The Wishing Jar

by Penelope J. Stokes

  “I have a better idea,” he said. “Let me show you.”

  Never in all her fifty-one years had Abby ridden on a motorcycle, nor had she desired to do so. Every year, when the Honda Hoot rolled into town, she cursed the clogged traffic and the noise and the exhaust. Motorcycles were nasty, dangerous machines ridden by anarchists and hippie throwbacks. Now she swallowed down another of her preconceived notions and held on for dear life.

  Devin’s bike wasn’t a motorcycle, technically. It was an Italian-made scooter, silvery-blue. “I have an old pickup truck, too,” he said, “but I prefer to ride this when the weather’s nice.” He handed her a helmet. “It’s a Vespa. A classic.”

  The wind whipped her face as they headed down 240, out Old Charlotte Highway, and up into the hills south of town. Once she got over her initial terror, the experience reminded Abby of younger days when she had owned an ancient Triumph Spitfire convertible. That long-forgotten sense of freedom washed over her again, and she laughed out loud.

  Devin turned and smiled over his shoulder at her. “Great, isn’t it?” he yelled.

  Abby laughed again and clutched tighter to the leather of his jacket. Her life was still the same, with all its stress and struggle and loneliness and frustration. But somehow, from the back of a little blue motor scooter, everything felt different. With the wind coursing around her and the mountains before her and the glorious clear sky bright above her, she could almost see light and color washing over her world again.

  A mile or two past the entrance to the Parkway, Devin slowed the scooter and turned left, and they began to wind up a long paved road. At a break in the trees, she looked down and saw that they were very high. The city spread out below them like a toy town, remote in the distance.

  The scooter kept climbing. The road narrowed and turned to gravel. Tall trees on either side tangled their branches overhead to make a living arch, a tunnel of green. And then, just when Abby was beginning to think they had no choice but to crest the ridge and come down on the other side, Devin veered right into a clearing and killed the engine.

  “We’re here.” He slid off the seat, removed his helmet, and helped Abby to dismount. “Did you enjoy the ride?”

  “My legs are still vibrating, but yes, I liked it very much.” She smiled up at him. “Where are we?”

  “This is where I live.”

  Abby looked around. It was a tranquil, stunning location, totally secluded. Just up the hill, a log cabin blended into the surrounding scenery as if it had grown organically out of the mountainside. Behind it, the ridge shot up steeply, heavily wooded and studded with huge boulders. To the right, the land leveled off in an open stretch of pasture before plunging downhill again. A rushing stream, dammed with rocks to create a small waterfall, splashed and sparkled into a pond. Two deer browsing at the edge of the water lifted their heads in curiosity.

  For a moment Abby felt as if she had stepped into another world, another time. The clearing was absolutely silent. There was no sound of civilization, not even the distant white noise of cars passing by on the highway.

  She listened again. No. It wasn’t silent. She could make out the calling of birds and the rustle of small animals in the woods— squirrels, perhaps, or rabbits. A hawk soared overhead and disappeared beyond the tree line. And underneath it all, she heard the rush of water cascading down the mountain into the pond, and out again in a small cataract on the other side.

  “This is so beautiful,” she said, and found herself whispering. It seemed a sacrilege to intrude on such beauty.

  The idea startled her. Abby hadn’t given much thought to the idea of holiness—indeed, to anything spiritual—in a very long time. And yet the presence of God, or at least the presence of something deeply loving and peaceful and sacred, clearly permeated this place. This, a voice in the back of her mind murmured, is what heaven must be like.

  And yet something didn’t quite fit. They couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes from town. Abby’s mind retraced the route they had taken. By her figuring, they must be near the top of the ridge that backed up to the Blue Ridge Parkway. This was a prime location, and very expensive—the kind of land developers purchased for gated communities of half-million-dollar homes. Not the kind of property owned by a street musician who had no visible means of support.

  “Come on,” Devin was saying. “Let’s sit on the porch and talk. I’ll make us some lunch.”

