by Donna Ball
Mick grinned. “Then I’m probably not him.”
They left the hard-packed garden path for the parking lot, and the wheelbarrow wobbled dangerously on the rough gravel. Geoffery grabbed the front to steady it.
“Why, thank you, there, mate,” said Mick. “But we can’t have a paying guest doing chores.”
Already Geoffery regretted lending a helping hand, because it meant there was no easy way to veer off back to the privacy of his room now. He’d have to walk the man all the way to the truck he could see parked midway down the drive. But he said, “No problem. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
“Well, you surely were a phenomenon this afternoon. Every soul walking out of there was talking about how much they liked your book.”
Geoffery said nothing.
“Of course, I’m not much of a reading man, myself, but I did happen to be passing by during your talk and I liked what you said there, about miracles being all around us. It’s a rare thing to meet a believing man these days.”
Geoffery said stiffly, “I’m just a writer, Mr. …”
“Mick,” supplied the other man.
“Right.” His back was beginning to ache so Geoffery straightened up, rubbing it. Mick let the wheelbarrow rest. “Well, Mick, like I said, I just write things down. It has nothing to do with what I do or don’t believe.”
“Is that a fact?”
Mick looked, and sounded, genuinely interested, and it occurred to Geoffery that he probably had never met someone who made his living with words before, which would be a curiosity in itself. This made Geoffery feel a little more generous toward him than he might have been otherwise. He leaned back down to steady the front of the wheelbarrow and they started bumping across the rough lot again.
“I’ve written four other books,” Geoffery said, “but no one ever talks about those. Good luck even finding a copy of any of them now. That’s the business, though. Here today. Gone tomorrow.”
“Were they about miracles too?”
They passed the colorful little camp with its extraordinary mural and its neat little outdoor room. The blackened stones of the campfire smelled like spices, and a bright yellow tablecloth, anchored by a blue bowl filled with apples, covered a folding table.
Geoffery said, “They were about different things. One was about a bunch of guys that got lost in the Himalayas and how they survived. Another was about military dogs in Iraq. The point is, nobody asked what I believed when I wrote those books. Nobody cared. You don’t have to believe in a thing to write it down.”
“True enough, I reckon,” agreed Mick amicably. “So what gave you the idea to write a book about such things, then?”
Geoffery hesitated, and almost gave his standard interview answer, the one that began with “I’ve always been fascinated by the unexplained …” and was, of course, complete BS. But it all seemed like too much trouble to make up lies in this quiet lavender twilight, so he decided to tell the truth instead. “It wasn’t my idea, it was my wife’s. Liz.”
They had reached the pickup truck and there was no reason for him to linger, or say any more. He straightened up, rubbed his back again, and couldn’t keep the wry and reminiscent smile off his face as he went on, “Now that’s a story, the way we met. I wanted to put it in the book, but no one would believe it.” That wasn’t true. He’d never even considered putting the story in the book, or telling it to anyone who didn’t already know it. He wasn’t sure why he was doing so now, except that the other man seemed so interested, and was easy to talk to, and having brought the subject up it would be rude not to finish.
He said, “I was pushing forty, still single. My friends were always trying to fix me up, and if you’ve ever been in that situation you know blind dates are everything they’re cracked up to be.”
Mick grinned sympathetically and placed an armload of firewood in the truck bed. Geoffery added another couple of pieces to the pile and went on, “My sister had been after me for months to go out with a friend she thought would be perfect for me, but believe me, I’d been burned on that once too often. My sister thought any woman with a pulse was perfect for me. So to get her off my back, I let my dentist set me up with his neighbor for a double date. And wouldn’t you know, as soon as we firmed up plans, I met Lizzie on this Internet dating site I’d almost forgotten I was on. Hadn’t had a hit in months, and all of a sudden there she was—this gorgeous, smart, professional woman who made me smile with every word she typed. Long story short, we only corresponded for a couple of days and I was smitten. I had to meet this woman. I was headed out of town for two weeks, and I knew I couldn’t wait until I got back to ask her out. I’m not proud of it, but I completely blew off the blind date to ask Liz out that night. It turned out her own plans for the evening had been canceled at the last minute, so she was free. It seemed like fate.
