Time Is a River (12 page)

Eddie nodded his head in agreement. I took a step closer to my brother and leaned against his leg.

“I’m not talking crazy,” Henry shouted. “They say the war is going to sweep across Europe like wildfire.”

“Fine. Then go on and fight fires in Europe,” she said, exasperated with the whole conversation. “I’m going fishing.”

“She’s right,” Eddie said, picking up his gear. “The fish will be biting.”

“I don’t know if I want to fish anymore with a girl,” Henry said.

We all knew he was a sore loser, but Low puffed up his chest and told Henry to take it back. Things got a little tense then on account of Henry was a big fella, even as a boy, with a quick temper. Low was slow to rise, but when he did, look out. So if they fought they were evenly matched. It was going to be a whopping.

Kate would have none of it. She stepped smack between those two roosters. She was a fearless creature to behold, standing there with her long, dark hair blowing in the breeze and her eyes blazing. She was almost eye to eye with Henry but as lean as a reed. Kate gave Henry a cocky glare and said she was a better fly fisher than he was.

Henry snorted and said something stupid, like “Let’s have a match right now.”

Kate put her hands on her hips and told him she would meet him at the Fly-Fishing Tournament being held the next week in Asheville. She was fixing on competing in the distance category. She figured that would shut up not only Henry but all the men who looked at her funny each time she cast a fly in local water.

Phillip chortled then and slapped his knee. Mia laughed a bit herself, enjoying the memory as much. Mr. Pace was a natural storyteller and had her wrapped around each syllable.

“So what happened at the tournament?” she asked.

“What do you think happened?” he asked, astonished. “She won, of course. Just like we all knew she would. Tradition being what it was back then, the angling clubs were for men only. They didn’t even allow women in their building for meetings. Her daddy, the Reverend Watkins, was so well respected a fisherman in these parts that they let his daughter enter the fly casting distance competition on his behalf. More a courtesy. Land alive, were they surprised when she beat them all!”

Phillip’s face softened and his pale eyes grew misty. “I tell you, Kate was a picture that morning as she stepped out in the field. I can still see her in that kelly green skirt and stout shoes, and over her long hair she wore her favorite tam-o’-shanter hat with dry flies stuck in it. There was grumbling, to be sure. More from the fine Asheville ladies than the men. I mean, it simply wasn’t done. But I tell you this slip of a girl walked onto that field of men with the confidence of a queen. She parted the waters. You know, she used to tell me that she had the blood of Scottish royalty in her veins. My brother, Eddie, didn’t think that was true but he said it didn’t matter, because in our town, just being a Watkins was high enough.

“Now here’s the thing and I don’t want to miss telling you that’s most important. It’s not just that she won, but
how
she won that stole our hearts—men and women alike. Bear with me because I’m old and I know I’m not going to explain this right.”

Phillip shook his head and worked his jaw a bit in thought. “I can see it in my mind clear as day, but my words won’t do her justice. When Kate Watkins cast that rod, why it was like watching her dance. Does that make sense? I mean to say it was pure grace and timing in motion. Yes, ma’am, watching her extend her arm forward and pointing her foot behind, her long line slicing the air in a tight loop to land far, far off in the water, she was as dainty as any ballet dancer. You could hear the whole crowd gasp.

“And that’s when it hit me. I laughed out loud because I remembered how Kate leaped across the stream that day and cried out
‘Look at me! I’m a ballerina!’
Our clever girl was using her dance lessons to create her own style of casting. Not a man’s casting or a woman’s casting. Just better, because any fool could see she was more than a fisherman. She was an artist.

“I was just a kid back then and didn’t know nothing, but I learned what great casting was by watching her.” His eyes misted and he looked down at his shoes. “They took the award away from her. She set a record for man or woman, and they went and disqualified her because she was a woman.” He shook his head. “That never set right with me and I hold a grudge against the club even still. The whole town did. From that day forward no one gave Kate Watkins the business when she fished in a river. Truth be told, I don’t think the award mattered to her much. She told me later that it meant more than the award that Henry came up to her straightaway and apologized. ’Bout killed him to do it, but it honored her.”

“So Kate Watkins never earned the recognition she deserved?” Mia asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Phillip said, bringing his head up. “Our Kate was famous in her time! Why, folks use to come in on the trains just to meet her and fish with her. They’d all read her articles, I reckon.”

“Articles? What articles?”

Phillip screwed up his face and cast Mia a doubtful glance. “You sure don’t know your history, do you? I’m talking about Kate’s newspaper articles. The ones that went out all across the country.” He scratched the back of his neck, muttering, “Now what did she call it?” He dropped his hand and his eyes lit up. “‘On the Fly.’ That’s it. Never missed a copy. It was published right here in our own newspaper, too. I’ll just bet they have copies of them lying around somewhere.”

