Time Is a River (28 page)

Stuart stepped back. She felt the space open between them.

“Do you think there are more letters in the others?” he asked.

The thought stunned her. Could it be possible? “I should remove them from the cardboard anyway.”

He carried a second painting, the rainbow trout, to the table. Once again she clawed at the cardboard backing until she got a corner open and pulled the backing away. A photograph fell from the back.

They both reached for it, their hands touching over the photograph. His hand darted back, as though burned. “Sorry.”

Mia picked up the photograph and held it so Stuart could see it. It was a black-and-white portrait of a handsome man in a business suit, just the shoulders and head. His hair was sandy colored and combed back from his forehead in the style of the day. It was his expression that arrested her. He wasn’t smiling but his eyes kindled so that she felt the power of his personality.

“It has to be DeLancey,” she said, sure of it.

She looked up and saw the thrill of the hunt in Stuart’s eyes. They both turned simultaneously to look at the third painting. Stuart lunged for it and this time he tore off the back cardboard. Mia’s heart was pounding, wondering—knowing—some treasure had to be there.

His hands tore back the moldy cardboard. This one fell back readily.

“Oh, look,” she gasped when folded pieces of paper fell from the back. Like the poem, these papers were yellowed and dry.

Stuart picked up the papers and handed them to Mia. She wiped her hands on her shawl, then took the papers and unfolded them. At the top of the stationery a family crest was embossed. It was a dragon with claws out and a star at each corner. The fine script was the same as for the poem. “It’s a letter,” Mia said breathlessly. “To Kate.” The pages were filled with a fine script in ink pen. She flipped to the second page for the signature. “Oh my God, Stuart, it’s from DeLancey.”

He came close to look over her shoulder. “Read it.”

Mia lifted the pages closer. Every nerve ending came alive in the heated room. She could feel Stuart’s hand on her shoulder, the heat of his body beside her, and his warm breath against her hair as he bent his head to read along.

“Oh, Stuart,” she said, feeling a rush of emotion. “It all makes sense. DeLancey’s letter, the poem. This is how they saw themselves. As Paolo and Francesca, two lovers damned to be near each other but never able to touch. Their hell was having no hope that it would ever change. It’s all so beautiful. And so sad.”

Mia lowered the letter, swept away by the powerful emotions swirling inside of her. She felt Stuart squeeze her shoulder. Looking up, she saw DeLancey’s passion in Stuart’s eyes.

Mia folded the letter in crisp movements, then busied her hands to deflect her nervousness, smoothing the painting, moving the pieces of broken glass.

Slowly, tentatively, Stuart brought his hand up to stroke her hair, then let his hand move down her back, gentling her with tenderness. His hand trembled. Mia’s hands went still on the table and she closed her eyes.

Stuart lifted her hair from her neck and lowered his lips to gently caress the tender skin. She felt her senses come alive, so powerfully it bordered on pain. His kisses traveled along her shoulder; then he buried his face in her neck. She shivered, then froze when she felt his hands move across her arms to her chest, cupping her right breast in one and her prosthesis in the other.

“Shh…,” he murmured, gentling her, murmuring words she couldn’t make out in her terror, aware only of the sensation of a palm against her nipple, caressing in circles on one side. And on the other side, though she felt nothing, she was intensely aware that this hand moved over her body in rhythm with the other. He turned her to press against her as he wrapped strong arms around her. “You’re beautiful,” he told her.

She looked away, her face against his chest. He cupped her chin and tilted her head. When she raised her face to his she read the question in his eyes.

Enough of reading and long kisses and swirling in hell, she thought. She relinquished and offered him the desired smile. He took her hand and led her from the sweltering room, out from the carriage house and across the sweet-scented meadows to his bed.

M
ia blinked heavily in the piercing sunshine, then brought her hand up to shield her eyes. Gradually she moved her palm, growing accustomed to the light, and looked about the room. The curtains were drawn and the sun shone freely through large, expansive windows revealing a brilliant blue sky.

Dazed, Mia realized those were not her cabin windows. Awaking fully now, her gaze darted around the strange bedroom—at the taupe walls, the large television, a long dresser and mirror. She turned her head on the pillow. Stuart was lying on his stomach, his head turned away from her, his dark hair rumpled on the pillow. The long length of his tanned back was exposed and the white sheet lay across his hips.

Memories of the night before returned in a flood. She closed her eyes for a moment as the rush of feelings washed over her. Sighing, she felt a shiver of contentment. The passion from DeLancey’s letter had ignited their own. It was an explosion of desire and they’d moved to his room, groping and kissing, unable to keep their hands from each other. There had been only one awkward moment. When he’d started removing her dress, her hands shot up and clung to the silk, a last, wretched gesture of panic.

Stuart had taken her face in his hands and compelled her to look into his eyes. Their gazes locked and his hands moved to gently tug the dress from her. It slid like water down her legs. Whenever he sensed her shyness he brought her gaze back to him, over and over, until she was caught in his rhythm and released the last remnants of hesitation and doubt in a cry of release ripped from her heart.

