the board? She hopes Henry will hear about it.”

  “Whose side are you on? His or hers?”

  “Both.”

  “You know, fishing for her is only a pretense to catch Henry.”

  She nodded. “I was hoping there was a chance she’d like fishing, but I don’t think it’s in her.”

  Her admission softened him. “Tell her that I’ll write it on the board.”

  “You are one unpredictable human being.” She smiled.

  He supposed at times he was. “Tell me it’s a nice cutthroat. I don’t want to see it.”

  “It’s small. Tiddlywink small.”

  “Tell me it’s a nice cutt.”

  Maybe deep down inside, she didn’t want him to write it on the board. Maybe she wanted Henry to see only her name.

  “It’s nice, the nicest fish Ruby Melton’s ever caught.” She waved a hand toward the truck.

  The driver’s side door opened, and Ruby’s high heels met the asphalt.

  “Evelyn—a dear, sweet, elderly woman from my prayer group—just dropped by with some cookies. They’re by the coffee pot unless Jack’s eaten them all.” He held the door open for the two gals.
>
  Jack lowered the Field and Stream magazine and briefly nodded at Mae. That was it. After enjoying Fletcher’s fine cooking on a weekly basis, Trevor was surprised that she wasn’t his new best friend.

  At the derby board, Trevor grabbed a piece of chalk and waited for Ruby. He printed: Ruby - cutthroat - Butte Creek.

  “Ruby Melton,” she reminded him. “Could you write it a little higher than that, more at eye level?”

  Frowning, he erased what he’d started. He raised his hand six inches higher on the board before he wrote Ruby Melton - cutthroat on Butte Creek.

  “Mae is quite the angler girl. She likes fishing so much that I bet she’d have a difficult time passing up anyone’s invitation.”

  Why was Mae hanging around this gal?

  “Grab a cup of coffee and send her over here.”

  “Thanks, I will.” Ruby’s heels clicked on the linoleum as she strolled away.

  Mae soon stood on the other side of the counter. A light pink stained her cheeks; and if he wasn’t mistaken, she was wearing perfume.

  “Nice cutthroat, Butte Creek,” he said and printed the same on the board. “Were you using worms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you wearing that perfume the first time in here? I thought it was Ruby. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “When we were at the creek, Ruby sprayed it on my jeans. She wants the perfume to remind Henry of her when I get home.” She sighed. “You know I don’t usually wear perfume fishing. I was so mad at her that I sprayed the perfume on the worm I was using. Then, I ended up catching one on my next cast. Fishing was so slow that we sprayed it on Ruby’s, too. Do you think it was just luck?”

  “Fish can be highly attracted to smell. Why were you mad at her?” Did she like Henry?

  She shrugged. “She pretends friendship, but you and I both know why she’s fishing.”

  “I’m glad you see that.” He felt mildly relieved.

  “Even though I don’t like what she’s doing, I can’t help thinking there are worse ways to catch a man.”

  His mind had wandered to the backroom. He cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re right. There are worse ways.”

  »»»

  “According to Jack, Jocelyn, Trevor’s ex-wife, left him for another man over four years ago,” Ruby said, as she drove the curvy road toward Wilhoit. “Jack said that Trevor’s only recently started dating again.”

  “He has?” Mae gripped the door handle.

  “A sister of someone from his church. He didn’t go into detail.”

  There had been so much emotion in Trevor’s eyes today like there was more to it than simply hiring her.

  “Have you ever been in love, Mae?” Ruby asked.

  “I dunno.” Ruby was the last girl in the world she’d confide in.

  “I’ll tell you how you know. Just the sight of him sitting on the porch should make your knees feel weak. And when he tells you he needs time away to think, your feet should feel heavy like you’re wearing hip boots filled with concrete. I could go on.”

  Mae peered out the window on her side of the car as Wilhoit’s open meadow came into view. Was Trevor dating someone? Or was Jack simply trying to cause trouble again?

  “You know I have to drop you off and drive away.” Ruby’s voice wavered. “I can’t stay. I have to show Henry that I’m strong, that I’ve moved on. I have to make him wonder.”

  Ruby drove up the gravel drive and practically parked on the front lawn of the hotel, probably so Henry could catch a glimpse of her.

  It wasn’t hard to read Ruby’s mind: Henry. Henry. Henry.

  Mae sighed and opened her door.

  “Tell him the truth if you want. Tell him I wanted you to show me how to fish so I’ll catch him. Tell him that I still love him. Tell him that I was the one who was wrong not to trust him ’round a pretty girl.” A tear slid down her cheek.

  Henry only had eyes for Ruby. It would be only too easy to speak for Henry, but she couldn’t. He’d tell her his feelings soon enough when he gave her Jack’s poem.

  “I thought you wanted him to hear about how you were fishing, about your name on the board?”

  “Fine, don’t tell him anything I just said.” She sniffled. “Just tell him we went fishing. We’ll go again sometime. We’ll say we’re going fishing and go shopping in Oregon City instead. They’ll never know.”

