A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  “We’re on our way to Molalla Hardware.” Ron moaned. “Your dad’s finally gonna fix that old window in the kitchen for your mom.”

  “About time.” Trevor remembered the used rods that he’d purchased from Lewis Clark. With good energy in his step, he headed for the backroom. Mae was near the sink, drying cups when he grabbed their rod-and-reel combinations from the hiding place beneath the stairs. “My dad and Ron are here. Hurry up, I want you to see this.”

  “I’m almost done.” She hung the towel up on the hook.

  He carried the outfits off to the side of him, as he took the back aisle toward the front windows. After placing the combos in his used fishing rod section, he approached the coffee area and brushed off his hands. Mae now set the clean mugs on the counter near his father and Ron.

  Trevor cleared his throat. “I have some nice used rods. Thought you guys might want to take a look at them before anyone else sees them.” He waved for the two to follow him.

  “We just sat down,” Ron whined.

  “We were on our way to Molalla before we got distracted.” His dad rose to his feet and set his cup on the counter.

  “Well, check out these deals before you leave.”

  “It’s always nice to have a spare in the truck; I’ll take a look.” His dad followed him.

  “I don’t know.” Ron stood up, carrying his cup. “My Shakespeare’s in pretty decent shape.”

  They joined him near the front and studied the collection of over a dozen used fishing rods, while Mae flitted a feather duster over a nearby display.

  Ron leaned over to study a Shakespeare spin combination. When he saw the $12.00 price sticker, he rolled his eyes. “Too much for me.”

  His dad tilted his head to one side and narrowed his gaze at his old Wright & McGill combination. “How in the world?” He picked the rod up by the cork handle, shook it off to the side and then cranked the reel.

  “Ain’t that your old McGill?” Ron set his hands to his knees as he searched for his Conolon. “Well, I’ll be!” He shook his head and pulled the outfit from out of the display.

  After Trevor told them about Lewis Clark and the exchange for the $8.50 tackle box, Ron wanted a break on the cost of buying back his Conolon.

  “I’ve been like a father to you, and you’re going to make me pay full price for my own rod?” Ron laid an arm over Trevor’s shoulders.

  “I can always sell it to someone else.”

  Ron took his wallet out of his back pocket. “Four dollar’s fair, just wanted to give you a bad time.” He handed him four ones.

  His dad shoved money in Trevor’s hand and headed for the door. “Thanks, son; made my day. What a story!”

  Trevor had a good chuckle and strode toward the register.

  “You know what’s fun about your store, Trevor?” Mae paused near the front and in the door’s upper glass watched the two men razz each other on their way to the truck.

  “What?” A number of things came to mind.

  “Your customers enjoy being here. It’s not like they have to be here.”

  “No, you’re right. It’s a hobby for them, a passion.” The cash drawer sprang open, and Trevor tossed in the two quarters before counting in the ones. There were only three one-dollar bills. He counted again and shook his head. His father had knowingly shortchanged him.

  »»»

  Trevor had been hoping for an opportunity to get Mae alone in the backroom for a second kiss, but every time he turned around, the store was busy. Then Fletcher returned in the early afternoon from fishing Feyrer Park, skunked and in a bad mood; and the possibility of an unnoticed trip to the backroom was pretty much dashed. For some reason, the guy kept an eagle eye on them.

  “Trevor, remember how I told you that Fletcher’s like Jack?” Mae asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it all right if I go upstairs and make sandwiches?”

  “Go right ahead.” It was well past two o’clock, and he was hungry, too. Plus, with Mae upstairs he’d be able to speak with Fletcher alone in private. He waited until she’d disappeared into the backroom to open up the conversation.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Good.” Fletcher nodded.

  “Any sore throat, ear ache . . . ?”

  “No, just hungry. Glad you sent Mae upstairs. I am like Jack. I could eat half of a nine-by-thirteen pan of chicken pot pie all by myself about now.”

  The man was hungry.

  “So-oo . . . you guys haven’t told her?”

