The coffee steam wafted to her nose as she brought the cup close. “There aren’t many of us. My grandparents have all passed on.”
“And your parents?”
She sipped her coffee and felt the familiar pang of loss. “My parents are gone, too. My mother died when I was thirteen. My father five years later.”
“I’m sorry. That had to be a terrible loss.”
“It was. Still is. I’ve spent my life searching for my mother in one way or another. She died of breast cancer. Back then detection and treatment were not as high-tech as they are today. She had a radical mastectomy, chemo—the works. But she went downhill fast. My father was devoted to her. She was his whole world. After she died, he aged right before my eyes. We all grew older seemingly overnight. She was such fun. She loved packing us all up and going to dinner and a movie on Friday night, or to the beach on Sunday afternoons. My dad had this sailboat and he used to take us out in the harbor. She used to say that he was the captain but she was the navigator.”
Mia’s heart kindled with the memory, seeing her mother in white shorts and tennis shoes, laughing with her hair in the wind. She’d always wanted a man to look at her the way her father had looked at her mother.
“Were you an only child?”
“No, I have one sister. Madeline.” Mia’s eyes softened at the thought of her. “Maddie is six years older than I am and she’s been more a parent to me than sister. She’s coming up next week and you’ll meet her then. I warn you, she can be a little bossy, but I guess she’s earned the right. She was there for me growing up, then during the cancer. She’s my best friend. In fact, she was the one who sent me to Casting for Recovery.”
“Does she fly-fish?”
“Maddie? No,” Mia replied with a light chuckle. “She’s more the tea and antiques kind.”
“Hey,” he replied with a hint of reproach. “Fly-fishing is for all kinds.”
“You’re absolutely right. Who would have thought that I would ever be fishing?”
“What did you do, before?”
She wondered what before alluded to. Before she came to the cabin? Before cancer? In a sudden flash of insight as searing as the bolt of lightning moments before, she realized that before, a storm had rolled over her life in the form of cancer, scattering the water, shredding bits of leaves, and causing beasts and birds to huddle before moving on. And her time at the cabin was like being here in the Jeep, snug in a safe place while the storm passed. But what was coming after? That remained to be seen.
Stuart sat across from her, waiting patiently for her answer. He was a good listener, she realized. He didn’t feel the need to fire off his own opinions but allowed her the time to fully express herself. It was that quality that made him a good guide.
“I was in public relations,” she replied. As she said the words, that life she’d led in Charleston seemed ages ago. She smiled to herself and thought, Before. “My job was to manage the talent for an arts festival. It was what one might call a glamour job, but as with all such things, in reality it was still a lot of work. I think I was good at it. But after the cancer, well, let’s just say it was easier for everyone if I left.”
He was not naïve and let that matter drop. “What will you do next?”
She lifted her shoulders to say, Who knows? “That’s part of the reason I’m up here. To figure all that out.”
Stuart looked out the window at the sky. The rain was now a light drizzle and the sky was clearing up. Shafts of sunlight lit up the river.
“We should go. You need to get out of those wet clothes.”
Mia was sorry to leave but nodded her head in accord.
He put the key in the ignition but before firing the engine, he turned to her, his eyes searching.
“What about a husband?”
She hesitated, unwilling to muddy the water by bringing Charles between them. She’d placed him in the before category. Stuart…she decided to place him in the after phase of her life.
“Divorced,” she replied, meaning it, but stunned by the finality of her word.
Stuart didn’t comment. He faced the road and fired the engine. The Jeep sprang to life and like an old dog it took off across the field, shaking the rain off its back as it headed for home.
The small, gold bell over the door at Shaffer’s chimed when Mia walked in. The heady scent of dark, rich coffee and freshly baked pastries assailed her. Like Pavlov’s dog, her mouth started salivating.
“Mornin’, Mia!” Becky called out in her cheery voice from behind the glass counter. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion but she looked healthy and in good spirits.
