Love's Miracles (21 page)

“This
is the worst part,” he warned. “Hold my hand and take each step slow.”

“Let’s
rest a minute,” she stalled. She’d need a few minutes to build up her nerve.

Zane
slid his pack off and set it on the ledge. “Sit here. We have plenty of time.”

Zane
eased himself down beside her. She stared at the growth of brush below. A light
reflected off something shiny. She grabbed Zane’s arm. “Look at that. What is
it?”

Zane’s
gaze followed the line of her finger. “World War II fighter plane.”

“What?”

“It
was flying out of Arcata – they used to simulate North Sea maneuvers because of
the fog and rain. This plane crashed and the pilot was killed on impact. They
never did get him out. The country was too rugged for a team to risk going down
there.”

The
sight of the mangled craft sent images across her mind. Had her father’s plan
looked like that? Had the pilot below felt the agony of helplessness that her
father had? Not liking the train of thought, Margo stood.

“Hey
– careful now. You can’t…”

“Zane,”
she interrupted. “I don’t want to see this. Let’s leave. Now.”

Zane
stood quickly and steadied her with his hand at her elbow. “Let me get my pack
and we’ll go.”

She
nodded and tried to control the distaste.
Don’t look down
, she said
silently. She focused on Zane and ignored what she knew was hundreds of feet
below her.

“Is
it the cliff? Are you afraid of heights?” he asked as he led the way down the
path.

Margo
followed his steps. “It’s this place. I don’t want to be here with that plane.
It’s morbid and depressing.” She didn’t mention the ghosts of her past that
haunted her; ghosts brought to mind by the sight of the mangled mass of metal
below.

They
traveled as fast as they could without sacrificing safety. The minute they
crossed the ridge and entered the quiet of the redwoods, Zane halted and turned
to her.

“We’re
almost home. The rest of the trail is fairly level and through the forest. Do
you want to go on or rest a minute?”

Margo
took several deep breaths of the cool air. The stillness edged away some of her
uneasiness. “I’ll make it,” she told Zane. “Let’s go on back.”

There
was enough of the dark feeling to push her onward. Any semblance of civilization
appealed to her. She needed to think about Zane and get her mind off the past.

Zane
gave her an assessing glance before turning and continuing on. “It’s this way.
We’ll be there in ten or fifteen minutes.”

To
Margo’s relief they arrived in less than fifteen. Zane motioned her into the
chaise and went inside to get glasses of cool cranberry juice. Tired and stiff,
she slipped off her shoes and rubbed her sore feet.

Fine
psychologist she was. How did she expect to make progress with Zane when the sight
of a plane that had crashed over forty years ago could bring to mind things she
preferred to forget? She glanced at the flower-strewn meadow and wondered if
the place held some mystical power that exhumed one’s ghosts.

She
closed her eyes to shut out the sight. Right now she wanted to be home or back
at the center involved with her patients. It was her usual remedy to keep
shadows at bay. By dealing with everyone else’s problems, she didn’t have to
deal with her own. As a psychologist she understood that attitude wasn’t
healthy, but as a person, she easily embraced the trade-off.

Today
it wasn’t working. Images of her father focused. From the photos she’d seen of
him, taken before she was born, and the stories she’d heard, she knew he had
been a handsome and popular man: A varsity football player, a major in civil
engineering, and member of a fraternity, he’d graduated from the University of
California at Berkeley with the promise of a golden future. To celebrate, he’d
toured Europe. It was while visiting distant relatives in France that he’d meet
Bettina and they married.

The
clink of glassware coming from Zane’s kitchen brought her back to the present.
Margo shifted to a more comfortable position on the longue and tried to focus
on the way the tall redwoods spired into the blue sky, but the plane came to
mind and her thoughts drifted in time.

When
the Korean War began, her father had joined the Air Force and was sent into
action where he was shot down. He survived the crash but suffered several
broken bones and was severely burned when the plane caught fire. In the
prisoner-of-war camp in North Korea, there had been no medical supplies.
Without the right care, his wounds didn’t heal properly and he ended up
crippled and scarred.

The
scars hadn’t mattered to Bettina. She was thankful to finally know he was still
alive after two frightening and lonely years without communication. But Margo’s
father hadn’t believed anyone could love a man as deformed as he now was.
Bettina had tried everything to convince him, but it was no use. Not even
Margo’s birth had brought him out of his depression.

Memories
swirled. A lump formed in her throat as she recalled her father’s strange
behavior: the closed shades and dark rooms, his lonely moans in the night, and
her mother’s soothing voice as she tried to ease him out of his nightmares.

A
footstep on the deck alerted her that Zane had returned. Glad for the
distraction, she turned and started to rise.

“Don’t
move fast,” Zane whispered. “Look out over the meadow.”

Margo
shifted carefully until she could see. “It’s a fawn,” she whispered.

Zane
pointed farther up the meadow. “There’s the buck and two does.”

As
if in a sylvan dream, the deer inched across the open field, nibbling on the
shoots of tender grass. She watched the animals in silence until they entered
the dark shadows of the forest.

“This
is how you see them. So close and tame. Do they come by every day?”

“Most
of the time.”

She
slid her glance from the disappearing wildlife to Zane. He set the glasses of
juice on the table and sat at the top of the steps, his expression thoughtful.
Slowly he turned to meet her stare. He grew serious and started to speak.

“You
are going to come back, aren’t you?”

“Are
you committing yourself to treatments?”

A
frown furrowed across his brow. He went to tug on his beard, but when his
fingers came up empty, he placed his hand beside him on the deck. He shook his
head no.

“There’s
no point in my returning,” she said.

