TOWN TIDBITS.

The first meeting of the Reel Women Fly-Fishing Club will be held at the Public Library on Thursday, Sept. 15, at 7 p.m. Ms. Belle Carson will give an overview of the sport and provide a casting demonstration. The meeting is open to all interested in joining.

The Gazette October 1, 2007 Nada Turner, Editor in Chief EDITORIAL.

This will be the last editorial I write for the Gazette. With the recent developments concerning one of our town's most famous citizens, Kate Watkins, I can now retire a happy editor.

I've been a reporter for this paper for 20 years and an editor for another 25. One of my first assignments was to cover the death of Kate Watkins in 1952. I had the honor of writing her obituary and as a young woman I was struck with her long list of accomplishments in the sport of fly-fishing, not the least of which was helping to break down the barriers against women in the sport.

Up until that point I'd only known of Kate Watkins from the rumors and gossip that had flown about town for years like the dirt that blows off a mountain on a windy day. You know what the rumors were. I'll not credit them by printing them in this newspaper again.

At long last that unfair and unfounded scandal that plagued Kate Watkins and her family has once and for all been silenced. Truly, the truth set her free.

As the editor of the paper that helped fuel the scandal by its reporting of the investigation into the disappearance of Theodore DeLancey in 1929, I would like to offer an apology to Miss Kate Watkins and her family. In an effort to help restore her proud name in our community, my last act as editor will be to run a series of articles on the life and accomplishments of our town's favorite daughter beginning Monday, October 8.

Further, as the chairperson of the Watkins Mill Historical Society, I shall propose the town erect a statue in her honor as a testament to the legacy of Kate Watkins-and women-in the sport she loved so well-fly-fishing.

See you on the river-I'm going fishing!

Chapter Twenty-seven.

The Gazette

October 1928

Kate Watkins, "On the Fly"

In autumn the heat of summer is past and the faithful angler is rewarded with a cornucopia of color in the mountains. Bits of reddish orange and bright yellow dot the rivers that run low but steady. It is the spawning season and the trout get showy as they seek a mate. Brown trout are hefty and their vibrant red spots gleam on their shiny, olive brown courting suits.

As another fly-fishing season draws to an end, I sometimes abandon my rod and walk my beloved hills to search out waterfalls and color instead of trout. I roam the valleys with the ghosts of loved ones, harvesting memories for the long winter ahead. It restores my soul.

It was a beautiful autumn. Everyone in Watkins Mill thought it might be the prettiest fall in years. Fall was always Mia's favorite season. It was an introspective time of year when her thoughts turned inward. She took long walks, her chest expanding at the wonder of color and treasuring each warm moment before winter descended with its cold winds to chase her back indoors.

Autumn had come early and quick this year. Seemingly overnight the trees in the cove exploded in color, replacing the dense green with a tapestry of ochre, rust, tawny orange, and vivid yellow. Birds migrated overhead but the Carolina wren outside her window, that boisterous, perky, warm-colored neighbor, would stay for the winter and be there to welcome her whenever she could return.

Mia sighed and closed the window, turning the lock and drawing the curtains. Fall was also a season of endings, she thought. She'd come to this sanctuary in the woods in the spring when her tears flowed like the rain. It was a time for renewal, and she dug deep and carefully planted seeds that had taken root in the long days and nights of summer to flourish and mature.

Mia walked from window to window, shutting and locking each as she prepared to close up the cabin for her return to Charleston. With each thump and click the silence closed her in. Silence had a sound, she realized. It was the sound of emptiness.

She knew this day would come but she didn't know how hard it would be to leave. Her fingertips lingered on the window latch, remembering how she'd unlocked the windows and flung open her arms in welcome to the night. She was closing the windows again not in fear but to secure the cabin, tucking it in till another pair of hands-Belle's-raised them up again.

