Jack must have told Bob.
“I am a very lucky man.” He grinned at the fellow in front of him. “Sorry to interrupt, but I got engaged last night.” Trevor couldn’t quite believe the news himself.
The young woman stepped aside, giving Trevor a view of the counter. “So are you leaning more toward September or December?” she asked, with a twinkle in her eyes.
Two quart-sized Mason jars—one labeled September 1960, the other December 1960—appeared more than half full of gray raffle tickets and dimes. Hand printed on cardstock, the sign read: Trevor Dawber’s next wedding. A dime an entry.
“We haven’t determined a date, but if I have anything to say about it, I’d lean toward the September jar.”
“One ticket, please,” the woman told Byron, dropping a dime into the September jar.
“Congratulations!” The young couple told him with matching grins, as they started for the door.
“Glad I could be of help, and good luck with those tires!” Trevor said.
“What brings you in?” Byron asked.
“I’ve heard about this little raffle of yours.” Trevor plunked two dollars into the before September 1960 jar. “I’d like twenty tickets, please.”
“That’s one way to rig a raffle.” Byron pushed the half-filled Mason jar across the counter and glanced toward the door.
“Two bad about Walt’s Place, huh?” Trevor leaned an elbow on the counter. If anyone could commiserate with him, it would be Byron.
“I never even got one call.” Byron sighed as he counted raffle tickets off the roll.
A tall, middle-aged man entered and took a right into the tire section.
“You’ll have to count these out yourself.” Byron handed him the roll. “I trust you.” Then he rounded the side of the long wooden counter to greet the customer.
Trevor counted ten tickets and then folded the strip back, aligning it with the next ten, before ripping off the bundle. He wrote Trevor and the store’s phone number down on each ticket, separated them and dropped them into the jar.
While Byron stayed in the tire section, blabbing away, Trevor spotted a black felt marker on the counter and felt inspired. He uncapped it, and holding the Mason jar in his left hand, drew a line through September. He’d write July instead. He had J-U on the jar, and then he thought about writing June, but the problem was the label said “before” and there weren’t many days left to the month of May. What was he thinking? He hadn’t even talked with his bride-to-be about a date yet. But her name was Mae, so there was good chance that she’d be partial to May. He thought he’d best play it safe, and finished writing July. He hadn’t even asked James for her hand yet or bought rings or determined a honeymoon. He couldn’t write June. What was he thinking? He suppressed a chuckle.
Byron seemed to be yakking for a purposefully long time about the weather, and about Memorial Day fishing. The fellow had already told him he was only looking at tires.
Trevor waved on his way to the door.
He had one more stop to make in town. He glanced across the street at Melton’s Mercantile on the corner of Main and Molalla Avenue. For his date at the river tonight, he was going to buy a new tie, something to bring out the green in his eyes.
Cowboy boots lined the front windows of Molalla’s only department store. They carried a full line of western wear, logging wear, and business attire, not to mention women’s apparel.
“Is Ruby Melton in?” he asked the clerk behind the counter.
“Yes, she works the men’s clothing department.”
Why did that not surprise him?
He strolled down the main aisle and was familiar enough with the store to take a left. Near a large rounder of cowboy shirts, Ruby had her back to him, but he recognized her by her stiletto heels. Her feet must kill her by the end of the day.
“Ruby . . .” Trevor cleared his throat.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Trevor . . . who’s running your store?”
“I closed up a half hour early to get some errands accomplished. Very unlike me. By the way, congratulations! When’s the wedding?”
“I’ve always wanted a summer wedding, but Fletcher told Henry to put it off as long as possible. So we’re getting married in September.” She sighed. “Fletcher’s always wanted Mae to marry Henry, but that isn’t going to happen now, is it?”
“No, it isn’t.” Trevor grinned. He’d be getting married sooner than Ruby; that is if it was all right with Mae.
“I’m here to take you up on your offer to help me pick out a tie.”
“Good!” Ruby smiled. “The one you’re wearing is terrible.”
