Time Is a River (15 page)

“All done,” he said, then held her rod out before him, inspecting it. “It’s a nice rod. It’s one of the Temple Fork rods designed for Casting for Recovery, isn’t it?”

She felt her stomach drop and took a breath. “Yes.”

He slanted his gaze toward her. “Are you a survivor?”

There it was. The gauntlet thrown. And so soon.

“Yes.” She reached out for her rod, feeling the giddy joy of the moment sink as rapidly as the sun over the water. “Thank you,” she said in a soft voice. “And thank you for moving upriver tonight, by the way.” She turned to leave.

“Seemed only fair,” he continued.

He seemed unaware of her quick change in mood as he reeled in his line. Or perhaps, she thought, he was very aware and determined to press on.

“It’s your favorite spot, after all. I did a little research and apparently we’re standing on your land.”

She looked up, surprised.

“This is your stretch of river. I hadn’t realized I’d hiked in the backwoods so far and was trespassing. So, I should say both
I’m sorry
and
thanks
to you.”

“No need. It’s not my land. I mean, I’m staying up at the cabin but the land is owned by my friend Belle Carson.” She saw a spark of recognition in his eyes. “Do you know her?”

“By reputation. She’s with a guide service in Asheville, right?”

“She owns the business. Brookside Guides.”

“Ah, yes. I remember. It’s a small world up here. So, Belle Carson is one of my competitors, then.”

“I’d heard you were a guide.”

“Oh? You were checking up on me?”

Her face burned. “Your name came up,” she replied. “Someone was saying that you are setting up an Orvis store at the Watkins Lodge.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“That will shake things up a bit locally.”

“In a good way. We’ve done our research. Western North Carolina has one of the most elaborate networks of trout streams in the nation. There are hundreds of streams all gorging with ample rain from high up in the mountains. Some of the best fly-fishing in the country is here and more and more people are getting involved in the sport. Orvis will be attracting a lot of people to the area, bringing them into the lodge. There’s plenty to go around.”

“Are you from around here?”

“Yes and no. I’m from the Tennessee side of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I know the big rivers around here but I’m getting familiar with the backwoods streams. Seeing as how I’m competition, I doubt many guides will want to show me their secret spots. I thought I’d found a winner with this pocket but now I see I’ve wandered off the lodge land. I doubt Ms. Carson would appreciate the competition fishing her stream.”

“You never know, but I’d definitely ask first. So the Watkins Lodge property abuts this piece, does it?” Looking out, Mia asked, “Whereabouts?”

Stuart turned and pointed to the west. “Just on the other side of that ridge.”

Mia looked up at the mountain ridge beyond and realized just how far young Kate had wandered lost in the woods before she found the cabin. “This here is Watkins land, too,” Mia told him. “Belle Carson is a Watkins. She inherited this land from her mother, who inherited it from her mother, Kate Watkins.”

“That explains it. I knew the family kept a chunk of the estate for themselves, and from looking at this stretch of river, I’d say the best fishing chunk, too. No surprise there. I understand that the Watkins family has a long, illustrious line of fly fishers.”

“I heard that, too,” Mia answered evasively.

“You say there’s a cabin?” he asked.

“Yes. It was the fishing cabin for the Watkins family back when they still lived in the main house. They’ve kept it in the family.”

“I love old fishing cabins. They have such character. And they’re usually sitting on the sweetest spots for fishing.”

She did not invite him to see it.

There was an awkward pause after which he looked off at the river again. “Well, I see the fish are biting. I’ll leave you be. See you, Mia.”

“Wait,” she called out. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”

He put his hand to his heart in mock pain. Mia laughed and said, “Your full name, Stuart.”

“Stuart MacDougal.”

“Well, Stuart MacDougal,” she said, repeating his name to cement it in her brain. Since chemotherapy, proper nouns had a way of slipping through her mind like water through a sieve. “Please don’t run off. I’d like it if you stayed. Watching you fish I might actually learn a thing or two. If that’s OK with you,” she quickly added.

His smile came slow and easy. “I’d like that. Mia…”

She cracked a smile. “Mia Landan.”

For the next hour they fished the pocket, or rather, Mia fished and Stuart gave her pointers. He was, she discovered, an excellent teacher. Belle had told her that each guide has his or her own style, and she found this was true. Belle was enigmatic and encouraging. She had watched Mia’s every move and was right there to correct her. Stuart was laid-back and his voice was never sharp or frustrated, even when she did what she knew were some incredibly bad casts.

They fished till it got so dark they could barely see the fly on the water, but Mia didn’t want to stop.

“Stuart, I can’t stop now. I’m just getting the hang of it and I haven’t caught a fish yet.”

“That’s why it’s called fly-fishing, not fly-catching.” He chuckled as he reeled in his line. “Some days are good ones and some days you have to accept you’re going to be denied. Fly-fishing to me is just showing up. It’s about being here—your head, your heart, your senses—all of it.”

“Listen to the river,” she said halfheartedly.

“Exactly,” Stuart said in all seriousness. “Whether or not you catch a fish today is not important.” He reached out for her hand and helped her up the bank. “I can see you’re going to be one of those fishers who’ll need to be dragged from the water.” He stretched his shoulders and took a deep breath. “As for me, I caught fish this morning and fish this evening and I’ve got a long, fast walk out ahead of me. Time to call it a day.”

Mia looked toward her path home. The woods were already dark. “I didn’t realize how late it was getting.”

They stood side by side on the bank packing up gear. The twilight deepened around them. Mia shouldered her backpack, then stood looking at the path with worry etched across her face.

“I didn’t bring a flashlight,” she said.

“How far is it to your cabin?”

“Not too far, but the path goes through the woods.” The path was as steeped in black as tea. She looked up. “The moon hasn’t risen.”

