Jack was unshaven. His untucked old white dress shirt looked like he’d worn it a week straight, and it was missing a few buttons.
“Oh, by the way . . .” Jack cleared his throat. “I took it upon myself to invite Trevor to your place for dinner tomorrow night.”
Her heart stopped.
“What do you mean?” He and Bob had both sworn they wouldn’t say a word; that they’d let her be the one to inform Trevor. “Did you tell him?”
“No, I just got a little anxious, that’s all. I told him to meet us here at five thirty tomorrow night, and we’ll fish for a while. And that afterward you’re going to make us dinner. I didn’t tell him where.”
Mae sighed, relieved. “Why were you anxious?”
“I don’t want him finding out from anyone else that you bought this place.” He extended his arm to point the tip of his spin rod downstream. “The sooner you tell him, the better.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the small bag in her possession.
Why was it stapled so many times?
“Trevor wanted me to give you some spinners.” He cast upstream. “I told him I keep seeing you here.”
“Promise me you didn’t tell him.” She held her breath.
“I didn’t tell him.” With his back to her, he reeled slow and nodded. “After fishing tomorrow, Trevor thinks we’re heading to Wilhoit for dinner.”
“Good. And you plan to be here, too?”
“If it’s all right with you.” He nodded. “And Bob feels the same way.”
“Bob?” She laughed. Mildly surprised that the big burly man also wanted to see Trevor’s reaction.
“Yes, and we ought to invite Fletcher, too, and your dad, if you want. When you buy your fellow the best fishing hole on the Molalla, I’d hope you’re including his friends.”
“Of course.” She inhaled deeply, staring at the river. Tomorrow night wouldn’t just be Jack; there’d be quite the fishing party.
“Why the sooner, the better?” Was he hiding something from her?
“Because . . .” Jack cast again upstream and turned slightly to meet her gaze. “You’re perfect for him. You always have been. And now that you own the best fishing hole on the Molalla, a lot of other bachelor anglers are going to think you’re perfect for them, too.”
Jack finally approved of her.
Trevor had often described Jack as an unsociable angler, so she was surprised when he continued fishing only a short distance away. She worked past the staples, opening the bag. Inside, were several spinners, some pink yarn, and an envelope. She pulled out a plain white envelope and slid her hook file beneath the seal.
“When did you stop by Trevor’s?”
“Last night and this morning. The store was busy. Trevor could have used your help.”
“I called him and let him know that I wouldn’t be in for a while. I can’t be around him right now. I’d just want to tell him.” And, unfortunately, Fletcher felt the same way. She sighed. “And, I’ve decided that I want to tell him here, Jack.”
“I like that idea, too; and I’ll help you any way I can.”
It had cost her a river, but she finally had an ally in the man. Warm tears were close as she slid a piece of yellow paper out of the envelope. Unfolding it, her gaze fell upon the word lovely.
Jack had written Trevor’s notes into a poem.
A poem for her.
She leaned back against the large warm rock and tears dripped down her cheeks as she lingered on each word.
For Mae . . .
May I tell you that you’re lovely?
Your eyes help me understand why
My father wed my mother in two weeks of their first look.
May I tell you that you’re lovely?
Your eyes stir my memories
To dream of dreams, long forgotten.
Dreams of a little boy
Walking beside me,
fishing rod in hand.
His eyes, a mirror to yours.
May I tell you that you’re lovely?
In their pools of gentleness and understanding,
Your eyes are home to my soul.
Mae tipped back her head, sniffed and looked up. Such was a moment that Aunt Lela had often told her about when the curtains of heaven were parted for a rare view. She knew that both Auntie and Momma were watching from the balconies of heaven.
Jack reeled in slowly; reaching back for his next cast, he glanced over at her.
“Is it the poem?” he asked.
“Yes, Jack.” He knew about it because he’d written it.
“Trevor needed help getting his ideas to flow. I wrote it with some assistance from Clara Chicklesworth. What do you think?” His line whizzed as he cast upstream.
