Love's Miracles

by Sandra Leesmith

  Love’s Miracles

  By Sandra Leesmith

  Copyright Page

  Kindle Edition | Copyright © 1989, 2013 Sandra Lee Smith

  All rights reserved.

  First edition published by Popular Library (An imprint of Warner Books, Inc.) 1989

  “Sufficiency” © 1988

  By Marie Daerr Boehringer

  Poem first appeared in Unity magazine. Reprinted with permission of the author.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Lena Goldfinch

  Cover images: Photography33 (models photo), Elenathewise (daisy), Michael Vorobieb & Mtilghma (background images)

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  “Forever Friends”

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Romance Novels by Sandra Leesmith

  Dedication

  To my brother Hal, who served in the Air Force in Vietnam during the Vietnam War.

  To my uncle Hal, a Marine who sacrificed his life on the island of Iwo Jima during WWII.

  To my father John, who served in the Navy during WWII.

  To my father-in-law Edward, who was a Navy veteran of WWII and a POW in Korea.

  To my husband Edward, who is a Navy veteran of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

  “Forever Friends”

  By Sandra Leesmith

  “There are worlds to see and know my friend.

  To far-off lands your sails unfurl.

  Ride across the oceans of experience.

  Friends we’ll be forever.

  Forget mistakes of yesterday.

  We’ll dream another dream.

  Tomorrow discover truth and promise

  On the tides of destination.

  Friends we’ll be forever.”

  Chapter 1

  Spring 1989

  “You can’t go all the way to Fort Bragg to bring this guy in. It’s unorthodox.”

  Dr. Margo Devaull shook her head, sending the curled ends of chestnut hair across the shoulders of her bold print sweater. She was well aware of the unconventional practice of going to see Dominic Zanelli. “Since when have I ever been orthodox?”

  “Since when do clinical psychologists go on home visits?”

  “What do you think I travel all over the country speaking about? Home visits are my subspecialty.”

  “For agoraphobics and traumatic accidents. But this guy lives two hundred miles away and out in the wilderness. Be reasonable.”

  Fred Barlow, her friend and former colleague, stood and began to pace the cluttered confines of her office. Margo absently noted that he maneuvered his lanky form around several piles of books. She really should pick them up. Her desk wasn’t much better. Papers lay scattered over the surface in between stacks of manila folders. They were case histories of her patients and they all needed updating. She sighed. “Look, Fred. I am being reasonable. The family wants my help. I want the case. Besides, I’ve already arranged my schedule to go tomorrow.” She gestured at her desk. “You know how hard it is for me to get time.”

  Fred was well aware of her hectic pace, she knew. Margo had just recently left the Veteran’s Administration Center because of her growing popularity as a consultant and speaker. The two of them had worked there together for years. But she had needed to establish a practice that allowed her more flexible scheduling. Not only did Fred miss her, but Margo also suspected that he harbored some jealousy for the growing prestige she’d achieved lately.

  Fred raked his fingers through his thinning, sandy-colored hair. “If you insist on working through the weekend, why don’t you clean up this mess?” He skirted around a pile of professional journals that she’d stayed up past midnight reading two nights before.

  Margo picked them up and managed to shove aside a space for them in the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Her disorder had been the bane of Fred’s professional life when she’d practiced with him in the Palo Alto center. Fred was organized and had hardly contained his dislike for Margo’s clutter, but they’d managed to develop a close friendship in spite of their differences.

  “You must be delighted I have my own practice now. You get the whole office to yourself.” Margo chuckled.

  “Now at least I can move around and I can find everything. All papers are filed. All books are put away.”

  Margo shook her head. “There must be something Freudian about that. This is an organized mess. Everything has its place.”

  If Fred thought this looked a mess now, he should have seen it last month when she’d been contracted by the city. A cable car had broken loose resulting in traumatic shock to a large number of victims. She had been overloaded with cases, so it wasn’t that she was careless or irresponsible. To her way of thinking, her patients and their problems held priority over the condition of her office.

  “You just got back from Los Angeles and you’re off to New Orleans next week. Don’t you think that’s enough traveling?”

  “I’ve made a commitment, Fred.”

  “Why is it so important to go? Is it because Zanelli’s big time in the city?”

  The dig didn’t deserve a response. In part it was true. Taking on a Zanelli would enhance her credibility as a consultant on outreach programs.

  “What’s next? You looking to move into the big time? A contract with the government?” Fred lifted his hands in defeat. “I can see it coming. Another famous stress expert off to D.C. debriefing victims of terrorists.”

  “This isn’t a big deal. One weekend or two at the most.”

  “You aren’t doing this just for the extra money?”

  “Give me a break.” Fred could be a dolt at times. He’d tried her patience many times at the center. He didn’t believe in psychologists making home visits and he often reminded her of the fact.