  Fletcher suppressed a grin and shook his head. “No, we told Henry and Al, but James thought it best to wait on telling the others. He wants to wait ‘til he doesn’t have a tremor in his voice when he retells it, you know. Women don’t understand the tremor in the voice thing. No matter how much you wave your hands around when telling a story, if there’s a tremor, women will focus on it. In a week or two, we’ll tell them.”

  “It’s a great story.” But, then again he’d been on top of the log watching while James had been the one in the drift boat hitting the rapids broadside. Maybe James should give it a couple of weeks.

  Near closing time, Trevor’s imagination stumbled on a chore that would require numerous trips to the backroom. “Mae, bring some icky, old, scrub clothes on Wednesday, and I’ll have you clean the bait fridge.”

  Carrying her purse, she paused in the doorway and glanced back at him. “Oh, I don’t remember you writing anything about the bait fridge on your Help Wanted sign.” She cast him a smile.

  “Comes with the territory. It hasn’t been cleaned in a long time. When the door’s open, the smell almost knocks guys over.”

  “I don’t know what to say about such an honor. Oh, maybe I do…” She smiled. “Fletcher has scrub clothes, too.”

  “No, Mae, this chore is just for you.” Trevor grinned. Good eye contact. Good eye contact. Too bad it was the end of her shift and not the beginning. He wasn’t ready for her to leave.

  “Come on, Mae, time to go,” Fletcher said.

  Still in the doorway, she smiled at Trevor. “I’ll bring lemon juice. It’s supposed to take the fish smell off your hands.”

  “That should do the trick.”

  Her hand fluttered a goodbye before she disappeared into the backroom. He couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. Right in front of Fletcher, the banter that had taken place between them was unexpected and thoroughly enjoyable. Her truck rolled by the front windows and his facial muscles hurt from how wide he’d been grinning.

  »»»

  Wednesday morning while Trevor stood behind the front counter, enjoying his first cup of coffee, Fletcher and Mae strolled out of the backroom. Sure enough, she’d remembered to wear her fishing clothes. She set her purse and a nice change of clothes behind the counter and then strolled several feet away to open the bait fridge, which smelled something fierce.

  She closed the old Norge refrigerator and turned to regard him. He suppressed a chuckle and pretended to be immersed in the list he was writing for his All Sports rep.

  “Are you mad at me about something?” she asked.

  “No.” He glanced over at her. “You may want to put everything in a cardboard box.”

  And, just like that, she made her first trip to the backroom.

  Trevor was just about to follow her when the front bell jingled. Jack strolled in and headed toward the coffee pot.

  “Any calls for me?” he asked.

  “Just one.” Trevor glanced around. Only Fletcher was on the floor. “The fella said he was someone you know well and that he wants a poem for his gal,” he kept his voice low. “He said that he really likes her eyes, and he wants you to mention one thing, in particular, his father fell fast, too, and proposed within two weeks of meeting his mom.”

  “I don’t write soppy.” Jack tossed a sugar cube toward his cup, missing.

  “He said to say that he’ll pay twice your going rate.”

  “Sounds desperate. I’m going to wait this one out.
Give the fool a couple of years to change his mind.”

  Trevor thought for sure that the extra cash would inspire Jack. Then, before he’d even had a chance to follow Mae, she returned to the floor and set an empty cardboard box near the fridge.

  “Do you need help with that, Mae?” Fletcher asked as he dusted the tops of reel boxes.

  “No, for some reason Trevor wants me to do this all by myself. It’s some kind of test.” She began transferring cartons of boraxed salmon eggs from the fridge to the bottom of the box. “You know Trevor and his tests.”

  “Yep, sure do.” Fletcher chuckled.

  “Looks like he’s finally put you to work,” Jack said, stirring his coffee.

  Jack didn’t only need coffee this morning; he needed a boot out the door. Fortunately, Mae appeared to ignore him as she continued emptying the fridge.

  The bell jingled as Roger McKinney, tall and nicely dressed, carried in a handful of fishing rods and laid them on top of the line counter. Magnum, his black lab, slowly made his way inside. Sporting a gray muzzle and tender steps, the dog lay down in front of the counter.

