A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  Trevor peered out the window toward Gladys’s. What he’d sensed all along had been right. Mae cared for him, really cared for him. “Fletcher, would you watch the store for me for an hour?”

  “Are you going to chase after her?”

  “No.” He’d give Mae her space. Instead of following her, he’d visit Gladys. He was beginning to contemplate marriage again. The idea of writing Mae, will you marry me? on the bottom of the old Help Wanted sign and posting it out front, teased at his brain. Maybe the elderly woman would be able to talk some sense into him.

  Chapter 20

  Mae had promised herself that she’d bring Walt something homemade the next time she fished his place. So she did the next best thing, she stopped in at The B & B to purchase a dinner plate-sized cinnamon roll. Barb’s husband waited on her at the register, and his voice was gentle instead of his usual gruffness.

  Could he tell that she’d been crying?

  “Now, things can’t be all that bad,” Burt whispered.

  “They aren’t.” She'd made such a fool of herself, and in front of Trevor’s rep.

  Burt disappeared through the double doors and soon returned with a foil-wrapped paper plate.

  “Nothing that an apology or a little elbow grease can’t fix.” He winked.

  Burt was right. She’d apologize and do something special for Trevor. Maybe bake him a batch of cookies or something.

  She parked on the west side of Walt's barn and angled her rearview mirror for a peek at her reflection. No wonder Burt had been so sweet—her cheeks were puffy and red from her seven-mile cry.

  The porch steps creaked beneath her hip boots. She leaned her fishing rod against the clapboard siding and knocked on the screen door. Walt was on the phone. He waved her inside and frowning, flicked a hand toward the table.

  Not wanting to argue with him, Mae sat down and set the foil-covered plate on the table, and her small, rusty tackle box in her lap. In the kitchen, a middle-aged, dark-haired fellow took a coffee tin out of the knotty pine cabinet to the right of the stove and filled a glass percolator with water at the sink.

  “Is this Rasmussen?” Walt bellowed into the receiver. “I want to speak with Rasmussen. It’s business. When will he be back? Uh-huh. Thank you.” Walt hung up the phone. “How do you like that? How can a fella be gone for three days from his own business on business?”

  “Who else do you have to call?” asked the man in the kitchen.

  “I’ll try Trevor one more time.” Walt peered at the numbers to the left of the phone.

  Walt was finally selling his place. Mae’s shoulders felt heavy as she closed her eyes. Pick up, Trevor. Pick up. Lord, help him to pick up.

  “These fellas have bugged me for years, and now that I’m ready, they don’t answer. Wait, it’s not busy. Gonna go through. Trevor…” Walt said, loudly and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re not Trevor. Who is this?” He leaned a hand against the wall. “Hey, Bob, where’s Trevor? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. No, maybe I’ll call back later.” He hung up the phone. “Trevor’s stepped out for a while on personal business.” Walt tugged on one of his suspenders and turned to regard Mae.

  Above Walt’s left eye nested a purple-yellow goose egg. He must have fallen, hit his head on something. Where was Trevor? He needed to be here. Walt was selling his place. She gripped the tackle box in her lap and over her shoulder peered through the window at the empty driveway. Could he possibly have followed her? If he had, she’d flag him down and get him to talk to Walt.

  Walt studied the numbers on the wall again. “I guess it’s time to call Bryon Miller.” He groaned and lifted the receiver.

  Mae closed her eyes. She couldn’t let him. She just couldn’t.

  “Walt,” she said. He didn’t turn. “Walt,” she said louder.

  “Dad, she’s trying to talk to you!” his son bellowed.

  “What is it?” Walt waved a hand not looking at either of them.

  “I brought you a cinnamon roll from The B & B.” She patted the table. “And I’ll buy your place.” She’d divert him until Trevor got here.

  “What was that?” He turned slightly toward her.

  “I said I’ll buy your place.” She had his attention now.

  He twanged one of his suspenders. “How much money you got?” One salt-and-pepper brow lifted before he turned toward the phone.

  “How much were you going to sell it to Bryon Miller or Trevor for?”

  “Ten thousand. There’re five acres here, right on the river. The value’s in the land, not in the house. Take it or leave it.”

