Time Is a River (16 page)

Mia closed her eyes and took a long breath, absorbing this, accepting it. So be it, she thought. Charles had looked at her as damaged goods. Her weakness was that she saw herself through his eyes. She would never do that again.

She slowly untied the sash of her robe and let it fall open. She rolled her shoulders and let the fabric slide down her arms to puddle on the floor. Opening her eyes, she looked down at her naked body.

Mia saw her long, lean legs and arms; her flat stomach; her one small breast on the right and the flat, pale scar on her left. She had filled out some in her weeks here. Her muscle tone was more defined from physical work and fishing. Her skin appeared rosy in the firelight. Bringing her hands to her hair, she scratched her scalp and let her fingers comb through the curls. Her hair was growing longer, healthier.

This was her body. And this, she thought as she looked around the small room, was her sanctuary. This small space in the mountains was her private world.

Mia went to the armoire and pulled out the pile of watercolors she’d painted on artist’s paper. On fourteen sheets she had painted the river in different lights. On six of these, she saw that her focus had sharpened, including trees, wildflowers, and birds in her work. Next she went to the kitchen and found the pack of tacks she’d purchased. She felt bursts of excitement as a plan began to form in her mind. She turned the gas on the teakettle, then went to collect her watercolors. The cool night breeze whisked in from the windows but the fire kept her naked body warm as one by one Mia tacked her watercolors up on the wood wall of the cabin. She relished the freedom of her nakedness. This, she thought with a small laugh, was what it must mean to be comfortable in your own skin. When she was done, she stood back and, with her hands on her hips, surveyed her work.

Something was missing. She went to gather her calligraphy pen and ink and some scissors, and spread more paper on the table. Humming now, she gathered Kate’s diaries and also brought them to the table. She’d read the diaries so many times she knew exactly where to look for phrases that played in her mind. She chose the ones that most inspired her. Working quickly now, she copied the words verbatim on paper. She started copying down Kate’s words,
afraid
,
scared
,
timid
…

She stopped, then in a rush crushed the paper in her hands and tossed it aside. It was time for something new. She spread out a new sheet and wrote:
strong
,
audacious
,
courageous
,
artistic
,
fearless
,
brave
. She smiled, deciding
these
were the words she would say aloud every day. She collected this and the other papers with Kate’s words and tacked them on the wall with the dozen watercolors, rearranging them until she was satisfied with the design. By the time she was done the kettle was whistling on the stove like a wild bird.

Mia felt a fluttering of elation as she made a pot of tea, then returned to the armoire and pulled out two place settings of the exquisite, hand-painted china and two settings of silver, and set the heads of the table. Then she carried all five candles to the table and lit each one, enjoying the way the flickering light played upon the creamy paleness of the porcelain plates. She brought cheese and crackers and a fresh peach and placed some on each plate, then poured tea into the two cups. When all was ready, she returned to the armoire and slipped the long, white scarf around her neck. The silk grazed sensually across her skin when she moved. Finally, she carried the blue taffeta gown and very gently laid it across the chair at the head of the table.

Taking her seat at the opposite end, Mia placed her hands upon the arms of the chair and sat far back, settling herself firmly. The wood felt cold and hard against her bare skin as she squared her shoulders. Mia felt like a queen overlooking her realm.

Across the room the dark wood walls had come alive with her colors. They seemed to dance in the flickering light of the fire. She searched out one paper, a stanza from a poem by William Ernest Henley that she’d found written in Kate’s fishing diary. She’d copied this selection for her wall because it had spoken to her. She read aloud.

Once again she sensed a presence in the room. Nothing she could identify. Perhaps nothing more than her alter ego. She reached for her teacup and raised it in a toast to the empty chair across the table with the blue gown draped over it.

“To us.”

I
n mid-July a heat wave settled in the south and everyone and everything was sluggish, including the fish. But the tourists came to the mountains in droves. Shaffer’s bakery was standing-room-only in the morning, and the other restaurants were doing a brisk business the rest of the day. Watkins Mill was in the thick of the summer season.

After a light lunch on the porch Mia packed her notebook and shopping list and headed for town. She passed the deep pool outside her cabin, as was her habit, to see if she could spot Mr. Big. Most every day she’d walk over to the edge of the pool and look for that monster trout. Every once in a while she’d catch sight of his nose rising from the depths to sip an insect. He was a magnificent rainbow trout, long and fat and brilliantly colored. Her fingers itched for her rod whenever she spied him. Nothing she cast his way caught his interest. Again and again she was refused. It didn’t bother her, though. He was her ultimate challenge. Sometimes she felt Mr. Big knew that.

As she looked into the pool, her mind reflected on the past two weeks she’d spent trying out different rivers and streams with Stuart. He’d come for her that first morning in his red Jeep Wrangler and then several more times after that. He never led her to believe he was anything more than her guide and fishing buddy. The bulk of their conversations had been about how they liked their fishing rods, what flies to use, the fish they’d caught in the past few days, and the fish they hoped to catch in the next few.