  “You’re doing this because of your wild plans to establish a retreat.”

  “Now’s the time. The new generation is into wellness and stress-reducing vacations.”

  “Stick to your consulting jobs to earn money for that. They help build your reputation and credibility as a stress expert.”

  The consulting jobs paid better too, but she didn’t point that out. Rarely did visits with her outreach patients earn her much money. It was more cost-efficient to schedule appointments back-to-back in her office and let her patients spend driving time to come to her. Few psychologists made home visits, but sometimes it was necessary to go to a patient. Margo knew firsthand what could happen if the effort wasn’t made.

  Margo tried to be patient while Fred continued. “This case could put you at risk.”

  “What risk? Vincento Zanelli is driving me to his brother’s home. What’s the big deal?”

  “This man could be dangerous. He’s a Nam vet. Some of those guys hole up in their homes with guns.”

  “You’re getting paranoid, Fred. Working with vets too long. Maybe you should go into private
practice.”

  Vinnie had assured her there were no guns, nor had his brother ever had an attack of violence. He did have nightmares about the war. She didn’t tell Fred that.

  “Could be a delayed P.T.S.D. reaction.” Fred wouldn’t let it alone.

  “If it looks like posttraumatic stress disorder or anything else related to his war experience, I’ll refer him to you.”

  “The V.A. could send one of their counselors.”

  “We don’t know if Dominic Zanelli even has a problem. It’s not unheard of for people to step out of mainstream society.”

  “For eight months?”

  Margo ignored Fred. She’d heard this before. “I saw an ad for some property along the coast.”

  “Forget the property!”

  “You know it’s my dream.”

  With a booted foot, Margo kicked aside the folds of her calf-length wool skirt before she moved to the window. Whenever she felt the walls closing in around her, she’d step to the glass and stare over the city of Berkeley and across the bay to San Francisco. It was a habit of hers. The city stood like a spired castle on the peninsula surrounded by azure sky and blue water. The sunshine called to her for a brief moment, and she indulged in a fantasy of walking along the embarcadero to let the salt-misted air clear her mind.

  The shuffling noise reminded her that Fred was still there. Concerned. Waiting. In a low voice she said, “Look at the sailboats. They look like wings in flight, racing across the choppy waves.”

  Fred moved behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Her tension eased slightly when he began massaging the stiff muscles.

  She murmured almost to herself. “Don’t you wish you could sail away sometimes?”

  “Dreams, Margo. You’d never last a day sitting on a boat with nothing more to do than adjust the sails. You have too much pent-up energy.”

  “But it helps to think about it once in a while.”

  “One of these days you’re going to have to do more than think about finding a way to relax. For an expert on stress you certainly haven’t learned to take your own advice.”

  “Maybe I don’t see it as a problem. What’s one person’s stress is another’s challenge.” She shrugged away from his hold and went back to her desk. “I’ll be staying at the Fort Bragg Inn. The number’s here.” She dug through the papers until she found the one she was looking for, then leaned across the desk and handed it to Fred. “Call me Saturday night if you’re worried about me making the drive.”

  Fred held up both hands to stop her. “I know what to do.”

  “Don’t you worry.”

  He rolled his eyes upward.

  “Come on, Fred. Nothing’s going to happen that I can’t handle. I’ve had lots of experience. There aren’t any surprises he can pull on me.”

  “When you’re dealing with the complexities of the human mind there are always surprises.”

  Margo veered around her desk and nudged him toward the door. “Yes, yes. I’ll keep that in mind. Now let me be so I can clear out of here. I still have to pack.”

  Fred finally left and Margo returned to her desk. One look at the unfinished work sent pangs that could easily turn into a headache. Rubbing her temples, she sat down in the plush office chair.

  Fred was probably right. It was almost two hundred miles up the coast to Fort Bragg; a long drive to make alone. But if she took on this case and it turned out to be a lengthy project, she’d have to get used to it. She’d be making the drive every weekend. The thought sounded exhausting. It would be a tough schedule working seven days a week.

  Instead of dwelling on the negative, Margo thought about her dream. It always gave her a lift during those rare moments when she couldn’t drag up another ounce of energy. A retreat in the country would not only benefit her patients but would also help her relax.

  She could offer workshops in all of the arts: music, writing, painting, and crafts. It was her belief that productive creativity reduced stress and revived the soul. Because many of her patients were victims of stress and traumatic shock, she figured it would be an asset to offer an alternative environment where they could experience the peacefulness nature offered.

  Margo began to hum to herself as she cleared up the last-minute paperwork. Yes, it would be difficult, but dreams were important. Fulfilling them was satisfying.

  ***

  His breath came in gasping pants that felt like knives were stuck in his lungs. Sweat poured down his skin. Keep on running. Don’t stop.