He looked down at his old black-and-gray checked tie that he’d worn for years. Though he’d worn it plenty of times to the river and had good luck, he’d be sure to throw it in the garbage on his way out.
“Something with green.” She held a tie up beneath his chin, narrowing her gaze. The color reminded him of the muted green in a brown trout. He hoped it would be the one that Ruby chose.
“And I’d like to get Mae a bottle of that fish attractant perfume of yours—what was the name?”
“Chanel Number 5. Mae told me she wasn’t a perfume-wearing-type of gal.” Ruby held up a kelly-green-and-blue striped tie, and then the brown trout tie again, before handing him the latter.
“Well, if Mae determines she’s not, knowing her, she’ll still put it to good use.”
“Yes, Mae’s quite the angler girl. What time’s your fishing date?” She glanced toward a clock on the far wall.
“Uh . . . in fifteen minutes.” Fortunately, the river was only three miles away. Somehow Ruby knew about tonight. But that was life in a small town. Everyone knew everything about you. Sometimes before you did.
“You really should purchase both of these. The three times I’ve seen you, your ties have been dreadful.”
Though Trevor wasn’t sold on her sales technique, he carried both ties to the counter. While Ruby rang them up, he took off his old tie and tossed it toward a trash can behind the counter, making it. Then he tied on the brown trout one.
“Congratulations again.” Ruby smiled at him. “To us both.”
“Thanks. I agree.”
She handed him the bag. “Good luck fishing.”
He’d been such a fool. There was nothing like making a purchase and being wished good luck fishing by a pretty gal. He was, indeed, one lucky man.
»»»
At five thirty sharp, Trevor rolled up to Walt’s Old Place. Both Mae and Jack’s trucks were already parked near the barn. Trevor grabbed his fishing gear and made his way up the porch steps. Even though the house appeared dark, he knocked on the front door. No one was home. Unfortunately, he’d have to trek up the river without the new owners’ permission.
The wide pathway down to the river had been clipped back a bit; otherwise, very little about the place had changed. Carrying his rod upright, he made his way through the trail of willows and then the river came into view. The deep teal blue water mirrored the towering cottonwoods, and its beauty struck a deep chord in his soul.
The dream had been merely that—a dream.
Two holes upstream, Jack was fishing near the alder tree, one of their favorite spots. Where was Mae? He’d brought a Thermos of coffee and hoped to share a cup with her before they started fishing.
He sat down on the log-seat they’d once shared and started rigging up. Where was she? Her truck was here. After last night, he’d thought for sure she’d be here waiting for him with the same beaming smile.
“Jack, you didn’t happen to take my notes for Mae’s poem?”
“What poem?” asked Jack, casting upstream.
“The poem I wanted you to write for Mae. They were on a yellow sheet of paper in the drawer beneath the register, and now I can’t find it.”
“That’s odd.”
His answer was odd. Knowing Jack, he was probably hiding the notes from him.
Trevor tied a wooly
worm fly on a short leader behind a nickel-plated Indiana spinner and walked several strides downstream from Jack before making a thirty-foot cast. He let it swing with the current while he reeled in slowly; yet fast enough to keep the blades on the spinner turning.
Downriver, the clang of Walt’s old dinner bell echoed three times up the river canyon. The evening felt bittersweet. Why tonight of all nights, did they have to fish here? It was too soon. He needed a little more time.
“Why don’t you go see what that bell’s about?” asked Jack, nodding downstream.
“It’s a dinner bell. It’s time for dinner, and one of them is fishing.”
“Did you check in?”
“No one was home. I tried.”
“Well, they’re back now. The big, heavy-set fellow, who owns the place, told me they want to meet everyone who fishes here. He wants everyone to check in like Walt used to do.”
Trevor sighed. The last thing he needed was to get off on the wrong foot with the new owners.
“I’d get permission if I were you—”
“I get it, Jack.” It was just like him to be a grump about something so simple.
“And, the fact that your name’s at the top of Walt’s old phone list is all the more reason for you to get off on a proper footing with these folks.”
