Makin' Miracles

by Lin Stepp

She sighed. “Should I go talk to Renee, too?”

  Nana snorted. “There’s nothing in her that would want to listen to you, even if you used all the reasoning in the world. What you can do for her is simply pray for her to have enlightenment. To walk out of the dark and into the light. Then she might be able to hear some truth and know it. For now, you just keep your distance from her.”

  Zola knew the truth in her words. Every conversation she’d ever engaged in with Renee had been fruitless.

  “You want me to drive you home?” Zola asked.

  “No.” She snapped out the word with annoyance as she started down the porch steps. “The day I need to be driven, instead of walking a short distance over my own farmland, I’ll let you know.”

  Zola hid a smile behind her hand.

  Nana paused to tuck her crochet work into her apron pocket. “Why don’t you come over to dinner with us tonight if you’re through with your daydreaming by then? I’m having chicken-and-dumplings and I made a blackberry cobbler from those berries I put up last summer.”

  “I’ll do that.” Zola waved at her.

  She looked back at Zola with a frown. “And you put yourself some underwear on under those clothes. It’s not decent to go around without underclothes on.”

  Zola rolled her eyes again as her grandmother started down the path toward her place.

  As it turned out, Zola did find a little time to dream that afternoon before she went to dinner with her grandparents. She did a little more dreaming at work the next day, sandwiched between waiting on customers. It was nice to be on the edge of falling in love, she thought, nice to have someone to dream about and think about, sweet to feel someone invading her thoughts.

  Spencer had called last night, and as she settled in to bed after a long day, he called again. “I’m calling at ten o’clock again,” he said, “because I’ve learned it’s about the time you go to bed.”

  “Is that right?” she asked, smiling.

  “Yeah. I like talking to you right before you go to sleep.” His voice sounded husky. “I think ten is going to start being my special time to call you every night.”

  She yawned. “Maybe you can tell me bedtime stories or sing me some lullabies.”

  “And maybe I can whisper sweet nothings to you.” His voice grew softer.

  Zola snuggled into her pillow. “I might like that.”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, but then I might have trouble falling asleep afterward. Perhaps I should talk about less personal things, like telling you those yellow jackets are totally gone. You know, I appreciate you keeping Zeke from getting his doggy nose stung that evening.”

  “Zeke’s a great dog. When did you get him?”

  Their conversation went on like this, becoming more and more relaxed and comfortable. Zola was remembering these warm moments as she followed Spencer along a single-file trail the next morning to one of the gassy meadows on top of the Smoky Mountains.

  He wore his photographer’s vest, with a camera draped around his neck. He also wore a backpack, which carried water and part of their lunch, and he carried his tripod over his shoulder. Zola admired his broad shoulders from the back.

  She had a small backpack on, too, with the rest of their lunch inside it. Under her arm, she carried an old quilt rolled up with string.

  “I thought for sure when you talked about going to a grassy bald we’d hike to Andrews Bald or Gregory Bald.”

  “Everyone goes there,” he said. He turned to grin at her over his shoulder. “Besides, have you ever hiked down to Andrews Bald?”

  They’d parked in the parking lot at the end of Clingmans Dome Road at the top of the mountain, and Zola knew the trail to the bald sloped south from the parking lot down Forney Ridge.

  She searched her remembrance. “It seems I remember there are some nice views from off Andrews Bald.”

  “Yeah, and that’s all.” He laughed. “The trail down to the bald is boring to me and sometimes the open field on the bald is full of gnats and bugs so thick you could choke. The grass on the bald grows really high, too. It’s a disappointing place to me. I know other trails that lead to grassy meadows and fine mountain views I like much better.”

  “And so where does this trail lead?” They’d headed northwest out of the parking lot and climbed up a rocky ridge to intersect a piece of the Appalachian Trail heading out from Clingmans Dome.

  Spencer led the way farther along the narrow ridgetop trail. He pointed ahead. “This trail leads to Mount Buckley. You can see it up ahead. It’s only a short walk to it now.”

