“Best anglers.” Ron winked.
“Best storytellers.” Trevor shook his head.
“Okay.” Ron took another sip of coffee and then rubbed his hands together. “Last Monday, we were fishing the Clackamas. Marvin and I”—he swung an elbow toward Trevor’s dad—“put in at those huge rapids near Estacada above Heimer’s place. Luckily, we didn’t take Gunner with us. The last time we took Gunner with us through those rapids, he fell out.”
“You let him sit on the bow.” His dad rolled his eyes.
“Gunner is Ron’s dog.” Trevor nodded toward the four-year-old lab that was curled up in front of the line counter.
“Nice looking dog.” Fletcher poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Well, it’s a good thing we didn’t take him with us on Monday, ’cause we pert near sunk the boat,” Ron said. “Halfway through the rapids, Marvin hit a rock. Spun us broadside. Then we hit another rock. Pretty soon we’re caught between the two. Before we knew it, the boat was full of water. Luckily, we were only in about four feet of water to begin with.”
“I told Ron to get out,” his father said. “I thought if we could lighten the load, I might be able to dislodge the boat. I told him to take the rods. So there we were stuck in the middle of the worst rapids on the Clackamas, and he’s getting out of the boat. Then Ron bumps his funny bone and drops both rods.”
Trevor and Fletcher howled.
Mae’s jaw hung slack.
“They were gone before he could bend over.” His dad sighed.
“No kidding?” Trevor shook his head.
“Soon as Ron got out, I was able to get the bow heading downstream. Then I anchored, and we searched the river for a good hundred yards.”
“His Wright & McGill and my old Conolon,” Ron said.
“As you’ll soon understand,” Trevor said, holding Mae’s attention, “a lot of fishing stories around here don’t involve fish.”
“Did you ever find them?” she asked Ron.
“Nope. Never found ‘em.”
After finishing their coffee, Fletcher and Mae returned to their prior tasks.
“Wait ’til your mother hears about this,” his father said.
“Don’t even mention it.”
“Nawh.” Ron shook his head. “Margaret wouldn’t think anything about Trevor hiring a good-looking young gal who likes to fish, who’s not even wearing an engagement ring.”
“You’re probably right.” His father nodded. “I won’t mention it.”
»»»
Due to what Trevor had to share with the prayer group, he was glad Jack hadn’t chosen tonight to make his first appearance.
“What’s new?” Helen studied him from the other side of the warm room.
He crossed one knee over the other and stretched his arms above his head, before folding them in front of him. Lastly, he rolled a kink out of his neck. The time had come to tell these ladies about Mae.
“As you all know, the last couple of weeks, I’ve wanted prayer that I’d hire the right employee.” He met Helen’s gaze and then Gladys’s. One Sunday morning, a little over three and a half years ago, he almost didn’t make it to church. He’d been exhausted—emotionally and physically, but somehow he’d ushered himself to drive to the little church whose bright white steeple was a beacon in the timbered hillside behind town.
A freshly divorced bachelor can’t afford to miss service on a Sunday in a small town, or people start worrying about you. Picking up on their prayers. Sometimes their gossip. That Sunday following service, Gladys had asked him to mow her lawn. It was the cup of coffee afterward that changed his life.
“I thought you hired an employee.” Helen glanced down at her notes. “A young man, Ollie Sturgis.”
“I did.” Trevor nodded. “It appears Ollie intended to work for me just long enough to pay off a fishing reel that he was after. It took him a little over a week.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Gladys shook her head.
“And we were all praying for someone very, very special,” Evelyn said, clasping her hands in her lap.
“As of yesterday, I’ve hired two new employees—Fletcher Gleinbroch and uh… Mae Bucknell.”
“Two?” Evelyn giggled.
“Did you say Mae?” Gladys asked.
“Yes.” He nodded.
“Did you say Gabe or Maeve?” Evelyn cupped an ear and leaned toward him on the couch.