  Bullets whizzed close to his ear, spurring him to run faster. But he couldn’t move. Jungle slime sucked on his combat boots. Branches and vines clawed at his flesh. Panic built inside until he thought it would explode in a bloodcurdling scream. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear his hair out, but he didn’t. Charlie would hear him. Charlie would shoot to kill.

  Another bullet sped by with a deadly whine. He tugged hard and freed his boot from the bog. He ran and ran and ran.

  Shouts echoed around him until suddenly he stopped. Dead ahead stood a soldier, his slanted eyes staring with chilling intent. The soldier lifted his rifle until it was aimed at his chest.

  Then suddenly the soldier’s image shifted and the slanted eyes became round. The man’s face looked like Al. He stared, his glare accusing as he squeezed the trigger of the rifle.

  No!

  Zane bolted upright, his heart pounding like thunder against his ribs, sweat streaking down his brow and dripping onto his glistening chest. For seconds panic charged through his system until he realized he was safe in his room. A dream. It was only a dream.

  He took deep breaths to calm his system. Slowly he scanned the moonlit room, taking inventory of the familiar objects – the chair draped with his jeans and Pendleton shirt, the built-in cabinets along the walls, the massive water bed in the center of the room. Everything was familiar.

  Zane stood and walked to the triangular-shaped window at the end of the loft. All was quiet in the meadow below. Nothing moved along the fringes of the surrounding woods. Zane’s shoulders eased as he finally relaxed. He pressed his palms to his temples.

  It had been a long time since he’d had that nightmare. He wondered what had triggered it. Yesterday, after breakfast, he’d split some firewood, then spent most of the day in his workshop carving on the redwood burl. Later he’d gone to the stream for a swim. Nothing unusual. Nothing to bring back the horror from the depths of the past.

  Zane tugged on his jeans and shirt, which he left unbuttoned, and strode barefoot down the spiral stairs and through the spacious living area of the A-frame. He stood at the floor-to-ceiling window and paused, searching for any movement out of the ordinary. His instincts were alert, well-tuned. Only silence greeted him.

  He pulled his fingers around his jaw and wondered if Vinnie would show up today. It was getting around that time. A sense of anticipation curled through him, but he didn’t allow it to develop. He didn’t want to be eager – that would mean he’d have to admit he was lonely. Zane couldn’t afford to do that. He’d found peace here. If he acknowledged loneliness he’d be forced to consider change.

  His fingers shook as he lowered them to his bare chest. He would also have to consider the aching emptiness that throbbed in his heart.

  Zane straightened and shook off the melancholy mood threatening to settle over him. It was the dream; that was all. It was almost dawn. He’d fix some coffee and then take a long hike among the redwoods.

  ***

  Margo dumped a pile of clothing into the suitcase that she had dug out of the closet.

  “You’re taking those old clothes?”

  Margo glanced up in time to see the horrified look on her mother’s face. She chuckled. Served her right for coming to visit while she was trying to pack. “Not exactly the same apparel I packed last week, is it? But that was for a workshop at the Hilton Convention Center. This is altogether different.”

  “You’ve never dressed like this to see a patient,” Bettina Devaul
l said, her fine features puckered in disgust as she held up a pair of purple jeans.

  “He lives fifteen miles down a dirt road. I imagine it’s going to be primitive.”

  Having lived in the city all of her life, she had no idea what the conditions would be. All Vinnie Zanelli had said was that Zane, his older brother, had suddenly declared he couldn’t handle the pressures of being top executive of Zanelli, Incorporated. The corporation owned a fleet of fishing boats along the coast from San Francisco to Puget Sound, as well as restaurants in three major cities. Zane had moved up to a cabin on a large tract of redwood forest once lumbered by his family. She had no idea if the cabin was primitive or contained the conveniences of the wealthy. She did know the road was unimproved, so she was prepared for the worst.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” Bettina asked as she nudged her daughter out of the way and began folding the rumpled clothes.

  “You sound like Fred.”

  “You don’t have to go. The profession isn’t going to hold it against you. In fact, I don’t know of anyone who would even consider this kind of case.”

  “Which is exactly why I’m going. Just because a man doesn’t come to a clinic does not mean he doesn’t need help.”

  Bettina flinched. The reminder of Margo’s father hit home. “Just remember you can’t help someone who doesn’t want it.”

  Margo sprawled across the chaise beside the large picture window. From the height of her hillside apartment she could see the Berkeley city lights below and those of San Francisco beyond the bay. She always thought that at night the city looked like a giant jewelry box with the bridges dangling out of it like necklaces of diamonds and rubies.

  “From Vinnie’s description of his brother, I have no reason to believe this man will pose any threat. Sounds like he wants help.”

  “Vinnie did tell him he was bringing you?’’

  “I made it a stipulation. I’m not completely daft. It would be foolish to drive two hundred miles and have the guy kick me off his property.”