“I was like a kid before the prom, getting ready for that dinner. Best restaurant in town, flowers to be delivered at the table, preordered a wine she’d mentioned she liked, I mean I was over the top. And when I got to the restaurant there was a message from Liz, apologizing that she had to cancel. Some kind of work emergency. It served me right, of course, after the way I’d canceled on the other woman at the last minute, but you can imagine my mood as I drove home that night. I didn’t even see the car that turned in front of me until it was too late. I swerved and hit a utility pole to avoid him, and next thing I know I’m in the back of an ambulance on the way to the ER. What was supposed to be the best night of my life ended up one of the worst. Or so I thought.”
Mick tossed the last log on the pile and glanced at him curiously, waiting. Geoffery smiled.
“The first person I saw when I got to the ER was the charge nurse who checked me in. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and her name tag read Elizabeth Sumpter. We were married six weeks later.”
“Wait,” said Mick. “It wasn’t the same woman …?”
Geoffery nodded, still smiling. “It was my Liz. She’d had to break our date when one of her nurses called in sick. But she ended up being there for me when I needed her most.”
Mick shook his head, grinning. “Well, I’ll be.”
“That’s not even the kicker,” Geoffery said. “You know those plans of hers that got cancelled at the last minute? Turns out her next door neighbor had fixed her up with a blind date who was rude enough to break it three hours before they were supposed to meet. Her neighbor was a dentist.”
Mick gaze grew skeptical. “You never.”
Geoffery nodded. “I was the blind date. And two weeks later, when I introduced her to my sister, it turned out there was no need. They’d been friends for ages. In fact, my sister had been trying to fix me up with Liz for months.”
Mick was laughing now. “And you say you’re not a believin’ man? By my teeth, that’s the finest story I ever heard. If all the tales in your book are like that one, I might just have to buy myself a copy.”
Geoffery’s smile faded. “Like I said, that story never made it into the book. But it was because of it—because of Liz—that I wrote the book. A Facebook page, and a question: Has a miracle changed your life? It was unbelievable. We got hundreds of thousands of replies. Some of them were worth an interview. Some of them were worth printing. God, those were the best times.” He was back there now, in those days, the days when he never stopped smiling, and his eyes showed it. “Liz was so—I don’t know, so pure. So purposeful and certain and joyful and intense. She made me believe in impossibilities. And, sure enough, the impossible came true. The book sold at auction for enough of an advance that we could afford to pay cash for a house on the river. It went straight to the top of the Times list the week it was released. How does that even happen? I went on tour and the lines were down the street. I was on Oprah and sales went through the roof. I was a rock star, and let me tell you I enjoyed every minute because Liz loved it so much. She kept saying, I told you, I told you! As though it was her faith in me—in us, really—that
had made it happen. And who knows? Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe that’s all it ever was.”
His smile was gone, and his eyes were bleak. “She was dead before Christmas of that year,” he said. “Pancreatic cancer. We had two weeks to say good-bye, and I wasted them praying for a miracle that never came.” He lifted his shoulders, and then let them sag in a heavy shrug. “In the book I said that a life without the possibility of miracles is a life that’s not worth living. I didn’t know at the time how true those words were. Before Liz, there was no magic. After Liz, even the possibility of magic was gone. So.” His lips tightened at the corners in the semblance of a smile that held no mirth whatsoever. “Now that you know the end of the story, you’ll probably want to save your money on the book.”
Mick sat on the open tailgate of the pickup, his expression thoughtful. “Do you know the difference between magic and miracles?” he said. “One of them requires faith.” He gave a crooked smile. “My dear ol’ mum taught me that, may God keep her in the balm of His grace.”
Geoffery replied flatly, “Good to know.” He started to turn toward the house, suddenly weary, but the other man’s voice stopped him.