“That’s what I’m going to do. Come up with me.”
“No, you know me; I hate confrontation.” Jack pulled line off his reel and flicked back his bail for another cast.
Who was he kidding? The man thrived on it.
Trevor leaned his spin outfit against a log and then thought better of it. He retrieved both his satchel and rod and headed downstream. He might as well meet the new owners, get their permission, and get over any grudges he may be harboring.
As he rounded the bend, he caught a glimpse of a woman in a dark skirt and crisp white shirt standing near the ledge in the backyard of Walt’s Old Place.
Could the new owners have rung the dinner bell because of him—the unknown angler? Halfway through the willow-lined section of trail, the woman met him. It was Mae, and she wasn’t dressed for fishing.
“Where’s your fishing tucker?” He nudged up the brim of his hat.
“Looks like I’m not the only one who wanted to dress nicely for tonight. Nice tie.” She smiled up at him like a school girl.
“Thanks. You’re dressed awfully nice for fishing.”
She nodded slightly and inhaled, nervous about something.
“What is it, Mae?” He stroked the side of her cheek gently with one hand. Then, he glanced ahead of her to the wider trail, half expecting the new owner to lumber down toting a shotgun.
“I came back to get permission. No one was here earlier when I arrived, and Jack’s afraid that the new owners will think I’m trespassing.”
“Look at me, Trevor.” She peered up at him and inhaled deeply.
Where they stood in the willow-lined path was almost the exact spot as… He pushed the dream of the little boy aside and focused on the love in Mae’s eyes.
“Today felt so long,” he said.
“For me, too.” She inhaled deeply. “Trevor . . .”
“Yes?” What was she not telling him?
“I’m the one who rang the bell. It’s time for dinner.”
He glanced ahead on the trail. Had she brought a picnic? Did she mean at her truck?
“What do you mean, Mae?” He gripped his hand around his bamboo rod to be certain he had his wits about him.
“I’m the one who bought Walt’s Place.” Tears entered her eyes. “I bought it for you.”
“No, Mae.” A sad chuckle escaped him. “A heavy-set fellow and—”
“Fletcher went to the title company with me, but I bought it, Trevor.”
“No.” He shook his head, sadly and for a moment, everything seemed fuzzy. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. The truth slowly began to hit home. The congratulations in town. Byron’s reaction to him. The set-up of the day. His limbs felt sluggish as he leaned his rod against the brush.
“Remember last Wednesday when you had me wash the bait fridge and I left in a huff?”
“Yeah.”
Her arms wrapped tightly about his middle, steadying him as she pressed her cheek to his chest. “I came here. Walt’d had some kind of fall. His son was here. Walt tried to call you, twice. I think you were at Gladys’s. He was just about to call Byron Miller, and I couldn’t let him do that.” She inhaled. “That’s when I told Walt that I’d buy it.”
He nestled his chin on the top of her hair. “I think you know about the dream, Mae.”
“Yes, a dear professor friend of yours told me, anonymously.”
He wondered who’d told Jack.
“Mae . . .” He kissed the top of her head; and then holding her away from him, and gazed into her eyes.
“Bob, Fletcher and my dad are here.” She smiled up at him. “After they dropped off my dad, they parked up at The B & B and walked down. They wanted to see your face after I told you.”
“Told me what?” He needed to hear her say it again.
“Trevor Dawber, I bought you the best fishing hole on the Molalla.”
Last night, everyone else at Gladys’s had known that God had answered their prayers. And Mae was proof that he was indeed a man of second chances.
“Jack will be up as soon as I ring the dinner bell a second time.”
“Not yet.” He cupped the smooth curve of her cheek and gently kissed her. He held her, lingering in the moment. God had given him a woman who loved him and loved to fish; and friends who wanted to share in the finer moments in his life.
“Did you say Fletcher and your dad are here, too?”
“Yes, and Bob.” She smiled up at him. “You know, Bob fished at Walt’s far more often than you ever gave him credit.”
