Season of Miracles

by Emilie Richards

  and dear. He half expected her to land on his doorstep, and the thought gave him pleasure. He was beginning to admit just how much he missed her, beginning to realize what she added to his life—beginning to believe that there was hope for them after all. But by the end of September, he was beginning to worry.

  Where was she? By mid-October he was frantic. He was working harder than he’d ever worked, writing, researching, teaching his classes, lecturing at nearby colleges and universities. All the work didn’t even begin to make a dent in his fears.

  How could he ever have thought that he and Elise had no future together? Why hadn’t he told her he loved her?

  Why hadn’t he realized he loved her?

  He did. More than his freedom. More than his pride. More than his fears. He loved her. He wanted her. And for the first time he realized that this time his own fear had stood between them. He had been afraid to ask her to come. He had been so afraid that when he finally asked, at the very end of their time together, she couldn’t say yes without wondering how genuine the request was.

  He had been afraid to tell her he loved her. He was a man, but he had acted like the boy who couldn’t wait to leave the town of his birth and its restrictions. He was a man, but he had acted like the boy who wanted to punish the girl who spoiled his grand escape.

  He had been a fool.

  By November, Sloane had humbled himself to the point of calling Bob Cargil and begging for information about Elise. Bob had refused to tell him anything. If it was possible to gloat over the telephone, Bob had done so. Still when Sloane hung up he’d realized that Bob didn’t know any more than he did.

  Lincoln Greeley knew. Sloane called him, explained his desperation and pleaded for Lincoln’s help. With no explanation, Lincoln refused. He couldn’t be swayed. Elise’s realtor pleaded confidentiality and hung up on him.

  Now it was December. Once, at the beginning of the month, a phone call had come late at night. Sloane had picked up the receiver and when he held it to his ear he could hear the peculiar crackle of a long-distance connection. There was no voice, only a click and then, later, the buzz of a dial tone. Every night now he waited for the phone to ring again. This time he would pick it up and call her name before she could hang up. He would make sure she knew he wanted her, needed her, loved her. Somehow he would make sure she knew that no matter what problems stood between them, he would find a way to make them all right.

  If she didn’t call before vacation started, he would spend his holiday looking for her.

  Right now though Sloane had a more immediate problem, and it stemmed from the same source. He had never had the courage to tell his son the one thing he needed to hear, just as he had never had the courage to tell Elise the same. It was time to make the final commitment to Clay.

  Sloane stood and walked down the hallway to Clay’s room. He listened, undecided about how to approach the conversation that was long overdue. After a deep breath, he knocked on the door. “Clay? Will you come out here, please?”

  There was a long interval. Sloane remembered well what it was like to be a teenager. He remembered the heady feeling of power that comes from knowing an adult is waiting for you. He was surprised it had taken Clay this long to learn the same thing. Finally the door swung open.

  Clay lounged in the doorway, his eyes carefully veiled. He wondered what fancy language Sloane would couch his rejection in. What words would he use to rid himself of the son he had never wanted, the son who had finally told him exactly what he thought? If Clay knew one thing about adults, it was that they didn’t want to hear the truth. Sloane would not want to hear it again. Clay only hoped that when his father found another place for him, that place would be in Miracle Springs.

  “I want to talk to you.” Sloane turned toward the living room, and Clay followed him. Sloane sat on the sofa and motioned for his son to join him. Clay sat on the far end.

  “It’s very easy to misconstrue…” Sloane stopped. He realized just how stilted he sounded. Clay was trying to look stoic, but even in his own agony Sloane could see the vulnerability in his son’s eyes. He started again. “I’ve blown it.”

  Clay just looked at him.

  “Look Clay, I’ve been acting like a total jerk. It just never occurred to me that you’d think it had anything to do with you. I’m one hell of a lousy father.”

  Clay’s eyes widened, and his expression encouraged Sloane.

  “You see, I never had a father of my own. I never had anyone, really. My mother was always busy, distant. My aunts and uncles cared about me but they weren’t usually there when I needed them. I… well, I made it on my own. But I never learned how to tell people what I was feeling. I never learned to be a father either, and I don’t seem to have much talent.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” Clay’s voice was still tinged with anger, but Sloane could also hear the hurt little boy, and he slid a little closer and touched him on the shoulder.

  “I’ve been wrong about one thing. Very, very wrong. Right from the beginning. I’ve never told you the most important thing you can tell someone. I’ve never told you I love you. I do. I loved you the minute I set eyes on you.” He coughed to subdue the lump in his throat. “Every single day since I’ve been torn up inside thinking about all the time I’ve missed with you, thinking about how lonely you must have been, how lonely I was. I’ve tried to show you, but it hasn’t been good enough. You may not need me, Clay, but I need you. I want you in my life forever.”

  Clay looked skeptical. Or was it that, having never been told he was loved, he didn’t know how to answer? Sloane didn’t know, but he did know that telling his son he loved him wasn’t enough. He slid closer until he was next to him. Then he put his arms around Clay in a powerful bear hug. “I mean every word of it,” he said, and he felt tears wet his cheeks. “And someday you’ll know I mean it.”

