Later that evening, the sun had set, the fire was lit, and the cabin gleamed with that radiance that only came from a good scrubbing. The air was heavy with the scent of burning wood, pine soap, and oil. At the windows the threadbare curtains hung stiff from drying in the sun. Now this cabin felt more like home, she thought. The freshness in the air made her feel it was a new start for her. She smiled and felt, for the first time, a little less afraid up here.

In honor of the clean cabin, Mia thought it was time to clean her body. Her poor skin and bones had been through a lot these past few days, so she would take Belle's advice and be good to herself. Tonight she deserved pampering. While the water heated up on the stove, she gathered the candles that Belle had brought, lit all five of them, and set them around the cramped bathroom. In the glowing halos of light, the room did not seem so shabby. She went to the kitchen and filled a glass with chilled white wine and set it beside the tub. Finally, she carried the steaming water from the stove to the bath, poured it in, and closed the door.

In the dim light she stripped the dirty clothes from her body and pinned up her wayward curls. Slowly she eased into the hot water and stretched out her tired legs as far as she could against the porcelain. Then, reaching for the bar of soap, she brought it to her nose and sniffed. Ah, it was lavender. Her favorite. "Bless you, Belle," she said as she gently rubbed sweet-scented soap over her body, then rinsed off the day's grime with tepid water. She groaned softly with the pleasure of it, leaned against the high back of the ancient tub, and sipped her wine.

The candles flickered yellow and blue in the darkness. The quiet was profound. Mia took a deep breath and told herself, I can do this. This small cabin would be her sanctuary. She would tend her broken body and wounded spirit here until she grew strong again.

She swallowed another sip of wine and set the glass aside. At the retreat the therapist had told them to face their fears. It was a first step toward healing. Her heart quickened. You can do this, she said again, gathering her courage. Hesitatingly, she moved her head to look down at her chest. Where once her left breast had been now stretched a wide, white scar like a seam of skin sewn with jagged stitches. She took a long breath, then tentatively brought her fingers up to gently touch the edges. Slowly she traced the horizontal line across her chest, feeling the sensation in her fingertips but not on the breast.

This was her body. She knew she should let go of her old self-image and make peace with the way her body was now. Yet she still felt as betrayed by it as she did by Charles. Perhaps more. Looking at the scar, she couldn't help but wonder if the cancer was still in there, a minuscule cell that was missed. The doctors just gave her a clean bill of health and sent her on her way, saying they'd see her in three months. The cancer could grow in that time. It could come back.

Even now her shoulders were aching, and though common sense told her it was from all the scrubbing, in the back of her mind a menacing voice whispered-could that tenderness be cancer? The lurking fear of cancer hung at the fringe of all her aches and pains. She felt her body was a walking time bomb.

She squeezed her washcloth over her tender shoulder. The water trickled a cool course down her body to the tub. With a firm yank, she pulled the plug. A small whirl of water circled the drain. Mia closed her eyes and said a small prayer for strength. She had to let this fear of cancer go down the drain with the dirty water. To live fully, she had to believe she would live.

Chapter Four.

A good cast is essential to fly-fishing. It can be frustrating for the beginner who gets tangled in line or can't get the fly to go in the right direction or catches all things with the hook but a fish. Good casting requires patience, practice, and peace of mind. Not a bad recipe for life as well.

-BELLE CARSON.

Mia had always heard that it took three days to get your sea legs. She figured it took as many days to get your mountain legs, too.

As it turned out, it took more. She needed a full week for her rhythm to change from the harried, fast pace of the city to the quieter, unhurried one of the mountains. Every day she felt a bit more of her strength returning, yet she still didn't feel at home in the mountains. She'd thought being surrounded by nature would comfort and inspire her. It was the opposite. Her isolation grew thick as kudzu around her heart. The forest beyond her little cabin felt dark and foreboding. Since she'd arrived, she hadn't ventured alone into the woods.

Mia sat on the sofa reading. Outside she heard the calls of the birds as they busily tended their nests. Here she was, sitting inside again, while just a few steps away the great wilderness was alive and bustling. She dragged herself from repose and decided it was past time to leave the confines of the cabin and explore.