Through his eyes, she came to experience the joy of fly-fishing. Each fish caught he declared beautiful, incredible, a miracle. Each moment spent outdoors in the water was treasured. His joy in the sport was like a boy’s, and when he smiled his eyes seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.

At other times, they stood a short distance from each other in the water and fished in a companionable silence. Neither felt the need to speak, yet she felt sure he was as aware of her presence as she was of his. On occasion she would look over, content to just watch him cast, feeling the wonder one experiences when watching a great bird soar in the sky or a glistening fish leap into the air.

Mia couldn’t help but compare this relationship with the one she shared with Charles. They’d never found something they enjoyed doing together—not a sport or a hobby. They each had their own separate interests and pastimes. If people mentioned the Landans they’d remark how happy they seemed, even how great-looking they were as a couple. Mia and Charles had talked together about their work, the bills, and their families, and when they were with friends they laughed and chatted in a group. But they never talked about their hopes and aspirations, either their own or as a couple. They never focused their gazes on each other.

Looking into the fathomless pool, Mia tried to remember why she’d married Charles in the first place. When she saw in her mind’s eye the woman of twenty-eight who had married Charles after a long courtship, she seemed impossibly young. And Charles, he never really wanted to get married in the first place. At thirty-two, it seemed time to commit. Once they’d made up their minds to marry there was no stopping the wedding. The union of two old Charleston families was the wedding of the season. Mia couldn’t pinpoint the first time she’d suspected it was a mistake. By the time the cancer was diagnosed and the treatments commenced, however, deep inside she knew. Someday, when she and Charles could talk about it, she’d have to ask him whether he knew he’d wanted to leave before the cancer, or if the disease merely made the decision clear.

A long, silver shape caught her eye. It was that granddaddy of a rainbow trout cruising around the pool, looking for a bug as if she weren’t even there. She’d read somewhere that the life span of a rainbow trout was six years. That behemoth looked double that, maybe more. To her mind Mr. Big was as ancient as the river he swam in, wise and wary. At what price wisdom? she wondered. Had that big trout ever felt the prick of steel in his mouth?

On her way into town Mia stopped at the scenic overlook and made her usual round of telephone calls. Her first call was to Maddie. They chatted about everything and nothing, as sisters often do. Mia felt her muscles ease just hearing Maddie’s voice and the details of her life with Don and the children. Sometimes Charleston felt so very far away and Maddie was her only touchstone.

When she hung up with Maddie she returned Charles’s four increasingly strident phone messages.

“Hello, Charles. I got your messages.”

“Don’t you ever answer your phone?”

She explained for the hundredth time how difficult phone reception was in the mountains.

“What’s up, Charles?” she asked with a roll of the eyes.

“I’m going to make you a proposition and I want you to think about it before you respond. Take your time, it’s important. But please, don’t take forever and drag down the divorce proceedings.”

“You’re wasting time with this preamble.”

“I just want you to think carefully about your answer.”

“Why don’t you tell me what your proposition is?”

He paused, then said bluntly, “I’d like to buy the condo.”

“Our condo?”

“Of course our condo. I’ve thought about it and decided I’d like to stay here. The location is great and it would be a hassle to move.”

“And what about my living situation?”

“Well, do you want to stay here?”

Mia saw the sleek, marbled entrance to the building overlooking the Ashley River, the brass fixtures on the elevator, the airy rooms with large windows overlooking the water. It was modern and chic, pearlescent in the twilight when friends stopped by for cocktails before dinner.

“No,” she replied honestly. “But this might get sticky. We should sell it outright.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Charles told her. “That I’ll offer you a lowball price.”

That was exactly what she was thinking but she didn’t say so.

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Mia. I know what I’ve put you through and my timing is lousy and you’ll probably never forgive me. So let me do the right thing by you, at least in this one area. I’ll be fair. I’ll be more than fair. Hell, Mia, I’ll be generous.”

She looked heavenward, saying a prayer for strength. She brought her fingers to her trembling lips as water flooded her eyes.

“Mia, are you still there?”

She swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“Just think about it, OK?”

“I don’t need to think about it.”

He didn’t reply but she thought she heard a disappointed sigh.

“I’ll sell it to you.”

“Thank you.” His relief was audible.

“Don’t thank me yet, Charles,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I haven’t agreed to the price yet.”

It was late in the afternoon by the time she arrived at the
Gazette.
Nada Turner came rushing from her office when Mia arrived.

“Where’ve you been?”

“I went fishing.”

“Oh?” Her expression sharpened with interest. “Where do you fish?”

She never talked to others about her friendship with Stuart. She enjoyed their privacy and didn’t want tongues to wag.

“I cast a few into the pool behind the cabin. There’s a big ol’ trout there that flips its tail at me every morning, just to rile me.” She smiled craftily. “But I’m getting better.”

“See, that’s what impresses me about you. Your persistence. It pays off in fly-fishing.” She shrugged. “And in life, too.”

