“Or your mother.”
“Maybe,” Belle conceded. “I’d hate for you to become more unhappy. You’re kind of on my watch, you know.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not dwelling on death at all, Belle. Quite the opposite. I’m focusing on living.”
Belle came to her side and took hold of her hands. “I’m glad. Really glad. You look better than when I left you here that first night, that’s for sure. Did you contact your husband?”
“Yes. We had a rather unpleasant phone call. He wants a divorce.”
“I see,” she said without surprise. “And what about you?”
“I don’t have any choice. He wants to marry the woman I saw him with. Apparently they’ve been having an affair.”
Belle squeezed her hands. “That’s not what I’m asking. How do you feel about getting a divorce?”
Mia took a deep breath and in that space of time heard a birdcall outside her window. She recognized the strident cry as that of the Carolina wren. Belle released her hands and crossed her arms, waiting.
“My feelings have run the gamut from fury to hurt to finally just wanting to move on. That’s the good thing about being at a place like this. There are no distractions. No television or Internet and e-mails. I’ve had a lot of time to think about me. Not just about the divorce but all that existential stuff—my emotions, ambitions, beliefs. I’ve had the rug pulled out from me in so many ways.”
“Are you coming to any conclusions?”
“Oh, I’ve a long way to go yet,” Mia replied with a wry smile. “But I’ve come to terms with the fact that Charles’s betrayal was just one more betrayal. Far worse was the betrayal of my body.”
“Have you forgiven it?”
“I’m making friends with it. I’m eating better, taking long walks. And fly-fishing.”
“Glad to hear that.”
“I’ve told Charles to go ahead with the divorce.”
“Glad to hear that, too.”
“So is my sister.”
“I feel badly that I’m taking off so soon. I feel like I’m leaving you on your own up here.”
“When do you leave?”
“In two days. I’m meeting the group in Edinburgh on Saturday.” “It’s a dream trip. Six whole weeks fly-fishing in Scotland.”
“Will you be OK while I’m gone?”
“Oh, sure I will. I’m getting used to the place. I have my routine. I’m fishing more and I’m making a few friends in town.”
Belle’s gaze sharpened. “You are?”
“You know, at the shops and restaurants. It’s inevitable.”
“I’m going to ask you the same thing my mother asked me. Don’t stir up the mud while you’re up here.”
“I can’t help going to town.”
“The townsfolk might ask you questions, but keep telling them you don’t know anything and the gossip will die down again. I just want the story of Kate Watkins to die.”
Mia felt a shudder but nodded her head.
Belle turned and took hold of the fishing rods, her eyes gleaming at the sight of them. “At least my grandmother left me something of value.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to take the books?” Mia ventured. It was a small offering of the truth.
“No, you should read them while you’re here.”
“I’ll help you carry the rods out,” Mia offered. She suddenly wanted Belle to leave before she changed her mind.
As Belle loaded up her car with her treasured rods, she paused and swung her head around. “Mia, go on and get that rod I lent you. The one with the handle that didn’t feel right.”
“Oh, it’s OK. I’ll get used to it.”
“No, go get it. You don’t want a rod that doesn’t feel right.”
When Mia returned she saw that Belle had pulled out a different rod from her car and held it out to her. Mia recognized it immediately by the rosy coloring. It was a Temple Fork rod created especially for Casting for Recovery.
“I remember you liked this rod.”
Mia took the rod and held the slim, cork handle. It fit comfortably in her grip. She gave it a quick forward cast. “Smooth,” she said, repeating Belle’s word about the Payne.
“Hang on to it, then. See how you do.”
“Are you sure? But, what if I should hurt it? With my luck I’ll break the tip tugging my fly from some tree.”
“Hey, no big deal. So I’ll get another one.” She paused to look at her feet, then raising her head said, “I didn’t mean to snap at you in there. Whenever I get to talking about her,” she jerked her chin, indicating the cabin, “I get riled. We can’t choose our families, can we? We can only try to get past some of them.”