“Do you want me to walk you back?”

She turned to face him. Once again he was a silhouette in the dark.

“Would you mind?”

“No, I will.”

“When we get there, I’ll drive you to the lodge.”

“You don’t have to. The road is well marked.”

“It’s a long walk and I’d feel better if you let me drive you. Deal?”

He laughed softly. “Deal.”

They didn’t talk on the trek back. She was apprehensive about missing a marker on the trail or falling down or not seeing where a copperhead might be lying along the dark path. Their footfalls sounded heavy in the night as they crunched and cracked across the forest floor.

Stuart kept up with her as she led the way along the river. When they passed a narrow bend Mia came to an abrupt halt. She felt Stuart come up close behind her and heard his intake of breath. Ahead, a fog of insects was swarming over the water. The fish that had been sitting quietly with an occasional sip were now thrashing at the surface.

“Stuart, what is that?”

“A hatch!” His whispered voice was heated with excitement.

“I’ve never seen one before.”

“It’s the hatching of insects over the water. The fish go wild for them. Follow me. And don’t spook ’em.”

They made a beeline to the river’s edge. The air was alive with insects. Stuart tied a nymph fly to her line with swift fingers.

It was a magical, mystical evening. Mia wouldn’t remember how many fish they caught but she would always remember the spontaneous outbursts of laughter and whoops of joy as the fish leaped at the flies, taking whatever they offered in their frenzy. When the hatch finished and the water quieted, their laughter subsided into silence. A surreal calm fell upon the river.

Stuart came closer and took her hands in his. He was a dark shadow. She couldn’t make out his eyes.

“Your hands are cold.”

“The water was icy.”

Her gaze was trained on him as he lowered his mouth to her hands and blew on them. She felt his warm breath on her skin. She closed her eyes and felt her blood warm.

He pulled back slowly. “We should head back.”

“All right,” she replied, breathless, and turned to lead their way along the path. She walked in a daze, filled with the heady euphoria of the evening. Before too long, she saw the broad outline of the cabin sitting dark and shuttered across from the green pool.

“There it is. Watkins Cove.”

Coming closer she saw it as he would. The moon was rising and the sloping metal roof mirrored its silver light. The still water of the pool beside it was a reflecting pond.

“See, I was right,” Stuart said as they drew near. “Those old fishermen always claimed the prettiest spots.”

Mia felt a surge of pride for the little cabin, though it wasn’t even hers. By virtue of her relationship to Belle and Kate, she claimed a bond. They walked across the spit of land to the other side of the river where a flight of wood stairs led to the front porch. Mia began walking up.

“What would you say to a cup of coffee?” she asked in a companionable way.

Stuart stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, his hand on the railing, and deliberated. Mia turned her head, perplexed.

“Thanks. But I’d better head right back.”

“Oh,” she stumbled out. “OK.”

“Maybe another time.”

“Sure. I’ll just get my keys.”

Mia’s head was spinning as she dropped her gear at the door and went inside to grab her purse. She felt a fool for inviting him in for coffee. Did he think she was making a move on him? She was just trying to be polite.

She came back out quickly, locked the door, and walked swiftly to the car where he was waiting. They climbed in wordlessly. The doors closed and immediately she felt an odd tension settle between them. Mia fired the engine and shifted into gear. The gravel crunched noisily under the tires as they took off, her high beams revealing the dirt road and tall, rugged trunks of trees in a ghostly light.

The night air was cooler and they rolled down their windows. The compartment felt fresher and the tension between them eased somewhat. They’d fished together so companionably, she thought. This new awkwardness confused her. It was because of her invitation for coffee, she scolded herself. He wasn’t interested in her. Not in that way. Of course he wouldn’t be. She’d misread his kindness.

The road to Watkins Lodge was a straight shot down over the mountain ridge. In ten minutes she saw the beautifully elegant roofline of the great old house atop a grassy hill. She pulled up in front of the low, sweeping portico of the main house.

“Thanks for the ride,” Stuart said.

“A deal’s a deal,” she replied with a tight smile.

He climbed from the car and closed the door. Then he leaned against the car and looked through the window at her.

“I was thinking,” he said with hesitation. “I’m going to check out a stretch of the Green River tomorrow morning that sounds promising. It wouldn’t be for long. Would you like to come along?”

“Why would you want me to come? Wouldn’t I just get in your way?”

A small smile eased across his face and in the brighter light of the lodge she saw the faint shadow of stubble across his jaw. “You did pretty good out there today. But I thought you could use another lesson.”

She laughed shortly. “That’s pretty obvious.”

“Come on. You can be my test case. I can evaluate how a classic beginner does on that strip of water.”

It wasn’t a date, she realized with relief. They would simply be helping each other out. “Well, that’s me. A classic beginner,” she said with sarcasm. Then she met his gaze and said, “All right. Where do we meet?”

“I’ll swing by tomorrow morning. Seven sharp.” He rose to a stand, tapped the top of her car with the flat of his palm, and waved her off.

Though the night was warm, Mia lit a fire in the cabin’s hearth. She heated pots of water on the stove and poured them into the claw-footed tub. After her bath, she moistened her skin with perfumed lotion, taking special care with her scar. Clean and scented, she wrapped herself in her robe and walked barefoot into the main room. It was dark but the fire cast a rosy, sensual glow. The royal velvet of the mahogany sofa was inviting and the jagged points of the stag’s antlers on the armoire cast long shadows across the floor.

Mia still felt the sting of Stuart’s rejection to come into her cabin. She understood what he was telling her with his invitation to fish tomorrow. He was setting up the boundaries of their relationship on his terms. He wanted a friendship on the water, not a personal relationship behind closed doors.