  The trail opened out on the left to expose a grassy meadow on the top of the mountain slope. The views over the mountaintops here were stunning. Zola paused to take it in.

  Spencer turned back to her with a smile. “After we walk to the point at Mount Buckley, where I want to take some photos, we’ll come back here, spread out our quilt and enjoy our picnic. You can look your fill then, Zola. This is a great place.”

  “Yes, it is.” She looked behind her. “And not far from the parking lot. I wonder why more people don’t walk out here to enjoy the views.”

  It was a weekday, and there weren’t many tourists in the area, but none had taken this trail. They’d all headed up the paved trail leading to the Clingmans Dome Tower or started down Forney Ridge Trail to the bald.

  “People are lemmings.” Spencer adjusted the tripod on his other shoulder. “They go to the places where they see other people go or that they’ve heard other people talk about the most.”

  Zola smiled to herself. It was good to hear Spencer acknowledge that he liked to walk to a different drummer.

  The trail began to climb more steeply toward the top of Mount Buckley.

  “How tall is Mount Buckley?” she asked.

  “It’s 6,580 feet, Zola. We’re high up in the heavens today. Mount Buckley is the fourth tallest mountaintop in the Smokies. Clingmans Dome behind us is the tallest at 6,643 feet. You can see 100 miles from the tower on a clear day.”

  “It looks clear today—and not foggy like it is sometimes.” Zola gazed out over the rippling mountain ranges with pleasure. “Did you know it would be this nice today?”

  “I’ve been watching the weather.” He admitted this honestly. “I wanted to come on a day when I could get some good mountain range photos. They always sell well in the store.”

  “Everybody loves pictures of the rolling mountains with the hazy colors growing fainter and fainter in the distance.” She sighed, looking out at the view.

  “Well, I’ll give you a picture to frame if you can find a place to put it in your house.”

  “I’ll find a place,” she told him. “You just plan on getting some good shots.”

  He laughed. “I intend to.”

  The summit of Mount Buckley was a rocky point with trees on the top. Rocky outcrops and grassy patches spread to either side of the point. Zola sat down on a rock to rest and enjoy the views while Spencer took photos.

  She closed her eyes, reveling in the peace and quiet of the day. She could hear a woodpecker ratcheting away on a tree down in the valley. The sounds of insects droned softly on the air. She heard the high-pitched notes of a warbler singing—probably having just returned to the upper reaches of the mountains now that late April had arrived. In the quiet, she heard the flutelike sound of a veery, too. This bird usually serenaded only during the early morning and at sunset.

  “You’re late in the morning to be singing, little friend, but I’m glad you are so I could hear you.” Zola’s grandmother had taught her to know most all the bird songs when she was small. Those things one learns as a child stay strong in the remembrance.

  “What are you smiling about?” Spencer asked, coming over to drop a kiss on her forehead.

  The gesture touched her heart. “If you listen carefully, you’ll hear the veery singing. I think she’s down that ridge in a tree. I can’t see her.”

  Spencer stood very still, listening, until the flutelike song came again. H
e scanned the trees for the bird. Catching the direction, he put up his camera with its long zoom attached and searched the area.

  Zola saw him smile as he clicked off a few shots. “Did you actually see her?”

  “I think so. Is she a little brown thing that looks like a jenny wren?” He showed her the digital shots he’d taken.

  “Oh, yes—that’s her.” She smiled in pleasure. “It’s rare to capture a picture of that little songster. Nana will want to see this photo for sure.”

  “I’ll frame it for her, and you can give it to her for a gift.”

  She reached up to put her hand around his neck and pull him down so she could kiss him. “I love to spend time with you,” she told him.

  “And I you.” He kissed her back.

  Later, after Spencer had taken all his morning photographs, they sat lazily on the quilt they’d spread in the grassy meadow looking out over the blue mountain ranges. They’d eaten sandwiches and now munched green, seedless grapes while they enjoyed the views.