  “Morning, Trevor.” Roger, his All Sports rep, poured a cup of coffee.

  “Morning. It’s a good thing you’re here; I only have one Wonderod left.”

  “Last time I was here, I was telling you about those new graphite fly rods.” Roger nodded toward the collection on the counter. “I just sold ten of them to Miller and Nelson.”

  Hmm . . . He’d have to take a look. “Before we get started, I want you to meet my two new employees.”

  “Byron said you finally hired someone.” Roger nodded as Trevor made the introductions.

  While the two caught up on the last couple of weeks, Jack carried a few lures to the register. Mae shut the bait fridge and strolled behind the counter to ring up his items.

  “These new graphite fly rods have a lifetime warranty,” Roger said beginning this month’s sales pitch.

  After Jack left, Mae wiped the linoleum in front of the refrigerator. Stuck in his meeting with Roger, Trevor could only watch as she carried the cardboard box to the backroom. Another opportunity missed.

  Roger finally closed his catalog. Next, he’d inventory the top sellers, and make sure the store was well-stocked.

  Trevor strolled over to the bait fridge and opened it. Shiny white greeted him, and the noxious odor had been replaced by Pine Sol.

  “You did a great job,” he said, as Mae returned to the front counter. Instead of her usual pleasant demeanor, her lips were pressed together in a thin line. She was upset about something, probably the bait fridge.

  “Let’s talk for a moment.” He nodded toward the backroom and bit the insides of his cheeks.

  She started ahead of him. What had Jack said to get her so riled? Hopefully, they’d be quiet enough that Roger and Fletcher wouldn’t witness what might very well be their first fight.

  The backroom had a row of shelves for extra merchandise, a bin for defective items, a sink which came in handy, and the open wooden stairwell to his living quarters above the store. Mae stopped near the sink, her back to the door.

  “Are you mad at me about something?” She crossed her arms. He should have known from their interviews that she’d be a woman who’d hold her ground.

  “No, why would I be mad?” Up close, with her face all flushed and her hair slightly mussed, he had a difficult time not grinning.

  “Jack said that the bait fridge is usually reserved for penance work—shoplifters—and that you must be mad at me about something.”

  “Jack.” He’d found something to stir the pot with. He’d have to cut him off from coffee, maybe dinner, to make him behave.

  “Jack said that you’re really, really happy with Fletcher.” She inhaled deeply. “And you’re probably hoping I’ll quit because you’re too kind to let me go.”

  “Mae . . .” After Saturday, how could she even think that? Then his mind reeled to Jack. “Jack!” He suppressed a chuckle—except it wasn’t funny. He chewed on the insides of his cheeks. “I’m not mad at you.” He sighed. “It’s just that I haven’t had a shoplifter for a while, and…” He couldn’t very well tell her that the whole ploy was to get her to the backroom. Not now, when she was so obviously upset. “I’m very pleased with you and your work ethic.”

  She melted a bit and glanced toward the doorway and back to his eyes. “Jack doesn’t like me, does he?”

  “Don’t worry about him.” Trevor’s shoulders relaxed as he gazed into her vibrant eyes. The odor of dead fish bait drifted in the air between them. His sweet Mae smelled like Ed Hoyde had the other day.

  “If you’ve only had shoplifters clean the bait fridge before today, then why did you have me? Why not Fletcher or…” Her mouth bunched. “Jack?”

  He couldn’t be blunt. He had to word it right.

  “I was only having a little fun. I was hoping—”

  “Fun?” Her dark brows lifted to mid-forehead.

  She was mad, and she’d been such a trooper about everything else. Like a woman on a mission, she strolled past him and onto the floor. He made the mistake of following her before he realized she was simply after her purse and her clothes behind the counter.

  Crud! Roger and Fletcher were indeed witnessing their first fight. Near the line counter, he did a quick turnabout and in front of the fellows, followed Mae to the backroom.

  “I’m going to take the rest of the day off. No, I’m going to take the rest of the week off.” Her high chin made her neck appear skinny and stretched above the collar of her old fishing shirt.

