Time Is a River (9 page)

The sky was deepening to a periwinkle blue. She walked a little farther, enjoying the gurgling of the river, when she caught sight of a patch of brilliant orange. She hurried toward it, pulling the creel from her shoulder. As she drew near she recognized the three-foot-high, regal Turk’s cap lily. She smiled, remembering how Kate had painstakingly painted the orange color with the reddish-brown spots on her wall.

Mia reached into the creel to pull out her notebook and charcoal pencils. In the ancient, brittle wicker she collected specimens of trees and wildflowers instead of fish. She’d done sketches of bee balm, cardinal flower, and touch-me-nots. And now she had a Turk’s cap lily. Her sketches weren’t very good, but she wasn’t collecting them to show to others. She was learning the names, as Kate had.

Young Kate Watkins was Mia’s inspiration. The girl had shaken Mia’s fear of her surroundings and replaced it with a childlike curiosity. How, she wondered, had she lived a lifetime and not taken the time to learn the names of the trees that lived beside her? Or the sweet wildflowers, the birds, the animals? What blind arrogance was this? They were her neighbors. They made up her world. Not knowing what they were or what to call them, how could she help but feel disconnected when she looked at them? Each step she took into the woods was a step away from her old life. Was it any wonder great fairy tales took place in enchanted forests?

Up here in the mountains with the forest closing her off from the world, Mia felt far from the life she’d lived near the ocean. The betrayal and hurt, the hectic lifestyle, the medical worries, the omnipresent bills, the stink of hospitals, the honking of horns, the crush of people…She knew they were out there beyond the perimeter, but they did not exist in the forest she was living in now.

In this new world Mia vowed that she would be like Kate. Fearless, adventurous, curious. Going out a little farther each day, with Kate as her guide, she was not lost. She was making the woods her own.

O
n the eve of the solstice Mia stood on the rocky bank of the river angling for the big trout she saw cruising in the depths of the pool. She’d seen that giant rainbow rise several times to slurp down an insect, then dive again with a flash of his silvery tail, as though to tease her.

She was dressed in waders and boots, and was casting the dry fly she had painstakingly attached to the line. It had taken her hours. Back near the cabin she heard the low rumble of an engine. Turning, she recognized the green Blazer that pulled to a stop. She waved her arm in an arc and called out. “Over here!”

Belle heard Mia’s call and waved, then detoured toward where Mia was fishing. The day had been hot and the early evening wasn’t much cooler. Belle’s deeply tanned legs were cloaked in olive green hiking shorts and boots. Her long braid slapped against her back as she walked with a steady gait.

“Look at you!” she called out as she walked toward her. An easy smile stretched across her face. “All geared up and casting like a pro. Catch anything?”

“Caught a big one but it got away.”

Belle raised her hands in a victory sign and made an exaggerated face of surprise.

Mia confessed, “I caught a tree.”

While Belle laughed, Mia recalled reading in Kate’s diary how her father had taught her never to admit when she didn’t catch a fish. She should say she caught a big one but it got away. The listener would simply assume that
it
was a fish.

“There’s a big rainbow in there I’m anxious to meet,” Mia said.

“Oh, yeah? Let me see you cast to it,” Belle said, coming closer.

“Aren’t you going to get your rod and join me?”

“There’s no hurry. The sun is just lowering and the fish will start biting. This is a good spot. Go on, cast a few.”

Nervous, Mia’s wrist began to roll forward and the line did its trick of falling in a pile in the water. “It’s my wrist, I know,” she said with a groan. She expected some retort or correction from Belle but it wasn’t forthcoming. Turning her head, she saw Belle standing still with her eyes wide.

“Where did you get that rod?” she asked in a stunned voice.

Mia looked at the bamboo rod in her hand. “I found this in the cabin,” she replied hesitatingly. “I was having a hard time with the rod you gave me. The handle didn’t feel right. So I thought I’d give this one a try. I’ve been doing much better with it.”

“Where in the cabin did you find it?”

Mia heard tension creep into Belle’s voice. She navigated across the river rocks closer to Belle, who was already reaching for the fishing rod. “It was in the armoire. There are two in there. This was the smaller. I didn’t think you’d mind if—”

“There’s another in there? Like this one?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know?”

Belle shook her head. She was still eyeing the rod in her hand as if she didn’t believe what she was seeing. “Show me.”