She put on jeans, sprayed mosquito repellent, and armed herself with a bottle of water. Squaring her shoulders, she closed the door behind her and took off down the dirt road. Her heels crunched loudly in the dirt and gravel, sounding like an army on the move. As she walked she enjoyed the patches of wildflowers that filled the air with sweet scents. It felt good to stretch her legs. After ten minutes, the road turned away from the river and descended deeper in the woods. The air grew cooler and the shade dense. Glancing up, she saw the branches of the large, primordial trees stretched high over the road like the ribs of Jonah's whale.

The farther in she walked the deeper the shade became. From somewhere in the brush she heard a scuffling, then the loud snap of a twig. With each step farther from the cabin she felt increasingly vulnerable. When she paused to tie her shoe the silence descended on her and she felt swallowed by the woods. Her heart began pounding in her ears and she felt a familiar rush of panic. Wild-eyed, she turned on her heel and marched back at a brisk pace to the cabin, trying not to run.

When she reached the porch, Mia ran up the stairs and leaned against the railing, catching her breath. She felt ridiculous for being so afraid. She wasn't always scared of the dark. She used to love turning off all the lights and going outdoors to lie under the dark sky and marvel at the stars. One August, she'd driven far out from the city lights to some inn in the country where she could watch the Perseid meteors appear to rain into the atmosphere.

After her cancer, however, she couldn't bear to be alone in the dark. She sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, sweating in a panic. Her therapist had explained to her that her fear of the dark was more a fear of death and the unknown.

Looking out at the wall of trees, Mia thought nothing was more unknown to her, or darker, than the woods.

She straightened and crossed her arms as she looked out over the river. The moving, musical water seemed so inviting. What was most disappointing to her was that she felt disconnected up here at the cabin-not only from the people in Charleston but from the nature around her. She wasn't a nature girl. Not that she expected to instantly become a mountain woman, either. It was just that she didn't feel like she belonged anywhere anymore. Here, she had nothing and no one but herself.

Staring at the water, Mia asked herself if that wasn't exactly what she was most afraid of. The one person she truly had no connection with was herself.

What was she doing here? For the hundredth time since she'd arrived, she asked herself why she didn't just grab her car keys and drive home.

Something was holding her back. Some expectation, some anticipation of an enlightenment that she believed was just a breath away. What was it, she asked herself, bringing her hand through her hair. Where was this epiphany? She felt like a dry well surrounded by water.

Mia removed her shoes and walked through the soft grass to sit at the riverbank. She dangled her feet listlessly in the water. It was cool and refreshing. The sun was warm on her shoulders and in time the quiet settled over her. She didn't think of the woods or her fears. She didn't think of Charles, or what she should do next. She sighed and let her mind drift.

She heard the melody of water over rocks and felt the movement of the river swirl around her legs, nudging her in its current. Lifting her gaze, she watched how the river captured the light and held it, shimmering on the surface. The colors of the river changed depending on the water's depth and movement. In the deep pockets the still, shadowed water was the color of green tea. The shallow water rushing over pebbles with noisy splashes sparkled in the sunlight like shards of crystal.

Mia felt the colors of the river seep into her skin to race in her veins. She rose and with a light step hurried to the cabin to capture the energy she felt inside before it flowed from her. She scrambled to grab her paints, paper, and brushes and carried them to the table. Then she took a glass, filled it with water, and stuck a brush in it.

She smoothed the blank piece of paper with her palms then took a step back, wringing her hands, feeling daunted by the blank, white space waiting to be filled. When she was young, colors had exploded in her mind and she was fearless. She prayed for the colors now. She took a deep breath, then with a step forward, she dabbed the brush into blue. Slowly, she laid the pigment down, letting the paper absorb the hue. Layer after layer she added colors. She wasn't seeking to make any form. She just let the blues and greens and yellows and browns intermingle and flow like the river.

When she set the brush down again she stepped back and looked at her work. The watercolors dripped across the paper. A small smile curved her lips. It didn't matter if it was great art. It wasn't. But she'd covered the blank page with her vision of the river. It was her first connection to nature. It was, she knew, her first step out from darkness.

"Hello! Is anybody home?"

The sound of a voice broke the omnipresent silence of the cabin. Mia was washing her underwear in the bathtub and swung her head around toward the door.

"Belle? Is that you?"

"Who else? Can I come in?"

Mia scrambled to her feet and grabbed a towel. Drying her hands, she hurried from the bathroom. Belle was standing in the front room carrying waders, a rod, and a box of supplies.