It was a busy morning at the bakery. A young woman wearing a pink uniform like Becky’s was behind the counter making coffee in the shiny, steel industrial machine. Becky must have hired some help, she thought, and was glad for it. The brunette was buxom and had twinkling blue eyes. She turned to smile in welcome and Mia immediately saw the family resemblance.
Becky looked at the girl with pride pouring out of her pores. “Meet my daughter, Katherine. She’s going to help me out for the rest of the summer, maybe even take over, if I can convince her. We’ll see.”
“You’ve got some pretty big shoes to fill,” Mia told her.
“Don’t I know it,” Katherine called back before returning to her job.
The air conditioner was struggling against the residual heat of ovens and a half dozen patrons eating at the small tables, each graced with pink flowers in small bud vases. The chalkboard in the front of the store announced cinnamon buns as the special of the day and the front of the glass cabinet was filled with them, each topped with glazed icing.
“Hey, did you see the Gazette today?” Becky asked, eager for Mia’s response. “They got an article written by Kate Watkins!”
Mia came to an abrupt stop. “It’s out already?” She was stunned at the speed at which Nada had printed it. They’d discussed the idea only a week ago. She felt her stomach clench at the thought that Kate’s name would be bandied about in every conversation in town that day. And yet she couldn’t wait to see the article.
Three people stood in line ahead of her at the counter. The last was Phyllis Pace. She turned and said archly, “I’m guessing you had something to do with that.”
Mia turned to Becky. “Do you have a copy?”
A middle-aged, blond woman sitting at a nearby table folded her copy and handed it toward her. “Here, you can read mine.”
“Thanks,” Mia said, taking it. She went to an empty table and began leafing through the pages, searching for the article. The paper was full of plans for the Watkins Mill town festival and stories about the local sheriff who won a state award and the thirtieth annual Truck and Tractor Pull contest being held on Saturday; there was also a page of announcements of engagements, weddings, and births, with photographs. “Here it is.”
Nada had put the article on the front page of the Lifestyle section. Mia sucked in her breath at the photograph of Kate Watkins as a young woman. It was her! Mia bent for a closer look. Her first thought was how beautiful she was. The precociousness she’d admired in the face of the child had blossomed into a regal confidence. Kate’s dark hair was pulled back tight and her gaze was slanted to the side, as though watching someone. The severity of her hairstyle accentuated her high cheekbones and eyebrows that arched over dark eyes like butterfly wings. She wore a prim, ruffled collar that rose high on her long neck, but there was nothing prissy about the woman in the photograph. Rather, there was a dare in her simplicity, like Jo from Little Women.
It was no wonder that every man in town was in love with her, Mia thought as she gazed at the face. Below her photo there was only a brief byline, as Nada had promised. Mia scanned the article and saw that Nada had selected the one on spring.
“I wonder where Nada found that picture,” she said.
“Actually, I found it for her,” Phyllis replied. “It turned out my father had some personal photographs of her. After you tw
o had your chat he was awash in his memories. He spent days going through all of his old photo albums. It’s been a good project for him. He showed me a few of the old gang fishing together that are quite nice. Come to think of it, I should show them to Nada for her next article. If you’re interested, I’m sure he’d love to show them to you.”
“Of course I’m interested. When can I see them?”
“He comes to the library with me every Tuesday. He looks forward to the outing but if he knows you’ll be there to see his photographs, he’ll be all the more delighted. Shall I tell him to plan on it?”
“Absolutely. I can’t wait. You know, I’ve not been able to find any photographs of Kate. Or her father.”
“Perhaps other people in town have photos, too,” Phyllis added. “I can ask around.” She came to Mia’s side and looked at the newspaper. “It’s a fine article. I know my father is proud to see it. He ordered extra copies of the paper so he can send them to his friends, in case they missed it.”
“I’m glad he liked it,” Mia replied, remembering the old man’s melodious voice as he told his story. “After all, he’s the one who first told me that the articles existed.”
