Time Is a River (3 page)

Immediately she heard the soothing sound of rushing water. A soft breeze that felt like liquid cooled the perspiration from her body. The rain had stopped, the birds were chattering noisily in the trees, and the earth was green and ripe. Why, she wondered, couldn’t she feel the newness of the day?

Restless, Mia began to prowl. In the kitchen she eyed the farm sink balanced on wobbly pipe legs. She imagined calloused hands expertly wielding a filet knife, separating sweet meat from guts, heads, and bones. She shuddered at the thought. How long had it been since water flowed through these old pipes? With a firm yank, she turned the faucet. The old pump moaned and clunked loudly. She took two steps back, ready to bolt to safety if it blew. With a slow hiss the pipes released a trickle of water the color of fish blood. She waited, watching, till it changed to a clear flow. She splashed some water on her face, gasping at its iciness. Then she tentatively tasted the spring water. It was cold and delicious. She drank her fill and ate the remains of a health bar she’d found at the bottom of her purse.

The rough-hewn cabinets held a miserly group of dented pots, a heavy cast-iron frying pan, chipped, brown pottery dishes, and mismatched silverware. It was a depressing collection. The neglect of a room as personal to a woman as a kitchen signaled that whoever had lived here had long since given up caring.

Wiping the dust from her hands, Mia glanced at her watch. Her stomach was rumbling and the faint caffeine headache in her temples told her it was time to stop snooping and head to town for supplies.

She dressed quickly in jeans and a wrinkled cotton sweater pulled out from her small, black suitcase. After washing she dried her face, catching her reflection in the small mirror over the sink. Mia avoided looking at her reflection. It was deeply unsettling because she no longer recognized the woman staring back at her.

Only a year ago Mia Landan was a tanned, sophisticated, and well-dressed young professional in Charleston. She was never seen in public without her hair and makeup done. She had a dancer’s body with long, slender arms and legs and a swan’s neck. With her hair upswept and pearls, she used to imagine herself a young Grace Kelly.

The woman staring back at her now was gaunt and pale, like she’d not seen the sun in months. After chemo, her straight blond hair had grown back reddish blond and curly. She reached out to run her hands through the unruly wisps floating around her head. She liked the color—so full of fire and life. She didn’t have the heart to cut it so the curls stuck out from her head in different lengths. Her heart-shaped face ended with a deeply dimpled chin under full lips.

She looked at her face dispassionately. In PR it was her job to sum up people quickly. She thought she looked like a scarecrow after being hit by a bolt of lightning.

Mia turned from the mirror and flicked off the light. Then, grabbing her purse, she headed outside. She came to an abrupt stop on the front porch. Last night the darkness had cloaked her surroundings. Looking out in the early morning light, she was struck with the magnificence of the landscape.

The cabin was sheltered by a mountain ridge to one side covered with tall trees and lush vegetation in every shade of green imaginable. Yards away the river cascaded over white rocks, tumbling in its mellifluous music into a deep, bluish green pool.

Belle had told her this area was called Watkins Cove. Mia had said that she’d thought a cove was a bay in a body of water. Belle explained that a cove was also a sheltered recess in a mountainside. “Both,” she’d told her with meaning, “were protected areas of refuge.”

Beyond those mountains, farther to the east then down south to the coast, the city of Charleston was just awakening. She saw in her mind’s eye the narrow, charming streets; historic buildings; and spired churches that made up the city of her birth. Charleston was for her like a sophisticated, sweet-scented great-aunt, one who was never without her pearl necklace, attended church services regularly, knew her place in society, and dutifully performed the responsibilities that position demanded. Mia was grateful for the culture and refinement that she’d learned from her. Yet sometimes, especially when times were hard and her obligatory smile was brittle, she chafed under the expectations she felt, mostly from within herself.

Here in the mountains, she felt free. No one had any expectations of her, and in turn that liberated her to explore desires sprung from deep within herself. She felt grounded here in the rich, loamy earth. By the sea she’d felt as unfixed as the sand. Charleston had always been her home, but she was beginning to wonder if the historic city should be her home in the future.