"What a surprise!" Mia exclaimed, beaming from ear to ear. "I'm so glad to see you. Come in, come in. Here, let me take that box."

"No, I got it," Belle replied, grinning. She carried the box to the table and set it down with a thunk.

"What is all that stuff?"

"Surprises," Belle said, her dark eyes sparkling. She looked around. "The place looks good. Smells good, too. Last time I was here all I could smell was mice droppings and mold." She sniffed loudly. "Lemon oil. Nice."

"Thank you very much," Mia replied with mock hauteur. "My nails are a wreck but I won the battle with the oven."

"Never doubted it for a minute." She tilted her head. "You look good, too. You've got some color. I'm glad to see it. I tell you it was a struggle not to come here right off. I was worried about you but I wanted to give you a few days on your own to figure things out. But I was also afraid I'd find you curled up in the fetal position on that big ol' sofa."

"If you came the first day, you would have. But it's hard to be too lazy up here. Nature is a strict taskmaster."

Belle chuckled in agreement. "I like that." When Mia's eyes moved to the box, Belle reached out for the waders. "Here, try these on."

Mia approached them with reverence. Stepping into them was like stepping into a pair of footie pajamas. She slid her feet into the waterproof socks of the waders, then tugged the garment up over her shorts and T-shirt to fasten the suspenders at her chest. Next she put her feet into the felt-soled boots, wiggling her toes and tying the laces tight. Over this she put the tan vest. It was one of those she'd worn at the CFR retreat, with multiple pockets of all sizes filled with bottles, pliers, and tubes. She didn't know one whit about how to use them but she was charmed by the way the gadgets dangled from the vest. It made her at least feel like she knew what she was doing out there on the water.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the armoire mirror and chuckled. "I look like a model for an Orvis catalog."

"Yep, and looks like they fit." She walked over to the rod and held it in her hand, testing its weight. "I think this will be a good rod for the river out front. It's a nice all-'round rod if you don't go catching any monster fish. But you know what they say. The least experienced fisherman always catches the biggest fish. Ready? Let's go out and see how it feels."

Mia's heart gave a fish leap of joy. She had come to the mountains not to clean but to feel again a tug of life at the end of a line. She hadn't had time yet to get outfitted and out fishing. She followed Belle, giggling at feeling fat in all the layers after being thin for so long and hearing the fabric swish loudly as she walked to the bank of the river. It was early evening and the water in the pool looked like green glass, broken only by occasional rise rings. Mia smiled with anticipation.

Belle finished tying a dry fly on her line, then handed her the eight-foot fly rod. "OK, let's see you cast a few."

Standing on the bank dressed to the nines, Mia felt nervous with Belle watching beside her. It had been a week since she'd held a rod in her hand, and all of Belle's instructions were a jumble in her head. She lifted the rod, getting a feel for it. Her hand clenched the rod tight. The dry fly dangled in the air as she tried to remember how to cast it out there on the water. Something about a four-count rhythm.

Taking a breath, Mia thrust the rod back to her shoulder. She heard the line snap loudly behind her. Then, with a jerk, she extended her rod far forward like a sword toward the water. The line soared wildly in the air, then came falling to the ground to land at her feet like a pile of spaghetti.

She could hear Belle's voice behind her. "Don't bend your wrist! Try again!"

Gritting her teeth, Mia reeled the loose line in and tried again. Again, the line fell in a sloppy mess on the water.

Belle chuckled softly. "It's that wrist again."

Over and over her little fly flopped forward in a heap of line, or got caught in her pants, or twisted around her rod like a ribbon around a maypole, making knots that would try the patience of a saint. Her spirits were sinking with the sun.

Belle came over to gently take the rod from her hand. "You're trying too hard," she told her. "Look at you. Your shoulders are tense and your nails are digging into your palm. You're clutching that rod in a death grip. You're only going to get tired out that way. Stretch your hand out and shake it. That's right. Loosen it up."

She put the rod back into Mia's hand, guiding her thumb on top of the rod and the reel below her wrist.

"Now listen to me because this is the most important lesson I'm ever going to give you about fly-fishing." She paused. "Mia, fly-fishing should be fun."

Belle met Mia's gaze with a sweet smile. "Coming to the river is coming to nature at her best. It's your time away from the pressures of work and life. When you fly-fish you get in touch with that wild, instinctive part of you, my friend. Let her loose!"