  “Seems like you’re awful upset about a little bait fridge. I think Jack must’ve said something else to cook your gander.” The words rolled off his tongue like a cannonball sinker.

  Tears sparked her eyes. “Why’d your wife really leave you?”

  Jack wouldn’t sink that low, would he? He leaned his right hand against the wall above the sink and realized today probably did have something to do with the kiss. Things were a little more serious between them.

  “Is it just a line—that you fished too much? I think it is. I think it’s just another one of your lines that makes the truth easier to deal with.” Her voice didn’t even waver.

  “You’re right, Mae. It was a line.” The knot in his gut tightened. “I knew Jocelyn was being unfaithful before I ever fished too much.” Even though Mae’s demeanor had softened, he made the mistake of proceeding. “But… I’m not the only one with lines. Do I question why you wanted to work here? With your math skills?” He shook his head. “Or what all’s behind your passion for fishing?” He should never have hired a woman. In the last four years, not one of his customers had ever pried, ever had to know the truth. And he’d just begun to think Mae was extraordinarily special. He inhaled deeply. Because she was.

  Her eyes widened and her neck stiffened. Oh, he’d definitely flared her ire. “I already smell like I’ve been fishing, so that’s where I’m going.”

  “Now, Mae . . .” Maybe he shouldn’t have asked her to clean the bait fridge. Maybe deep down, it had been another one of his tests. How wonderful could a girl really be?

  Without a glance back at him, she pulled the back door closed behind her.

  He reopened it. “Mae . . .” he called after her.

  She slid behind the wheel of her truck and then, with her mind on the Molalla, she drove out of his back gravel parking lot without even glancing over at him, once.

  Hmm . . . If they ever did marry, he’d have to hire a teen to clean the bait fridge. The chore had put Mae over the edge. He returned to the floor like a walking corpse and began checking in the items that Roger had set behind the counter.

  “Trevor”—Roger cleared his throat from the lure aisle, “Have you heard about the two-jar raffle going on at Miller and Nelson’s?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Trevor rubbed behind one ear. Roger had been his rep ever since he’d bought the place, and usually, he was a pretty good storyteller, s
o he figured there was a reason for his timing.

  “The raffle’s right on the counter, and it’s a dime an entry,” Roger said. “The sign says Trevor Dawber’s next wedding. One jar’s labeled Before September 1960, and the second jar’s labeled Before December 1960. Now that I’ve met her and seen the two of you together, my dibs are going in the first jar.”

  It was just like Miller and Nelson to make Trevor—their biggest competitor—the butt of their jokes.

  “Whose idea was it?”

  “Byron Miller’s. Sounds like Mae interviewed at his store before she got the job at yours. He said a real pretty gal came in a while back and asked a ton of trout fishing questions, and… she asked if he was hiring.”

  Trevor tapped the fingers of one hand on the glass countertop. From the start, he’d been too hard on Mae. “Fletcher, should I follow her?” He felt like a fool for asking.

  “I dunno.” Fletcher swished the feather duster about and pretended to be busy. “She’s never said a thing to me.”

  That had to be a lie. “Come on, you’re like her second dad.”

  Fletcher’s chest puffed out. “That day, the day she bought her license—the first time she met you.” Fletcher proceeded to the coffee counter.

  “Yeah.”

  “She came home and bugged the heck out of James and me, no . . . all of us, about trout fishing.” He poured a cup of coffee. “What kind of lures to use. The difference between rainbows and cutthroat. There we were in the middle of peak steelheading on the Molalla, and she wants to talk trout. All her questions pert near drove me nuts.”

  Trevor’s soul drank it in.

  “Then, I come in here a couple weeks later, and you tell me that she didn’t pass your trout test.” Fletcher took a sip. “I’d always hoped she’d take a shine to Henry, but she never did. He’s every bit as good looking, with a cleaner record.”

  “Anything else?” Trevor’s rib cage felt knit together too tight. He might have to leave Fletcher alone in the store for a couple of hours and head to Walt’s Place.

  “Hmm . . .” Mouth bunched, he glanced at Roger and shook his head. “Nope.”