She smiled and felt the sunlight swirling inside of her. She looked again at the man beside her, feeling so grateful. She had not been sure that she’d ever feel again the passion, or the fulfillment, she’d felt last night. She longed to reach out and run her fingers along his beautiful, tanned skin and the dark hairs along his soft arm. She put out her hand and held it over his back, then withdrew it, not wanting to wake him.

Instead she slowly, carefully rose from the bed. She looked for a robe and, finding none, she went to the bathroom and wrapped a large towel around herself. She tiptoed from the room and closed the door soundlessly behind her.

His condominium was handsomely done in mountain decor. It was sophisticated and not cabinlike thanks to its lofty ceilings, a stainless steel and wood kitchen, and rich, colored palette. He’d told her the resort had arranged for him to stay in this furnished condo for the duration of his job. Outside the windows the steel blue lake glistened in the morning sun, and beyond, his beloved mountain range was cloaked in every conceivable shade of green.

She prowled through his kitchen, surprised to find the cabinets nearly empty of any food save a few condiments and nuts. His fancy refrigerator held only a few bottles of beer and water, some old cheese, and a half bag of withered carrots. She began to worry when she found the coffee machine in the cabinet, pristine and obviously never used.

“Good morning.”

She jerked her head from the cabinet to see Stuart leaning against the granite counter looking disheveled, a navy cotton robe loosely tied around his waist. Dark stubble lined his jaw and lip, and his hair stuck out in spikes.

“I was going to make you coffee,” she said.

“Never drink it.”

“I figured that out,” she said, rising slowly. She tightened the towel around her chest, feeling suddenly awkward.

He reached out toward her and wiggled his fingers for her to come closer. Relieved, she closed the distance and he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight against his chest. She felt enormously reassured and took a deep breath, exhaling a long plume of air.

“You were lovely last night,” he said in his gruff morning voice against her head. “
Are
lovely this morning.”

She smiled, enjoying the feel of his soft, furred chest against her tender lips.

“I’m hungry this morning,” she replied, unable to remark on the night before.

“I don’t cook but I can take you to a proper country breakfast. Grits and eggs and bacon. And coffee.”

“At the inn?”

“That’s what I usually do. They serve breakfast on the patio.”

“Don’t you think they’ll notice I’m wearing the same dress I wore last night?”

She felt his shoulders move with his chuckle. “I’ll gain some points. And it will make you very exotic. A wanton woman on a one-night stand.”

She didn’t reply, uncertain about the one-night stand element of the comment.

He moved back so he could see her face. “Except it’s not a one-night stand, is it?”

“Isn’t it?” she asked, looking up at him.

“What do you think?”

She nestled her head in the crook of his arm and softened her spine. He tightened his arms around her again. She heard his heart beating, felt his chest rise with a deep inhalation of breath.

“What about if I drive you back to your cabin, you shower and change, and then we’ll drive to Shaffer’s for coffee and breakfast. How does that sound?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Things went according to plan with a few minor changes. Stuart drove Mia to the cabin, where she quickly showered. When she returned to her room dripping wet he kissed her, and one kiss led to another. Later, en route to town, they stopped at the overlook outside Watkins Mill. Mia was feeling expansive and wanted to share with him the view that had brought her so much pleasure over the past months. The distant mountain peaks were visible in the clear sky. Below, the wide, verdant valley showed off its earthy greenery.

Mia sat on the small bench at the overlook. Her long, tanned legs extended far out before her on the grass. Stuart’s longer legs, in jeans, stretched out next to hers. They’d been sitting here for several minutes, shoulder against shoulder, silently staring out. Mia tapped his sandal with hers.

“What?” he asked.

“So, what do you think? Isn’t it wonderful?”

“It’s nice.”

“Nice?” she asked, feigning insult. “Is that all you can say? This is the finest view anywhere for miles. I can see clear to Tennessee from here.”

“That far, huh?”

“Really, Stuart, it’s marvelous, isn’t it? It’s my favorite haunt. I have to pass here every day to get home from town. It’s so high up I feel like an eagle perched on some ledge overlooking her domain.”

“It’s high enough, I give you that.”

She tucked her arm under his. “Sometimes I stop on the way back home and sit here to make phone calls. Sometimes I come to sit here and just think. And sometimes I’m drawn here for no reason at all. It’s so majestic. So powerful. I feel so small and insignificant before all
that.
” She raised her hand to indicate the vista. Lowering her hand, she sighed. “Looking at this sight helps me believe there is a God.”

He turned his head and cast a sidelong glance her way. “Did you stop believing?”

She laid her head against his shoulder, feeling the coarseness of his cotton shirt against her tender cheek. Looking out, she nodded. “There were times it was too hard to believe.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s easier to believe than not believe. I’m thankful He let me live to see this,” she said, expressing more to him in those few words than she’d confessed before. “To be here with you. At this moment.”

She lifted her head to see him looking at her, his gaze penetrating. She reached up to gently stroke his jaw with her palm, then lowered her hand and tucked it back under his arm. “That’s all I’m asking for,” she said quietly, her eyes looking out to the distance.