Mia whooped, then laughed self-consciously.

"That's the spirit! Now let's try it again. First, get yourself comfortable. Take your time, this isn't a race. There's no prize for most fish caught, OK? Now just think where you want that fly to go. Then imagine that big clock again and go from nine o'clock to one."

Mia gathered her composure for a final cast before quitting for the day. You can do this, she told herself. In her mind's eye she saw Belle gracefully cast her rod back and forth, the long line in a tight S loop. Focused now, Mia held her rod parallel to the ground, imagined a big clock face, and brought the rod back in a quick motion.

The line sailed back. Then she tried to thrust forward but she felt a tug from behind. Looking over her shoulder, she followed her line to see it tangled up in the tree branch that hung above the water. Her little brown fly was dangling with a bright green leaf she'd been admiring earlier.

"Noooo," she groaned, and tugged at it. The tip of the rod bent in a curve, but that fly wasn't budging.

"Careful of that rod tip," Belle said, then laughed softly as she walked to the tree. Reaching up on tiptoe she tugged the branch closer till she could bend it down and clip the line free. The little brown fly sprang back, still wound on the branch. "We'll leave that victory to the tree."

"I'm hopeless."

"No, you're a beginner." She took the rod and began reeling the line.

Mia felt frustrated, ready to toss the rod into the river. "Some of the other women at the retreat were naturals."

"This isn't a competition, you know. Go at your own pace."

"Can you possibly come up to teach me a lesson?"

Belle sighed and grimaced. "I wanted to talk to you about that. Remember I told you I was going to Scotland? Well, I leave in a few weeks and I'll be gone for a lot of the summer. So I'm really slammed right now just trying to tie things up with the business. I wish I could give you another lesson before I go but I just can't promise it. Hey, don't look so crestfallen. I brought all this gear up so you can practice on your own."

"I don't know what to do out there."

"Oh, yes you do. You learned all the basics at the retreat. Now you just need practice, patience, and confidence. And the only way to get them is to get out on the water. Get yourself a local guide if you want to explore other rivers and streams."

"I don't want another guide," Mia said petulantly. "You're the best."

"Well, thank you, but there are some really good ones right close. And you don't have to rely on a guide, you know. The main thing is to get off the couch and get out on the water." Belle hugged her, then gave her a sisterly shake. "You'll be fine. And Mia? Have fun."

Mia went back to the cabin, removed her fishing gear, and carefully put it in a closet. Her waders hung with the feet attached like a dress form. She'd heard some folks just took to fly-fishing and others never did. She feared she was in the latter category.

"Maybe I'm just not cut out for this," she said with disappointment as she closed the door on her gear.

She quietly and perfunctorily went through the motions of preparing a meal in the little kitchen, thinking about what it meant to be up here in the mountains without Belle in shouting distance. The thought that it was a good thing she didn't buy more supplies formed in her mind as the concept of going home took root. The rotisserie chicken looked like a skeleton in the plastic container. She sliced bits of dry chicken, a tomato, the last of an onion. She put a piece of bread into the new toaster oven she'd bought in town, then pushed down the lever. The silence was rent by a loud, snapping spark. Then the lights went dead.

Mia's mouth dropped open as she stared at a thin curl of smoke at the outlet. A sooty stain blackened the wall. This couldn't be happening, she thought as she opened the fridge. It, too, was dead. Cursing, her mind whirled with questions. She didn't have a clue what to do. On a whim she looked out the window, but Belle was long gone. Mia stood in the middle of the room feeling utterly helpless.

She was an intelligent woman. But nowhere in college did she take Fix It 101. She figured that she blew a fuse, but she didn't know how to change it. She didn't even know where the damn fuse box was.

Night was falling fast. Mia felt panic compounding her fears as an owl hooted from a nearby tree. She hurried from window to window, slamming them shut and locking them. Soon after she finished, the cabin was plunged in blackness. She grappled in the dark, searching for the flashlight, and released a ragged sigh when the narrow beam of light pierced the black. She hurriedly lit a fire with the last of the wood, feeling her panic subside with the soft glow of the firelight. She pulled one of the rocking chairs closer to the light and rocked, back and forth, while she ate a dinner of melting chocolate ice cream.