  She followed him to the cabin and settled into one of the big oak rockers on the covered porch that faced out over the valley and the mountains to the west. Leaving the front door wide open, Devin went into the kitchen. She could hear him puttering around, humming to himself as he worked.

  Abby waited. A medium-sized dog—a cross between a beagle and a shelty, she guessed—appeared at the side of the porch and came up to investigate. She extended her hand to be sniffed, then rubbed his ears. “What’s the dog’s name?” she asked through the open doorway.

  Devin poked his head around the corner and looked. “That’s Rachmaninoff,” he said. “Rocky for short. Mozart’s around somewhere. He’ll show up as soon as he gets wind of the food.”

  Sure enough, the moment Devin reappeared with a tray bearing sandwiches and tall glasses of iced tea, a sweet-faced golden retriever came barreling up from behind the pond and plopped down expectantly at his master’s knee. “He’s a real lover,” Devin said, “but a terrible beggar.”

  Devin served her a lunch of chicken salad sandwiches on homemade bread. A simple meal, and yet Abby had not tasted anything so good in months. They ate quietly, with Abby sneaking a couple of bread crusts to Mozart when Devin wasn’t looking. After a while she gathered her courage to ask the questions that were pressing in on her.

  “This place is so . . . secluded,” she said. “There must be a lot of undeveloped acreage surrounding the cabin.”

  Devin nodded. “About sixty-five acres, give or take. The property runs from the main road all the way up to the crest of the ridge.”

  She looked past him into the cabin. It appeared to be one large room, with a kitchen divided from the main room by an island, and a loft overhead. Beyond the kitchen, on the far side, she could see a closed door. A bedroom, perhaps?

  Abby set her tea glass on the small table between the rockers. “Do you mind if I use your rest room?”

  “Be my guest. Through the bedroom door, on the left.”

  “Thanks.” Abby didn’t really need to use the facilities, but she was uncontrollably curious about how Devin Connor lived.

  What she found inside his cabin surprised her. It was, as she had suspected, basically one large open space, but crafted with meticulous care. To her right as she entered, a compact kitchen formed an L, with a cooking bar set at an angle to the corner. On the opposite wall, a huge stone fireplace rose up into the vaulted ceiling, surrounded by a brown leather sofa and several comfortable-looking overstuffed chairs. In one corner stood a baby grand piano littered with staff paper.

  She crossed the room and opened the door. The bedroom, although not large, was decorated in soothing tones of dark green and burgundy, and furnished with an iron bed neatly covered with a handmade quilt. An oval area rug covered much of the wood floor, and in one corner a cozy sitting area had been created—a mission oak library table topped with a Tiffany lamp stood between two dark green easy chairs.

  “I’ll say one thing for him—he’s got good taste,” Abby muttered as she pushed the bathroom door ajar. The bath, nearly as large as the bedroom, was tiled in forest green with burgundy accents and dominated by a double-size shower encased in glass bricks.

  She washed her hands, took a last longing look at the glorious shower, then wandered slowly back through the bedroom and out into the main living area. Devin Connor might claim to be a simple man, but this home was no rustic mountain cabin. Anyone who played a fiddle for quarters on the street couldn’t afford luxuries like leather sofas and a baby grand.

  She returned to the porch and resumed he
r seat in the rocking chair. “You have a nice house, Devin,” she said.

  He lifted his eyebrows and gazed at her. “And you’re wondering how a penniless street musician can manage sixty-five acres and a log cabin with leather furniture and a glass block shower.”

  Abby ducked her head. “It crossed my mind, yes. A place like this—” She waved a hand at the cabin and the stunning vista spread out before them.

  “What makes you think I own it?”

  Abby looked at him and saw once again that hint of amusement in his clear blue eyes, that almost-smile that played about his lips. Her heart did a little flip-flop. “This property doesn’t belong to you?”

  “You’re the reporter. What do your instincts tell you?”

  She thought a minute. “I’d guess that—well, maybe you have friends in high places. And you’re looking after this property for them . . . like a caretaker.”

  He pushed the hair back from his forehead and stared out across the pond. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Exactly like a caretaker.”