  Over Mae’s shoulder, the driveway was still empty.

  “I’ll buy it for ten thousand. I’ll put one thousand down on it today.”

  “I have three buyers who’ll pay me in cash today if I can just get a hold of one of them.” Walt rubbed his unshaven cheek.

  She doubted that, but she couldn’t let Walt call Byron Miller. Was Trevor on his way here?

  “I can pay you today, but I’ll need to run to town first.”

  “Molalla?” Walt eyed her.

  “Yes.” Less than six miles away, she had eleven thousand dollars in a bank account under her name. Hopefully, she’d have money left over to buy a tank of gas and Fletcher a new tackle box.

  “Bring me back the money.” Walt waved a hand.

  “Promise me you won’t call anyone else while I’m gone?” She stared at Walt.

  “If you’re back here with ten thousand dollars in an hour, I won’t call Byron.” Walt’s rounded shoulders shook as his mouth bunched tightly.

  “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

  “She’s Trevor’s girl,” Walt said, as the screen door swung closed behind her. “He’s wanted this place for years. Wants to make it a fishing store.”

  »»»

  The following Monday . . .

  “Are you positive that Walt said it was okay for me to fish here?” Fletcher paused on the trail ahead of her. “Did you tell him my name?”

  “No, I wasn’t specific.” Mae stalled. She wasn’t ready to tell Fletcher or anyone what had transpired last Wednesday. But fate and the knot in her belly told her it would simply be a matter of time before everyone knew.

  Fletcher glanced past her. “I don’t want to be worried the whole time I’m here. I’ll go up and ask him. It’s been a couple of years. Hopefully, he’s cooled down by now.”

  “What do you mean? Did you do something wrong?” Is that why he’d always preferred to fish Feyrer Park?

  “Years ago when I was fishing here with Ed Hoyde”—he lifted his chin, watching the trail, “Walt caught Ed keeping more than his limit. He said that neither of us was welcome here again.”

  He’d been guilty by association.

  “I’m sure he’s not upset about it anymore.” She brushed past him on the trail.

  “I’m going to do the right thing. Go up and talk to him. Clear the air.”

  She paused before the willows and closed her eyes. She’d rather be the one to tell him than Walt.

  “Fletcher!” she called after him.

  He waved back at her as he hiked up the trail.

  “Fletcher, wait!”

  He halted and turned. “What is it?”

  “You don’t need to ask for Walt’s permission to fish here, anymore.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You only need to ask me,” she said loudly, so she wouldn’t have to repeat it.

  “What do you mean . . . ask you?” His gaze narrowed as he slowly made his way back toward her.

  Her shoulders felt all weak and tingly. She hadn’t slept well last night, and she just knew Fletcher wasn’t going to handle the news well. “At eleven o’clock today, I need you to go with me to the title company.”

  “Title company? For what?” He stopped in front of her. “What’s going on?”

  “Last week, I bought this property from Walt. The land we’re walking on is now mine, and someday… Trevor’s.”

  His b
ushy salt-and-pepper brows bunched. “What are you talking about?”

  “Last Wednesday, after I cleaned the bait fridge and had my little tizzy...”

  Fletcher nodded.

  “After I left Trevor’s, I drove here. Walt’d had some kind of fall, had a big ole goose egg on his forehead. His son was here, and Walt was on the phone—”

  “Wait a second.” Fletcher rubbed the top of his head. “Are you telling me that you bought Walt’s Place?”

  “Yes.” That was it in a nutshell.

  “You bought this place right out from under Trevor?” he murmured.

  He made the truth sound terrible.

  “No. Walt tried to call him at the store, but Bob answered and said he wasn’t there. Walt was going to call Byron Miller next, and I couldn’t let him do that.”

  “What do you mean . . . yours and Trevor’s?”

  “I bought it for him. The closing paperwork’s today at eleven o’clock at the title company. I need you to go with me.”

  Hunch shouldered, he walked ahead of her through the willow-lined path. Even Fletcher didn’t think she’d done the right thing. He crossed over thirty feet of silt-covered rocks before turning around.