  “Look.” Spencer pointed out over the ridges. “You can see a bit of Fontana Lake there between the mountains.”

  Zola saw the reflection of the water where he pointed. “I see it,” she said. “It’s incredible we can see that far from here.”

  He lay back with his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

  While he rested, Zola got up and explored the meadow on top of the mountain. She picked a few random wildflowers, though she knew she was really supposed to leave them undisturbed. But there were so many flowers here. And they hadn’t seen another soul all day on the mountaintop.

  She came back to the quilt with a small handful of treats, squatting on her knees to look at them.

  “What have you got?” Spencer pulled up to look at her find.

  “One or two wild iris.” She held out a single flower to him for a closer look. “Did you know there are about four varieties of these in the park? This purplish variety is called blue-eyed grass. Their yellow centers attract the bees. There are a whole sweep of them down to the right.”

  She pointed and then held up another flower with a grin. “And of course my favorites are the buttercups—these happy yellow flowers.”

  As he pulled to his knees beside her, she playfully tucked a buttercup into a buttonhole in his shirt.

  Smiling with pleasure, he tucked another into her hair behind her ear.

  Zola touched his lips with her fingers. She loved seeing him smile like this. “You know, Ralph Waldo Emerson said the ‘earth laughs in flowers.’ They make me want to laugh, too. They are such joyous creations.”

  She tucked a flower into the pocket of Spencer’s shirt, letting her fingers trace a circle around his heart.

  His eyes darkened. “You drive me crazy with desire at times like this, Zolakieran. You are so alive and beautiful.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and leaned in to kiss her. Zola threaded her hands into his hair and kissed him back with joy.

  It was a beautiful moment as they stood on their knees on the old quilt, wrapped in each other’s arms—with the floral meadow and the stunning views of the Smoky Mountains all around them.

  She heard Spencer sigh as his mouth drifted from her mouth, across her cheek and into her hair above her ear. “You know I’m falling in love with you,” he whispered huskily.

  Zola’s heart sang. “And I with you, Spencer Jackson.” She found his lips again and they fell onto the blanket in a tangled embrace.

  Spencer lay on top of her, and the feeling of his body spread over hers in the warm sun was wonderful. They kissed and murmured sweet things to each other, reveling in the moment of discovering their awakening love and their response to each other.

  Zola bit Spencer playfully on the shoulder and blew softly in his ear. She felt an odd change in his body then, a stiffening. Something was passing through his mind. He was slipping away from her.

  Frustrated with it, she searched for his lips again. He kissed her in a different way this time—more intensely—and his breathing escalated. He slipped his tongue between her teeth and took their kiss much deeper, his hands roving more freely over her body now.

  Were things getting out of hand? Zola wondered as she responded to him but felt oddly detached in the process.

  Spencer’s mouth fell to her neck and then drifted down toward her breasts. She wore only a sleeveless spaghetti-strap top, leaving much of her upper body exposed to the sunshine. Spencer’s lips roved over her skin. But nothing felt right.

  Suddenly she heard it, the voice in his head. He was saying another woman’s name in his mind, thinking of someone else while kissing her. Reliving some past moment of passion.

  “Geneva. Geneva,” she heard him say in his thoughts.

  Shocked, Zola let the picture come sharply into focus now. And she knew. He was thinking of his former lover. Even worse, he was thinking of the woman who was his brother’s wife.

  Zola felt revolted. She pushed Spencer off her, slapping at him to make him stop kissing her. Angry now.

  She pulled herself up from the quilt, shoving him farther away from her. Not even wanting him to touch her.

  His eyes opened to look at her in confusion.

  “How dare you!” She wrapped herself in her own arms protectively. “You’re lying here with me, kissing me, telling me you think you’re falling in love with me, and you’re thinking of your brother’s wife!”

  She reached out to slap at him as he tried to take her in his arms again.

  “Don’t you even dare to think about putting your hands on me, Spencer Jackson—not now or ever again.”