Staring into the flames, Mia couldn't remember ever feeling so desolate. She wanted to weep. She'd endured so much in the past year, only to be defeated by a toaster oven. Someday, she would tell this story at a party and everyone would laugh, including her. At the moment, though, it was really too pitiful. It wasn't just that she hadn't learned how to do common household repairs. She didn't think she could name one friend who could. She suddenly realized that she couldn't take care of herself. Out in the wilderness-even in the city-she'd come to rely on others to take care of her. Up here in the mountains, her independence needed to be redefined.

She set the ice cream aside and went to the library shelf. Books had always been a source of comfort. The narrow beam of her flashlight traveled across the titles. She'd read The Awakening and A Room of One's Own hoping to be inspired by these great feminist authors. She'd had no great awakening up here, and the only inspiration she had from Woolf was to fill her pockets with rocks and walk into the deepest point of the river.

She moved her beam of light to another shelf. It was filled with books on fly-fishing. A safer topic, she thought, given her frame of mind. She pulled out six books. They were very heavy and coated with a thick layer of dust. Wrinkling her nose, she balanced the weight of them against her chest to get a good grip. As she hoisted them up, her flashlight slipped. She twisted to catch it. The stream of light illuminated the back of the bookshelf.

The dust on the shelf was streaked where the six volumes had sat, but in the open space on the left she spied a single volume covered in dust, lying flat against the back. Curious, she set the stack of fly-fishing books on the table and returned to the bookshelf and brought the light close for a better look. The slender, leather volume was wedged behind the row of books. Wiggling it, she found it was also stuck in the shelf. She pushed aside the other books and gently tugged, easing it out, careful not to tear it. Once free she brought it closer to the light of the fire. The navy leather was soft and lustrous in the rosy light. She brushed a layer of dust from the cover with her palm. In gilt lettering, surrounded by a circlet of gilt acanthus leaves, were the initials KW.

"Kate Watkins," Mia whispered.

She eased back in the rocker and laid the book on her lap. The pages seemed pressed tightly together, probably from so many years wedged in the bookcase. With great care, she opened it.

The pages were as thin as butterfly wings. Mia drew her breath and studied the neat, careful script written on the lines of blue. It was the penmanship of a child.

June 12, 1912

Dear Diary,

Mia's breath caught in her throat. This was the diary of young Kate Watkins.

She sat back in her chair and stared at the thin volume in her hand. She was hesitant to read it. These were just the innocent writings of a child, true. Almost a hundred years old. What harm could there be? Didn't libraries treasure such historical pieces? Yet she had come to feel the presence of Kate Watkins in this cabin. Would it be a transgression as her guest? A diary was someone's private thoughts.

A gust of wind fluttered the thin pages. Mia felt goose bumps spring up along her arms, knowing the windows were shut. She told herself she was acting as childlike as the girl who wrote these words, but remembering the gossip that the cabin was haunted, she scooted her chair a few inches closer to the fire. Looking again at the diary she spied something in the middle. Skimming the pages, she found a photograph. The sepia-toned photo showed a man and a young girl. They were standing outdoors by a river. On closer inspection, it looked like the very pool outside this cabin. The man wore a tweedy three-piece suit and was carrying a fishing rod, a wooden net, and an impressive string of large fish. A wicker creel hung from his shoulder on a wide leather strap. His posture was relaxed, as was his smile. He appeared a man who was quite pleased with the day.

Mia shifted her attention to the girl standing beside him. She looked to be on the precipice between girlhood and teens. She wore an old-fashioned dark skirt over high-buttoned boots and a white blouse with a wide collar that fell over her shoulders. Her long, lustrous dark hair was drawn up at the sides and gathered in the back with an enormous bow, typical of young girls at the turn of the century. The girl stood straight, proudly holding a fishing rod that was taller than she was. She was a beautiful girl, unusually so. But it was something in her eyes-intelligence-that gave her the aura of not a child but a young woman. She seemed to be looking straight at Mia from the photo-from another time-with a small smile playing at her lips as though she were thinking, I know who you are and what you want.

The minx, Mia thought as she turned the photo over to see if there was writing on the back. In faded pencil she could barely read WW and KW, 1912.

This was young Kate Watkins. WW, she assumed, was her father. They looked rather alike in the long forehead and the dark eyes. He was a gentleman. That much was obvious in the style of his clothes and his posture. So, she thought with a small smile of discovery, ol' mountain woman Kate Watkins was a gentleman's daughter. Interesting, she thought as she set the picture aside.