“Seems to me that miracles are a lot like stories,” he mused. “They’re everywhere you look, if you just keep your eyes open. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if you found a half dozen of them right here on these very grounds.”
Geoffery gave a half-smothered snort of laughter. “Like the old woman and her fifty-year-old magazine? Believe me, I hear a dozen stories like that every day. Coincidence, random chance, miracle, doesn’t matter what you call it. Because in the end the one thing all those stories have in common is that they’re pointless. Believe me, both miracles and stories are in very short supply these days.”
“Maybe,” replied Mick amiably. “But then again maybe the point is not so much in finding the things, but in looking for them. I know I’d surely rather live in a world where people are expecting a miracle than where they’re not. Shouldn’t be surprised if your wife didn’t think so too.”
Geoffery didn’t know why the reference to his wife, coming from this stranger’s mouth in such a casual fashion, should offend him, but it did. He had shared too much. Taken the sacred out of what should have been his last secret. He was disgusted with himself.
“It’s cold,” Geoffery said stiffly. “I’m going in.” He turned toward the house.
Mick nodded sagely. “You were right about one thing, though,” he said. “There wasn’t an angel at the twin towers.”
Geoffery glanced back at him curiously. Mick smiled.
“There were thousands,” he said.
It was at that moment that all the lights on the Hummingbird House came on, perfectly coordinated on timers, and Geoffery couldn’t help turning to look. The curtain lights, the wreath lights on every door, the colored floodlights and twinkle lights illuminating all the trees and bushes; it really was a fairy-tale moment. It was just mesmerizing enough to catch Geoffery off balance for a second or two, and he simply stood there, watching.
He started up the drive again, but had only taken a step or two before he stopped, frowning. “Wait a minute,” he said. He turned. “How did you know I said that?”
There was no answer. He raised his voice. “That thing about the angel. I never said that to anyone but Bobbie. How did you know? Mick?”
But there was no reply, and all he saw was the twin red taillights of the truck disappearing down the driveway.
TWELVE
Sleigh Ride
The two big sleighs, each large enough to hold eight people, were waiting to transport the guests of the Hummingbird House to their fantasy evening of hilltop stargazing at six p.m. They were elaborately painted in red and gold, and outfitted with plush velvet seats, footrests and running lights cleverly designed to look like iron lanterns. There were faux fur lap throws and hot chocolate for the half-hour jaunt across the countryside, and each team of two horses wore harnesses trimmed with jingle bells and twinkle lights.
Earlier in the summer, Paul and Derrick had read in the local newspaper about the enterprising farmer who’d come up with a way to make money during the winter by offering horse-drawn sleigh rides to tourists—with or without snow—and had been fascinated ever since. They’d made several trips to the farm to inspect the equipment, engaged in lengthy discussions about the venue for and the length of the sleigh tour, whether daytime or nighttime would be best, whether it should be a means of transportation to another event or a destination in itself. When they discovered a meteor shower was expected a few days before Christmas, the event practically planned itself.
A bonfire was waiting atop the hill, along with cushioned chairs and portable tables set with white linens and crystal, evergreen bouquets, and candles in hurricane globes. Two liveried waiters, excited by the chance for extra holiday cash, warmed their hands over the fire and joked with each other about the way rich folks lived. A cooler was filled with champagne and chocolate truffles; an insulated container held lobster bisque and a steaming cassoulet. It would be an evening like no other, another stellar memory to be pressed into the book of an unforgettable Christmas at the Hummingbird House.
The Mathesons and the Canons shared the lead sleigh with Paul and Derrick, who generously spiced their chocolate with Irish Cream and cinnamon sticks, making for a joyous ride all the way. The Bartlett family shared the second sleigh with the Phipps and Mathilda Hildebrand and—at the last minute—with Geoffery Windsor. The two married couples took the plush, sofa-like seat in the back, leaving Mrs. Hildebrand to groan elaborately as she thumped down beside Geoffery in the front: “God! Again with the writer!”
He smiled back, “Always a pleasure, Mrs. Hildebrand.”