Regardless of her decision, she would have to return to Charleston at summer’s end. Mia leaned against the porch railing, lifting her face, and breathed deep. She felt the freshness swirl through her veins and sweep the staleness from her body in one long exhale. This small pocket in the mountains would shelter her while she healed.

The journey to Watkins Mill was no better or worse than she’d expected. The countryside was green and lush after the rain. She passed small farmhouses with tidy gardens and a dog or a goat standing near; open fields dotted with grazing horses or steers; and imposing new log homes peeking out from mountain ridges. The road twisted and turned, yet Belle was right that the trip to town would be quick. Before long she reached a paved road that led to the small town nestled in the mountains. At first glance, she thought it looked like a town that time forgot.

Mia parked her car in a small lot in front of the old train depot. It was a charming wood building with a flared roof; wide, overhanging eaves; and big barrels of flowers along the walkway. From signs on the building she learned that the once popular train had ceased service years earlier, but the town had revitalized the station and it was now the home of the historical society.

Main Street made up most of the town’s shopping area and was only a few blocks long. The train depot sat at one end of a long stretch of compact, one-and two-story buildings of red and yellow brick. A spired church sat at the other. In between, cheerful awnings interspersed with trees spread out over the sidewalk, and beneath them sat more barrels of colorful geraniums and bright green, chubby shrubs. It was, she thought with a stab, the kind of town that she and Charles used to love to visit together on a weekend holiday.

Belle had told her that the townspeople were a friendly group, close-knit and reliable. Most of them had grown up in Watkins Mill, as had their parents and grandparents. So they knew just about every intimate detail about one another. More than likely, Belle teased, they were hungry for some fresh gossip.

Mia felt battered and raw inside, incapable of small talk. She wanted nothing more than to be invisible as she slipped through town and gathered her supplies. Ducking her head, she began walking briskly along the sidewalk. She passed a library, the town hall, and a restaurant. When she passed a women’s clothing store, she thought about her small, black suitcase at the cabin packed only with the few clothes she’d needed for a three-day fly-fishing retreat. She grimaced and thought she would have to buy some more.

There was a time not long ago that she relished the chance to shop for new clothes or browse through an antique store. Her closet at home held several fine wool suits and crisp white blouses that had looked good on her tall, lean body. There were shelves of silk tops, and neatly stacked boxes each filled with designer shoes, her one extravagance. They didn’t have much cash flow and she didn’t desire jewelry like so many of her friends did. She was satisfied with her channel set diamond wedding band—by agreement there had been no engagement ring—diamond studs in her ears, and the pearl necklace that Charles had given to her on their first wedding anniversary. They were lovely, lustrous Mikimotos in graduating sizes. The double strands were still in her jewelry box on top of her dresser.

She looked at the mannequin in the window wearing a pleated tan skirt and an unremarkable cotton blouse, then walked on. Clothes or her looks no longer captured her attention. She’d buy what she needed later, when she had to.

The scents of freshly baked bread, cinnamon, and coffee lured her to a small restaurant bakery. A big chalkboard on an easel in front announced the day’s specials. Today’s was cinnamon rolls. A little bell over the door chimed when she walked in.

“Be right with you!” The bobbing blond head below the counter rose up to smile perfunctorily toward the door. The head was attached to a robust, middle-aged woman in a pale pink uniform bursting at the buttons against her hourglass figure. Her face was pretty, pink-cheeked, and friendly, but her spectacular blue eyes that sparkled with life drew Mia’s attention.

“Welcome to Shaffer’s,” she said with the drawl of the North Carolina mountains. “What can I do for you?”

Mia’s hungry gaze devoured the rows of freshly baked doughnuts and pastries in the glass display case. There was another long glass case behind it to form an L down the restaurant, and this one was filled with all kinds of bread, cakes, pies, and cookies. Her knees almost buckled at the smell of hot coffee brewing.

“Do you take credit?” she asked.

The woman scoffed. “Cash only, I’m afraid.”

