A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “They’re two and a half cents each.” She smiled.

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded and gave her his best blank-and-bewildered look.

  “Or twenty-three cents, Jack.”

  He grinned. He’d only been off four cents. Not bad. He only had to ask for Mae’s help three more times. He tossed the tackle in a bag and told the towering fellow, “Good luck catching something.”

  “You owe me thirty cents.”

  “Oh, sorry about that.” Jack gave him three dimes.

  The fellow glanced at the clock and then lumbered to the door. Jack dusted off his hands and walked back to the coffee counter. He said a brief prayer that there’d be no more customers between now and closing.

  A few minutes before five o’clock, Mae picked up the bottle of glass cleaner from under the counter and sprayed the front windows. As she wiped down the door’s upper glass, a young woman stopped outside in front of her work. Mae stepped aside and held the door open for her. Holding the hand of a small boy, the young woman strolled inside and paused in the main aisle.

  “Is Trevor here?” the woman asked, peering around the store.

  Jack set the Field and Stream magazine aside. The two must be Beth and her boy. She was prettier than Trevor had described.

  “Trevor’s at the dentist. I’d imagine he’ll be back anytime, but he didn’t say,” Mae said.

  Beth’s eyes narrowed before she nodded.

  “I’m Jack.” He rose and strolled closer to the trio. “Jack Johnson, Trevor’s best friend.” He set his hands on his hips.

  “I’m Beth, and this is Mike.” She ruffled the top of the boy’s hair.

  “Hello, Mike.” Mae leaned down. The boy had bright eyes and a mop of brown hair.

  Mike tugged on his mother’s arm, looking up at her. Then he jutted out his elbow for Mae’s attention. “A ma-keeto bit me. See my ma-keeto bite.”

  “Oh, I bet it itches.” Mae peered at the red spot on his forearm.

  “We’ve been out visiting. I was hoping to tell Trevor hello.”

  Jack finally remembered that pleasant was the adjective Trevor had used to describe Beth. He’d taken it to mean that her company was pleasant, her manner pleasant, but not her entire presence pleasant.

  “Do you work here often?” Beth’s dark brows lifted as she regarded Mae.

  She nodded.

  “I suppose you know Trevor well, then.” Beth’s gaze included Jack.

  “Yes, you could say that.” For some reason, it was easier to picture Beth with animal fur all over her clothing, instead of nicely dressed in a dark skirt and a clean blouse. If Mae wasn’t competition enough, this woman and her little boy were sure to change Trevor’s marital status.

  “Is he always so kind?”

  “Well . . .” Jack rubbed behind his neck. He could name a few times Trevor hadn’t been kind, like the time he’d purposefully put a fresh night crawler in the boot of Jack’s hip waders.

  “That’s a good word for Trevor,” Mae said with a nod.

  “Trevor’s going to take me fishing.” Mike tugged on a pleat of Mae’s skirt, looking up at her.

  “Not ’til you turn five.” Beth pressed her forefinger in front of her lips.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Mae pointed to the coffee counter.

  “No, thanks. Could I leave him a note?”

  Mae walked Miss Double Trouble to the front counter and found paper and a pencil. While Beth penned a love letter, Mae led the boy back to where the crickets were chirping in their lightbulb-heated cage.

  Keeping an eye on the cash register, Jack followed them.

  “They smell awful, don’t they?” she said as they crouched down in front of the live cricket container.

  “They stink!” Mike pinched the very tip of his nose and not his nostrils.

  “Fishermen hook these on the end of their lines and use them as bait to catch fish,” Mae said.

  “What do we do?” Jack nudged Mae. Didn’t she see the predicament they were in? Miss Double Trouble had stopped by at closing because this woman liked Trevor and wanted to stay for supper.

  She shook her head, frowning.

  “Does Trevor have any other bugs?” Mike asked her.

  “Do you want to see some flies that Trevor tied?”

  Wide-eyed, the boy nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  Jack followed them to the fly-tying area.

  Mae held up an Adams fly and explained how Trevor wrapped the yarn around the shank of the hook. “He ties them on the end of his fishing line, and when he casts them on the water, the fish think they’re really flies and try to bite them.”