“Would
you come as a friend?”

It
was Margo’s turn to contemplate the answer to a difficult and loaded question.
She glanced across the meadow where the deer had been, not really seeing the
empty field.

Strangely,
Zane’s suggestion appealed to her.

“If
I come back, it’ll be as a consultant. I’ll continue to do everything in my power
to convince you to go in for therapy. You have to understand. That would make
it impossible for me to come as a friend.”

***

Zane
fought the urge to argue with her. He should tell her to leave.

Suddenly
she stood, the action startling him from his thoughts. Quickly she slipped on
her shoes.

“I’d
better go now. It’s getting late and I have a long drive to the city.”

An
icicle of fear formed. He stood on the steps, blocking the way. “You’re sure
you’re up to driving? You could…”

“I’m
fine. I need to go now.”

His
throat constricted. He gathered up his nerve. “You are coming back next
weekend?” He hated the hesitancy that sounded in his voice. Wasn’t this what he
really wanted – the chance to get rid of her for good?

She
paused and stared. Zane could feel her probing gaze and then the recognition.
When did he become so transparent?

“We
made a lot of progress today.” It was a small comfort that she didn’t sound any
steadier than he felt. “You opened up. It’s a good sign.”

“Is
it worth it, though?”

Her
expression hardened. “Don’t give up on yourself. I won’t let you.”

She
brushed past him then and headed down the steps.

“Margo,”
Zane called when she reached the ground.

She
turned. “I’ll be back, Zane. Next Saturday.”

Her
glance locked with his. He saw the determination, but he also saw something
else – support, appeal. His heart lurched into a gear rusted from nonuse.

He
shifted and broke eye contact. She walked to the Bronco, climbed in, and drove
down the track into the trees.

Zane
didn’t move but remained immobile against the rail. He couldn’t begin to
comprehend the turmoil of emotions that gripped his sense of reason. It was all
happening too fast.

For
years he’d managed to make a life for himself; a life free of nightmares, a
life where he didn’t have to face accusations or complications. And suddenly he
found himself on a roller coaster of fear, tension, release. His nightmares had
returned, the past dredged for reexamination, and the most frightening of all,
an awakening of emotions he wasn’t prepared to feel again.

The
breeze rustled across the meadow and tossed his hair as easily as it swayed the
wildflowers. He rubbed his jaw where it itched from the unaccustomed shave –
another evidence of change. He couldn’t justify the action except to admit he
did it to impress Margo. To be honest, he’d hoped for another opportunity to
kiss her.

He
shifted his weight to his other leg. So much for that big plan. Instead of
kissing her he’d wanted to spill his guts.

Disgusted
with himself and the way the day had progressed, he swiveled around and headed
through the house and out the back door. There was only one thing he could do
to ease the tension that gnawed: He’d work on the statue.

After
grabbing the key from its hiding place above the door, Zane entered the small
shed at the edge of the forest. The corners were lit by the shafts of sunlight
that filtered through the skylight, the only opening besides the door. He had a
reason for the solid enclosure: He wanted no one, not even Vinnie, to see this
statue.

Determined
and grim, Zane picked up the chisel and mallet and knelt at the base.
Methodically he began to chip at the wood. With each thump of the mallet, a
small piece of his tension eased, as it always did. He worked for hours,
unaware that the sun had set, until finally he couldn’t see his hand.

With
stiff movements, he stood and turned on the lights. He knew he’d be there until
dawn.

***

Coastal
fog wafted across the path as Margo walked toward the main building. She turned
to Fred who walked beside her. “This’ll be perfect. We can use these buildings
for classes. We’ll set up an art studio in the attic. That wing to the left can
house the crafts.”

“You
have a good imagination, Margo. That looks like a rattle-trap building, which
adds up to repairs and more expense.”

“Don’t
be so realistic.”

“Someone
has to be.”

Margo
paused and stared at the house. The weather-beaten wood did need paint. The
fence was down in several places where wild blackberry bushes had climbed over
it. Water dripped off the hanging limbs of the willow tree.

“It
does look gloomy,” she conceded.

Fred
raked his fingers through his hair. “Now I’ve done it. I brought you here to
snap you out of your blue funk. You were getting all excited and now look.”

Surprised,
Margo glanced at Fred. “Blue funk? What’re you talking about?”

“For
the past month you’ve been wandering around as if your mind were a million
miles away.” Fred placed his hand at her waist and continued toward the main
building of the old resort. “On top of flying all over the country for your
consulting jobs, these weekend trips are wearing you out. You’re exhausted.”

With
measured steps, Margo walked with Fred. He was right. Her mind was miles away,
but not a million – more like two hundred: up the coast and on a dirt track to
Zanelli land, to Zane.

“I
brought you here, hoping to give you a lift and a rest from work. I’m getting
worried about you.”

She
knew Fred’s concern was based on their friendship, but she couldn’t very well
tell him about her feelings for Zane.

“It
won’t be for much longer. I told you that.”

“Why
do I get the feeling that there’s more to what happened than what you’ve told
me?”

Margo
stepped away from Fred’s hand and stopped in the path. “Sounds like it’s
your
imagination that’s getting carried away.”

“Come
on, Margo. We’ve known each other for years. Don’t pull that on me. What’s
really happening up there?”

“If
I knew I wouldn’t tell you, Fred. But the honest truth is, I’m not sure.”

Ever
since last weekend, the same question had played over and over in her mind. Zane
had reacted to the question of his manhood. The emotional reaction had crumbled
the wall of his protective reserve. He was talking about the past. On the
surface, this all sounded like a normal progression of events, but there was
more.