Authors: Hildy Fox
Miracle Man
M I R A C L E M A N
b y H i l d y F o
x
First published 2015
© 2015 Hildy Fox
All rights reserved
Lahra Brook's deep green
eyes smiled back at her from the rear vision mirror as the Charlotte Valley
opened up before her. "Free at last, kiddo," she said aloud, as if an
enormous weight had suddenly lifted from her shoulders.
It had been eleven months
since she'd made the trip to Riverbank, probably the longest she'd spent away
since her family moved there almost twenty years ago. Mixed memories became as
blurred as the eucalypts that whizzed by, and all she could do was smile. Like
every time she came back, it was a wonderful feeling.
Her palms sweated lightly,
not because of the heat on this perfect Spring day, but from the sudden
anticipation that encompassed her. The house. Wally. The Miracle. They were all
just minutes away, but she felt like she'd gone back ten years, like she was
fifteen again. How carefree she felt to be rid of the city for another month.
How energising to be surrounded by all this natural beauty. How completely
thick in the skull she'd been for leaving it so long to get out here again.
With the Jeep roof down to
let the sun on her face and the wind in her dark shining hair, Lahra hooted
with delight and pushed down on the accelerator.
The wide, flat Charlotte
Valley welcomed her home at every turn. In the distance to her right she could
make out the town. On her left were the lush foothills of the Thompson Ranges.
She breathed deeply and the air had a snap to it like an early morning florist
shop. It was usually only like this in the movies, she thought.
Before long she came to
River Fork, where the Doyle and Severence Rivers met. As she approached Valley
Bridge, a flock of rosellas startled her, swooping from the trees and circling
playfully above. She smiled up at them as their bright red forms flitted
sharply to and fro like feathered fireworks, and half watched them in her
mirror as she steered the white Jeep onto the single lane bridge. She laughed
to herself, a mixture of joy and freedom at once again being in the one place
in the world she truly loved.
Then, the sudden blare of a
very loud horn. Lahra gasped, stamping her foot on the brake. She came to a
lurching and unceremonious stop.
Pushing her glasses back up
her nose, the world came into focus once again. She looked up to see a black
BMW convertible, every angle of which seemed to catch the glare of the sun and
shoot it straight into her eyes, sitting in the middle of the bridge not one
foot from her bumper. Had she applied the brake just a split second later, she
dared not think what might have happened. Her wildly thudding heart slowly
began to settle.
The BMW's horn blared again,
drowning out the sound of the flowing river below. Lahra raised an eyebrow at
the other driver's impatience, and reached for the gear stick, moving it across
to ‘Reverse.’ At that precise moment, the driver of the glistening, black
obstruction stood up and propped himself against the back of his seat.
"Would you mind
reversing?" the man in his expensive-looking suit called. “In a bit of a
rush to get to a Skype conference. Thanks."
Lahra's hand froze on the
shift. Even squinting into the glare as she was, she could make out bits and
pieces of the man before her. Early thirties. Broad shoulders. Short dark hair.
A flash of straight, white teeth. In themselves, all distractingly attractive. But
it wasn't so much the individual parts that found her suddenly aware of her
pulse quickening yet again, as it was the whole. His casual, almost arrogant
pose. His relaxed confidence. The slightly seductive tone in his voice—or at
least that’s what she registered it as. Yes, all very appealing, but…
Lahra hated confrontations.
And that, she rationalised to herself, was probably the real reason her heart
beat didn't seem to want to subside. Best to just get out of this man's way
and-
"It’s usually marked ‘R’
on the gear lever. Makes the car go backwards."
Then again, thought Lahra as
she yanked on the handbrake and unbuckled her seat belt, there was nothing like
the occasional confrontation to get the blood pumping. She stood and faced the
BMW driver.
"Well, you're certainly
no Cary Grant, are you?"
White teeth flashed again in
the form of a smile. The man slowly removed his sunglasses. "Actually the
name’s Marcus. Marcus Dean. And you’d be...?"
