A Wife and a River - A Christian romance

by Sherri Schoenborn Murray

  He wasn’t the only one.

  Beth returned from the backroom carrying the tray of clean mugs.

  “Would you like to stay for scrambled eggs before you head home?” Trevor asked, looking at Mike.

  “And toast?” the boy asked.

  “Yes, we would. Thank you,” Beth said. “Mike gets crabby when he goes too long without food.”

  “I do, too.” Trevor finished closing out the till, and then he led the way toward the backroom. Bob had seen Mae fishing at Walt’s Old Place, yet she hadn’t stopped by. A week ago today, she’d stormed out, taking his heart with her.

  Mike sat at his kitchen table and watched Trevor scramble half-a-dozen eggs.

  “You don’t have a lot of land here, do you?” Beth said, from the living room.

  “No. The back is all gravel. When the store’s busy, it’s used for extra parking.”

  “I suppose there’s always the park down the street.”

  He knew what she was thinking, and her thinking didn’t remotely resemble his.

  “I’ll make toast,” she said, entering the kitchen.

  “I think Mae put the toaster in the cupboard, and there’s raspberry jelly in the fridge.”

  “Does she cook for you when she works here?” Beth plugged in the appliance.

  “Yes, she often makes lunch.” He hadn’t seen her since Monday, and then only briefly when she and Fletcher had stopped by. He longed to see her, to reconcile.

  “Where is she now?”

  “Probably fishing.” He set the plates on the table, sat down and said the blessing.

  Beth ran a butter knife around the near-empty jar and slathered Mike’s toast with the remaining jelly.

  Downstairs, the backdoor clicked open and then closed. Trevor sure hoped it wasn’t Ruby. No, it couldn’t be. Ruby Melton would have knocked.

  Chapter 22

  “I brought dinner. Thought you could make some more of those green beans,” Jack hollered up Trevor’s back stairwell. In his clunky hip boots, he made it to the landing. Straight ahead in the kitchen, Trevor sat at the gray Formica table. He was already eating.

  “Isn’t this a beauty?” Jack held forth a nice-sized cutthroat that he’d landed at Mae’s Place before his gaze settled on Trevor’s other table guests.

  Crud! It had been Beth’s old Buick that he’d seen out front.

  “Wow! Mom, look at that, a fish!” Beth’s son Mike sat up taller on his knees.

  “That’s a cutthroat trout.” Trevor leaned back in his chair. “Jack, do you remember Beth and her son, Mike?”

  “Yes.” All too well. Trevor’s life, maybe even his heart, had been invaded.

  “I’ll scramble up some eggs and toast. Save the fish for your breakfast,” Trevor said.

  Beth dangled her fork, peering down at her plate.

  “Is that the last of your mom’s raspberry jelly?” Jack eyed the empty-looking jar on the table.

  “Yes, it was. We finished it off,” Beth said.

  No hello. No nod of assurance that he was welcome at the table. Only the utterance that the jelly jar was empty. Boy, if that didn’t make a man’s fishing buddy want to sit down.

  Mae liked to fish, and she owned the best fishing hole on the Molalla. Jack let himself dwell on something that had been wriggling its way inside his heart for some time—despite how petulant and plain annoying he’d been with her, Mae liked him.

  She’d let Bob and him walk in her home in their hip boots. She’d made coffee and cried a river of tears about his fishing buddy, Trevor Dawber. And, if she paid Trevor a visit tonight, there’d be no hope of ever calling Walt’s Old Place . . . Trevor’s Place. The picture of those three seated around the table like a family would take Mae a lifetime to get out of her memory bank.

  Trevor was just the sort of fellow who’d fall for taking a little feller fishing and find himself hitched on the way home. Hunger and something else burned fiercely in Jack’s gut. After what had happened today at Mae’s Place, he couldn’t leave.

  “You know me, I can’t pass up a free dinner,” Jack said. For the first time in a long time, dinner wasn’t the main reason he was staying. Trevor and Mae were his future, too. And he was going to do everything in his power to protect it.

  »»»

  While the threesome remained upstairs, Jack cleaned the trout in the backroom sink. Most likely, Double Trouble had shown up close to closing time, and—big softie that he was, Trevor had invited them to stay for supper. The little boy tugged more at his heart than the mother.