“Her name’s Mae. I paid for three new tires for her truck, and once her bill is paid off, we’ll reevaluate.” He smiled and met Clara’s gaze across the room. “Thus far, I’m very pleased with both—Fletcher and Mae.”
“You’re talking, but it’s like you’re not saying anything. How old is Mae? What does she look like?” Evelyn glanced at Gladys. “Have you met her?”
“No. I’m feeling left out, too.”
Evelyn patted his hand. “Trevor, how would you describe her?”
He glanced briefly at Clara for help, but she was never one to interrupt.
“Mae will be twenty-one this fall. She has brown hair, and she’s the only applicant who passed my math test.” He suppressed a chuckle as he peered around the warm room. “She first interviewed over two months ago, when she stopped in to purchase a fishing license.” If he looked through his license records, he could peg it to the day.
“She’s an angler girl?” Evelyn asked.
“Yes.”
“She’s lovely,” Clara said.
Clara’s words plucked at his heart. Mae was lovely.
“Trevor stopped by my place last week with a steelhead, and stayed for dinner. Mae was with him. Her truck had a flat tire, and he was taking her home,” Clara said.
He could very easily have added that it had happened at Walt’s Place, but as it was, the ladies were already imagining the best.
“Is she a Christian?” Gladys asked.
“Yes.” He nodded. “And I can see how it might be easy for you, dear ladies, to jump to conclusions, but...”
A hush fell over the room as their capable minds took it all in.
“Mae is a great cashier, which, in and of itself, is a huge answer to prayer.”
“God is good,” Gladys said.
“Yes, God is good,” several whispered around the room.
Even though these dear, sweet ladies had been praying for him for years, he had a tough time believing that Mae—lovely Mae—could be the mother of the boy who’d called him Dad.
Chapter 15
At nine o’clock on Friday morning, Helen’s white Dodge Dart pulled into a front parking space in front of Trevor’s store. Even the miserable rainy weather couldn’t keep the elderly woman at home. Helen got out of her car, carrying a foil-wrapped plate. She was here on a mission and cookies were her excuse to meet Mae. Someone in the group must have gone home last night and baked a batch so she’d have a reason to visit bright and early.
Trevor chuckled and set aside the spin reel he’d been repairing. Helen’s visit was proof that Clara hadn’t told them about Mae’s gray-blue eyes. Out of the four elderly women, she was the best at keeping a secret. He hurried toward the front and held open the door.
Helen entered wearing a black raincoat and clear galoshes over black pumps.
“Good morning,” he greeted her with a wide smile. Then he walked slightly ahead of her, blocking her view of the second aisle and Mae, dusting tackle boxes.
“I was just at Gladys’s, and she said to drop by and give you these snickerdoodles of Clara’s.” She continued toward the coffee counter.
“Thanks, Helen.” Trevor folded back the foil and snagged one of the cookies. They were cold to the touch—frozen—as hard as a rock.
“Gladys said to bring the platter back when you can.” Helen, ever so slyly, scanned the store. Her narrow gaze reminding him of an osprey on the bank. Nearby, Fletcher priced the latest shipment of Shakespeare reels at the line counter.
As Helen started for the front, Trevor tensed.
&
nbsp; Mae strolled out of the second aisle, flitting the feather duster and probably humming. The elderly woman’s steps slowed, and greetings were exchanged. While Helen remained in the main aisle speaking with his first female employee, Mae glanced over at him, smiled, and nodded.
A knot formed in his gut.
Helen glanced back at him. The corner of her mouth lifted and, though a considerable distance away, he knew her eyes sparkled.
The bell above the door jingled as Helen returned to her car.
Trevor strolled behind the front counter to stand near the west-facing window. He gnawed off a bite of cookie as Helen’s Dodge Dart sped three blocks west. Her right turn signal blinked only once before she turned sharply onto Gladys’s street, almost taking out a mailbox.
“Helen’s so sweet. She invited me to your prayer group next week.” Mae set the feather duster behind the counter. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all.”
He remained near the window to watch Helen get out of her car. With short, anxious steps, she made her way up Gladys’s front walk.