"I'd be the one getting
between you and a Skype conference. I assume you do better with people
electronically than face to face?" Lahra feigned a smile, and watched as
Marcus Dean's dimples lit up his face. What the hell was she doing? Why didn't
she just sit back down and reverse out of the smug stranger's way? An odd
feeling gripped her, that if she didn't do just that—right now—she’d be setting
herself along some decisive path from which there was no return.
But she didn't sit. She
watched and waited as he hung his head, chuckled to himself, then found her
eyes with his. Even at this distance she could see they were green, like hers,
but sparkling with what looked like gold. When it suddenly occurred to her that
she was probably looking into the most beautiful pair of eyes she had ever
seen, her heart raced even faster. Dammit, it wasn't the confrontation doing
it.
"Yeah, you're right.
Most ungentlemanly of me. Too used to dealing with the bumpkins around here, I
guess. They’re not sensitive flowers such as yourself."
Lahra laughed out loud.
Marcus smiled broadly, words
laced with playful sarcasm. "Now that I see the calibre of the woman I’m
dealing with, it inspires the gentleman in me. I have to thank you for helping
me see the error of my ways. You didn't tell me your name."
Lahra laughed lightly again.
That feeling of being ten years younger had returned, but this time it scared
her. This Marcus Dean that had her giggling like a teenager. A complete
stranger, for heaven's sake. As if she was going to tell him her name just like
that. As if she was suddenly going to be on familiar terms with a man she had
never seen before and once she had crossed this bridge would probably never see
again. "Lahra," the word jumped out of her mouth as if pushed by some
greater force.
"Lahra," he
repeated. He considered her name as if he were tasting some new exotic fruit.
"Very nice."
"Glad you
approve," she said flatly.
He looked at this watch.
"Well, it’s been heartwarming, Lahra. So if you could just reverse a
little…"
“That’s seeing the error of
your ways?”
"Be reasonable. I'm most
of the way across the bridge. It'll be quicker for both of us if you just sit
back down and move back a tad."
The feeling of giddiness
Lahra had been experiencing was very suddenly replaced by annoyance. She could
feel her cheeks flush red. Something—words maybe—welled within her and
blockaded her throat. She watched as Marcus Dean slid back down into his seat
and tooted his horn once more, a smile on his face. The nerve of the man! A
sound of exasperation finally came from her throat, and she slumped down into
her seat. She watched him as he whistled to himself, slipping his sunglasses
back on and checking them in the mirror. All she had to do was put the car in
reverse, get out of the way, and this pompous peacock would be once and for all
out of her life. She grabbed the gear stick, lips pressing tight together, but
simply couldn't bring herself to do it. There was just something about this man
that told her not to let him get away with what he wanted. It was as if he'd
cruised through life so used to having things done his way that he just
expected everyone to fall in line to cater to his whims. He hadn't come out and
said anything, but it was there in the way he sat, that almost condescending
attitude that turned up the flames in Lahra's belly. Get out of his way? Not
likely.
Her hand leapt to the
ignition and she turned the engine off.
In her peripheral vision she
could see his head straighten up as if to say "What's going on?" She
waited a moment, then threw herself back in her seat and tossed her arms up in
the air.
"Oh great!" she
complained loudly. "Just terrific!"
Marcus’s head bobbed up
above the windscreen again. "What is it?"
"Out of petrol. Thank
you so much!" Lahra marvelled at how convincing she sounded. The furrowed
expression on Marcus Dean's face compelled her to remain as genuine as
possible.
"What do you mean…?
What are you doing driving around out here with an empty tank?"
"Five minutes ago it
wasn't empty. Plenty of spare gas at home, which is where I’d be now if it
weren’t for the error of your ways."
The distressed expression on
Marcus’s face slid into a semblance of anguish. He sighed deeply. "Well
you can't just sit there."