  “You can’t buy a place for another fellow, unless…” His mouth bunched up tight. “A girl doesn’t just go buying the place that the fellow’s been dreaming about for years, right out from under him.”

  “I love him.” Mae felt her limbs begin to shake. “And, I think he feels the same way about me.”

  “You think!” Fletcher rubbed the back of his neck as he had a good laugh. Then he shook his head and looked over at her. “Has he ever told you?”

  “No-o.” Her voice wavered.

  “Has he ever kissed you?”

  “Once.” She smiled.

  “Yeah, well . . .” Fletcher covered his eyes with one hand and then slid it down to cover his mouth, before taking it away to speak again. “Just because a guy kisses you once, you don’t go buying him…” he held a hand toward the water, “a river.”

  Mae’s gaze followed the direction of his hand. This slow stretch of the Molalla was so beautiful, and she’d fallen in love with Trevor and his dreams for this place. If she had to do it all over again, she’d do the same thing, for his sake.

  »»»

  After all the paperwork had been signed and the deed transferred into Mae’s name, Bill Shinabarger, the man behind the desk at the title office, handed her a folded piece of paper and a leather strap with two keys.

  “Walt said that he wanted to leave you with some instructions,” Bill said.

  Mae unfolded the paper.

  Tell Trevor that my boy wanted me to move in with him and his family in Dundee. My old place takes too much work. When you live near the water, you always have rats. Get yourself a big ole cat and some traps, maybe a shotgun, too. I don’t have the energy for it no more.

  Best of luck with my old place,

  Walt

  While Fletcher drove her truck toward Scotts Mills, Mae stared out the window at the rolling fields of knee-high wheat and hops. Had she done the right thing? Her stomach curled into a knot at the enormity of her actions.

  “Are you going to tell him when we’re there?” Fletcher asked.

  “I don’t know.” How should she word it? Oh, by the way, last Wednesday when I went fishing, I ended up buying Walt’s Place for you. She dropped her new set of keys into her purse. That was probably the best way to introduce it—just get it over with; and, hope and pray that he’d someday want it to be her place, too.

  Fletcher rolled into a parking space in front of Trevor’s shop and shifted into park. Mae felt like a giggly bundle of nervous energy. It was the first time she’d see Trevor since she’d stormed out of the backroom. Usually, Jack didn’t get under her skin, but he had that day.

  The bell above the door jingled as they entered the store. Trevor was in the first aisle looking at fishing rods with a customer. A young man she wasn’t familiar with stood behind the cash register. His T-shirt had fish blood smeared across the belly like he’d used it to wipe off his hands, maybe the fish. Near the door, leaned an old steel rod with a shiny, new Ambassadeur 5000 reel.

  “What do you wanna bet that he’s Ambassadeur Boy?” Fletcher nudged her.

  “Good afternoon,” Trevor’s temporary cashier bellowed in their direction. “Be right with you.”

  “Afternoon, Mae, Fletcher,” Trevor said as he walked the fellow he was working with to the line counter. From there, he’d sell the customer a reel to go with his new rod, and then line to go with his new reel, and then he’d walk him to the lure aisle and fill a baking tray with tackle and hooks. Trevor would be busy for the next hour, maybe longer.

  Ambassadeur Boy was quick to grab his rod near the door and wave.

  “Thanks for helping, Ollie.” Trevor turned his attention to Mae. “If you two are here to shop, your hours are on the notebook in the drawer beneath the register. And, Fletcher, after you buy the Ambassadeur, I don’t think you’ll have enough left over for that tackle box you were eying.”

  “I’ll buy it for him,” Mae said, strolling behind the front counter.

  “No, doll, you’ve spent too much money on us fellas, already.” Fletcher chuckled as he poured a cup of coffee.

  Fletcher! She cringed and pulled open the drawer.

  “What about your dad’s drift boat?” Fletcher paused from stirring his coffee to stare at her. “You’re not going to have enough money now, are you?”

  Mae gave him an if I could wring your neck, I would kind of look. “Go pick out a tackle box. Whichever one you want,” she added, trying to get rid of him.

  “Even the Umco?”