  Clay sat in the circle of his father’s arms and wondered why he felt like he was going to cry too. He hadn’t cried since he was a small child. He felt Sloane tentatively stroke his hair and he marveled at how good it felt. Before he knew what he was doing, he was patting Sloane’s shoulder to comfort him.

  “If you love me and you really want me here, then why have you been so awful to live with?” he asked after Sloane had drawn away a little

  “I promise, it hasn’t had anything to do with you.”

  “Do you need a refresher course on answering questions?” The insolence was gone. It was the voice of the boy Sloane had known in Miracle Springs, humorous, ingenuous.

  He laughed a little, wiping away the tears that had felt so cleansing. “You want me to share my feelings with you?”

  “Yeah. I could get to like it.”

  “I’ll make a long story short. I’m upset about Elise.”

  “Why? She sounds fine. She likes Atlanta; she likes her job.”

  Sloane froze. “What?”

  “It’s hard to tell the truth from letters, but I think she’s doing all right. She sounds a little lonely.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Clay frowned. “I can’t figure out why you’re worried. Did she tell you something she didn’t tell me?”

  “She hasn’t told me anything! I didn’t know where she was! How do you know?”

  “We’ve been writing since I left Miracle Springs. She sent me her new address when she moved. I just got a Christmas card from her yesterday.”

  “Damn!” Sloane stood and began pacing the living room, pounding his fist into his hand. “All this time.”

  “Too bad you didn’t tell me before.”

  “Damn!”

  Clay wondered just how far he could push Sloane. “See, if you’d told me, I could have saved you all this. I could have told you she’s in Atlanta working for some publishing company. I could have given you her address. I haven’t seen much of this love stuff but it does seem to me that if you love somebody you talk to them, tell them what’s worrying you.”

  Sloane con
tinued to pace. “Didn’t I already tell you I’d blown it? Obviously it was worse than I thought.”

  “Well, why don’t you make a short story long?” Clay lounged back in his seat. “Tell me the rest.”

  Sloane stopped pacing to shoot a grin at his son. He could almost see Clay relax under its power. “Do you really want to hear this?”

  Clay nodded.

  “All right, but it might take me awhile to get to the point. I’m still figuring it all out.”

  “Make it up as you go along. I’ve got the time.”

  Sloane began slowly. “Once upon a time there was a man, a hermit, who lived in a cave all by himself.”

  “A bedtime story?” Clay interrupted. “Aren’t I a little old for that?”

  “I missed all my other chances. I was cheated out of them. I’ll never forgive Destiny Ranch for that!”

  Clay was surprised by the strength of his father’s words and the detour. “I was happy—”He stopped.

  “Were you?” Sloane faced him.

  “No.”

  Sloane shut his eyes and nodded. “I know.”

  Clay tried to be honest. He realized that Sloane actually wanted the truth. It was a new experience, but one Clay thought he was going to enjoy. “There were good things. I see the way kids are raised in other places, and what I had was better than a lot of that. Some of the people who came through the ranch were terrific. I learned so much from them. But I always missed,” his voice caught and he swallowed, “I always missed having someone who thought I was special enough to keep with them “

  “I think you’re special enough.” Sloane opened his eyes. “You can do what you want, be who you want to be, but no matter what you do or who you are, you’re my son. That can’t change.”

  Clay swallowed again. “Finish your story.”

  Sloane nodded, knowing that Clay already had enough to contemplate. He began to pace again. “This hermit I was telling you about liked his cave. It was huge and warm and it had a picture window where he could watch the world go by. At night sometimes he’d sit by the fire and write down what he’d seen. He’d send off his writing, and people would read it. They liked what he had to say.”

  “And then?”

  “And then one day, the hermit was forced to go outside his cave. He didn’t want to go. He was happy being alone, at least he thought he was. Outside he found out that the real world, the one he thought he’d been writing about was a difficult place to be. One minute he’d feel happier than he’d known he could be, and the next minute he’d be in the depths of despair.”

  “Sounds like a place I’ve been myself,” Clay said.

  “Then you understand how this hermit felt.”

  “Anyone who’s been there would.”

  Sloane nodded. “It took this hermit a long time to adjust. He was so used to being alone he didn’t know what to say, what to do for other people. He didn’t realize he lacked courage, that was something he always accused other people of lacking. But the truth was that he was afraid of all those highs and lows. He kept a big part of himself away from the people he grew to love, just to play it safe. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer. He returned to his cave.”

  “But he wasn’t happy?”

  “No, he wasn’t. Because you see, he’d changed. The picture window wasn’t big enough anymore. He could see but he couldn’t touch or smell or hear. In fact, he couldn’t hear at all; his cave was silent. So he tried to go back to the real world again, find the people he loved, but one of them was gone, and he couldn’t find the words to tell the other one what he was feeling.”

  “So he ignored him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And the one that was gone. Why did she go without telling the hermit where he could find her?”

  “Because the hermit seemed like a hopeless case, I guess.”

  “Was she right?”

  “No.”