  “I don’t like that it’s so close to dinner time,” Jack whispered.

  “Shh!” Mae nodded to the boy.

  “Does Trevor make any other bugs?” Mike asked, petting the fly.

  “No, just flies,” she said.

  Beth found them. “Come along, Mike. It’s time to go home.”

  “Where’s Trevor?” Large tears pooled in the little tyke’s eyes.

  “We’ll visit another time.” Beth picked him up, and he hugged her around the neck.

  “Bye, nice lady.” He waved at Mae, his fingers spread wide.

  Jack followed them to the door and locked it behind them. Then he watched them cross the street and get into an older gray Buick. He sighed heavily. Women were coming out of the woodwork. When Beth’s vehicle was no longer visible on Third Street, he returned to the counter and unfolded her letter.

  “Jack, you shouldn’t be reading that,” Mae said.

  Beth’s tight, precise handwriting reminded him of Miss Wilson’s, his first-grade teacher, who’d been so strict that she’d never married. Mae pushed the dust-mop through the aisles, her back to him.

  He cleared his throat and read out loud:

  “Hello, Trevor. Mike and I stopped by to see you. You were very kind the other night to Mike and me. I hope it wasn’t our only get-together. Sincerely, Beth.”

  There were no misspelled words or dropped commas. He inhaled deeply and folded the note. “If you haven’t noticed, Trevor Dawber has a weakness for little kids. Those two are double-trouble with a big T. She knew exactly what she was doing, showing up so close to dinnertime. If Trevor had been here, you and I both know he would have invited them to stay.”

  “She seemed pleasant enough,” Mae said from the second aisle.

  “Well, I don’t like it, and I especially don’t like this part,” he again unfolded the letter, “I hope it wasn’t our only get-together.”

  Cheeks flushed, Mae swept past him down the main aisle.

  “What’s for supper tonight out at Wilhoit?” He tried to plant the ever-so-subtle hint that he didn’t have plans.

  “Just leftovers, Jack.”

  Leftovers at Wilhoit were undoubtedly a whole lot more wonderful than leftovers at his place. “What do you mean by leftovers?” His stomach grumbled, right on cue.

  “Well . . .” Pausing in front of the lure aisle, she rested the long wooden handle against her shoulder. “With the leftover roast chicken from yesterday, Fletcher assembled a pot pie this morning before we left. Aunt Elsie popped it in the oven about a half hour ago.” She eyed the clock behind him. “By the time we get home, it will be bubbly and golden brown.”

  With his hand covering his heart like he was saying the Pledge of Allegiance, he summoned his best I haven’t had a meal since Sunday expression.

  Mae simply grabbed her purse and started for the backroom.

  “Mae, have pity on an old bachelor angler who eats fish and canned vegetables five nights a week,” he called after her.

  “When you’re not at Trevor’s, you’re at Bob’s, and when you’re not at Bob’s you’re at… Where are you dining, Jack?” She paused in the doorway, looking back at him.

  He smiled. Clara Chicklesworth’s. Though Clara refried her fried chicken, instead of just heating it up in the oven, and she put Miracle Whip on most everything, she was his hidden gem. />
  “I love Fletcher’s Chicken Pot Pie.” He swallowed.

  “Yes, Jack, we know. I’ll make it for you sometime, but tonight there won’t be enough for a man of your appetite.” She disappeared into the backroom.

  He’d only taken two large servings, the other night at Wilhoit. He swallowed at the delicious memory. Had Mae said she’d make him chicken pot pie sometime? Maybe she wouldn’t make a fellow too bad of a wife. If Trevor did end up having to marry, maybe she wouldn’t be too awful bad.

  »»»

  The dentist had told Trevor not to eat for two hours after his filling, so he’d made Jack wait an extra fifteen minutes before he started dinner.

  “What’s going on with you?” Jack shoved a bite of venison steak into his mouth.

  “What do you mean?” Trevor chewed carefully, avoiding the back right molar.

  “With women.”

  He meant with Mae. “Well, you know.” Trevor shrugged.