“It’s beautiful.” She sniffled. “I’m going to frame it and hang it. Maybe in the kitchen.” She thought about the wall to the left of the phone.
“It would look good there.” He sounded pleased.
»»»
Jack decided that since he was already at Mae’s Place, he might as well stay for dinner. She pan-fried a rainbow trout in browned butter, cut thick slices of homemade potato bread, opened a jar of Elsie’s peaches, and poured glasses of Wilhoit mineral water from a jug that she kept in the fridge. He sat down at the table. Tonight at prayer group, he was going to have a difficult time keeping a straight face, and so was Clara.
“Jack, do you have any pets?” Mae asked.
“No. The coons that raid my trash can each night think they’re my pets. I’ve never even had a dog.”
“I remember you said that you didn’t enjoy Shakespeare all that much. What is your favorite genre?”
“Westerns. For years, I wanted to teach a class called Red, White, and Zane Grey, but the board didn’t approve it until last spring when I gave my resignation.”
“Sounds like they wanted you to stay.” She picked small bones out of the soft, white meat.
“Yes, they’ve recently contacted me about teaching again. They wanted me to consider my recent retirement a sabbatical.” He shook his head. “I’d rather live very meagerly than responsibly. Much was expected of such a respected position.”
“I’m glad you passed.” She glanced at the clock. “I want to freshen up before we leave.”
He agreed. He probably should, too.
After Mae left the table, he sat in Trevor’s future dining nook and took it all in. At the entrance to the chapel, this fishing buddy’s bride would be different. Instead of Jack being deserted, his friendship would be embraced. He’d insist that their children call him Uncle Jack, and when they were old enough, maybe ten, he’d take them fishing. He pulled a wrinkled handkerchief out of his shirt pocket, lifted up his glasses, and dabbed at his eyes. And to think that Mae knew how to make Fletcher’s chicken pot pie; he swallowed and shook his head. Well, it was all too much to fathom.
God was good, indeed.
»»»
The day had been warm, and Gladys’s living room was unusually stuffy. While Trevor opened the front windows, he saw Mae drive slowly past in her old Ford. She turned around on Third Street and then parked alongside the gravel shoulder out front. Jack emerged from the passenger side of the cab. The two had traveled together, maybe from the river.
Hmmm . . .
Unfortunately, there wasn’t an empty seat next to Trevor. He brought an extra chair in from the dining room for her. Mae sat down beside Clara, across the room from where he was seated beside Evelyn on the sofa. When Mae met his gaze across the room, her eyes were sparkling. Happiness exuded from her.
“Any prayer requests, Trevor?” Gladys asked. The room was full of a heady giddiness.
“Yes, I’d like prayer for Beth and her son, Mike. The boy is hungry for a father-figure and naturally so. But, it can’t be me.” His gaze drifted to Mae. “It’s been a difficult week for me. As all of you know, Walt sold his place last week. And, on top of that, Mae hasn’t worked for me all week—a difficult combination.” Stil
l, he found himself smiling across the room at her. “I thought the Father’s hand was in the old dream. That’s why I invested so much hope in it. But…” he looked at Gladys, “maybe the dream was simply to open my heart to Mae. Walt’s Place was simply…” he searched for the right words.
“A nudging of the heart,” Jack said.
“Yes.” Trevor nodded.
“I’ve lost track of your prayer request, Trevor,” Gladys said.
“Sounds like he wants God’s assistance in revising an old dream,” Helen said.
“Yes.” He nodded. “That’s it.”
Evelyn, who was next, patted Trevor’s hand. “My neighbors gave me a little calico kitten this week. Cutest little thing—and so sweet. I called her Button. After losing Bernard, Button’s been such a blessing to me.”
Trevor looked across the room at Mae. “Bernard was Evelyn’s German shepherd. She had Bernard for eleven years.”
Mae nodded. “I’m sorry, Evelyn.”