  “Lord,” Jack whispered, turning off the faucet. “It’s Jack Johnson here. I’m a sinner and sometimes not a very good friend. I think you know that about me. Forgive me. Here’s the conflict: Trevor’s upstairs with Beth and her little boy. You know what’s going on here: He wants kids, his own little boy to take fishing. He’s ready to start a family and love someone again, maybe in that order. Slow him down. I don’t think Beth’s the one, do you? Mae’s perfect. You and I both know why. Since he’s so set on marrying again, make sure he ends up with Mae.

  “Thank you. Amen.”

  He left his trout in the sink and forced himself to walk back up the stairs. A plate of scrambled eggs and toast waited for him at the table. The boy was coloring on a piece of paper—and from the looks of it—the Formica, too. Beth was pretty and, he guessed, pleasant enough.

  Jack pulled out a chair and sat down. “I saw Mae on the river at Walt’s Old Place.” He studied Trevor for any sign that he possibly knew. He wore a blank, numb look. “She wants to have us over for dinner Friday night if that fits your schedule.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes.” Jack nodded and tried to keep the pending flush at bay. “She likes me, always has. Wants us to meet at Walt’s Old Place and fish for a couple of hours before we…” Jack stared at the glass salt-and-pepper shakers on the table, “head to her place for dinner.”

  “Wilhoit.” Trevor nodded.

  When Jack had been a boy, his grandmother had often said that his cheeks turned red when he lied. The all too familiar flush climbed his neck and settled in the hollows of his cheeks.

  “Does this Friday work for you?”

  “Yes.” Trevor grinned. “Did Mae say anything else?”

  “She misses you.” Except for the fact that she hadn’t said it, it wasn’t a lie.

  “She said that?” Trevor grinned, staring at the table. “Really?” He appeared lost in an eddy of emotion, right in front of the boy’s mother.

  Jack’s conscience prickled him. Only a few minutes ago, he’d prayed and then, he’d taken one look at the cozy couple and resorted to false witnessing.

  “Did she say anything else?” Trevor asked.

  Jack rubbed the back of his warm neck. He thought about the notes that Trevor had stashed for his poem. The last time he’d mentioned them, he’d said they were in the drawer near the register.

  “Mae and I are fishing together tomorrow, and I told her I’d pick up a couple of lures for her.”

  “Sounds like you two are getting close.” A soft smile lit Trevor’s eyes. “Whatever she needs. So we’ll meet at Walt’s Place, Friday at five thirty?”

  “Yep.” Jack nodded and then glanced toward Beth. “Are you from around here?”

  “Marquam.” She nodded.

  As he rose from the table, Jack managed to nod in the boy’s direction then he made his way down the stairs. He flicked the lights on for the store. Behind the front counter, he slid open the small drawer beneath the cash register and rummaged through it until he found the yellow piece of paper with Trevor’s notes. Then, he sat in his comfy chair, said a repentant prayer, and penned Trevor’s poem for Mae.

  A half hour later, he slid the poem in an old Shakespeare Fishing Company envelope that he’d found in the junk drawer. He couldn’t find glue, so he tacked it closed with a piece of Scotch tape. On the front of the envelope, he scrawled Mae’s name and then dropped it inside a small brown paper bag. Walking th
e aisles, he added a couple of Indiana spinners, a package of bright orange yarn, and some trout hooks.

  Done. He sighed.

  He returned to the backroom sink and wrapped the trout loosely in an old Molalla Bulletin and then he drove two blocks to Clara Chicklesworth’s home.

  In the glow of the front porch light, Clara recognized him and opened the door. This petite, elderly woman who smiled up at him reminded him of his Grandma Freida, the woman who’d been the brightest part of his difficult childhood.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked as he stepped past her into the hallway.

  “A little. I was just at Trevor’s and thought of you on my way home.”

  “Sounds like you’re still hungry.” She led the way into her little pale-green kitchen with white cabinets and tin metal canisters sitting on the countertop.

  “If you have any leftovers, that would be great.” Jack knew that mentioning leftovers to a sweet, elderly woman were usually staying words. As he waited for her response, he didn’t feel manipulative; he felt vulnerable.