Mia removed the boots and waders, then stood clenching and unclenching her hands as she watched Belle push aside the blue taffeta gown with annoyance to get to the second bamboo rod. She pulled out the bag and tube and let out a soft yelp of excitement when she saw the small hanging tag. “Look at this, Mia! It’s a Payne!”

Mia watched Belle draw out the rich-looking rod as though it were made of glass.

“My God, it’s a beauty,” she said in an awed tone, inspecting all its details. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph help me. There it is, his name on the butt cap. I’ve heard of them, of course. But I’ve never held one. And this one’s in mint condition. Absolutely incredible.”

Mia stood anxiously by her side, wishing there was something she could say to alleviate her wrong in taking what was obviously a valuable rod from the armoire and using it.

“I was alone and cleaning and I didn’t think you’d mind if I opened the cabinets and closets. You told me to make myself at home. Everything had coats of dust and dirt to be wiped off. Anyway, when I found these bamboo poles I didn’t think they were worth much. I used to see bamboo poles in the dime store growing up. I had no idea…”

Belle turned her head and looked at her with a searing gaze that seemed to question Mia’s sanity. She gave a short laugh, the kind that said
I don’t know where to begin.
She raised the bamboo rod like a wand in her hand, something magical and otherworldly.

“First, you never call a rod a pole. Second, Mia, this is not just some bamboo rod. This is a split cane rod. It’s made from bamboo, true. Though not just any bamboo. This is from a bamboo called Tonkin, imported from China over a hundred years ago by master craftsmen as respected and revered in their day as any great watchmaker. They began as apprentices, and then maybe, if they had the magic in their hands, they’d be allowed to create rods. For it
is
magic, Mia, to split the stem of the bamboo, then to put it back together, stronger and more flexible than before. Each craftsman had his own secret method which he guarded jealously. State secrets were not so well protected. The names of the great rods of this era are still spoken in awe today. A split cane fly-fishing rod is a piece of art. And a split cane rod made by Payne is a museum-quality piece.”

“And that’s a Payne.”

“It is.”

“And I fished with it.”

“You did.”

Mia closed her eyes and felt sick to her stomach. “But aren’t the new graphite ones better? They’re lighter and stronger.”

“You might think that. But you’d be wrong. Granted, not all bamboo rods were created equal. For every magnificent one, like this one, there were thousands of cheaper, mass-produced ones that are better left in basements than used. Some people think of these old rods as antiques, mere relics of the past. Well, I tell you those people never held a rod made by Payne in their hands. Are the new rods better? I guess it’d be like comparing a handcrafted watch with a machine-made digital.” She shrugged. “They both tell you the time.”

Belle lifted the rod and gave it a quick forward cast. A smile of satisfaction eased across her face. “Slow and smooth,” she said in a long, easy drawl, her eyes revealing her appreciation for the rod’s flex.

“I’m sorry I took it out,” Mia told her, feeling the gravity of the situation. “I should have asked. Really, Belle, I had no idea of its worth.”

“No harm done.” She cocked her head. “How did it fish?”

“It was…different.”

Belle looked disappointed in her lackluster response.

Mia opened her mouth, trying to find the words to describe the change she felt within herself using this rod. It wasn’t so much about how she might catch a fish with it. It was more how she and the rod became one instrument.

Mia cracked a small smile. “It was magic.”

Belle’s chest swelled and Mia saw she was satisfied with that answer.

“You should take a look at the other things in the armoire. There are some real treasures in there.”

“Yeah?” Belle put the bamboo rod carefully aside, then came back to the armoire and began rummaging through it with a businesslike efficiency.

Belle picked up the leather wallet filled with dry flies, pausing to admire one or two. Mia could see she was enthralled, but she closed it up and tossed it back into the armoire saying, “Help yourself. Someone should use them.” She lifted a china plate, giving it little more than a cursory glance, then moved on to the silver. She picked up a knife, felt its weight, and replaced it in the box.

“Actually, the silver is sterling,” Mia offered. “It should be quite valuable. And the china is hand-painted.”

“Lord, Mia, I don’t know squat about silver and china. Can I sell it?”

“I’m sure you can, but you should be careful not to get taken. There are lots of dealers out there who’ll tell you what’s wrong with it and give you a fraction of its value.” She almost laughed, thinking of Clarence’s comments about firewood. “My sister is coming up for a visit this summer. I could have her take samples to an antique appraiser in Charleston. This furniture is good, too. If you’d like, we could take photographs of them for the appraiser. At least you’ll have a ballpark figure.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that,” Belle replied with obvious relief. She stood and looked around the room. “Tell your sister it can all go. I’m only interested in the property. I don’t want anything inside. If it was
hers
, then I want to get rid of it. Maybe then I can exorcise the ghost forever.”

