Makin' Miracles (15 page)

Zola knew he was comparing this evening with some past time that had been unpleasant and tense for him. She considered what to say.

“As a girl,” she said at last, “I spent most of my time with adults. I was a late child, with my only brother, Wayland, ten years older than me. So by the time I turned six, he was sixteen. Wayland seldom wanted to play games with a sister so much younger. And Daddy and Mother stayed busy with their lives on the island and Daddy's practice.”

She paused. “I was different, too, from most of the other island children—my father American and an educated man, my mother from a royal family. We weren't wealthy by American standards, but we had more than most of the islanders. Our house was a two-storied white one, built on the side of a hill with a red tile roof and open porches all around. A twining road wound up to it from the coast road, and from the front porch we could see down the hillsides and out to the ocean. It was beautiful. Any of my young island friends who came to visit felt somewhat awed. Most of them lived in one-story huts with thatched roofs or in plain board houses. I was always the rich girl to them and the different one—part Tahitian and part American.”

Zola sighed. “By the time I turned four, my gift had surfaced. That made me even odder to the other children.”

“Was your brother unkind to you?” Spencer asked unexpectedly. “Did he like you?”

It seemed an odd question, but Zola decided not to comment on that. “I always knew Wayland loved me. He teased me, of course, like older brothers do, but I was sure of his affection. Wayland always looked more like my mother's people, like the Kasiors. That helped him. He seemed to fit in better on the island; he had many friends.”

“How did his friends treat you?”

She laughed. “They mostly ignored me, as older boys are likely to do with a friend's younger sister. I think my life was relatively typical of what could have been expected being a missionary doctor's daughter.”

“I see.”

Zola had no idea what that comment meant.

She continued. “Wayland married an island girl he'd known since childhood named Samira. He always loved the clinic where my father worked, so he went away to school and came back to be a doctor on the island.” She giggled. “A funny thing is that Wayland took many veterinary classes on the side so he could also doctor the animals on Mooréa. There is no vet there but him. It always ate at him growing up that the animals had no one to help them.”

She saw a wisp of a smile touch Spencer's face in the light from the house. She was glad to see it.

“And so there might be a dog or a parrot waiting in the reception room right along with the human patients?”

“Sometimes.” She giggled again. “The clinic was once a planter's house, donated by the owner when he died with no family. It seemed even more comical to see a goat being led up the sweep of white steps and across the wide colonial porch into the reception room.”

Zola heard him laugh. It was a good sound.

“I like to hear you laugh,” she told him.

He leaned over to catch her hand in his. “You make me laugh, Zola.” He got up and leaned over her rocker, putting both hands on the rails. Then he bent down to kiss her. “You make me happy, too.”

“I'm glad.” She kissed him on the nose playfully.

He sat back down in the rocker beside her, pushing his chair into a rhythm to match hers. A comfortable silence fell between them.

“Spencer, tell me about your family.” She hoped he would answer, that he would talk.

He didn't answer—simply fell silent.

Zola pressed. “You have an older brother, too.” She kept her tone casual. “How much older is he than you?”

She thought for a moment Spencer wasn't going to reply again, but then he did. “Bowden is four years older than me. He and my parents wanted a girl the second time to complete the family. My mother came from Savannah originally, and she planned to name me Savannah, had I been a girl. I was told Bowden threw a fit to send me back after I came home from the hospital because I wasn't Savannah. He kept saying they brought home the wrong baby. My grandfather used to love to tell that story over and over.”

Zola waited patiently, rocking.

“I suppose, from the beginning, my brother didn't like me much.”

Zola bit her tongue on the words she wanted to say, that Bowden was only four, that little children say all kinds of silly things then.

“My mother had Rita when I turned four.” He ran his hands through his hair. “It didn't seem right to name her Savannah by then. Besides, it was one of the nicknames Bowden called me when he was in a taunting mood.”

Zola felt a small chill run up her spine.

“Families can be difficult, can't they?” She tried to interject a carefree tone.

“Yes, and families can be dysfunctional in some ways. Mine was. My Grandfather Stettler ruled our family. My father followed in the ways he was expected to, worked in the family photography business. Fortunately, Grandfather Stettler liked my mother, Marion. She was a Chatsworth, from a fine, old Southern Savannah family. She had graciousness and charm, and she knew how to behave and to do what she was expected to do.”