He chuckled. “Did I tell you that I’m working on a new line?”
“Yes, but I’ve already determined one for you.” She patted a hand against his chest.
“Tell me then, what’s my new line?” He marveled at the sparkle in her gray-blue eyes.
“You found out, Trevor Dawber, when you married the woman who owns Walt’s Old Place, that you do have time for a wife and a river.” She cast him a lovely smile. Then, Mae stepped forward on the trail and, special woman that she was pulled him toward home.
I hope you enjoyed this fishing romance. To sign up for my newsletter:
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The next book in the Wilhoit Series is about Mae’s younger sister, Isabelle, and has no fishing. It will be released October, 2016 – God willing.
If you’d like to leave a review, click HERE.
Sherri’s Christian romances:
Fried Chicken and Gravy – a romance with some fishing
Available in audio
Sticky Notes – a lighthearted romance
Available in audio
The Piano Girl – for ages 7 to 107
A Wife and a River – audio in the works
Final Acknowledgements
My brother, Guy Schoenborn, for sharing his numerous fishing stories and his incredible knowledge of the industry. My brother, Brad Schoenborn, for his fishing stories, too. Bud Stone, a wheelchair angler and friend, for inspiring James’s driftboat scene. John Abramson for inspiring “The Quah.” Bradly Hammons for sharing the pinecone story of when he was young and my dad used to take him fishing. Al Curtis, for his sentiments regarding Lamentations 3:22-23 The Lord’s mercies are new every morning and we get another chance to get it right. Pastor Paul Jackson, for his line regarding his grandfather who’d taught him to fish and the seasons of a river. And to my great-grandparents, who owned Wilhoit Mineral Springs in the 1950’s—specifically, my great-grandmother, Mabel, who liked to go by “Mae” and who always kept a jug of the soda water in the fridge.
Thank you to Iris and the other sweet ladies at the Molalla Historical Society; and to the caretakers at Wilhoit Mineral Springs—Debra and S
teve, for their stories about Wilhoit, which is now a Clackamas County park. I took liberties with the actual structure of the hotel. After the second hotel burnt down in the 1928, it was replaced by a small caretaker’s cottage.
L.L. Bean Game and Fish Cookbook by authors Angus Cameron and Judith Jones. The book is an entertaining read for sportsmen, and is where I found the recipe for Trevor’s canned green beans.
The Pocket Gillie Fly Fishing Essentials by Scott Richmond. The book was a helpful and enjoyable read.
And, lastly, a special thank you to my writing coach, Randy Ingermanson—author of Fiction for Dummies; and fellow fiction writers: Patty Slack, Traci Hilton and John Dunn. And, of course my boatload of editors: Carolyn Ingermanson, Pamela Waddell, Cori Murray, my mom—Ethel Schoenborn, and my main and final editors Jean Hall and Kristi Weber.
Recipes
Three recipes follow and are also on my website.
· Fletcher’s Chicken Pot Pie
· Clara’s Snickerdoodles
· Gluten Free Snickerdoodles
Fletcher’s Chicken Pot Pie
Note the last step, the Spoon-On Crust.
You could also use your own pie crust recipe with this filling.
1 cube butter, (8 tablespoons)
1 tablespoon olive oil
½ cup onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
¾ cup carrots, diced
¾ cup celery, diced
¾ cup peas
½ cup flour
2 cups chicken broth
1 cup heavy cream
½ t. black pepper
1 teaspoon salt or more, depending on your taste
¼ teaspoon celery seed
3 to 4 cups chicken, cooked and cubed (4 cups is about 2 pounds
boneless chicken breasts, or a 3 ½ pound whole chicken)
Spoon-On Crust recipe – see below
1. Heat 2 tablespoons of the butter and the 1 T. olive oil over medium heat in a skillet. Add onion and cook until soft, but not brown. Add garlic and sauté for 1 minute. Add carrots and celery and sauté for 5 minutes. Remove to bowl and set aside.
A Wife and a River - A Christian romance Page 25