  »»»

  “I should have known that you were going to hire her when you asked me to write a poem.” Jack slouched further into his comfy chair.

  “I hired Fletcher, too.”

  “Oh, do you want me to write a poem for him, too?” Jack was at his usually grumpy best.

  “Have I ever told you that my dad proposed within two weeks of meeting my mom?”

  “What in the world does that have to do with anything? I’m not writing you a poem. Or Fletcher’s Girl a poem.”

  Trevor changed the end-cap from salmon and steelhead lures to an assortment of trout spinners.

  “What’s for dinner tonight?” Jack set his coffee cup on the counter.

  “Nothing’s thawed.”

  “I’m tired of scrambled eggs.” Jack looked at his wristwatch. “If you’ve changed your mind about hiring the girl, I don’t mind delivering the news. Ought to put me at Wilhoit at about five thirty.”

  “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “Remember, Trevor,” Jack said as he started for the door, “you and I are going to grow old fishing the Molalla together and taking other people’s grandkids fishing.”

  “That was always your saying, not mine.”

  Jack huffed.

  Trevor was glad when the bell above the door jingled behind him.

  Chapter 14

  Wednesday afternoon, Trevor walked Mae through the steps of writing up a non-resident fishing license for Ben Townsend.

  “Nice springer!” Fletcher bellowed on his way to the backroom.

  In the front window, Trevor’s father held up a large, dark chinook salmon.

  The bell jingled and Gunner, Ron Kessler’s large gold lab, trotted inside. The door swung open again, and Ron hurried in and grabbed the scale from behind the counter.

  “We caught a big springer.”

  “What do you mean we?” Trevor chuckled. He let Mae finish up the sale, and followed Ron outside.

  His dad hoisted the scale and the large salmon up onto the nail in the rafters. Then he pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, settled his hands on his hips, and waited for the indicator to settle.

  “Thirty-one pounds. We knew it was big.”

  “It’s awful dark.” Trevor shook his head.

  “Yeah, he was hooked deep. We plan on smoking it,” Ron said. Smoking was the best thing to do when you had to keep a fish this dark since the flavor of the meat would be affected.

  “Yep, we caught him on the South Santiam,” Ron said.

  “What do you mean . . . we?”

  “The fish broke my rod—eight inches above the grip,” his dad said, shaking his head.

  “Your new Wonderod?” Those rods were tough.

  “Yep. Never would’ve happened with my old steel one.”

  “There’s a warranty on it, you know.”

  The bell jingled as Ben exited the store. “Pretty dark,” he said on his way to his car.

  “You’re right about that. Good luck fishing,” Trevor said.

  “You should have seen us play it.” Ron stood, feet wide apart, his arms crossed over his thick belly. “Marv’s yelling at me. I look over at him, and his fishing rod’s about this long.” Ron held his hands about a foot apart.

  “It just snapped.” His dad shook his head.

  “I ran over and grabbed the rod tip. The last twenty-some feet, I’m pumping the rod, and he’s reeling.”

  “We were determined.” His dad’s eyes sparkled.

  The two always had some kind of story. “I’ll send the rod back to the factory for you. Shouldn’t have broken; they
’re tough.”

  “You’re down to one salmon rod now, aren’t you, Marv?” Ron asked.

  “Yep.”

  “What happened to your Wright & McGill?” Trevor held the door open and then followed the two inside.

  “You haven’t told him?” Ron sounded surprised.

  “I told you, I had to take Margaret to get her hair done. Didn’t have time to stop by, seeing how our fishing trip took longer than we expected.”

  “There we were . . .” Ron poured a cup of coffee.

  “Wait, before you start”—Trevor held up a hand—“I want my new employees to hear this.”

  “Employees? I thought you were only hiring one.” His dad’s dark brows bunched.

  “We heard you might hire a girl. Did you hire two?” Ron said, elbowing him.

  Trevor scanned the store. “Mae, Fletcher, now’s a good time for a coffee break,” he said loudly.

  Mae flitted a feather duster, exiting the second aisle. Her brown, pleated skirt accentuated her narrow waist. His new cashier was someone to call home about. He inhaled deeply and loosened his necktie.

  “Mae, I want you to meet my dad and hear a fishing story from one of the best.”

  His father coughed lightly. “You know what your mom will think about this,” he whispered.

  “Don’t tell her,” Trevor said.

  “Coffee break?” Fletcher bellowed as he wiped his gray-stained hands on a shop rag. He’d been in the backroom cutting bulk pencil lead into three-foot lengths, and coiling it into bundles for the floor. “Did I tell you that I like working here? My second coffee break today.”

  Trevor chuckled and made the introductions.

  “Are you an angler?” Ron asked Mae. “Is she?” He looked at Trevor.

  “Yes, I’d say she has a sincere passion for the sport.”

  “Are you married?”

  “That’s enough!” Trevor said.

  “Your mother will ask me the same questions,” his father said.

  “No.” The apples of Mae’s cheeks bunched.

  “That’s enough, both of you.” Trevor turned his attention to Fletcher. “I didn’t want you guys to miss out on a fishing story by one of the best.”