  Abby glanced at her watch. It was nearly two. “Devin, I appreciate your bringing me up here. And I’d like to get to know you better—” The words came out before she could censor them, and she scrambled to explain. “For the article, I mean. But at the moment I really need to get back to the office. I’ve been gone too long.”

  “Right,” he said, getting to his feet. “I ought to get to work myself.” He took the lunch tray back into the cabin and returned with his battered black fiddle case. “But before we go, I’d like to respond to one of your questions.” He opened the case, retrieved his fiddle and bow, and sat down on the top step of the porch. “You asked earlier what generates my passion for music.” He waved the bow at the far mountains. “There’s your answer.”

  He began to play, a lilting, haunting melody. A ballad, Abby thought, although she couldn’t identify the tune. The music soared into the bright afternoon air, wove through the trees, and reverberated back from the mountainside. With a gentle plaintiveness, the notes worked their way into Abby’s heart and stirred within her the longing for—

  For what?

  She didn’t know. But the music called to her, reaching some empty, tender spot hidden within her. The touch hurt, but it was a bittersweet pain. A nostalgic yearning, a deep homesickness of the soul.

  Without a single word, the music spoke to her of love and risk and new beginnings, of wishes granted and yet to come, of beauty far beyond her own understanding.

  And when it ceased, she had a glimpse—perhaps for the first time in her life—of the kind of passion that drove Devin Connor to give his music freely to the world.

  7

  Metamorphosis

  Neal! Thurmond’s coming!”

  Neal turned to see the bathroom door partially open, with T. J. Sweet’s head poked through the crack. She grinned. As her best friend, T. J. always watched her back, but sometimes she went a little overboard with the bodyguard routine.

  “So what? That little toad of a principal wouldn’t be caught dead coming into the girls’ bathroom. He’s scared spitless that somebody might slap a sexual harassment lawsuit on him. Shut the door.”

  T. J. came into the room and let the door close behind her. “What’s gotten into you, Neal? If he nails you for smoking, you’ll be suspended. Not the best way to start out your senior year.”

  Neal waved the cigarette at the mirror and gazed at her reflection through the smoke. “My point exactly. This is my senior year, and I intend to make the most of it. Now, what do you think of this outfit?”

  T. J. stared at Neal as if seeing her for the first time. “Where did you get that? You look like a hooker.”

  “Exactly.” Neal straightened one sleeve of the tight black sweater and pushed the waist of her leather miniskirt down below her bellybutton. “It’s time for some changes, my friend. Michael Damatto won’t be able to resist me in this outfit.”

  “Mike Damatto? That biker who rides the red Harley and works at the garage?”

  “He’s not just a biker,” Neal shot back. “He’s . . . complex.”

  “He’s wild, you mean. And he’s twenty-three.”

  Neal turned toward T. J. and shook her head. “Since when did you turn into the Church Lady? You sound like my grandmother.”

  “I just want to graduate, OK? And your grandmother would drop dead on the spot if she saw you dressed like that.”

  “She’s not going to see me. I’m meeting Mike in exactly”— she looked at her watch—“fifteen minutes.”

  “In fifteen minutes we’ll be ten minutes into Lit class, remember? And if—”

  A banging on the door interrupted them. The principal’s wheedling voice came through the closed door. “Miss Sweet, I know you’re in there. Open up.”

  T. J. opened the door a crack. Neal could see Thurmond’s round, red face on the other side. The veins in his neck bulged against his collar, and he tugged at his tie as if he were choking.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Thurmond?” T. J. asked in a high-pitched childish singsong.

  “I . . . I thought I saw Miss McDougall come in here,” he stammered, sniffing the air like a dog trying to catch a scent. “Has someone been smoking?”

  “Smoking?” T. J. said in her best innocent tone. “Why, I don’t know, Mr. Thurmond. Surely not. This is school property, after all. Smoking is strictly forbidden.”

  “Indeed it is,” he huffed. “What about Miss McDougall?”