Pamela and Kelly Bartlett slumped in at last. Kelly, with her iPad glowing in the dark, hunched far over in the corner, leaving Pamela no choice but to flop down on the seat next to Mrs. Hildebrand. “You owe me eight hundred dollars,” said the teenager, glaring at the older woman.
Mrs. Hildebrand balanced both hands on the jeweled head of the walking stick in front of her as the horses lurched forward. “Do I indeed?” she replied pleasantly. “Might I ask for what?”
“You know for what! You ruined my phone!”
Said Mrs. Hildebrand, “And you paid what for it?”
“I told you that.”
“No, my dear,” the other woman replied patiently. “You told me what your father paid for it, and he doesn’t want my money. So in actual fact, you paid nothing for your supposedly damaged property, and that’s exactly what I owe you: nothing. Shall we move on?”
Pamela drew in a sharp breath for a reply but clearly couldn’t find one. The sleigh bounced sharply, throwing her against her sister, who violently pushed her away. Geoffery said mildly, “Hot chocolate, anyone? I believe there’s some in the basket here.”
From the sleigh in front of them, there was a burst of laughter. From the seat behind them, which was too high to see over, only quiet polite murmurs of conversation.
Mrs. Hildebrand shot Pamela a sideways look. “Did Aiden Sanders do your hair? He’s definitely losing his touch.”
Pamela returned a glare. “What would you know about it? You’re a million years old.”
“Oh, please. Aiden Sanders would still be doing weaves in Birmingham if I hadn’t introduced him to Tyra Banks.” She turned to Geoffery and added, “Now he owns salons in Richmond, New York and San Francisco, does celebrities on both coasts. But what kind of mother would spend twelve hundred dollars to let him do that to her daughter’s hair I can’t begin to tell you.”
Kelly leaned over her sister to stare at the older woman. “You do not know Tyra Banks.”
Pamela fingered her choppy lavender hair uneasily, then stopped herself. “Anyway, it wasn’t him, it was his new girl, Tempe. And I like it.”
“Never go with the new girl, my dear,” replied Mrs. Hildebrand. “You’ll learn that when you get older. Aiden wouldn’t have dre
amed of doing purple with your complexion. Indigo, definitely.”
Once again Pamela tugged at the ends of her hair.
Geoffery poured chocolate from the thermos into a mug and offered it to the older woman. “Weren’t you on safari in Africa with M.C. Hammer last year?”
Mrs. Hildebrand took the mug and sipped from it, aware of the big eyes of both girls staring at her. “That’s how I broke my hip, running from that damn rhinoceros.”
There was a significant pause, broken only by jingle bells and the clop of hooves over well-trod terrain. Then Pamela breathed, “You did not.”
Mrs. Hildebrand sipped again from her mug. “Of course not, you ignorant child. I broke my hip stepping off a curb in New York. And it was John Legend, not M.C. Hammer, in Africa. We were dedicating a school for girls.” Another sip. “An intelligent person might ask why.”
The two girls exchanged frowns, clearly debating whether this was another trap. Then Kelly, on a quick impatient breath, demanded, “Why?”
Said Mrs. Hildebrand, “Because if you educate a woman, you educate a village. Bono said that, I believe.”
Said Pamela skeptically, “Yeah, like you know him too.”
“I do indeed.” She glanced down at her mug and made a face. “Is there any scotch in that basket?”
Geoffery checked the basket. “Sorry. Brandy?”
She held out her cup and he splashed a measure of brandy into it. She tasted it critically and then glanced askance at Pamela. “I don’t suppose you’d be interesting in hearing the story of how we met.”
Uncertainly, a little cautiously, and clearly not wanting to appear too interested, both girls leaned in, listening.
In the seat behind them, Leona Bartlett turned off her phone and dropped it into the pocket of her coat.
“Thank you,” her husband said.
“I lost the signal,” she replied. “Come on, darling, just because we’re stuck in the wilderness doesn’t mean the rest of the world stops. I’ve got to keep up with e-mail.”