“I can’t remember if you’ve told Mae about the dream?” Evelyn leaned toward Trevor as she smiled across the room at Mae.
“The way she’s been smiling at me tonight, I almost think she’s ready to hear it.” He chuckled softly, enjoying the added color in Mae’s cheeks.
“And it doesn’t appear that she’s told you either.” Evelyn patted his nearest hand.
He smiled. “Told me what?”
Wide-eyed, Evelyn swallowed and her gaze shifted to Gladys.
“Evelyn, do you have any prayer requests?” Gladys rested her hands on top of her cane.
“What does Mae have to tell me, Evelyn?” Trevor leaned toward Evelyn while he stared at Mae.
Hunched forward and wide-eyed, Mae sat stiffly on her hands.
Something was going on.
“I plan to tell him tomorrow night, Evelyn, when he comes over for dinner.” Mae smiled softly at them both.
“Tell me what?” The room was too quiet as if everyone knew but him.
“Any prayer requests, Evelyn?” Gladys asked.
“No.” She patted a hand to her curls.
“I wanted to inform everyone, including Trevor, that I am still officially retired.” Jack took it upon himself to be next. “Recently, I was offered my old teaching position back, and I felt torn ever so slightly over the idea of a regular paycheck. The thought of returning to university life and leaving the Molalla, Trevor, and, you ladies, proved too much for me. I’d like to be considered a permanent member of the group, and I’d like each and every one of you ladies to take it upon yourself to invite me to dinner one night of the week. Each week. I’m a bachelor angler for life, and I tell you dessert smells wonderful.”
Of course, the ladies giggled. Jack was at his best tonight.
“I hate to steal your thunder . . .” Over his shoulder, Trevor locked eyes with Jack, “but there’s something unsettled between Mae and I.”
“Mae and me,” Jack corrected him. “Let it wait, Trevor. Well, some things need to be said in private, you understand.”
Trevor sighed. Something was amiss.
“It’s okay, Jack, I’ll tell him,” Mae said, rolling one shoulder forward.
“You will? What about tomorrow night?”
She shrugged. “I don’t want to wait.”
Neither did Trevor.
His shoulders felt heavy as he leaned back into the worn couch cushions. Across the room, Mae smiled, meeting his gaze. Beside him, Evelyn clutched her hands below her chin.
“I love you, Trevor Dawber, everyone here knows that except you.” Tears sparkled in her eyes.
Though God had tried to prepare him, he still wasn’t. “I’m glad you didn’t wait until tomorrow night. I’ve never been one to handle suspense. I love you, too, Mae.” His smile felt as wide as the Molalla. Did she know how right it was that their joy was shared in this room and with these ladies? Someday, he’d tell her.
“Let’s get married soon. I know from each day that you haven’t been at the store lately that my life is empty without you.”
Mae nodded; her heart in her eyes.
He’d just proposed, hadn’t he? And right in front of Jack.
Chapter 24
Friday afternoon at three thirty, Mae’s old Ford truck rolled into a front parking space. Only Fletcher was in the cab. He soon made his way up the front steps and inside.
“Been fishing?” Trevor asked.
“No, not today. I’m down to only one spinner. Mae and I will be back to work on Monday. If that’s all right with you?”
“That’s great.” Their long absence had compounded what had been a difficult week.
Fletcher paused at the photo board, and setting his hands to his knees, admired the new pictures for the second time.
The photo of Mae and her steelhead—a beautiful girl holding a beautiful fish—had received plenty of attention. Throughout the past week, plenty of customers had noted her absence and commented on how they’d missed seeing a pretty face in his store. Even Bob had added that they didn’t come any finer than Mae Bucknell. Somehow she’d landed his heart, too.
“Before I forget, your drag knob’s here.” Trevor rounded the side of the front counter and in the drawer beneath the register found the knob. Then he continued to rummage through the drawer, looking for the notes for Mae’s poem. Where were they?
“Suppose you’ve heard Henry and Ruby are getting married?” Fletcher joined him at the counter and slid the knob into his front pants pocket.