  “How’s Mae working out?”

  “Good.” He nodded. “Fletcher is, too, but he only wants to work a month. I hope he stays on longer. He’s great.”

  Jack pulled a folded yellow piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and held it across the table.

  Trevor suppressed a grin. “Did you finally write Mae’s poem?” He hadn’t given him many ideas, but maybe Jack was clever enough to write one on his own.

  “It’s a letter from your other girlfriend.”

  “Who?”

  “Read it.”

  He unfolded the paper and glanced down at Beth’s signature. He was glad he’d been at the dentist. “How was little Mike?” He scanned the note. It was just as he’d thought. The woman was interested.

  “Mae showed the boy the flies you tied. He wanted to know if you make any other bugs.”

  It was probably a good thing that he’d never told Jack about the dream.

  There was a light rapping on the backroom door downstairs. Most everyone who visited, just opened the back door, entered and then announced they were here. So, it wasn’t someone who knew him well.

  “That’s probably Miss Double Trouble now.” Jack rolled his eyes.

  “Who?”

  “Double Trouble.”

  Trevor sure hoped not. He gulped the last of his milk and tossed his napkin on the table.

  “I’ll handle this.” Jack rose, even though he wasn’t more than halfway through his meal.

  “Thanks.” Trevor remained seated. It wasn’t long before voices carried up the stairs. Jack’s and a young woman’s. Please don’t be Beth.

  Trevor moved to the top of the open stairwell. For some reason, Ruby, Henry’s old girlfriend, was in his backroom, and she was even more dolled up than the last time. Her pencil skirt defined her hourglass figure, and her four-inch high heels indicated the woman was not returning from the river. From where he stood, he detected her floral fish attractant. Ever so quietly, he took a step back and was almost in the clear.

  “Trevor?” Her voice snagged the air.

  “Ruby?” He forced a grin, taking a step forward.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” Her smile was effortless.

  He was afraid to guess the reason behind her visit.

  “I need someone unbiased to talk to. Another man’s opinion,” she said.

  Behind her, Jack stood wide-eyed, shaking his head and mouthing Please no. Please no.

  Trevor descended the stairs, flicked on a few overhead lights in the store and suppressed a chuckle as he led the way to the coffee counter. He pondered the word unbiased. If their conversation had anything to do with Mae, then he could no longer claim that position. He sat down in Jack’s comfy chair while Ruby took a seat in a wooden chair kitty corner to him.

  Why in the world was she here?

  Ruby clicked open a small black handbag and offered him a piece of Wrigley’s spearmint gum.

  “No, thanks.” He shook his head.

  “I’ll get right to the point.” She crossed one slim ankle over the other. “My folks own Melton’s Mercantile in Molalla. Elsie and Isabelle—Mae’s younger sister—came into the store today while I was working. Elsie’s always liked me.” Ruby clicked her handbag closed and gazed over at him.

  He stifled a yawn and nodded.

  “She said a few encouraging things to me regarding Henry. Supposedly, he mentions my name often.” Ruby bobbed her chin slightly. “When I inquired about Mae, Elsie avoided talking about her and went to look for undershirts for Donald. I was able to get Isabelle off to the side.” Her gaze traveled from Trevor’s eyes to his tie, where it abruptly stopped.

  He glanced down; it was one of his best—his gray-and-white striped one.

  “Your tie should have a shade of sage in it to bring out the green in your eyes. I’m in almost every day of the week. I’ll help you.”

  She should sell ties door to door. Maybe gum. He suppressed another yawn.

  “There are two things.” She clicked open her purse again and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Isabelle is definitely on our side. She found this poem in Henry’s room and wrote down a copy of it for me. He has no idea that I’ve seen it.” She passed him the paper.

  Hmm . . . She wanted him to read Henry’s poem for her. He rolled a kink out of his neck and steadied the paper off to his right.

  Ruby . . .

  Fourteen days is just two weeks.

  It feels longer.

  I remember your smile, your hazel eyes,

  And I miss you.

  I question

  My life without you.

  Our dreams we shared one summer evening

  At our old viewpoint;

  I remember yours like they were mine.