  He sighed deeply and ran his fingers through his hair. “I wasn’t thinking about her before, Zola. And I meant what I said. But something you did … something that happened with us … brought some memories back for a minute. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  She glared at him. “It doesn’t mean anything that you’re saying another woman’s name in your mind, thinking of another woman’s kisses, remembering another woman’s passion and love when you’re with me? You must think I’m crazy to accept that.”

  He ran a hand around his neck nervously. “I’m sorry, Zola. I sometimes have these flashbacks. Things come into my mind from the past. I can’t help it.”

  She crossed her arms more tightly against herself. “I can accept a lot of your problems with the past, Spencer. Even those things you haven’t felt led to share with me yet. But I’ll not accept another woman’s memory slipping into our lovemaking. That’s past the limit for me.”

  She shivered. “Especially when it’s your own brother’s wife you’re lusting after and thinking about. That’s disgusting. Did you have an affair with her after your brother married her? Is that part of the guilt and pain you carry around, that you betrayed him with his own wife?”

  His face distorted in anger now, and he clenched his fists tightly, frightening Zola for a moment. “We were engaged.” He bit out the words. “Geneva and I were engaged. And Bowden stole her away while I was at college. Married her and took her away from me. Just like he took so many other things away from me. It was just one more thing he stole. He enjoyed it, too. He called to tell me about it with gloating, pretending he was trying to break it to me kindly. Telling me she’d never really loved me, that I should be glad I found that out before I married her.”

  Zola studied his angry face. “And did she love you, this Geneva?”

  “Yes!” His fists clenched and unclenched at his side. “She told me she did. She showed me she did.”

  Zola began to gather up her things. “People often say things they don’t mean, Spencer. And they often display passion when their heart isn’t really in it.” She gave him a significant look. “Take today, for instance.”

  She watched his eyes move to where she’d begun to load up her backpack. “We need to talk about this, Zola. It’s not what you think.”

  “No. It’s worse than I thought.” She pushed him off the quilt so she could
roll it up. “It’s not only the hurts from your family and the hurts from your brother’s bullying you’re suffering from, it’s the hurt of losing someone you loved. And you’re not over it yet.”

  “Zola, you’re making more of this than it is… .”

  Tears sprang to her eyes now. “I won’t be second best, Spencer Jackson. And I won’t share your heart with an old love who still lives in your memory in that large a way.”

  She brushed back her tears. “She was very beautiful, wasn’t she? Very accomplished. Very poised. The kind of woman men’s eyes turned to whenever she walked into a room.”

  He sat silent, scowling.

  She caught his eyes with hers. “And I am everything that is different from her, aren’t I? That’s what I’ve felt so many times—you comparing me with her. Measuring me against her.” Her voice broke in a sob. “I always came up short, too, didn’t I?”

  Spencer reached out a hand toward her. “It wasn’t like that, Zola.”

  “Wasn’t it?” she challenged.

  He ran his hands through his hair again, obviously searching for the right words to say. But not finding any.

  “I want to go home, Spencer. I’d walk so I wouldn’t have to ride with you, but it’s too far.” She stood up.

  As Spencer packed his gear, he tried saying words to smooth over the moment. But none of them felt right or true to Zola.

  On the way down the mountain, he tried once more. “I wish you could understand, Zola. It was a hard time for me when Geneva and Bowden married. And my parents and Rita didn’t seem to see any problem with them getting together, blotting me out of the picture.” His hands tensed on the steering wheel. “It happened like it always did. Whatever Bowden wanted, Bowden got, and Mother and Dad just acted like it was all right. They didn’t even seem to realize how I felt. Or care.”

  She looked at him. “How many years ago was this, Spencer?”

  “Twelve,” he admitted sullenly.

  “You’ve pouted over this for twelve years? Felt sorry for yourself and felt abused for twelve years?” She spat the words out angrily at him. “What an incredible waste!”

  “You don’t understand!” The words burst out of him angrily. “It wasn’t right!”