“Do you want to stay for dinner? I can’t promise a feast but I can rustle up something.”
“Wish I could. I have so much to get done before I go.”
“Of course.” She walked with Belle to the driver’s side of the car and stood by as Belle climbed in and shut the door. She put the key in the ignition and fired it, then turned her head to smile up at Mia. For such a strong, sometimes intimidating woman, Belle had the sweetest smile.
“Thanks for the rod,” Mia said, then chuckled self-consciously. “And the waders and the boots and the vest and everything else.”
“You bet. And I wanted to tell you that the cabin looks real nice. I can tell you worked hard. I didn’t want to leave with you thinking I didn’t notice.” She pulled out a cigar from her pocket and set it between her lips. “Scotland, here I come.”
That night Mia lay in her bed feeling that she was caught in a river with several strong currents. The diary, the journals—they were part of a long, running story of a family. One that had deep pools and pockets. Belle might not be aware of it, but there was a connection waiting for her here in this cabin. From father to daughter to granddaughter they were tethered to a common line—a love of fly-fishing. That wasn’t coincidental. It ran through their bloodline as sure and strong as the currents in a river. Belle sensed it, which was why she couldn’t sell the property. Yet she was wary of it. Theodora’s version of the truth couldn’t be the whole story. Nor was the town’s version of the truth.
And what was her role in this story? Mia wondered. She had one, she felt certain. From the moment she’d stepped foot into this cabin she’d felt she was supposed to be here. Or perhaps she was granted the boon of staying in exchange for…what? Was she to be the historian? The narrator? A bit player?
Forgive me, Belle, she thought, but she could only find out by immersing herself in the story. To find out who Kate Watkins was and what had happened to lead her to a life of isolation she had no choice but to dive into the river.
Or perhaps Belle’s mother had said it right after all. To stir up the mud.
Chapter Eight
Women can make better fly fishers than men. They hold their body with more control, they follow directions well, and they have an ability to finesse the line. And they don’t try to overpower the fly rod. Fly-fishing is more about skill than strength. Of course, it helps that women are smarter, too.
—KATE WATKINS’S FISHING DIARY
The Watkins Mill library was a two-story, tawny brick building with white-trimmed windows. Mia enjoyed walking along the tree-shaded street and catching the mouthwatering scents emanating from restaurants catering to the tourists. Summer was kicking in and the charming Victorian town was a popular vacation spot for people seeking respite in the mountains.
She stepped inside the library and welcomed the blast of cool air conditioning. Though cheery light poured in from the front windows, the rest of the library was muted and dim. Only a few patrons sat at the long wood tables or across the room in the comfortable collection of sofas, upholstered chairs, tables, and lamps designed to look like a family room. Book clubs likely met there, she thought, and it would be a marvelous place for her to sit and read when she came to town.
Mia had come to do research about the woman young Kate had become.
She walked around the few rooms of the library, making herself familiar with the space. There were two computers for the public and her heartbeat accelerated at the chance to check her e-mails. Old habits died hard, she thought as she settled into a chair and eagerly hooked up to the Internet.
She had seventy-two e-mails. As she scrolled down the list, she was disheartened to find that most of them were spam. The few others were from Maddie and a few friends. There were two from Charles, one dated prior to their last phone call asking that she call. This had an urgent red flag attached. The second was dated yesterday, also with a red flag. She took a breath and opened it.
GOT THE VISA BILL. WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP IN WATKINS MILL, NC? THIS IS NOT VACATION TIME. DO YOU EXPECT ME TO PAY THESE BILLS? CALL ME.