He paused. “Grandfather Stettler quickly learned the skills my mother had and he liked her earlier dream of wanting to open a catering business in Savannah. Her dream became a catering business added on to the Jackson photography business in Richmond instead. My mother was talented; she made the family richer with her skills. Rita is much like my mother, but less serious and intense. She was the only one in the family who ever seemed to laugh in a way that wasn't stilted, controlled, or malicious.”

Spencer sighed heavily. “Bowden turned out exactly like my Grandfather Stettler, and Grandfather doted on him from the get-go. Bowden was the favorite and could never do anything wrong. If he got in trouble for anything, Grandfather forgave it and brushed his behavior aside. This gave Bowden the opportunity to perfect being a bully, and he was never deterred in it.”

Zola knew without asking that Spencer had often been the target of his bullying. She winced and fought not to comfort and hug him. She knew it a hard thing for a child to grow up with quiet, subtle abuse—of any kind.

She worked for a light tone. “So, you had a creepy older brother and a somewhat fun younger sister. It could be worse, I guess.”

Spencer looked across at her with a scowl.

A long space of silence fell between them, and then he looked at his watch. “I guess I'd better take you home. It's getting late. I need to get out early for a photo shoot.”

Zola knew somehow she'd said the wrong thing somewhere, causing Spencer to clam up again.

She went into the kitchen to get her dishes. “It was good of you to host everyone here.” She smiled at him. “And it's started a pattern. Aston says he's going to host the next get-together down at his place with Carole to help him.”

Zola gave him a playful punch. “Plus, planning this event helped to get Clark and Stacy together. I really think they like each other. It's kind of sweet, both of them being a little odd but getting along so well.”

Spencer tensed with some random thought he was having, his face growing broody and dark.

Great,
Zola thought.
What a happy ending to the day. Spencer falling into one of his foul moods.

They drove home to Zola's, almost in silence, and Zola found herself glad to say good-night and leave Spencer to his own gloom at last. It was depressing to be around him when he was like this. And she didn't know what to do to help him.

S
pencer knew Zola was unhappy with him when he took her home. She thought he ought to be able to act cheerful by will—like she did. Well, sorry, but that wasn't how he was made.

Zola tried to help him see his home life hadn't been so bad, like Aston often did. But, then, Aston and Zola hadn't lived through his childhood. They hadn't watched Bowden get everything he wanted. They hadn't watched Bowden never get punished for the cruel things he did and said to others—or the cruel things said and done to him.

Bowden's favorite line, when chastised for taunting Spencer, was, “Oh, I was only teasing. Spencer knows that.” But it was more than that. Bowden had a cruel streak, and Spencer, too often, got the brunt of it.

In a surprising twist, Bowden never acted cruel to Rita. He often called her Rita-Savannah. He acted loving to her and encouraged her talents. It was probably the reason Rita never really understood how Spencer felt when Bowden got in one of his moods to bully and tease. She was never his target.

Bowden most often targeted Spencer outside the house, too, with no family witnesses. This might be in the neighborhood, at school, or in the yard. Perhaps this was why Spencer learned at a young age to retreat, to make himself scarce, to avoid Bowden whenever he could.

Spencer stalked through the fields this morning, thinking these thoughts while he took his photographs. He was taking pictures of rabbits, chipmunks, and random insects today—creatures that made their homes in wild fields, overgrown with weeds and vegetation. He wore boots and jeans to protect his legs from the brambles. His mood was dark, but his pictures didn't suffer for it. He'd caught a fantastic shot of a rabbit, standing poised and bright-eyed, his ears high in the air.

Spencer had come here today because he knew rabbit burrows lay hidden in the high field grass. He'd even gotten lucky enough to snap a shot of baby bunnies still coiled up asleep in their nest.

After snapping a last close-up of a delicate green praying mantis that almost completely blended in with the green plant he clung to, Spencer closed up his camera to start home. The sun stood straight overhead now, the day heating up to be a scorcher. It was unseasonably hot for late April, and Spencer's shirt was already plastered to his back with sweat.

He'd been shooting in an open field not far from Zola's place on Jonas Creek Road. He skirted near her house now as he started his walk back up the mountain to Raven's Den.

Spencer considered stopping, but he hesitated. He didn't know what to do with his feelings for Zola. He stayed torn and divided about whether to pursue her more intently or back away.

His thoughts drifted to her again as he approached the waterfall that spilled down the mountain. He remembered the day when Zola kissed him on the rocks in front of the falls with such warm abandon.

As he drew closer to the pool below the stream, he felt a prickling up his spine. He knew that feeling now. It meant Zola was somewhere nearby.