Mia froze and glanced nervously at the bookcase. “What about the books?”

With a bored sigh, Belle walked over to the library and scanned the books. She pulled out a fly-fishing text and leafed through it. Then another. “These books on fly-fishing are interesting. I’ll keep these.”

Mia’s eyes darted to the bottom shelf where she’d put the diaries. She suddenly was terrified that Belle would find them and take them away. Her chest tightened as she watched Belle scan the bookshelves, pulling out a volume or two, perusing the pages then putting it back. Mia realized that she wasn’t ready to give up the diaries. She needed Kate’s voice. Feeling traitorous, she waited in pained silence and volunteered nothing.

Belle looked inside the armoire again, closed the doors, then turned her back on it. “OK, that should do it. I’ll keep the fly-fishing books here in case you want to look at them. But I’ll take these bamboo rods. I still can’t believe it,” she said, handling the rods delicately. “I assumed my grandmother fished with a fabulous instrument, but I never figured it’d be a Payne. This was a pricey rod, even in her day.”

“From what I’ve heard, Kate could have afforded about any rod she wanted.”

Belle’s eyes flashed. “You’re hearing stories about my grandmother? How do you even know her name?”

Mia crossed her arms over her stomach as it tensed. “Well, the people in town figured out where I was staying. They told me it was Kate Watkins’s house.”

“I’ll just bet they did.” She turned back to the table and disassembled the fly rods with quick movements. “Damn gossips. What else did they tell you?”

“Not much, really.”

“You’re not a very good liar.”

“They weren’t gossiping, really. Just curious. Mostly about the fact the cabin has been opened up. I gather Kate Watkins was a celebrity when she lived.”

“A celebrity? Is that what they call her now? Did they tell you what she was famous for?”

“Fly-fishing.”

Belle snorted.

Mia felt suddenly defensive. “I heard about the murder, if that’s what you mean.”

Belle went still, then slowly turned around. Mia saw bitterness darken her eyes. “I’d hoped that damn story would have died with my grandmother. Why can’t they just leave it alone?” Leaning against the table she asked more softly, “What’s it going to take?”

“I don’t think anyone meant any harm,” Mia said in a small voice. “It’s a fable. A small-town story.”

Belle looked at Mia with a drawn expression. “This town drove my mother out with their stories and gossip.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Belle pulled out a dining chair and sat in it, resting her elbows on her thighs. Mia moved to a rocker and began rocking slowly.

“Mama never told me the details,” Belle said, “other than to say ‘Kids can be cruel.’ I always knew she had this history she refused to share with me. I mean, we all ask questions when we’re kids. Like, Who’s my grandmother? My grandfather? Where did you grow up? Right?”

Mia nodded. “I can remember asking my mother those questions.”

“My mother just clammed up when I asked until I just stopped asking. Even as a child I figured it must’ve been pretty dark and deep that she couldn’t even share the basics with her daughter. I only know that she lived a rugged existence with her mother in isolation in a cabin.”

Belle’s eyes scanned the room with a haunted expression. “She really hated this place,” she said with feeling.

Mia followed her gaze and saw the hewn and polished logs of wood piled one on top of another with precision. She’d always thought that this was a place built with intention. How could anyone hate it? she wondered.

“She ran off when she was seventeen, barely old enough to get married. I don’t believe she ever loved my father. She saw him as a ticket out.” She shrugged. “Who knows about him? He left us when I was three. I don’t remember him.

“But the irony is, she never really escaped this town. All her life she tried to be herself—Theodora Carson—not Theodora Watkins with all the baggage that name carried. She was haunted by the worry that someone in Virginia would discover her past. They might see her maiden name on her birth certificate, or she’d slip and say something that would tie her to this town and to that crazy Kate Watkins of Watkins Mill. Then they’d attach her to the stories and she’d be right back in this cabin, unable to be anyone but the daughter of Kate Watkins.”

“So she never came back?”

Belle shook her head. “Never. Would you if your mother was the local Lizzie Borden? She warned me not to come back here, either. ‘Don’t stir up the mud,’ she told me. ‘Let the dead lie.’”

“But Kate was her mother. Didn’t she ever write to her?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. I don’t think she ever told her I was born.”