“We’ll see. That fish isn’t caught yet.”

“Reading all these articles by Kate Watkins has got me all fired up to go fly-fishing again. I used to fish a lot when I was young, did I tell you that? But over the years I’ve been so busy with the paper that I just, well, I guess I thought I didn’t have the time. But you know what? I’m going to find time. I’m going to dig out my waders and boots and rod and start up again.”

“I’m all for that.
Tempus fugit.
”

“Exactly!” she said, seizing the topic. “I got to thinking. If reading Kate’s articles got me so fired up to fish, then I’ll bet my last dollar it’ll make others want to fish, too. Women, especially. The articles are timeless.” She looked at Mia with the look of an impending pronouncement. “So I’ve decided to publish Kate’s articles again. I’ll run a special column, ‘On the Fly,’ with her old byline. What do you think? Isn’t that a great idea?”

Mia was nonplussed and felt a sudden foreboding. “Publish them? Honestly, Nada, I wish you wouldn’t.”

Nada’s face fell. “But whyever not? I thought you’d be wild for the idea.”

“I’m not. Not at all. I never intended to bring her story back in the public eye like this. To get folks talking about her.” She looked over to where Missy was sitting at the reception desk, very quiet. She leaned over and said in a whisper, “Can we go downstairs?”

Nada glanced at Missy, nodded in understanding, then led the way to the microfilm room downstairs.

“What’s got you so hot and bothered?” she asked Mia when they got there.

Mia leaned against the table. “Not what.
Who.
It’s Belle Carson. She’s the granddaughter of Kate Watkins.”

“I know that.”

“Then you also must know that when her mother left town she didn’t look back.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“According to Belle, Theodora wanted to escape any communication with her mother so that when she left Watkins Mill she could start a life of her own in Virginia, without the smear of scandal. Nonetheless, Kate left the cabin and the land around it to Theodora when she died and Theodora passed it on to Belle. Now Belle is making her first tenuous steps back into town.” Mia took a breath. In that space of time she said a prayer for absolution for her own part in uncovering Kate’s story.

“Belle asked me to keep a lid on anything that had to do with her grandmother. She doesn’t want me poking around and stirring things up. The last thing she wants is to have Kate’s story brought back in the town newspaper. She’s hoping the story died with the two women.”

Nada crossed her arms. “So why did you dig into it?”

“Well,” she began, dodging the real reason. “Kate Watkins was an extraordinary woman. I’m impressed not only by her achievements and skill in fly-fishing but by her courage at smashing the image that women don’t fish. She broke a barrier for women, like Amelia Earhart. How can I not admire that?”

Nada narrowed her eyes. “Your research goes a little deeper than admiration, seems to me.”

Mia puffed out air and looked at her feet. “You’re a good reporter, do you know that?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

Mia sighed. “I’m not sure why this means so much to me. And that’s the truth. At first it was an interesting story, a puzzle to work out in my spare time. The more I heard and read about her, the more I dug, and the more the stories didn’t fit.

“Somewhere along the line, it got personal. I saw Kate as a mentor and a role model. Her words inspire me and her choices remind me what I could be doing with my life. I have this gut feeling that I owe her. Belle told me not to stir up the mud, but I can’t help but think her reputation has been smeared by it. If I don’t at least try to find out the truth…” She shrugged. “Who else will?”

“That’s what a reporter does. She digs deep to find the details that shape the whole picture. For me, the story is paramount to everything else. And this is a good story.”

“But we don’t know the real story yet, do we? All we have is rumor and speculation. My God, Nada, Phillip Pace tells me Kate never killed anyone. That it’s all a lie! Is that possible? Aren’t you reporters supposed to get the facts?”

“I thought that’s what you’re doing.”

“I’ve barely scratched the surface. It’s like some mystery and I’m trying to unravel the clues.”

Mia went to the table and sat down, taking a piece of plain white paper. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pen. Meanwhile, Nada came to sit beside her.

Mia tapped her pencil against the paper in thought. “Innocent until proven guilty. As far as I know, we still hold to that in our country, right? So, do you know who Kate was supposed to have killed?”

“Someone from out of town. Her lover. What was his name? Delaney? Darcy? No, it was French sounding. Come on, brain…”

“I first thought she’d killed Lowrance Davidson.”

“Good heavens, no. He was killed in World War I. Everybody knows that.” Nada snapped her fingers. “DeLancey. That’s his name. Theodore DeLancey. He was some society fella from New York.”

Mia wrote the name in her notebook. “When did this DeLancey die?”

“I’m not sure. Likely before nineteen thirty. After that she went to live in the cabin.”

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean that’s when the murder—or rather, the alleged murder—took place.” Mia smoothed out the piece of paper and began to draw a chart. “I’m going to start a timeline. That way we can see what we do know for sure. Then I can weed out what is only rumor. OK, let’s start with Kate. She was born in nineteen hundred, which means she was in her midtwenties when her first article was printed.”

“Twenty-five,” Nada said, checking the printed article date.