Mia was electrified by this new lead. She made quick notations in her notebook. Yet her mind kept coming back to Lowrance and Kate. She couldn’t reconcile the sweetness between Kate and her cousin as children and the tragedy that would come later. There seemed to be such love there. What could have happened that led to murder?

“Forgive me, Mr. Pace, for asking. But I’m confused. What happened between Kate Watkins and Lowrance Davidson? They seemed so devoted to each other.”

His eyes grew cloudy and his expression sad. “Yeah. Well, the war brought tragedy to so many families.”

“The war? I don’t understand.”

“Lowrance Davidson went off to fight in World War I along with my brother Eddie and Henry Harrison. They all enlisted together, just as soon as they turned eighteen. Got sent over in, oh, the spring of nineteen eighteen, I believe. I remember Henry was nervous the war would end before he got there. Well, he got there, all right. They all did. My brother was wounded. He made it back, but the influenza killed him like it did my sister and my mother. Henry Harrison lost his arm. It was his casting arm, too. It soured him, but that’s another story.”

“And Lowrance?”

The old man sighed heavily, his chest sinking. “Lowrance Davidson died in the trenches in the fall of nineteen eighteen. Kate was never the same. I reckon Kate’s life would’ve turned out different if he’d lived. Who’s to say? But the fact is Lowrance never returned to Watkins Mill.”

“Then who did Kate Watkins murder?”

Mr. Pace drew back in his chair and his mouth fell open in outrage. “Murder? Kate never killed anybody. I thought you knew that or I wouldn’t have spent five minutes with you telling you my stories.”

Mia drew back, stunned and confused. “I’m sorry. I only heard—”

“Lies, that’s what they are. A pack of lies. You best not be saying things like that to me, young lady. I’ll set you straight. You got that?”

O
ne camp in fly-fishing believed that the sport was all about casting. Another camp felt that catching the fish was what brought anglers back to the water. Mia was in the dawning stage of learning the sport and she was happy just to go to the river. It was too easy to stay indoors where it was comfortable. For months after her chemotherapy, complacency had become too familiar. Occasionally when she was alone in the cabin, Mia caught herself sinking under the black pool of depression where Charles’s betrayal and the divorce lay at the murky bottom.

Thus for Mia, the river was like Ariadne’s thread. She followed it out from the darkness of depression’s labyrinth to the light of the river. In the river she felt warmed by the sun, cooled by the water, filled with hope each time she cast her line onto the water.

On one of her treks along the river trail she’d discovered a breathlessly beautiful pocket where swift water broke over scattered white rocks. Mia intended to return this afternoon.

It was a hot day in late June and the water of the river was warming. She’d waited for the late afternoon when the fish would start biting, and she’d packed light, going wet wading. She found she could stand comfortably in the shallow water in her shorts and boots, just not for too long or her legs became numb. In her backpack she stuffed the felt-bottom boots, a bottle of water, and a peanut butter sandwich wrapped in cellophane.

In her zipper pouch she carefully packed all the fishing supplies and gadgets that she’d at last learned to use: a dry fly, floatant to dry the fly during fishing, snips that looked like fingernail clippers to trim the line, forceps to press the barbs flat and to help remove hooks, and polarized sunglasses to protect the eyes and to help see the fish through the water’s glare.

She walked through the forest, following the river and enjoying the gentle breezes along the shaded trail. As the trail journeyed deeper into the woods, the ferns grew thick, lush moss cloaked the rocks, and her shoes became damp with dew. She passed a familiar cluster of rhododendron and felt a surge of excitement, knowing her secret spot was just around the bend. She walked another twenty feet, then came to an abrupt stop.

A strange man in waders and a tan vest was standing on her favorite bank. In a relaxed stance, he studied the water. His focus was intense; he did not stir or look over his shoulder as she approached.

Mia was indignant but held back. She knew it would be bad manners to barge in too close. Yet this was her special spot. She felt her sanctuary had been invaded. Scowling, she folded her arms while she deliberated what to do.

From the moment he raised his rod into the air it was clear this man was no beginner. His masterful casts fell into a natural rhythm, back and forth, allowing his line to unfurl longer and longer in a ballet of tight loops. She’d never seen his equal. Not even Belle. While watching this aerial dance her mind flew back to old Mr. Pace’s description of Kate’s casting at the tournament so many years ago. Mia knew this was what it must have been like for those people watching her. She was experiencing the same wonder and awe at poetry in motion.