In the upstairs garret she'd left the furniture she'd purchased. Belle had told her it would be her room, waiting for her anytime she wanted to return. Downstairs all was tidy. The western sun cast slanted light into the kitchen, illuminating the polished enamel of the cast-iron stove. She walked slowly into the main room, her careful eye catching every detail to tuck neatly away in her mind like a photograph to pull out at a time in the future when she needed it.

Mia had selected two of the many watercolors she'd painted of the river to frame and hang over the fireplace. One when the sun was setting and turning the still water of the pool the colors of stained glass; the other of the shallow riffles when the morning sun shattered the water into sparkling crystal. She smiled to think that a part of her would stay behind in this cabin that had sheltered her through so many storms.

She felt emotion welling from a deep source. She stood in the center of the room, inhaling the scents of pine oil and soap, breathing deep as if she could somehow absorb the soul of the cabin to carry with her. When she exhaled she opened her eyes and looked once more around the shadowed room.

The soul of the cabin was gone, Mia realized. It was bittersweet not to feel the presence of Kate Watkins in the cabin. Not even the return of the diaries to the bookshelf had brought her spirit back. Whatever force had held her to this piece of earth had released her. She was free.

From outside she heard the rumble of tire against gravel, and going to the window she saw Belle's truck roll to a stop. She rushed to the door both surprised and delighted by Belle's arrival. She'd thought they'd all said their farewells at the party the night before. Nada, Becky, and Phyllis had joined forces and thrown a combination Welcome Belle! Farewell Mia! shindig at Nada's house on Main Street. Nada had given her a tour of the house, explaining room by room how in her retirement she was going to turn the big, old Victorian into a bed and breakfast at long last. "You," she'd told Mia, "will be my first guest when you return."

Mia swung open the door, then hurried to the porch railing to lean far over and call out, "Hey, I'm not running off with the silver!"

Belle laughed as she walked along the stone path and up the steps, her hands tucked into her jean jacket. "Better not be. I'm planning on keeping that silver." She reached the top of the stairs and added, "And the china and the books and anything else that belonged to my grandmother."

"Really? I'm glad. Good for you. It's irreplaceable, no matter what the monetary value."

"I know it. And thanks to you I had a second chance to think it over. Though," she said, rubbing her arm, "last night I promised to hand over Kate's diary to the historical society. There are some important comments in there about the times and topography."

Mia smiled to herself. So many times over the summer she'd been tempted to at least show Nada the diaries. It was Belle's place to make the grand gesture.

"Nada must be over the moon!"

Belle chortled. "She is. She also caught me after one too many beers."

"What about the fishing diaries? Are you donating those, too?"

Belle walked to the edge of the porch and looked out across the cove. A shaft of light revealed every line on her weathered face as she squinted. Her red hair shone like a sunset and her dark eyes, the Watkins eyes, were as dark a brown as the pool's bottom. Mia thought she never saw her more beautiful.

"I don't know what I'll do with them," Belle confided. "I only know I can't let them go." She turned to look at Mia, her eyes questioning.

Mia tilted her head. "I know exactly what you mean."

"Figured you might. We have that in common. Our love for Kate Watkins. Genes have no claim on love."

Mia closed her eyes and said nothing for a moment. She just wanted to absorb the compliment, to feel this bond, like sisters.

Belle leaned back to rest against the porch railing. Her long arms held on to the wood at her sides.

"Hey, I came for another reason entirely. Sheriff Rhodes came to call on me the other day. Now that the investigation is over and the bones interred, he was free to give me the few items they found with DeLancey's remains. There was his signet ring," she said, and she held out her hand.

Mia took the hand and brought it closer to her eyes. On Belle's middle finger was a large gold ring with the family crest engraved into the circular plate. Mia recognized the handsome dragon with its foreclaws raised and the four stars, one on each corner of a shield. It was the same crest she saw embossed on DeLancey's letterhead. "It's beautiful."

"It is, isn't it? I don't wear much jewelry, but I'll wear this. There's one more thing," Belle said, and she dug into her bag. She pulled out a small box wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a bright red ribbon. "There's no way I can ever thank you for what you've done for me and for my grandmother. I know I gave you a hard time about digging in the mud, but as it turned out, that's exactly what you needed to do. Literally!"