  Clay smiled. “Then one day, the hermit found a map. At the very center of the map in a kingdom called Georgia was a big X. The hermit journeyed night and day until he reached the spot. There he found the treasure he’d been seeking.”

  “Yes.”

  “When are you going to leave?”

  “As soon as you take off for Florida. With any luck, Elise and I’ll be joining you at Aunt Lillian’s for Christmas.”

  “I don’t know. Elise may have too much sense to get mixed up with a hermit again.”

  “You’re a rotten kid!” Sloane tempered his words by ruffling Clay’s hair. “My rotten kid, and don’t you ever forget it.”

  Clay’s smile got bigger. “People don’t own people.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. I’ve been owned body and soul for years, and I just figured it out. And you know what? It feels wonderful!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Along with everybody else in the room Elise lifted her cup of punch, although hers was the non-alcoholic kind. She listened as her new boss made a toast to the Christmas season. Mechanically, she brought the cup to her lips and swallowed. It was red fruit punch, the kind the children had been served when she’d taught Sunday school in Miracle Springs. Someone had tried to make it Christmassy by floating lime sherbet in it. The result was a sickly brown scum where the sherbet and punch had blended together, and it took all her fortitude to swallow it. She apologized silently to the baby inside her, who gave a mighty kick in response.

  The party resumed, and she found an unobtrusive spot to set her cup down. The buffet was classier than the punch, and she was starving. Ignoring the warning voice that told her whatever she ate would show up when the obstetrician’s nurse weighed her, she heaped a plate with cold boiled shrimp, salmon mousse and crackers, fruitcake and rum balls.

  “Only a pregnant lady would eat that combination,” her boss said, coming to stand beside her.

  “I believe I qualify.” She patted the huge bulge that preceded her everywhere.

  “You look like the Madonna.” John Switt shook his head at his own words. “Just don’t go having that baby in a stable somewhere.”

  “At this point, I’d be glad to have this baby anywhere.”

  Mary Jo Switt came up behind her husband and laughed at Elise’s words. She took his arm. “I remember just how it feels to be that close. How much longer do you have?”

  “Three weeks, two days. Give or take a month.” Elise smiled at the Switts. They were a handsome couple in their fifties who resembled each other in the way that people long married often did. She envied them their togetherness.

  Mary Jo was clucking like a mother hen. “Shouldn’t you be on maternity leave? Has John been making your life difficult?”

  “Never. I’m just happier working. I want as much time with the baby as I can have afterwards.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “Southern Pines Press can do without you,” John said, as he had every day for the last month. “You’re the best copy editor we ever had, but we can make do with free-lancers till you get back. Don’t hesitate to take off when you need to.”

  The baby kicked again, and for a minute, Elise couldn’t speak. It was amazing how much a kick could hurt. “You’re so kind,” she said when she could talk again. “But don’t worry, I promise I’m not going to deliver in the office.”

  “If you do,” Mary Jo said, “John’ll know what to do. He almost delivered our last child himself. You’d think I’d have known better, but I kept telling myself the baby was just restless. By the time I realized what was going on, the poor little fellow was already on his way to meet us.”

  “We got to the hospital just in time for Mary Jo to give one last push,” John reminisced.

  Elise wanted to hear more, but by the time she had weathered another kick, Mary Jo and John were gone, distracted by other employees. She finished the plate of food and helped herself to seconds on the fruitcake.

  She was lucky to have landed this job. Because of her father’s insurance money, she had decided to work more for he
r sanity than financial stability. Still, even though she hadn’t sought prestigious or high-paying positions, few employers had been willing to listen to the plight of a woman old-enough-to-know-better who was unmarried and expecting a child. They hadn’t wanted the prospect of instant maternity leave, and she hadn’t blamed them. Luckily John had listened without moral judgment. He had hired her because he had believed she would do a good job, then he had made it clear that his door was always open. John and Mary Jo had helped make the adjustment to Atlanta easier.

  Elise was pleased with her choice for a new location. Atlanta offered all the things that life in a small town never had. In addition, it offered the one thing she needed most of all: privacy. No one here cared that she was not married to the father of her baby, or if they did, they didn’t make a point of it. After the child was born, she would explore all the sections of the city, check into school systems and buy a house where she could raise her son or daughter in peace. She would make friends. She would survive. If she sometimes missed the town of her birth, she still knew that this was better.

  Miracle Springs was just a memory now. It was a cocoon where she had lived far too many years of her life. She had traded its comforts, its unchallenging monotony for the adventures of the unknown. Some days she awoke and wept for the ease of the life she had left behind. More often she sat up and stretched, eager for the joys of a new day.

  She should have left years before. But she had finally made the break. She was free, independent and as happy as she would ever be without Sloane.

  The day had been long and she was tired. She traded repartee with her fellow employees, made plans to attend Christmas Eve Mass the following week with one of Southern Pine’s editors, and then excused herself to head home. The drive through downtown Atlanta’s traffic always tired her, but never more than it did this evening. The long day and the baby’s activity had taken a toll on her limited energy. All she wanted was a chance to sit in a warm tub with her feet propped high and afterwards a good night’s sleep.