»»»
That afternoon the store was so busy, Trevor was glad he’d hired two employees. When a lull presented itself, he asked Mae to make sandwiches. In her absence, Fletcher manned the register.
The front bell announced another customer—a lanky teenager with curly brown hair.
“Hi, how are you today?” Trevor asked.
“I was told to ask for the owner.”
“I’m Trevor.”
“A guy at the tire-fishing store in Molalla thought you might be interested in buying some used rods.”
“Sorry, I have more than a dozen right now.” Trevor shook his head. “Twice as many as I usually carry.”
“I’d be willing to trade for merchandise.”
Trevor never paid cash for used merchandise, but he noted a look of determination on the young man’s face. “Where are you from?” he asked.
“Estacada.”
“Quite a ways.”
The youth nodded. “I have a brother in Molalla.”
“I’ll take a look at what you have, but don’t get your hopes up.” Trevor poured himself a cup of coffee.
The teen quickly returned inside, carrying three rods in each hand. From fifteen feet away, Trevor recognized two.
“How’d you go about collecting all of these?” He carried his coffee cup to the main aisle.
“Luck and timing.” The young man shrugged.
Trevor selected his father’s Wright & McGill from the young man’s collection. Turning it over, he examined the rod and reel combination. Both appeared fine. “Where’d you find this one?” He held the rod by the cork handle and bobbed his wrist, testing the action.
“I found it on the Clackamas when I was fishin’. Spotted it downriver from the huge rapids near Estacada.”
“Well, I’ll be Dew Hickey,” Fletcher mumbled in the background.
“I found this one at the same time.” The young man pointed to Ron’s old Conolon.
“How much for both rods?” Trevor tried to sound casual.
“Uh . . . a new tackle box.”
“Nothing above eight dollars.”
“Thanks, mister!”
“What’s your name?” Trevor held out his hand.
“Lewis Clark.” The young man transferred the rods to his left hand and then shook his hand.
“I’m glad you stopped by today, Lewis,” Trevor said, trying not to appear surprised.
Lewis traded the two rods and reels for an $8.50 tackle box. Trevor priced Ron’s old Conolon at $4.00 and his father’s combo at $4.50 and set them behind the counter. He told himself that he’d wait until the next time the two came in to display them on the floor.
“Too bad Mae’s upstairs.” Fletcher shook his head. “She’s not going to believe this one.”
»»»
The following Thursday, Trevor made dinner for Jack—fried venison steaks and a healthy serving of green beans. Jack was clean shaven and wore his nicest white dress shirt. Afterward they were heading to Gladys’s home. Mae would be meeting them there as well. Trevor couldn’t help feel a little anxious about the evening at hand.
“Are these canned green beans?” asked Jack.
“Yes.” The empty can sat on the counter in full view.
“How do you make yours? They taste better than mine.”
“Well, the trick is to drain off the liquid and then boil the juice until it’s reduced to about half. Then you add the beans and a pat of butter. Slide them off the burner and set a lid on top for a couple of minutes to steam. They don’t need to boil directly in the broth since they’re already cooked. Same thing works for canned corn, peas, spinach.”
“I hate spinach.” Jack frowned. “It was a slow day on the river. I stopped by Walt’s on my way home. He said only one steelhead was landed there today.”
They were getting near the end of the run.
After supper, they walked toward Gladys’s home. Shafts of sunlight filtered through the tall fir trees lining the road west of town. Mae’s truck was already parked out front, on the shoulder of Third Street.
His pulse picked up as he walked ahead to greet her.
“What’s the hurry?” Jack bellowed.
Her cab door swung open, and he reached Mae’s side before she had a chance to slide out.
“Hey,” he grinned.
“Hey.” She laughed softly and remained seated. An entire day had passed since he’d last seen her. It felt longer.
“Did you get in some fishing today?”
“Yes, we went to the Willamette and Fletcher caught a bright chinook right below the falls.”
“You should have dropped by and weighed it in.”
“He wanted to cook it for supper tonight. He was in a hurry, and your place is a little out of the way.”