They laughed quietly, thinking how life could sometimes be filled with irony.

Belle sighed. "You know, I only wish my mother were alive to witness all this. She'd be basking in her glory, that's for damn sure. I can just see her strolling through town with her head held high." Belle looked up and Mia was surprised to see Belle's eyes moist with tears. "If she were here, she'd thank you, too."

"I didn't do it for thanks. It's I who should thank you."

"Let's not get into that or we'll be thanking each other till the spring thaw. Here," she said, and without ceremony handed the box to Mia.

"What's this?"

"Open it and find out."

Mia tugged at the red ribbon and it slipped loose. She tore the tape from the tissue, then pulled the wrapping back and opened the box. A gold locket lay nestled in a wad of jeweler's cotton. Her heart leaped to her throat because she knew instantly what it was. With shaky fingers she removed the locket from the box and let it slide into her palm. The locket was the size of a half dollar and made of burnished, antique gold. It hung from a chunky chain of the same rosy hue. The metal was dented in spots but it only added to the locket's charm.

"They found it clutched in his hand."

"Oh, that's so sad. Can't you just see it? DeLancey fighting through the storm, clutching this locket, desperately trying to make it back to Kate. And she sitting here, alone, feeling such guilt. My God, Belle, she died thinking she should have saved his life. That thought haunted her. If only he could have made it. If only she could have found out the truth before she died."

Belle shrugged. "If only..." Then she looked at Mia. "In the end the only life we can save is our own."

Mia pressed her lips together. "Belle, are you sure you want me to have this? It doesn't seem right."

Belle nodded her head, then cleared her throat. "I thought you should have something that was hers. But if you're going to get all weepy about it I'm taking it back."

Mia's laugh ended in a hiccup. She closed her hands around the locket and tried to think of something that could even touch the depth of what she was feeling at that moment. She'd heard so many platitudes over the past year when she was battling cancer that she'd thought simply masked people's aversion to sickness and death. She knew now she was wrong. There was a reason cultures created pat phrases for moments of intense emotion. With deepest sympathy. Congratulations. I'm sorry. Thousands of years of universal emotions were encapsulated into a few select words of meaning because no string of creative, clever, brilliant language could ever express the depth of feeling.

"Thank you," Mia said softly.

"You're welcome," Belle replied.

Belle took the locket, then stood behind Mia and fastened the chain around her neck. Mia turned to face her, settling the locket on her chest between her breast and scar. They hugged as women do when emotions are so high that no words, not even pat phrases, are enough. When Mia released Belle, she turned toward the cabin and delivered a grandiose wave.

"She's all yours now. I hope she's as good to you as she was to me."

"It'll always be here for you. I'm not going to rent it. I thought I'd stay here for a while. See how I like it. I may be more like my grandmother than you know!"

Mia smiled and looked to where water cascaded from white rocks into a deep pool. The mist rose from the waters, curling like smoke, and from somewhere they could hear the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker seeking a meal. It was a sight Mia had seen and painted every day of the summer. She would, she realized, have to seek out a new source of inspiration now.

Belle looked at her, as though reading her thoughts. "That river has flowed through this cove for thousands of years. It's not going anywhere. When you're done doing whatever it is you have to do down in Charleston, you just follow the river home."

Mia nodded her head. "I just may do that."

"Do you have everything you need for the trip? A full tank of gas? Directions? I've got bottles of water in my car you can have."

"Hey, thanks, but I can take care of myself now."

"I expect you can." Belle looked at her in her brown fishing shirt and pants. "You look real natural in those clothes now. They fit you well."

"They do, don't they?" she replied with a smug smile. That compliment had been hard won from a tough teacher.

"How's the rod and reel treating you?"