It was just like him to shout at her in capital letters. Mia puffed up her cheeks and exhaled. Well, Charles knew where she was now. What did it matter, really? Except it was unfair of him to imply she was living in luxury, spending wildly. It’d be different if she’d flown off to some great hotel and he was getting whopping bills for room and food and spa treatments. Hardly the scenario. She’d spent a few measly hundred dollars on enough food and supplies to live on for weeks. And no rent! If she returned home, then he would have to leave. What difference did it make who left? Meanwhile he was undoubtedly still living his lifestyle of eating out most nights, going to bars, and playing golf. Of course, he’d consider that spending essential. But everything she spent on cleaning supplies and groceries and a few pairs of jeans he viewed as over the top. If she ate leftover chicken again she thought she’d gag.
He always knew how to boil her blood, but flying off the handle was not going to help the situation, she decided. She composed herself and replied with an e-mail that she had to rewrite several times to delete any nasty tone that crept in. In the end she whittled it down to a few unemotional lines.
Charles,
I thought we’d come to an agreement. You are staying in OUR house. I am living rent free at a friend’s house. I will necessarily accrue some bills but will continue to be frugal. I expect that you will be as well. If this is unsatisfactory, it is clear you cannot mediate the divorce and I will seek my own representation immediately. If this is acceptable, I expect my living expenses here to be paid by our joint account. I cannot call you readily as phone service is nil. We can leave messages.
Please advise.
Mia
Before pushing the send button, she affixed a red flag. Along with the e-mail she sent off all the anger bubbling in her veins into cyberspace. She harnessed her attention and focused on her new quest.
“Who are you, Kate Watkins?” she murmured as she typed the name into the search engine.
It felt good to have a project that she could sink her teeth into. Her mind needed to work again and deflect her thoughts from herself for a while. Her fingers clicked rapidly on the keyboard as she hunted through several results, following trails: Kate Watkins. Katherine Watkins. She was disappointed to find so little information. The Watkins family apparently was not as illustrious as she’d first thought. There were references to the historical family but most of the information was repetitive, offering similar document sources. She kept copious notes in a notebook.
After two hours she shut down the computer and yawned, stretching her arms over her head. It wasn’t all that fruitful a search. All her digging revealed was that the Watkins ancestors had settled in western North Carolina in the 1740s with a land grant of three thousand acres. Mia had to pause as she read that number. Those were the days of enormous land grants delivered from governments with a flick of the pen. Could she even imagine owning so much land today?
The family remained prosperous until the Civil War, when North Carolina seceded from the Union and the Watkins sons marched off to battle. She traced their war records, discovering that all four sons had joined a company called the Buncombe Rifles and marched off to war behind a flag made from the silk dresses of town belles. One son died as a prisoner of war and two other sons died in battle. Mia felt a stirring of sympathy for the mother who had lost three beloved sons. Only one son, the youngest named Robert, survived. He had returned home, injured and sick, to his grief-stricken parents. They died soon after, leaving Robert to face alone the trials of the Reconstruction era. He had fared better than his Watkins relations. Their homes and plantations had either been burned to the ground or sold.
Robert Watkins had hung on to his parcel with tooth and nail. He had strength of will and tenacity that Mia thought was passed down to his granddaughter, Kate. He sold off most of his land in parcels to support the rebuilding of the mill business. Eventually he married and fathered a son, Walter, and a daughter, Ann, who died young. By the turn of the century Walter Watkins owned less than five hundred of the original three thousand acres. Walter became a minister and married Isobel Rogers and had a daughter, Katherine. This last parcel of land and the estate house was lost in 1930, apparently due to heavy losses in the stock market crash of 1929.
The reports ended here.
Mia closed her notebook, feeling half full. As she tapped her pen against her lip she wondered about the loss of the family estate. Kate’s father had been her hero as a child, yet he’d lost the family land and home to the stock market crash. Odd, she thought, that a minister who loved to fly-fish would also love to play the stock market. It seemed out of character for the gentle, retiring man she’d read about in Kate’s diary. But, Mia thought, it would not be out of character for adventurous Kate.