  “Sit down and let me fix you something.” She pulled open the refrigerator.

  From the padded chair, he watched her unveil a cold pork chop, a jar of peaches, slices of white bread, Miracle Whip, butter, and pickles. He raised a hand. “You’re out-doing yourself.”

  After he’d eaten three-quarters of the fine meal, he began to feel better. “Thank you, Clara. I stopped by Trevor’s and had some scrambled eggs, but it wasn’t enough.” He leaned back in his chair. “Beth and her little boy Mike were there, too.”

  “Richard’s sister.” She nodded.

  “Yes, they were sitting down for supper like a family.”

  “I see.”

  While Jack ate the rest of his meal, Clara made tea. She carried a pretty blue-and-white teapot to the table, along with some fancy cups and saucers. Then she set a plate of snickerdoodles on the table.

  Jack selected the largest one. “My grandmother, who raised me, used to make cookies exactly like these.” He studied the puffy, cinnamon-sugar treat.

  “Would you like the recipe?”

  “I would.” He tried to remember if there was a baking pan in his cabin.

  Clara giggled, rose from the table and pulled open an upper cabinet.

  “Why’d you giggle?”

  She returned with a wooden recipe box and a pen. “At my age, you don’t know if you’re going to see a new morning. So I thought I’d better write this recipe now.”

  “It’s good that you have a sense of humor about it.” He eyed her and took a sip of tea.

  Clara pulled a faded recipe card out of the box and laid it on the table. “I look forward to seeing Jesus in Paradise,” she said, softly. “When you have the comfort of the Holy Spirit, death is not something to fear.”

  His grandmother had also voiced the same wonderful assurance. A hard knot formed in his throat. He’d left professor-life for the back hills of Scotts Mills to be amongst mountain men, who carried fillet knives and tobacco in their back pockets. Yet, here he was sitting with an elderly woman talking about Paradise and requesting recipes.

  “Tonight, I said the first prayer I’ve said in forty-some years.” A rush of unexpected emotion accompanied his admittance. “The first prayer since my grandmother passed away when I was fourteen.” He paused, giving himself time. “I didn’t understand how her God could leave me all alone in this world without her if He was so good.”

  Empathy shone in Clara’s soft gaze. “Being alone can be difficult for the young and old. That’s why fellowship is so important. How would you like me to pray for you, Jack?”

  “My prayer tonight wasn’t for myself—not entirely. It was more for Trevor. He’s so ready for a family that I’m afraid he may be swayed more by a little boy than finding the right wife. And Mae,” he shook his head, “she’s perfect for him.”

  Clara’s eyes fluttered. “He does have a tender look about him when he’s around her.”

  “I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Tell him what I see—”

  “Let’s pray about it first.”

  “Can you say the prayer?” Jack swallowed the large lump in his throat.

  While she prayed, Jack reached over and gripped her warm, smooth hand.

  “I have another prayer, Clara.” He inhaled deeply. “Trevor and I are going to Mae’s for dinner on Friday. The problem is, she doesn’t know yet. You see, I fibbed. When I was at Trevor’s just now, I wanted Beth to know about Mae. And I wanted Trevor to remember Mae. I’ll say the next prayer.” He bowed his head.

  “Father in Heaven, tomorrow, when I speak with Mae, help the situation. Help her to be open to hosting dinner for us. You know what this involves. It’s huge, Lord. And she may not be ready. Help her to be ready. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  “Why is it huge?” Clara rested her arms on the table.

  “You can’t tell Trevor.” Should he tell her? She might be tempted to tell all her old lady friends and—

  Clara poured more tea into his cup.

  “Have you ever heard Trevor mention buying Walt Schoenberg’s place on the Molalla?” he asked.

  “Yes, many times. Our group has prayed about it for years. We were all so disappointed to hear that it sold last week.” She leaned forward. “Trevor had a dream about it, you know?”

  “I didn’t know.” Jack shook his head.

  “I can tell you now. Now that you’re a member of our prayer group.”

  Jack inhaled deeply.

  “Several years ago, Trevor had a dream about Walt’s river house. That’s why he wanted to buy it, you see. In his dream, he was walking through the brush…” While Clara retold the dream, Jack’s eyes grew dry from not blinking.

