Time Is a River (19 page)

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 two 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.

M
ia 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 see 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.

The cabin felt like home now, more than her condominium in Charleston ever had. Mia knew that was because of the personal time and effort she’d spent cleaning and tending the old cabin. There was something about scrubbing a floor on one’s hands and knees that bonded you to a place. She hoped that someday Belle would feel the same affection for it. Perhaps once she came to know her grandmother she could reconcile with the cabin.

Before Belle returned, Mia wanted to surprise her with a stone walkway that led from the porch to the parking area. After every rain the front of the cabin became a sea of mud. She’d consulted with Clarence and purchased the stones and equipment to create a simple path. She’d figured if she built it herself, it wouldn’t set her back too much. After all, how hard could it be?

An hour later she had succeeded only in digging up the tenacious grass and bits of gravel and grit to form a rough path from the porch to the parking area. She’d thought she was getting in shape with all her walking and fishing, but her muscles ached from digging and from battles with tree roots the size of her arm. She leaned against her shovel, catching her breath. What was I thinking? she thought as she surveyed the ragged mess she’d made of the front yard. This job was much bigger than she’d thought. As her mother used to say when Mia had piled her plate with more food than she could ever eat,
Your eyes are bigger than your stomach.

In the distance she heard the high hum of a car engine coming up the hill. She raised her head and wiped her forehead with her sleeve. Could Clarence be delivering the stone already? She was so far from being ready. A moment later a red Jeep swerved off the road to the cabin. Mia straightened, groaning slightly with stiffness. He
would
come now, she thought, rubbing the small of her back. She was sweaty and scratchy and her arms and legs were coated with dirt and grit.

Stuart climbed from the Jeep and walked to her side. He was wearing shorts and a black T-shirt that made his hair look as dark and glossy as a crow’s wing. He looked at her, taking his time as his gaze traveled the long path up her bare legs, then at the collection of tools scattered on the ground around the ragged path, then at her again.

“I guess we’re not going fishing today.”

“Today? Were we supposed to?”

“I thought so. Must have gotten our wires crossed.”

“I’m sorry. I’d love to, but I can’t quit midstream.”

He arched a brow and pointed to her cheek. “You…you’ve got some mud. Right there.”

She reached up to wipe her face and only managed to smear more mud from her glove.

“Here, let me.” He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and leaned closer to gently wipe her cheek. He was so close she saw the roughened texture of his skin from hours in the sun and the deep crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Mia held her breath.

“There, that’s better,” he said, inches from her face.

He had a way of smiling at her with his eyes that was a deliciously odd combination of teasing and flirtation. She never quite knew how to interpret that gaze, or if it was intentional or spontaneous. Yet it never failed to beguile her.

Tucking his handkerchief in his pocket, he looked over at the ragged trail she’d dug into the earth. “What are you making?”

“You can’t tell?” she asked, slightly offended. “It’s a walkway.” Then, feeling self-conscious, she added, “It’s nothing fancy. Just something to get from point A to point B without trekking through the slop. I talked at length to Clarence and it seems pretty straightforward.”

“Clarence?”

“He owns the hardware store.”

“Oh,
that
Clarence.”

She tucked a wayward curl back from her forehead. “Yeah, well, he’s been a great help. It’s just a lot harder than I thought. This isn’t exactly the kind of work I’m used to,” she said defensively. “I mean, how hard could it be to put some stones together. Like a puzzle, right? Well, it took me forever just to get the path dug out.” She looked at her fingers. They were chafed and her nails were deeply embedded with mud. She muttered crossly, “I didn’t think I’d run into tree roots.”

He covered his smile by rubbing his jaw and came closer to inspect her work. “Well, first of all, you don’t want your walk to go near trees, especially not maples. Not only will you run into roots, but new roots will grow close to the surface and destroy your walk.” He scratched his head and said, “I see you’re going for a curved walkway.”

“I thought it was more charming.” She saw his expression, then laughed and admitted, “It does look rather like a snake slinking through the trees.”

“Are you going to be hauling groceries and luggage along this path?” When she nodded he said, “Then the fewer curves the better. Here, let me show you.”

With great relief, Mia stood back and watched as Stuart picked up the ball of string and laid it on the ground to create a simple walkway with only one smooth curve and a distance from any tree.

“Will this design work for you?”

“It’s very nice.”

“Do you have a garden hose?”

“No, sorry. No call for it, considering there’s no spigot. Is there something else we could use?”