"Never fear.” She held
up her phone. “I can call on some of the ‘bumpkins’ to help out. If I can get a
signal." She frowned at her phone, waving it this way and that as if
signal hunting. "Of course, a gentleman might offer to give me a push—help
unblock the bridge." As if on cue, an old pickup rattled up behind the BMW
and honked its weary horn.
Lahra almost broke into a
smile when Marcus sighed deeply and turned his engine off, then motioned to the
pickup to wait a moment as he climbed out of the car. Without saying a word he
stepped up to the front of her car, put his sunglasses into his breast pocket,
and took his stance, ready to push.
He heaved, but nothing
happened. "Is the hand brake off?"
"Sorry," she
replied demurely as she took her foot off the brake. "Okay."
Marcus pushed and the Jeep
began to roll back off the bridge. Once clear, Lahra pulled over and applied
the hand brake. Marcus moved quickly back to his car, got out of the pickup’s
way and pulled up opposite Lahra. The pickup trundled by with a wave and
continued on its way.
"Thanks, Marcus,"
Lahra said sweetly. "It'd be great if you could siphon a little gas out of
your tank for me, just to get me home."
"You know, I’d really
love to, but I don’t have the equipm-”
Lahra raised the hose and
can that she’d fished out from the back of the car while Marcus was moving his.
His glower lightened her heart.
Moments later he was
crouched by the BMW sucking fuel from its tank and siphoning into the can.
Lahra watched the back of his neck. His skin was olive, contrasting the
milkiness of her own. She let her eyes run across his broader than usual
shoulders, then over to his smooth, dexterous hands. This man was a far cry
from the scruffy University types that made up most of her social circle.
At last he stood. As he held
out the can, she hesitated in taking it, aware of the tall and imposing build.
"All done," he
said at last. "Do you need help pouring it in as well?"
She snapped out of it.
"No, I can manage, thankyou." She took the can, and for the briefest
of instants, her hand brushed against his. Their eyes met solidly at close
range for the first time, and her pulse rate began to escalate again.
"Hope I didn’t spoil
your Skype," was all she could say.
"Well, let it never be
said that I'm not a gentleman. Now I really have to get going. Hope you get
home alright."
With that, Marcus jumped
back into his car and started the engine. The BMW slid off in a cloud of dust,
Marcus raising his hand as he drove off.
Lahra settled into the Jeep
and glanced into the rear vision mirror, watching the sleek black car shoot off
into the distance. Something deep inside her had gone off like an alarm. Her
heart beat hard in her chest as once again her palms grew damp. But it wasn't
the anticipation of the familiar that brought it on this time. It was the
threat of the unknown. Of a path along which she had helplessly begun to
travel. Of a man named Marcus Dean.
*
Lahra threw her suitcase and
backpack on the queen size mattress and threw herself backwards beside them.
She released a long and satisfying sigh, then sniffed the air deeply. Subtle
odours of oak and musk helped rekindle memories of years and times she thought
she had forgotten. Times when she was unbelievably happy. When her family meant
the world to her.
She leaned across, unzipped
a large pocket on her backpack, and reached inside. From it she retrieved a
picture frame, about the size of a magazine. It was very old and very ornate,
polished to an impeccable shine. She held it in both hands and regarded the
photograph it held. It was a black and white shot of a young, elegantly dressed
couple, dancing. They were looking at each other, completely unaware of the
camera looking at them, as if they were about to kiss. Lahra smiled and set the
heavy frame on the bedside table. "Welcome home, Mum and Dad."
For the next hour or so
Lahra went through each room of the house, opening windows, dusting and
vacuuming. The three bedrooms upstairs, the study and large living area
downstairs, the kitchen and dining room that opened onto a large verandah which
in turn looked down a grassy hillside to the Ulonga-Bora River. Well, at least
that's what Lahra had called the Severence River after seeing
The African
Queen
when she was nine. She and her sister used to often go on adventures
along its banks.