  “I’m his best friend.” All these years of fishing Walt’s Place together and Trevor’d never told him about the boy with Blue-Dun eyes who’d called him Dad.

  “He wanted prayer.” Clara patted his hand.

  Jack nodded thoughtfully. He supposed some things were easier to share with elderly women.

  “Clara . . .” He stood up from the table. “I need help revising a poem that I wrote for Mae.”

  “Oh . . .” Her eyes widened. “Do you have feelings for her, too?”

  “No, not like that.” He chuckled. “I have a little side business. You may have seen my ad in the Molalla Bulletin—Swoon her with words.”

  She shook her head.

  “Trevor’s wanted me to write a poem for Mae for quite some time, and tonight, I finally worked on it.”

  “I see.” As he headed for the hallway, Clara was smiling. He went outside to his truck, grabbed the brown paper bag and returned to the kitchen.

  “Yep, tonight, I’m finally following through,” He grabbed a pen from near her telephone and returned to the table to sit down. “I’ll need to rewrite it; add what you just told me.”

  “I hope Trevor won’t mind that I told you about the dream.”

  “He won’t. You see, there’s something Mae needs to share with him as well.” Jack inhaled deeply and met Clara’s steady gaze. “Guess who bought Walt’s Place?”

  She waved a hand. “I don’t know the locals like you do.”

  “You know this local.”

  Even though he’d tried to prepare her, she took a sip of tea and peered at him above the fine bone china cup that she held in both hands.

  “Mae bought Walt’s Place. She bought it for Trevor.”

  Clara carefully lowered the cup to the saucer. “Are you positive?” she breathed. “Absolutely positive?”

  “Yes.” He swallowed a large lump in his throat. “She bought it for Trevor. She loves him.”

  “Does he know?” Tears collected in her eyes.

  “Not yet.”

  “God answers prayer, Jack. Don’t ever forget that. God answers prayer.”

  “I know.” He grinned. “That’s why I asked you to pray that Mae won’t be mad at me.”

  »»»

  While Beth washed supp
er dishes upstairs, Trevor paused near the photo board with Mike on his hip and regarded the picture of Mae holding her Butte Creek steelhead. …I saw it the first time I was here. You’ve caught her heart, Trevor Dawber, he recalled Ruby Melton’s words.

  “Will you show me how to fish?” Mike asked.

  “I can show you how to cast.” He’d take the boy outside where there were fewer things to hit. Trevor grabbed his spin rod from behind the register.

  “Mike,” Trevor paused near the front door and searched the boy’s eyes, “do you know Jesus?”

  Mike nodded.

  “Who is He?” Trevor asked.

  “God.”

  “And who is God?”

  “Jesus,” Mike said.

  The boy’s hunger for an earthly father tore at his heart. Tomorrow night when the prayer group met, he’d request prayer for Beth and her boy. Out front of his store, Trevor sat down beside him on the top step.

  “This is called a fishing reel. This is the crank.” Trevor showed him how to reel in the line. Then he cast the rubber plug twenty feet out into the quiet paved street for Mike to reel in. Step-by-step he showed him how to flip the bail, loop his pointer finger around the line, reach back and cast into the empty street. For only being four, the boy was a good listener.

  Mike’s first cast, the rubber plug swung sharply two feet off the rod tip.

  “Remember to flick the bail.” Trevor gently reminded him.

  He ruffled the boy’s hair and thought about Mae. He hungered to see her, to reconcile and pour out the contents of his heart. And, someday soon when he felt she was ready, he’d even tell her about his dream and the boy with Blue-Dun eyes.

  Chapter 23

  The crisp spring morning was perfect for a cup of coffee and a caddis fly. Mae did not feel adept at fly casting yet; so, when she saw someone approach, she quickly retrieved her line and swapped out her father’s old fly rod for her spin rod. Then she sat on a large rock to rig up. The lone angler was Jack. She should have recognized his lean, wiry frame at first glance.

  “This is from Trevor.” He flung a small brown paper bag in her direction. Instead of sailing straight toward her, the lightweight bag curved left and landed inches from the water’s edge. He scrambled after it and picked it up from the rocks. This time, he walked over to where she was seated and handed it to her. The bag was folded over and stapled four times across the top.