He nodded. “See, if I had Walt’s Place, I’d be right on the way home.” He grinned, pleased by the sparkle in her eyes. “I wanted to tell you up front that these ladies are prayer warriors.”
“That’s what Helen said.” Her eyes were a deep, pool of tender emotion that he knew he was not misreading. If they weren’t standing in front of Gladys’s living room, he would have been encouraged enough to kiss her. Too bad only lace curtains obstructed the view.
They met Jack near the gate.
“Trevor, how’d you ever get invited to an elderly ladies’ prayer group?” Jack ribbed him.
“Well, when you go through a divorce in a small town and keep going to church, the elderly ladies keep an eye out for you.” He swung open the gate. “And, Gladys asked me to mow her lawn.”
They were the last to arrive.
Evelyn patted the vacant sofa cushion to her left and smiled wider when Mae sat down beside her.
“Lucky me, seated next to Trevor’s girl,” Evelyn said.
“I’m Mae. Trevor’s cashier,” she said, softly.
Trevor chuckled to himself and found two extra chairs from the dining room. He placed one next to Clara for Jack to sit down in, and one near the end of the sofa on Mae’s left.
“Clara, introduce Trevor’s guest for us.” Gladys nodded toward Jack.
The tall, high-back chair that Clara sat in drew attention to her petite, five-foot frame and the dark upholstery contrasted with her white hair. “This is Jack Johnson, Trevor’s good friend. I met Jack a few months back when he stopped by for a bouquet. We’ve been friends ever since.”
“It’s nice to be here tonight, and I’ll add that Clara is a fine cook,” Jack said.
Trevor suppressed a chuckle.
“Tell us about yourself,” Gladys said.
“Well . . .” Jack took his spectacles out of his shirt pocket, breathed on them and slid them on. “I was an English professor at Willamette University for fifteen years, before retiring two years ago. Recently, I’ve indulged in fishing and Zane Grey westerns. I’ve also indulged in many fine meals at Trevor’s, some mighty deli
cious meals at Clara’s, and some superb dinners at Wilhoit.”
The ladies giggled.
“What brings you here tonight?” Evelyn asked, fingering her brooch.
“I heard someone always brings dessert.”
The women had no idea he was serious.
“Mae, Trevor told us a little bit about you last week, and we feel blessed that you’re here tonight,” Gladys said. “Before we start singing, let’s bring before the Lord our praise and supplications.” Gladys’s gaze settled softly on Mae.
Trevor’s stomach knotted. Would it feel obvious to Mae that the elderly women perceived her as an answer to prayer? He couldn’t help feel that his mistakes might keep him from winning her heart. Could she see beyond his past? What a difficult, heart-wrenching lesson his first marriage had been.
Helen raised a hand to go first. “My daughter, Carolyn, is in her mid-forties and well, you know the forties are a difficult time for women . . . and their husbands.”
The ladies often shared openly their family’s struggles and, at times, so had he.
Evelyn, who was seated to Helen’s left, went next. “As most of you know, my dog recently passed away. Bernard was William’s dog first, and then I inherited him.” She sighed, clasping her hands. “He used to sit under the table at meals and bump my legs and bug me. Now I sit in my little house all alone, and nobody bugs me. I miss him. The last thing I need is a puppy, but maybe I do. Nothing too energetic or that needs to be corralling cattle. I need a type of dog that can sit politely under the table at meals.”
Evelyn patted Mae’s hand.
“Mae,” Gladys said, softly, “you don’t have to share, only if you’re comfortable.”
“I want to. That’s one of the reasons I came tonight. I’d like prayer for my father,” Mae’s voice broke.
“She said ‘for her father.’” Trevor repeated for the elderly women’s benefit.
Mae inhaled deeply and nodded. “He’s paralyzed from the sternum down and has been for the last eight years. Fishing used to be his passion, and now he won’t even try.”
The ladies nodded, empathy and tenderness in their eyes.
A Wife and a River - A Christian romance Page 16