Mia found herself moving her arm in sync with his, eager to absorb his seamless motion if only by some cosmic osmosis. Her lips moved as she counted the beats—
throw back the line, skip a beat, thrust forward, ease down.
When enough line had been released, he allowed the fly to touch the water delicately, as natural as a live insect. A trout rose to take the fly, leaping and splashing in a tremendous display.

Mia warred between resentfulness and admiration. He made it look so damn easy. She’d fished here for two days, spent hours on the river, and tried an array of flies, but she never caught anything but moss. It hadn’t mattered to her before. She was content to stand in the river and practice casting. Yet now, suddenly, she felt desperate to catch a fish.

He reeled in the line; then, with a smooth sweep, he captured a large, glistening rainbow trout into his net. The angler removed the hook efficiently and released the beautiful fish back to the river.

Mia realized she had no choice but to relinquish her spot to this man. She walked forward and called out, “Hello! Excuse me. Do you mind if I fish upstream?”

He turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his polarized lenses, but he seemed as surprised at seeing another person this far into the backwoods as she had been.

“Go on ahead.” He turned back to the river.

Mia had grown accustomed to the townspeople hailing out friendly greetings and coming up to introduce themselves. She should have appreciated his being aloof, but instead it annoyed her. Her boots crunched the gravel loudly as she passed, and she hoped she scared every fish in the pool away. Serves him right for taking my spot, she thought, well aware that these were not the thoughts of the serene sportswoman she hoped to become. A moment later she heard the swish of the water as her uninvited companion caught yet another trout.

Farther up the stream rushed quickly in riffles. Another nice spot, she thought, but not
as
nice as the one she’d forfeited. Trees and shrubs were heavy along the water at this stretch. She didn’t want to feed the greedy trees her dry fly. She sneaked a look downstream at the stranger. He was casting toward a different spot in the river now, using short roll casts. The roll cast was nothing much more than a short push forward and then letting the line fall into the water. Mia figured even she could do that.

She cast a few in one riffle, still not able to get the fly quite where she wanted it to go. She tried casting a few around a large rock. The wily trout were not tempted by her poor presentation. Was she dropping her wrist again, she wondered? Was she extending too far? She grew petulant and wondered why the fish didn’t like her little brown dry fly. The sun was slowly lowering but she didn’t want another day to end without a strike. She cast again. From down the river she heard the stranger’s excited “Good one!” Looking over she saw him bring in another trout to the net. She tugged the visor of her baseball cap lower. She was clumsily hitting the water so hard with her fly that she was like a fool drummer chasing all the trout right to him, she thought meanly.

Then she laughed at herself. What did it matter? She couldn’t let some man she’d never met rattle her so badly. Come on, Mia, she scolded herself, thinking of Belle’s advice to have fun.

She relaxed her shoulders, then walked across slippery pebbles and silt to stand in the middle of the river. The current was strong and the water cold but shallow. Looking over her shoulder and seeing that there was no tree branch waiting to grab her fly, she let loose a full cast. It felt good to hear the line slice through the air as it went back. She didn’t hurry. This time she waited a beat as she’d seen the man do, then pointed the rod to where she wanted her line to go. Her line slowly unfurled, then dropped the fly on the water without a splash. The current caught her fly and she saw a gray shadow in the water bolt for it. A second later her fly was sucked under the water. A fish!

She jerked the tip of her rod up to set the hook. She felt the tug again, stronger this time. Her eyes widened with surprise. She had actually caught a fish! The contact was like a jolt of electricity straight from the fish to her heart.

Her giddy elation quickly changed to panic. Her heart beat fast and her feet slid over the slippery river rocks as she followed the fish downstream. In her mind’s ear she could hear Belle shouting,
Keep your rod up! Give it line!

Where is Belle? her mind cried out. Mia stripped the line, pulling the tired fish in. When it got near she reached out to pull it close. At the end of the line was a sweet brook trout, not more than eight inches long. Dipping her hand in the water, she lowered and grasped the beautiful olive green fish in her palm. It was gulping and gasping wildly for air. The trout had fought too hard and was too young.

“I’m as scared as you are,” she told the fish as she tried to remove the hook, but her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the fish, much less maneuver the tiny hook. The fish gave a hard wiggle, its mouth gasping for air. Mia looked up in a wild panic.

“Help!” she cried out. “I need some help!”

She lowered the fish so that it was in the water, and she tugged at the hook, but she couldn’t get it loose from the fish’s mouth. The fish gave a shudder, then lay limp in her hand. Its fish eye seemed to stare at her, imploring her for mercy.