The bell chimed over the door and Nada came in carrying several copies of the Gazette in her arms. She walked in her brisk, no-nonsense manner that always reminded Mia of a drill sergeant.
“Speak of the devil,” Mia said.
“Hi, y’all.” Nada walked directly to Phyllis and handed her the stack of newspapers. “For your daddy. Tell him there are plenty more where that came from. But don’t wait too long. We’re selling them like hotcakes. Everyone’s talking about ‘On the Fly.’” Her eyes were gleaming with triumph. She turned to Mia. “So, how about you? Do you like it?”
Mia released a sigh. “I have to admit, it looks good. I love the photograph of Kate. It’s the first I’d ever seen of her as a woman.”
“As opposed to a child?” Becky said as a joke.
Mia realized with a start how she’d just made a serious slip. “We were just talking about how there aren’t any photos of her anywhere.”
“She might’ve destroyed everything before she died,” Nada said.
Mia felt a shudder, thinking of the stark emptiness of the upstairs garret and the absence of any photographs in the armoire, save for the one of Kate and her father in the diary.
“Nah, why would she do that?” Becky said.
“Why wouldn’t she?” asked Nada. “Her daughter deserted her. The town turned against her. Maybe she just wanted to disappear.”
“If that were the case,” Phyllis said, “don’t you see publishing her articles as, well, an invasion of her privacy?”
Mia looked at Nada.
“Not at all,” Nada said matter-of-factly. “These articles are wise and timeless. They reflect on who Kate Watkins the fly-fisher was, not some scandal. The town needs to remember that person.”
“I agree,” Becky chimed in. “Says in the paper there are going to be more coming. A whole series of them. That true?” When Nada nodded she added, “Good for you. I reckon most of us forgot that part of her story.”
“Forgot?” the woman at the next table asked. She’d been listening in on the conversation. “I never heard of her before. I’m from out of town. I’m here fly-fishing with my pals all week. I loved the article. If you don’t mind handing the newspaper back when you’re through, I’m going to show it to my club. How cool is it that this woman wrote about fly-fishing back in the twenties?”
“See?” Nada said smugly to Mia. She turned back to the woman at the table. “Did you say you’re fly-fishing?”
“That’s right. We’re part of a club in Charleston called Reel Women.”
“A women’s fly-fishing club? What do you do?” Nada asked, intrigued. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Not at all. Sometimes we have casting classes, or fly-tying classes, that sort of thing. Mostly we organize fishing trips. It’s fun to go with someone else and we found if we organize a trip we tend to get out on the water more often. You know how it goes, once hooked you’re a fly-fishing fool.”
“In Charleston, you said?” Mia asked. “That’s where I live, too. Maybe I should join up.”
“Come on by. We’d love to have you. My name’s Sheila Northen, by the way. Hold on.” She bent to dig into her purse. “Let me write down my phone number. Call me when you’re ready to come to a meeting.”
“We should have a fly-fishing club here,” Becky exclaimed. “I’ve always wanted to learn but I figured it was a man’s sport.”
“Oh no, honey,” Sheila said, looking up from her writing. She handed her card to Mia. “There are women’s fly-fishing clubs all across the country.”
“My father always wanted me to learn,” said Phyllis. “As a friend of Kate’s, he always thought women belonged in the sport. I loved hearing his stories of going trout fishing in the mountains of North Carolina or out west. As I became an adult and had a career, I always wanted to fly-fish but never found the time to learn how. I regret now that I never fished with him. He can’t get out on the water anymore and he longs to. Perhaps now I should learn. I could tell him my fishing stories for a change. I think he’d like that.”
“Count me in,” Nada said, her eyes gleaming. “Since I’ve started digging into Kate’s articles I’ve dug out my rod and reel, too. Maybe we could get Belle to teach us. Imagine, Kate Watkins’s granddaughter forming the first fly-fishing club in Watkins Mill. Now that’s a headline I’d like to write.”