Mia nodded, painfully aware that she only had a few singles in her purse. She glanced up and checked the price of coffee.

“I’ll have a cup of black coffee, please. Large.” Her fingers danced on the glass as she tried to choose. “I’ll have a plain doughnut,” she said, pointing. “No, wait. Make that a cinnamon roll.”

A knowing grin stretched across the woman’s face. “You sure about that?”

Mia returned a hesitant grin. “They all look so good.”

“Looks like you can afford to fatten up a little, sugar,” she said, grabbing the metal tongs and pulling out the pastry. “Not me. I eat one and it goes straight to my hips and stays there. Will that be for here?”

Mia looked to several small tables covered in pink and white checked tablecloths. “Yes, thank you.”

The woman put the pastry on a plate and poured the coffee in a thick white mug. “That’ll be two sixty.”

Mia took out her wallet and carefully laid out three dollars. She reflected on her state of mind when she fled her home yesterday. She hadn’t even realized she had almost no money in her wallet. “Is there an ATM nearby?”

“Over at the bank. Turn right when you leave here and it’ll be at the end of the block. You can’t miss it. Here you go…” She paused before calling her
sugar
again. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated. “Mia.”

“You visiting our little town, Mia?”

“Yes.” She glanced down at the name tag that was pinned to the woman’s chest like a billboard on a mountain. “Becky,” she replied, taking her coffee and pastry and moving over to the table. She picked up the local real estate brochure from a pile by the door and began leafing through it to discourage Becky from asking more questions. Becky went back to polishing the glass, and Mia knew she was being sized up as just another tourist with dreams of owning a cabin in the mountains.

Mia bit into the pastry and her eyes closed with pleasure. It was so delicious and the coffee so hot and rich Mia almost purred as she lapped it up. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

“They’re addictive,” Becky said from the counter.

Mia looked up to see Becky smiling. “I bake ’em fresh every morning.” She patted her belly. “Skipper doesn’t care, though. Says there’s more of me to love.” She laughed again and polished more glass. “Come on back tomorrow morning. I’m making custard doughnuts. I open at seven sharp. I have to be ready for the anglers before they head out. They like their coffee hot and their pastries sweet. You know, I’ve got a little post office in the back,” she said, pointing to a small counter. “You can do your mailing here. You staying in town?”

“No, I’m up the road a bit.”

“Renting? Or do you own the place? Lots of new homes sprouting up on these mountains.”

“Renting,” she replied, looking again at her magazine. She hoped the woman would catch the hint. But it was clear Becky was interested in small talk. Mia suspected that this coffee shop with a post office in the back was the hub for news in the small town.

“I’ll bet you’re renting the Murphy place,” Becky continued. “That’s a fine old house. In need of some fixing up. Mostly cosmetic, though. I heard they were putting it up for rent. Maybe for sale. It would be a good buy.”

“No. I don’t know the house.”

Becky mulled this over, then shifted her weight and asked, “So where
are
you staying?”

“Actually, I’m staying at a cabin of a friend.”

“Oh. Who’s that?”

“Belle Carson.”

Becky idly polished the glass counter, her lips pursed like she was sucking a sour candy. “Name sounds familiar. Is she from these parts?”

“She lives in Asheville, so…” Mia wiped her fingers with the tiny paper napkin and rose to leave.

“Don’t forget about those custard doughnuts. I’ll put your name on one,” Becky called out in her friendly manner. Mia waved, then headed out the door, the little bell ringing as she left.

A few cars slowly passed, and a young couple with two children prancing at their heels eagerly entered Shaffer’s. Mia smiled to herself when she heard the bell chime and Becky’s hearty hail.

Next door, the hardware store was a sharp contrast to the cheery, feminine pink of Shaffer’s. This was a male bastion filled with utilitarian steel shelves overflowing with cardboard boxes, tools large and small, and rows and rows of plastic bins filled with nuts and bolts and nails and God only knew what else. She wrinkled her nose as she passed; the smell of dust and motor oil was pervasive. She would make a stop here later in the week.