He heard her before he saw her. She was singing, some kind of happy lyrical melody. He stopped out of sight behind a huge tulip poplar tree to listen, captivated with the sound. Spencer peeked around the tree carefully to see where she was and spotted her swimming in the pool below the falls. She'd told him she liked to swim here on warm days. Spencer smiled. Hot as he was from the photo shoot out in the fields, he envied her the feel of the cool water.

Zola found her footing and stood up then, reaching her arms joyously over her head. Spencer caught his breath. She was naked, swimming without a stitch of clothes on.

He stood concealed, enjoying her beauty, unashamedly as a man, but he watched her in fascination as a photographer, too. It made an unbelievably beautiful portrait. She was smiling, singing, and swirling her hands through the water in graceful patterns in time to her own music. Without thinking about it, Spencer's hand went to his camera. He raised it to shoot, and then he stopped himself. It would be invading her privacy to photograph her this way without her permission. It wouldn't be ethical.

Zola climbed out of the water then, causing Spencer to almost swallow his tongue. Water sluiced over her lush curves and there was nothing hidden from his eyes. She picked her way gracefully over to a rock and grabbed up a silky pareu she'd left folded there. With deft fingers she tied it around herself into a quick dress and then climbed out of the water to sit on the rock and shake her hair out.

Now Spencer let his fingers snap some candid shots: of Zola shaking out her hair, of Zola leaning back on her arms to look up joyously at the sky, of Zola singing once again and illustrating her song with gestures. It was delightful to watch her and delightful to photograph her. She was a woman so at peace with herself. So happy with the world. So easily able to take delight in simple pleasures. He envied that.

She turned suddenly and saw him.

“How long have you been there?” A butterfly drifted past her shoulder as she asked her question. She held out a hand, and it settled on her outstretched fingers.

Spencer zoomed in for another shot or two. “Not long,” he answered as he walked closer to the water.

Zola stretched her legs out in the sun and threaded her fingers through her wet hair. She looked at him for a few moments thoughtfully and then smiled. “It looks like you could use a swim yourself.”

He looked down at his sweat-dampened shirt.

“Probably could,” he said.

“You can swim in your boxers. I've seen native men in Mooréa in less than that many times. I don't shock easily.”

She sent him another warm smile. “And I won't take any pictures of you.”

He felt himself frown. “I wasn't taking them like a voyeur. I was taking them like an artist, catching a beautiful scene that called for remembrance.”

Her dark eyes met his. “When did you start shooting?”

“After you dressed,” he answered honestly. “It wouldn't have been right to take them before. But I wanted to.”

“Well, then.” She smoothed her hands through her wet hair. “It's not every day a woman is admired by a man only as a subject for photography.”

He eyed her speculatively. “You don't really want me to respond to that, Zolakieran.”

She dropped her eyes. “No, I guess not. And I didn't mean to bait you with my words.”

Zola scooted forward on the big rock to dangle her feet in the water. “This is one of my favorite places in the world, Spencer. I always feel a sense of joy when I am here, a sense of cleansing.”

Spencer walked over to a flat rock by a tree and unloaded his camera equipment. Then he took off his vest and stripped off his sweat-damp shirt. Seeming to pick up on Zola's ease with herself, Spencer pulled off his socks and boots and then dropped his jeans. He waded out into the deep, green pool in only his plaid boxers and then dived into the depths of the water.

The water felt cold but refreshing. He swam across the pool and then rolled over on his back to savor the feel of the rippling currents around him.

Pulling himself to his feet in a shallow spot, he playfully skimmed a handful of water Zola's way. “Aren't you going to come back in?”

She smiled at him. “I don't think I'll tempt fate quite that closely, Spencer Jackson. You're very handsome there in the sun with the water sliding down your body.”

“I know the feeling,” he said, grinning back at her.

She splashed water at him. “I expect you do.”

Spencer swam a little longer, feeling the tension of the day ease out of him in the process, and then he pulled himself up onto the big boulder to sit beside Zola in the sun.

“You're getting me damp again,” she complained.

“You'll dry.” He gave her a teasing look and shook his wet hair so the droplets sprinkled on her.

To his surprise, she leaned over to kiss him. It was another of those sweet, spontaneous kisses, and she laughed afterward as she cupped his face in her hands.

“You're a handsome man, Spencer Gordon Jackson.” Her eyes roved over him in admiration.

He found her lips again and kissed her back. Pulling away, he smoothed back her hair and then leaned in to kiss her forehead. “And you are a very beautiful woman, Zolakieran Sidella Eley Devon.”