  “Yes, or the Plano, you pick.” He’d gone from not wanting her to spend money on him, to the Umco—the Cadillac of tackle boxes.

  While Fletcher started down the second aisle, she fumbled through the drawer and pulled out the notebook. A folded piece of yellow paper caught her eye. Was it Beth’s letter? Hadn’t Trevor seen it yet? She glanced around as she held the paper inside the drawer and unfolded it. It wasn’t Beth’s letter, but notes of some kind.

  I love her eyes.

  Say something about her being lovely.

  Fishing rod. Country road. No dog.

  My dad meeting my mom and proposing in two weeks.

  I’m just like my dad.

  Mae’s heart caught in her throat. She turned the paper over. No name graced the front or back. Who was this for? She glanced around the store. The whirl of the line-winding machine claimed Trevor’s attention. Were these notes for her? Her gaze took in a line circled near the bottom of the paper.

  Mention the boy’s eyes being a mirror to hers.

  The weight of that line pushed deep into her soul, hurling her back to the night eight years ago when Aunt Lela had wrapped her and Isabelle in her arms and told them the heartbreaking news. The news that had changed her family forever.

  Did Trevor love Beth and her little boy? Eyes wide and unblinking, she stared across the aisle at him. Was he torn?

  Who is this for? She forced herself to read through it once more.

  The bell jingled, and Bob Hawkins strode inside and paused in the center aisle. He spotted Trevor behind the line counter and strolled closer.

  Mae returned the paper to the drawer, sliding it closed with her hip.

  “Just got off the river,” Bob’s voice was low and firm. He was not the bearer of good news. She kept her eye on the rear of the store, where Fletcher vacillated between tackle boxes. Take your time, Fletcher. Take your time.

  “How was fishing?” Trevor asked, his hands on his hips.

  Bob shrugged and shook his head. “Have you heard?”

  Trevor was so very unprepared.

  “Heard what?”

  So very unprepared.

  “Walt’s place sold. To a couple. Some old, heavy-set fellow and a young woman.”

  “What?” With his head tilted to one
side, Trevor stared.

  “Yep.” Bob sighed heavily and nodded. “Harold Dutton spoke with Walt’s son when they were moving his stuff out. I stopped by Miller and Nelson on my way home. They never got a call. Boy, are they peeved. Walt tried to call you and then, out of the blue, this other party showed up.”

  “He didn’t try to call me.” Trevor’s voice sounded flat.

  “He did. He called last week when you were out. Fletcher had me cover the phone. Walt said he’d call back later, so I didn’t think anything about it.” Bob’s broad shoulders sank. “I’m sorry, Trevor. If I’d have known that it was important, that Walt was—”

  “Bob, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Trevor’s color paled, and he looked like he was going to be sick. Eyes wide and unblinking, he glanced across the aisle at Mae, before turning back to his customer.

  Trevor’s pain was almost as wide as the Molalla River. And so was hers. Should she tell him now, or wait? She slid open the drawer and forced herself to read his notes once more.

  I love her eyes.

  Say something about her being lovely.

  Fishing rod. Country road. No dog.

  My dad meeting my mom and proposing in two weeks.

  I’m just like my dad.

  Then the last line, circled at the bottom of the page, because it was important:

  Mention the boy’s eyes being a mirror to hers.

  Was he writing this for Beth or for her? How could it be for her, when Beth was the one with a little boy? Just like Trevor, she’d been so very unprepared.

  She closed her eyes, damming the tears. Someone set something behind her on the counter. The item was an Umco tackle box, not a spin reel. Relieved, she folded the paper and slid the drawer closed.

  Fletcher must not have heard Bob, for he didn’t say anything about her need to confess. She reopened the drawer, found a blank piece of paper and penned Trevor a quick note.

  I’m so sorry, Trevor, about the way I behaved the other day in front of your rep, about Walt’s Place, about everything...

  Mae

  “Are you sure you have enough, Mae?” Fletcher bellowed and glanced over his shoulder toward the lure aisle. “I don’t want you spending all your hard-earned money on me. Well… you and I both know you didn’t spend it all on me.” Fletcher turned back to face her, wearing a donkey grin.