Mia’s mind was pressing with questions as she rose and walked to the librarian sitting behind the counter. She looked exactly like Mia thought a town librarian should look: a prim, elderly woman, slight in build but straight-backed. Her gray hair was severely pulled into a French twist but errant wisps floated around her head as she bent over the computer keyboard.
“Excuse me,” Mia said, coming to the long wood counter.
The woman’s hands paused from typing and she lifted her gaze. From behind horn-rimmed glasses, steel blue eyes delivered a cool appraisal. “Yes?”
“I need some help finding information, please.”
The woman straightened with the air of someone being disturbed from some important task to deal with something no doubt trivial. She rose and clasped her hands on the counter and said archly, “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for information on the Watkins family.”
“Oh? What kind of information?”
“Anything I can find.”
“Well,” she said with a condescending laugh. “It’s an old family.”
“I know,” Mia replied in an even tone. “I did some initial research. I have the genealogy. I know that they owned the mill that gave the town its name and that they lost their money after the crash in nineteen twenty-nine. I’m especially interested in Kate Watkins. I’ve heard she left town to live in the cabin at Watkins Cove and stayed there until her death in nineteen fifty-two.”
The woman surveyed her with more interest. “Why, may I ask, are you interested in Kate Watkins?”
“Let me introduce myself. I’m Mia Landan. I’m staying in the cabin at Watkins Cove.”
A flicker of recognition flashed in her eyes. “Ah yes, I heard someone had opened up the cabin. After all these years.” Her gaze sharpened. “Are you a relative?”
“No. I’m staying with the permission of Kate Watkins’s granddaughter.”
“Oh? I didn’t know she had a granddaughter. What is her name?”
“Belle Carson.”
She nodded her head as though in recognition. “I see. What do you want to know?”
“Well.” Mia stopped. “Excuse me, but I don’t know your name.” Mia thought that turnaround was fair play in this town.
“Phyllis. Phyllis Pace.” She said the last name with a ring of pride.
Mia smiled, recognizing the name as the same she had seen carved in granite over a redbrick building on Main Street. “It’s nice to
meet you, Mrs. Pace.”
“That’s Miss Pace,” she said, lifting her chin a tad higher. “Not Missus.”
“Sorry. Miss Pace.” Mia opened her notebook on the counter and went through her notes, all business now. “I can’t find any information about the family after the stock market crash in nineteen twenty-nine. The trail ends with how Walter Watkins lost everything.”
“That’s not entirely true. It puts unfair blame on Reverend Watkins. In fact the Watkinses’ fortunes began their downfall much earlier, after the Civil War. Back when they had the mill. I don’t remember exactly when the mill closed, but by the time it did, the railroad had come to town. Instead of the mill, money came in from tourists. The Watkins family, well, their money just sort of dwindled. They sold their land, bit by bit. Then there was the stock market crash. Everyone lost their shirts in the Depression. The Watkins were like many of the other great families of that era, I suppose. The library has boxes of letters and correspondence of the family that were donated.”
“Really?” Mia felt the thrill of the hunt pumping in her veins.
“They’re not of a personal nature. These are largely business papers and household accounts. They’re important in an historical sense, of course. But I warn you, it makes for some pretty dry reading.”
“Thank you, Miss Pace. I’d love to see them.”
“Well then,” she said, and Mia caught a flash of interest. “Do you see that reading room in the far corner? If you wait there, I’ll go get them and be back.”
A short while later Phyllis carried in two boxes to Mia’s table in the reading room. After instructions on the proper handling of the materials, Phyllis came back into the room several times, eyeing Mia, obviously nervous over the handling of the collection.
Mia set down her pencil. “Phyllis, perhaps you’d like to help?”
“Well, if you think I could.” Phyllis gratefully took a chair beside Mia’s and together they sorted through the documents.
After an hour of sorting and reading bank statements, household records, financial holdings, address books, and assorted photographs, Mia leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. “You were right,” she said morosely. “This was tough reading.”
Time Is a River Page 11