“Can I help you?” said a deep voice from behind her.

Mia swung her head around. The man from down river stood beside her. His back was to the sun, cutting a long, dark silhouette against the glare.

“Please, I can’t get the hook out! Can you take it out?”

He lowered beside her and wet his hands in the river. Then he took the trout. Cradled in his hands, the brookie looked small and fragile.

“Is the hook barbless?” he asked, referring to the cardinal rule of crushing the barb. A barbed hook would rip the fish’s mouth.

“Yes,” she replied, eyes on the fish. Its mouth opened in weaker gasps. She’d held it out of the water too long. “Hurry!”

He had long, slender fingers and he removed the hook from the mouth with a surgeon’s dexterity. Then he gently lowered it into the water. The fish didn’t move.

“Oh, God, I killed it,” Mia said with a soft cry. She had come to the river to find peace after narrowly escaping death. That she could bring death to this sweet, glistening trout crushed her spirit.

“No, you didn’t,” he said, and his tone was gentle. “It just needs a minute to revive.” He turned his head to look at her. Without his sunglasses, she was struck by the directness of his gaze. “I take it you’ve never done this before?”

“Not alone.”

“Watch closely. What you have to do is hold the fish facing upstream in the current…like so. It forces oxygen back into its system. See the gill plates opening and closing? OK, let’s see how he does.”

He opened his hand but the slender fish did not dart away as Mia expected. She clutched the man’s arm. “It’s not swimming!”

“Give it a minute.”

He repeated the gliding motion, a kind of CPR for fish. He released his hands. This time the trout twitched its tail, swam slowly to the left, then darted off and disappeared.

“There he goes, off to live another day.”

“Thank God,” she exclaimed, exhaling a ragged sigh. “And thank
you
!” Mia looked down to see she was still clutching the man’s arm. She released him quickly and wiped her eyes, a bit ashamed for her emotional display. “Sorry.”

They were still crouched low, shoulder to shoulder, at the water’s edge. He turned his head to smile at her and it lit his eyes. “No problem.”

She’d thought his face was ordinary, but she’d been wrong. She didn’t remember that his nose was straight or his chin rounded or that his upper lip was thinner than his lower. The pieces came together in an attractive whole, but it was his eyes that seared her memory. They were a remarkable shade of blue, and their intensity against his tanned skin transformed his appearance from ordinary to memorable.

She felt a zing of attraction and it flustered her. Her body, which hadn’t felt desire in over a year, suddenly sprang to life with one spark from those electric blue eyes. She rose on unsteady feet to a stand and looked downstream.

“Your first catch?”

“No, I’ve caught a fish before. An eighteen-inch rainbow.”

“That’s a big fish.”

“Yeah, but it was with Belle, my guide. She told me where to cast and did all the hooking and unhooking.”

“Ah,” he said, and it was clear he understood that scenario completely. “So this was the first fish you caught solo?”

“I guess it is.”

He nodded and said, “Well then, congratulations.”

“I don’t feel congratulations are in order,” she said. “I shouldn’t have been using a hook if I didn’t know what I was doing. I know this sounds naïve, but I could feel its life in my hands and I was terrified I was going to kill that poor fish.”

“Do you think you could remove the hook next time?”

“I don’t know if there will be a next time.”

“Don’t let this spook you. You just need experience. It’s not hard, you know. Just back the hook out like you were taking out a pin. It doesn’t hurt the fish.”

“My hands were shaking too much.”

“Do you fish here often? I didn’t expect to find anyone so far in the backcountry.”

“I do. To be honest, I was surprised to see you here today. This is my favorite spot.”

A wry grin eased across his face. “And I stole it from you?”

She shrugged, hiding her smile. “I was annoyed at first. Especially when you started catching all those fish. But now, I’m so glad you were here.”

He put out his hand. “I’m Stuart.”

She smiled, liking him more, and took the hand. His palm was smooth and he had a good, firm grip.

“I’m Mia.”

“Well, Mia, I best be going. I’ve caught some fish and rescued a fair maiden in distress. My work here is done. It was nice meeting you. See you around.” He turned and started walking downstream.

Mia, too, was done for the day. She slipped out from her boots, then stuffed them into her backpack. Gathering her rod and reel, she saw her weary, shaggy fly still dangling from the leader. It was amazing that little brookie had even gone for that beaten fly. She remembered the excitement of the tug and the incredible feel of the smooth, slippery fish in her palm. She would fish again, she decided. Tonight she would practice removing a barbless hook from an oven mitt until she was confident. She just needed experience; isn’t that what the man had said? His beautiful blue eyes flashed in her mind.