  Will you be different?

  I know you love me, but . . .

  Will your love be stronger?

  Will you love me enough . . .

  To believe in my love for you?

  Goosebumps surfaced on Trevor’s arms. Jack had written at least one of these lines. Ornery old Jack, who was sitting upstairs. With his poetry, Jack was changing lives, perhaps marital statuses. Jack. He read through it once more and shook his head.

  “Henry still loves me; don’t you think?” Ruby bit her bottom lip.

  He nodded. “I would think so.”

  “You’re a man.” She sniffled and wiped at tears. “Men don’t just sit around writing feelings like this unless they really feel this way, do they?”

  “No.” Well, Jack did, but Trevor wouldn’t tell her that. He suppressed a smile and shook his head. “Ruby, I think you have every reason in the world to feel… hope.”

  “Thank you.” She set a hand above her heart and closed her eyes for a moment, before reopening them. “The second thing I have to share regards you and Mae.”

  Just like that, his chest felt clamped in the jaws of a vise.

  “Isabelle overheard Mae arguing with their dad. She heard Mae tell their father…” Ruby folded her hands in her lap and, lowering her chin, locked eyes with him, “that she doesn’t care that you’re divorced. That she sees past it.”

  He let her words sink in like a pat of butter on warm bread. Mae was a scrapper, and her father didn’t approve of her having feelings for a man with his past. The news, though encouraging, was also a mixed bag.

  “And, you’re telling me this . . . because?”

  “Because I saw it, the first time I was here.” Ruby smiled softly and met his gaze. “You’ve caught her heart, Trevor Dawber. That’s why.”

  Could Mae possibly see past his mistakes? His soul quieted. Mae, sweet, lovely Mae.

  “The way I see it, Trevor, and the reason I’m here”—she unwrapped a piece of gum and folded it in half—“you and I both need all of the encouragement we can get.”

  His chest expanded as he nodded. Ruby Melton was right about that.

  Chapter 18

  Saturday morning, the phone rang.

  “Trevor’s Tackle Shop, how may I help you?” Trevor spoke into t
he mouthpiece.

  “Trevor, it’s James Bucknell. Are we still on for tomorrow?”

  “Yes, we are. I’ll do my best to leave right after church. I’ll meet you guys at Wagon Wheel Park tomorrow morning at about eleven thirty.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Trevor inhaled deeply and gathered gumption. “Uh . . . Mae, wouldn’t happen to be there, by chance?”

  “No, she’s fishing.”

  “I see.” While he was stuck in his store, Mae was most likely fishing Walt’s Place. “Tell Fletcher that I’ll bring sandwiches tomorrow.”

  “Will do. Thanks again. Looking forward to it.”

  Trevor hung up the receiver. He couldn’t stand to be cooped inside another day. Not today, not after what Ruby Melton had shared last night. He dialed his folks’ number and was relieved when his father’s voice came on the line.

  “Dad, it’s Trevor. Would you be up for filling in for me this morning for a few hours?”

  “Sure. Can Ron come, too?”

  “Yeah.” He knew that his dad felt more comfortable running the store when his buddy was there to help.

  “There’s something you ought to know about Ron.” His dad cleared his throat. “Each time we cover for you, he grabs merchandise—little things—above and beyond what you’re paying us. It shows up later in his tackle box, sometimes on my bench seat. Last time it was swivels.”

  “Tell him I know, Dad. Maybe that will help.”

  He’d sensed for some time that Ron was nabbing trinkets. The next time he caught him in the act, he’d, at least, make him clean the bait fridge. It had been far too long since he’d caught a teen shoplifting, and the nasty chore usually took a good hour.

  “We’ll be there in about forty minutes.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Trevor grabbed the rods that he’d stashed behind the register and hid them in the backroom. He wanted Mae to see the two men’s responses when they finally heard the Lewis Clark story.

  »»»

  Trevor rarely fished alone, but his intentions were not to fish alone. Mae’s old Ford sat parked near Walt’s barn. He smiled and took his rod and satchel out of his truck, set his fishing hat on his head and whistled as he followed the path down to the river.