The possibilities excited the women and they looked to Mia for a response. She heard hope in their voices and saw the plea in their eyes. Her first thought was, Oh no, don’t ask Belle. Mia didn’t want Belle to get involved with this idea at all. If they approached Belle, she would find out about Mia’s research into Kate’s history and she’d never forgive her. She remembered the look in Belle’s eyes when she’d told her not to stir up the mud.
Then Mia looked into the eyes of the women around her. Each had welcomed her warmly into their town. Each had gone out of her way to help Mia in her search. How could she be so selfish as to only think of herself? She also had to give Belle the benefit of the doubt. Nada might be right; Belle might be grateful to learn about her grandmother. And Belle would be a wonderful teacher to these women. Hadn’t she hoped to meet the townsfolk, maybe grow her guide business? What better way than with a women’s fly-fishing club?
She smiled at them, her new friends, and replied, “I can ask. She’s in Europe now but we should go ahead and start a club. That way we’ll be organized when we ask her.” She turned to Sheila. “Maybe your group can give us pointers how to get rolling?”
“We’d love to,” replied Sheila. “That’s how we started. Some of us were experienced but a lot of us were green. We went for a crash three-day course and have been fishing ever since.”
There followed an intense discussion of the founding of a fly-fishing club, equipment, and such. Mia found herself tuning out and getting swept into her own thoughts. Her research into Kate Watkins’s life was having ramifications she hadn’t planned on. It was like throwing a stone into a pond and watching the ripples move farther and farther out.
Chapter Fourteen
The Gazette
July 1927
Kate Watkins, “On the Fly”
Whether you catch one fish or many, the joy comes from the pursuit. More often than not, even your best casts fail. Sometimes not catching a fish is fine. Other times, one fish caught after a duel of wits and skill is more satisfying than reeling in dozens. In the end, the quality of the experience matters far more than the quantity of fish caught.
Mia stood on the front porch of the cabin with a mug of coffee in one hand and a brush in the other as she stared out at the early morning sun rising over the eastern ridge of mountains. She felt her soul expand to reach out and grasp the flame red dawn and bring it back inside of herself.
She looked down at her painting to s
ee the colors of that dawn stretch over the lush green of midsummer in the North Carolina mountains. She sipped her coffee and tried to imagine the same vista in the brilliant, fiery colors of autumn. Time was passing so quickly. The cool air would be here before she knew it. Yet it seemed so long ago since she’d arrived in the mountains. How little she’d known then what wild was. She looked into the woods beyond the clearing where darkness still hovered in the pale morning light. She’d learned enough to realize that she still knew very little.
Yet in this window of time she had carved out a life that mattered. She was beginning to feel she had her life back. Did she really have only a month left? she wondered. Despite her chaotic beginning, she simply could not envision an end.
Leaving Watkins Cove also meant leaving her new friends. Stuart in particular. She couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him, for all that he was only her friend. In her mind she had it all sorted out. She was in the middle of a divorce and recovering from breast cancer. The last thing she needed now was to fall in love. And yet she couldn’t deny the ecstasy she felt when they were together. The shiver of pleasure when they stood side by side on the water, the flush of joy at catching a fish with him, the melting of her bones when he looked her way with his intense eyes. Could they all be nothing more than the return of her hormones? A sign of healing?
Pitiful, she thought, rousing from her musing. As she gathered her art supplies her gaze swept the outside of the cabin. The cobwebs were gone, the shrubs were trimmed, the porch was swept and tidy, and she’d put one of the rockers out beside a small wood table. By the front door sat a clay pot filled with cheery red geraniums.
The money from Charles for the sale of the condominium couldn’t have come at a better time or been more welcome. He’d been very generous, as he’d promised, and that act went a long way to pave the way, if not to forgiveness, to acceptance. The sale had removed the day-to-day worry about whether she’d run out of money for food or supplies. Mia had splurged on creamy white linen curtains to replace the threadbare graying ones. She could see the hems flapping in the breeze of the open windows.
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