"Real good," she replied. Belle had sold her the Temple Fork Casting for Recovery rod she'd been using all summer. They both knew a fly fisher grew attached to her rods, and Mia had a world of experience attached to that one. "In fact," she said, turning toward the stairs, "I thought I'd take it out one last time before I go."

Belle twisted her lips in a smirk and, putting her hands on the railing, she leaned over and called out to Mia's back, "I reckon you're going to meet Stuart?"

Mia hauled her fly rod and reel out from the sedan, careful of the delicate tip. She looked up with a sly smile. "Yep."

"He's a good man," Belle replied. "Even if he is the competition."

Mia closed the car door and faced Belle with an ear-to-ear grin on her face. "Honey, you're the granddaughter of Kate Watkins in Watkins Mill. You don't have any competition!"

She waved, then turned and began walking the path that led past the deep pool. As was her habit, she took a quick scan of the depths. She thought she saw a sliver of movement but she wasn't sure. That wily trout. Of all the fish she caught, she knew she'd remember the one she didn't catch the most.

"Hey," Belle called out from the porch. "You ever catch that big trout?"

Mia shook her head, chuckling softly to herself, then turned once more toward the cabin. Her smile wavered. Belle was standing on the porch, tall and lean, her long braid falling over her shoulder. She stood with a proprietary air and, for a flash, Mia thought she could be Kate Watkins.

Mia walked the well-worn path along the river, deeper into the backcountry. The forest swallowed her as she hiked steadily through a medley of trees to where the air cooled and the dew was wet on the vegetation. She was surrounded by surreal color and she kept her head tilted toward the trees, mesmerized by the foliage. Underfoot she heard the crunch of fallen leaves that created a new layer of compost on the forest floor. The air smelled of ripeness and rot, sweet and pungent, that made her think of apples and pumpkins. Resident birds flitted in a thicket of mountain laurel and plump, chatty squirrels were in a frenzy of gathering for the long winter ahead.

She came to where the rhododendron clustered, feeling as she always did at this point that something wonderful was just around the bend. She walked a little farther and the vista opened up to reveal a grassy knoll, golden now, overlooking a wide curve in the water. Standing on the banks, like the first time she saw him, was Stuart MacDougal.

His tall form stood relaxed on the river's bank, dressed in his tans and browns. He wore his fishing hat and Mia could just make out bits of vivid yellow, dark brown, and bright orange of the dry flies looking like fallen leaves hooked along the band. He cast smooth and tight loops over the water, the line stretching farther with each stroke, then presented his fly gently to the trout holding in the pocket.

Her mind drifted back to the night before when he'd held her in his arms. They didn't talk. They had already said their goodbyes. When he rose above her and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders she thought of the mountains that he loved and called home and the rivers that laced their sloping sides like tears. She drew him closer, feeling lost and eager to bury herself in the granite and stone and firs, drowning in the streams.

From the ridge, Stuart had spotted her and was waving her over. Mia lifted her arm in a high arc, then came out from the woods and felt the warm afternoon sun on her cheeks. She stood by Stuart's side at the river's bank and spotted some big browns cruising the shallows. Their bright red spots stood out against the pebbly bottom.

"What are you fishing?" she asked, opening up her packet of flies. "A Booby Nymph," he replied, straight-faced.

Mia chuckled at their private joke and pulled out a tiny, brightly colored fly and held it up.

"Or a number twelve Adams," he amended.

"Me, too."

He chortled at her answer, then held out his hand. "Want me to tie it?"

"I can do it."

"Yeah, sure. But I don't think the trout will wait that long."

"You go on, then," she replied with a stubborn jutting of her chin.

"Yes ma'am," he replied, backing off and heading downstream.

Her fingers moved with dexterity as she tied the minuscule fly to the thin tippet at the end of her line. One of her goals this summer was to become an independent angler. The least of it was being able to tie her own knots. She brought the line to her mouth, feeling the slender plastic thread slide between her lips as she moistened it, then slowly tightened the knot. Done. She looked up to see Stuart watching her. He touched the rim of his hat in homage. Their eyes met, then he turned his head away.