When they walked into Shaffer’s, the bell chimed and Mia heard Becky’s cheerful voice ring out, “Mornin’, Mia!” Becky’s smile froze when she saw Stuart walking in behind her. She was sitting at a table with Flossie and Phyllis, all of whose eyes were fixed on the tall man behind her.

“Good morning, ladies,” Mia said as she walked up to their table. “Have y’all met Stuart?”

Their eyes devoured him as he came forward and smiled. “Ladies.”

Mia moved her hand to indicate the tall man beside her. “Stuart MacDougal, meet Becky Shaffer, Flossie Barbieri, and Phyllis Pace.”

“You’re the fellow who’s setting up that Orvis shop up at the lodge, right?” Becky asked.

“Yes ma’am.”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s coming along, thank you.”

Mia saw Phyllis’s eyes narrow in speculation. Flossie, she was shocked to see, was tongue-tied.

“Y’all having a coffee break?” Mia asked. It was unusual to find all three women sitting together for coffee midmorning.

“I guess you haven’t heard,” Becky said.

“Heard what?”

“Mrs. Minor passed away yesterday.”

Mia felt a stab of regret. “Oh, no. I hadn’t heard. I would have liked to see her again.”

“She was feeling poorly,” Flossie continued. “Her granddaughter said the doctor had been out several times in the past few days. At her age, you never know when the Lord’s going to call.”

“She lived a good life,” Phyllis added. “No one can say she was cut down before her time. God rest her soul.”

“When is the service?” Mia asked.

“Saturday morning at ten o’clock,” said Phyllis. “My father and I will be there.”

“I’ll be there,” Mia replied.

“I’ll go with you,” Stuart told her.

Hearing this, the three older women shared a knowing glance and reached for their coffee, smiling.

The white, Gothic Revival Presbyterian church was the bulwark of the western side of Main Street. At ten a.m. the church bell in the spired tower tolled mournfully for Louise Minor. The small church filled slowly with family, friends, and acquaintances of a woman who had lived all of her ninety-two years in Watkins Mill. When the tolling ceased and the church quieted, the eulogy told of a woman who had witnessed her small town endure the poverty of the Depression; the long, lean years during which the town struggled to pay back its debt; and the recent resurgence of popularity and new wealth as tourists returned again to the area. She had seen the final horse-drawn carts replaced by cars, electricity put into all homes, and her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren grown. It had been a full life.

Mia sat with Stuart in the back of the church and looked at the pointed, arched windows, saddened to have learned that Kate Watkins had not had a public funeral in this church that her father had served so many years. She’d talked briefly to Phillip Pace outside the church and he had informed her that Kate had a small, private service attended only by Mrs. Minor’s family and his own immediate family. Afterward, she was laid to rest beside her father in the Watkins family plot. Mia thought of the young woman who had walked so proud on these streets during her young life, who sat in the front pew on Sundays watching her father preach. Had she fallen so low that she was quietly buried, an outcast, forgotten or ridiculed by the town that once celebrated her fame?

A tear fell down her cheek. Stuart, misunderstanding her grief, reached over to hold her hand.

After the service Mia stood at the back of the church with Becky and Skipper. It was the first time she’d seen Becky not wearing her pink uniform. She appeared solemn in a dark brown suit. Skipper held her arm and was exceedingly attentive to her, worried lest she stand too long. Mia was moved by their tenderness toward each other. She looked up to Stuart. He stood separate from the group, staring out the double doors toward the sky. The sun shone clear and sunny, like a light at the end of a tunnel.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Landan?”

Mia turned her head toward the voice. Lucy Roosevelt stood beside her, looking regal in a black suit and a large black hat with a silk rim and bow.

“Lucy, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. My grandmother enjoyed her visit with you. She mentioned you several times before she died. She wanted to see you. She had something she wanted to give you.”

“Give me?” Mia asked. She couldn’t imagine what Mrs. Minor had for her, unless it had to do with Kate Watkins.

“Well, not for you, exactly. For Miss Carson. Theodora’s daughter. Will you be seeing her?”

“Yes. I’m sure I will.”

“Good,” she replied with relief. “See, a long time ago Miss Watkins gave my grandmother a letter and asked that she send it to her daughter if she died. I reckon she tried to mail it to her, except she didn’t know where to send it. Well, after Miss Watkins passed, my grandmother and my mother both tried to find Theodora. But they didn’t know where to begin to look. They called people and looked in phone books. We’re simple folk. We don’t have the means to hire a detective. So my grandmother just hung on to the letter, hoping that someday she’d find out what happened to Theodora, or hoping that she’d come back to town. That was a while ago and to be honest, we kinda forgot about that letter. Then you came by and my grandmother had me go up in the attic where I keep her things that she brought from her cabin. I went through all her stuff. Lord, there were a lot of knickknacks. There are some old pictures of her and Miss Watkins and Theodora, too, that she thought Belle might like. I found this.”

Lucy handed an envelope to Mia. It was thick, and yellowed from age. Mia looked at the writing on the front. In bold script was written the name:
Mrs. Theodora Watkins Carson.