“No, I hadn’t. That’s great news.”
“I always hoped Mae would have a twinkle in her eye for Henry, but she never did.” Fletcher sighed. “I always told him that she’d make someone a great wife. She’s the kind of woman who’d jump out and pull the boat to shore if you needed her to.”
Trevor couldn’t agree more.
“Are you still needing encouragement regarding Mae?”
“I’ve never been one to say no to encouragement.” Trevor chuckled.
“Well . . . there was something else I wanted to tell you the other day when your rep was here, but I decided not to.”
Trevor tilted his head to one side, curious now.
“Don’t tell Mae that I told you this,” Fletcher patted the glass countertop between them and glanced toward the front, “but… her aunt’s estate closed before we even started working here.” Fletcher's eyes sparkled. “Mae had plenty of money in the bank when she let you buy her tires for her. I knew then that she was harboring more than a wee crush.”
Mae. He remembered her gaze across Gladys’s front room. There had been so much love in her eyes.
“I’m like a second dad to her, you know, and I want you always to remember that.”
Trevor nodded and continued grinning. “Fletcher, what do you think about my asking for Mae’s hand in marriage?” Though he’d already asked Mae, he didn’t want he or James for that matter to feel left out.
The dimples deepened in Fletcher’s wide cheeks. “I think you love fishing enough to make her happy.”
Trevor chuckled. He was indeed a lucky man.
»»»
Fletcher had been the only customer in the store in the last hour. Maybe Trevor did have cabin fever as Jack had put it—he plain didn’t want to be here, locked in the store for the final hour of the day. Alone.
He carried his Open/Closed sign to the front counter and found his black felt marker. On the Closed side of the sign, he wrote: Gone Fishing—in big bold lettering that went from corner to corner. Then he hung it in the front window, locked the door, gathered his fishing gear, and went out the back. Before he met Mae and Jack at the river, he had two stops to make in Molalla, the first being at Miller and Nelson.
There was no bell above the door to announce Trevor’s entrance into the tire and fishing store in downtown Molalla. A young couple buying a new set of tires, stood in line ahead of him.
Byron’s signage looked brighter than Trevor’s. He’d have to have Mae start making his signs. Sh
e had nice handwriting. Looking back, her handwriting alone had been reason enough for him to hire her. Not to mention her math skills or how she looked behind the counter.
He’d been such a fool—a fool backed by prayer.
The couple blocked his view of Byron, but Trevor could hear him just fine. “You folks into fishing? Memorial Day’s coming up. One of the biggest camping, fishing weekends of the year.”
“No, we’re just here for tires.” The fellow shook his head.
“Some of the best cutthroat fishing in the area’s no more than three miles away on the Molalla.” Byron wasn’t just trying to make an add-on sale; he was trying to make an add-on sport.
“Who’s Trevor Dawber?” the woman asked, probably in reference to the infamous raffle jars that Trevor couldn’t see from his viewpoint.
“He’s a competitor of ours, owns a tackle shop in Scotts Mills. It’s a dime an entry, depending on which jar you choose.”
The woman shook her head.
Feeling generous, Trevor pulled two dollars out of his wallet.
“Trevor Dawber’s favorite saying used to be that he didn’t have time for a wife and a river, so here this gal comes along, and—”
“Now, that’s enough, Byron,” Trevor interrupted. He couldn’t stand to have Byron talk bad about Mae. “You don’t need to tell these folks my life history.” Though he felt ready to charge the counter, he managed a chuckle.
“Trevor!” Taking a step to his right, Byron spotted him. “You lucky… stinking…” He shook his head. “Congratulations!”
Mae had obviously made quite the impression on Byron, too. News traveled fast on the river. “Sounds like you’ve heard.”
“Heard! . . . Bob was here no more than an hour ago…” Byron’s voice trailed off. Wide-eyed, he appeared to swallow a hard knot in his throat. “…and told me.”
A Wife and a River - A Christian romance Page 24