He thought a moment, then went to his Jeep. He came back with a can of spray paint. “It’s bright orange, but it’ll do the job. Now you go make sure the path is three feet in width. You do have a measuring tape?”

“Yes!” She silently blessed Clarence as she trotted indoors to get the measuring tape from her toolbox. While she measured the width he corrected the string position. When they were done, the outline looked ready to dig. She felt hopeful for the first time since she started the project.

“Do you have the sand and stone?” he asked.

“Clarence is delivering it later today.”

“Great,” he replied, rolling up his sleeves. “Then let’s get started.”

“Stuart, you don’t have to help me. I…I can’t pay you.”

He turned his head and his eyes blazed. “I’m not asking you to.” He paused. “Are you always so skittish about people offering to help you?”

Mia looked at her feet. “Lately, yes.” Then she looked up, hoping he’d forgive her rudeness. “I’m working on that.”

“Good. Now go measure.” He started shaking the paint can. “Move over, da Vinci. I’m about to paint my masterpiece.”

Stuart was no stranger to hard labor. He worked methodically, and as on the water, he was careful and sure. The morning heat rose with the sun, and sweat caused the black cotton to cling on his back like a second skin. His back was long and his muscles clearly defined. When he bent with the shovel, his shirt lifted and she could see a span of tanned skin between shirt and belt. She turned away from the distraction to focus on the task at hand. Yet while she raked the grounds smooth she surreptitiously glanced over to watch Stuart dig. His arms were very strong. The spade dug deep with each thrust, making clean edges in the dirt. In the same span of time that it took her to scratch the surface, Stuart had carved a complete and defined walkway.

When they were done they caught their breath and surveyed their work. Stuart looked at her and nodded with satisfaction, and in that gaze she felt again the heady sense of camaraderie they shared on the river. Sweat formed on his forehead and he brought his arm up to wipe his brow with his sleeve, leaving a mud streak across his brow. Mia snickered. He looked at her askance. “What?” She pointed to his face. Immediately he understood and pulled out the handkerchief to duty once more, catching her eye and laughing lightly.

“It’s getting hot,” he said. “The breeze is gone.” He went to his water bottle and turned it upside down. “So is my water.”

“Let me get you some. I’ll put ice in it.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a beer?”

“No, sorry, I don’t drink beer. I have wine. Diet soda?”

“No, thanks, water will do me fine. Sometimes a cold beer hits the spot.”

She made a mental note to buy some. As she led the way up the porch stairs, Mia felt a sudden déjà vu and wondered if he’d come indoors—or if she wanted him to. Then she recalled the many hours they’d spent together on the water, his kindness with the walkway, and she knew in that instant that the old nervousness and awkwardness existed only in her mind.

On the porch she slipped out of her muddy boots.

“If you like, I’ll just sit out here,” Stuart offered. “I don’t want to track mud into your house.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re welcome to come inside and clean up.”

“You’re sure I won’t mess your floors?”

“I can always clean them up again. It’s the least I can do to repay your kindness.”

“In that case…” He kicked off his boots, then slapped them together over the railing to shake off clots into the bushes. When finished he put them neatly by the front door.

He stepped inside and looked around the cabin, his eyes gleaming with appreciation as he turned around to take in the space. She couldn’t help but follow his gaze and see the place as he might.

The cabin looked clean and cheery in full light. On the stone fireplace’s wood mantelpiece, she saw four of the wildflower porcelain plates she’d placed in stands. To the left was the bookcase filled with Kate’s first editions with their gorgeous leather and gilt covers that dated from the turn of the century. A glass vase filled with fresh wildflowers graced the dining table, and in the kitchen a large wood bowl filled with fruit sat on a small white-legged work table covered with an oilcloth.

Stuart was drawn to the wall where thirty rectangular papers, each with a painting of the river, a local wildflower, a bird, or a line of calligraphy were tacked up in an attractive display. Mia’s breath caught in her throat and she froze. In her spontaneous invitation she’d forgotten about them. She hadn’t meant for anyone to see them. She cast him a wary glance. An appreciative smile turned his lips as he studied them. He then walked to the great armoire and admired the stag’s head at the apex. When he turned around he put his hands on his hips. “What a great cabin.”

She sighed, proud of the place. “I can’t take any credit.”

“Oh, but you can. I see your touch everywhere. And the watercolors have to be yours.”

Mia felt her cheeks burning, glad his back was to her. She felt so exposed. “Oh, those…”