  “Yes, sir, she’s here with me.” T. J. leaned closer to him. “We’ve got a little problem, sir.”

  “Problem? What kind of problem?”

  “Nothing serious. Just a little”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“female thing. Neal Grace was—well, caught unawares, if you catch my drift.”

  Thurmond jerked back as if he’d been snakebit, and his face turned from its normal red to a shade somewhere between fuchsia and purple. Neal escaped into one of the stalls, overcome with laughter.

  “Oh. Well . . . ah, yes. I see,” the principal said. “Take your time, both of you. No rush. No rush at all.” He disappeared, and Neal could hear his wing tips on the stairs as he bolted for the safety of his office.

  She came out of the stall and gave T. J. a high-five. “That was brilliant! Total genius! Thanks so much. I gotta go.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “I told you, Teej, I’m meeting Mike Damatto. He’s probably waiting for me behind the gym right now. I’m going to be late.”

  “But what about Lit class?”

  Neal laughed. “I’m ditching Lit, of course. And Biology. And Study Hall. See you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” T. J. frowned. “But—”

  “Gotta run. Oh, by the way, I’m leaving a message for Mom telling her I’m having dinner at your house and studying with you tonight. If she calls, cover for me, OK? I’ll come by later and tell you all about it.”

  “This is not a good idea.”

  Neal ran a hand through her hair. “This is my one big chance with Mike Damatto, T. J. Believe me, it’s a very good idea.”

  The bar was dark and smoky, and the beer was lukewarm. Neal didn’t really like beer, but Mike had brought it to the table, so she sipped at it and pretended to be enjoying herself. In one corner, a jukebox was playing a morose country song, its rhythms punctuated by the clack of pool balls from the next room.

  “So,” Mike said as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, “pretty cool place, huh?”

  Neal looked around. “Yeah, it’s great.”

  It wasn’t great. Not even close. Every time Neal moved her feet, her shoes stuck to the floor. And she didn’t even want to think about what kind of unidentified protein might be lurking amid the chips or chopped up in the salsa. Her beer glass had an old lipstick stain on the rim, and she gingerly turned it around to drink from the other side.

  The place was a dive, but that didn’t matter. She was on a date with Mike Damatto. He had a face to die for
, and a body to match. Muscled arms. Great abs. A square jaw and a shock of dark hair that punked up over his forehead. His eyelids drooped perpetually at half-mast—what T. J. called “bedroom eyes.” Now those eyes were watching her with a smoldering intensity as he drank his beer and ordered another.

  The tattoo on his right forearm—a snake coiled to strike— had a banner below it that read, Dangerous. But he wasn’t, Neal thought. Or maybe just a little dangerous. She had to admit that danger was what had drawn her to him in the first place.

  Neal had always been exactly what her family expected her to be—a good student, honest, respectful. But since her father’s death and, more recently, her grandmother’s stroke, something dark and troubling brewed inside her, an anger she couldn’t articulate. She felt as if she might explode at any moment.

  Dad was gone. Mom was always busy. Granny Q was of no use to anyone. She couldn’t take it anymore.

  And then she met Mike.

  Their initial meeting back in July had been purely coincidental, although Mike insisted on referring to it as “good karma.” She had picked up T. J. and the two of them were headed for the stadium to take in a Saturday afternoon baseball game. Neither of them liked baseball, and Asheville’s minor league team, the Tourists, was having a pretty miserable season. But a friend of T. J.’s from another school had promised to hook them up with a couple of cute guys.

  Neal had just turned the corner a block from the stadium and was looking for a place to park when the oil light on the dashboard flashed red. She knew enough about engines to realize this was bad news, so she immediately pulled into the garage on the corner and turned off the engine.

  A mechanic sauntered out. The patch on his grease-covered overalls read, Mike. He looked them over and grinned. “We close at two on Saturday,” he said, glancing at his watch. “But if you’ve got an emergency—”

  “The oil light came on,” Neal said as she got out of the car. She turned to T. J. “You go on ahead and meet Katie and the guys. I’ll call Mom and catch up with you later.”