She laughed a warm, husky laugh. “You're the only person who ever remembers my whole name.”

He laughed back with her, propping his arms on the rock behind him to look up at the sky as he'd seen her do. “I've snapped this day into my memory—made a photograph of it in my mind.”

“I love you when you're like this, Spencer.” She lay back on the rock in the sun, and Spencer dropped back to lie beside her.

The sun shone bright overhead, and the rock felt sun-warmed and hot underneath them.

“I've always been happiest when out of doors,” he told her.

They lay quietly for a few minutes, enjoying the pleasure of the day.

Spencer realized he hadn't known enough moments like this in his lifetime. He wished he had.

As his thoughts darkened, he felt a hand steal over to take his.

“Talk about it,” Zola said. “Give the pain to the sun and the sky. Let them take it up and away.”

He looked toward her. “It's not that easy.”

“It can be,” she said. “Just close your eyes and try it. Say, sun and sky, I give you this pain today. Take it and carry it away.”

Spencer thought about it. A child's game. A playful act.

Without much conscious thought, he repeated, “Sun and sky take away the pain that's left behind from all the times my brother hurt me.”

Zola muttered some words he didn't understand and laid a soft hand on his midriff. “And let the pain be gone forever from Spencer Jackson. Take what fragments you can today, sun and sky, and let them never return.”

Spencer felt a little silly and yet much lighter. “Your turn,” he said.

She lifted her arms skyward. “Sun and sky, take away the old hurt that sometimes comes to haunt me of losing my mother so young.”

Zola laid her hand on her own midriff then.

“And let it be gone forever,” she repeated. “Take what fragments you can today, sun and sky, and let them never return.”

It almost seemed to Spencer that he felt the pieces of her hurt rising up toward the blue sky. He seemed to feel Zola's relief, and he heard her sigh softly.

The game drew him in then. “Sun and sky, take away all my old hurts from the times my parents weren't there for me as they should have been. Let me forgive them. Let me forget the disappointment. Let me walk away from the past. Let me be free.”

Again Zola laid her hand on his midriff and muttered words he couldn't understand. “Let it be gone forever,” she said with passion. “Take what fragments you can today, sun and sky, and let them never return.”

She lifted her hands skyward then. “Oh, Great Lord above. We commit our hurts and pains of the past to you today. We give them to You and to the sun and sky. We cast the cares of them up to You and release them. Forgive us for not giving them to You before.”

Spencer felt an odd lightness of being as she spoke.

She sat up then and reached down beside the big boulder where they sat to grab a handful of small, smooth pebbles.

“Here,” she said, handing him half of them. “Throw them off one by one into the water as you remember the sins or sorrows you want to be free of. It's another symbolic way to lighten your load. It's in the Bible, you know, as a part of one of the old festivals.”

Seeing her so intensely involved in the process, Spencer humored her and began to toss the pebbles into the swirling waters one by one.

She scowled at him. “You have to believe you're truly throwing them away, Spencer,” she admonished.

He focused his attention then and began to name the sorrows he never wanted to relive, or think of again, with each rock. Zola was right about it bringing a cleansing feeling.

They sat together companionably on the rock afterward, each thinking their own thoughts.

“You're good for me,” he said at last with open candor. “I've tried to fight my feelings for you, for reasons hard to explain, but I want you to know I carry strong feelings for you, Zola Devon.”

“And I for you,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I have tried to fight my feelings for you many times as well.”

He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.

“Do you think I'm normal?” he asked impulsively.

She laughed a throaty laugh. “No. I think you are gifted, and that is better. Who would want to be normal when you could be gifted?”

Spencer shook his head. “You sound like David.”

Zola shrugged. “David is quite wise sometimes.” She hugged her knees as she turned her eyes to his quizzically. “Why would you want to just be normal, Spencer?”

He thought about it. “I guess because I was always made fun of for being different in so many ways.” He looked away.

Zola giggled. “Maya would call all of those people who made fun of you for being who you are
bootoos—
foolish and dumb people.”

Spencer smiled at her. “And do you like me just the way I am, Zola?”

She looked him up and down thoughtfully. “I like what I see on the outside very much, Spencer Jackson. And, today, I like what I see on the inside rather well, too. When you free yourself to be natural like you have today, I like you very much. The creative artist in you, the thinker, and the playful man who can revel in the joys of nature—that man I like very much indeed.”

Her words touched him and freed up a painful spot in his soul.