Season of Miracles

by Emilie Richards

  “This town’ll kill you, Elise. It’ll sneak up and change you until you don’t know you’re different from everybody else. And you’ll die not remembering.”

  Elise stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and wondered at the voice she had just heard. She wasn’t going crazy. There was no doubt where the voice had come from. It was in her memory, locked tightly there for safekeeping. It was Sloane’s voice, and the words were some of the last he had ever spoken to her. She hadn’t let herself think about that conversation for years.

  She shook her head, not to banish the voice, but in distress at her own vulnerability. Seventeen years had passed and Sloane was still with her.

  “Morning, Elise.”

  Elise looked up to see Olin Biggs, Miracle Springs mayor, bearing down on her. “Good morning, Olin.”

  “Hotter than Hades today. Same as yesterday. Probably the same tomorrow.”

  Funny. Those had been her thoughts exactly, only she hadn’t been thinking about the weather. “It is hot,” she agreed politely. “How’s Sally?”

  “She’s doing fine. I think she’s actually looking forward to school starting. You wouldn’t consider moving up to eleventh grade English, would you? I know she’d like to have you as her teacher again.”

  Elise shook her head regretfully. “I can’t do it. But tell her to come by and see me. She was a wonderful student.”

  Elise fielded Olin’s condolences about her mother’s death and walked on. By the time she reached the post office, she had encountered two former students and one more parent. The students were now gainfully employed residents of Miracle Springs with families of their own. Again Elise felt middle-age settling over her. All she needed was a cat and a few gray hairs, and she’d be the stereotypical old maid schoolteacher. If she wasn’t already.

  She was sorting through her small collection of bills and advertisements when she heard a familiar voice behind her. “Elise. What a nice surprise.”

  Her smile as she turned was hopeful. “Hello, Bob. Is Amy with you?”

  Bob Cargil shook his head, displacing the hair that was carefully combed to cover the widening bald spot at the center of his scalp. “No, she’s at the springs. You look lovely this morning.”

  “Thank you.” Elise smiled again. It was nice to have someone notice what she looked like. “You look like you’re feeling fit this morning.”

  “I can’t really complain.”

  Somewhere inside her a voice proclaimed that if Bob couldn’t really complain, it was the first time such a thing had happened. She squelched it with stern self-control. “How’s the book coming?”

  Bob shrugged. He was a history teacher at Miracle Springs High School and for the past five years had been working on a textbook for high school classes in Florida history. He had been stuck for the past four. “It’s hard to work in this heat.” he said.

  “I’m sure,” Elise commiserated. The same rebellious voice reminded her that Bob’s entire house was air-conditioned.

  “Is our date still on for tonight?”

  “I’m counting on it,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster. Then her voice brightened a little. “Is Amy coming?” Amy was Bob’s fifteen-year-old daughter and Elise’s biggest reason for tolerating Bob’s presence in her life.

  “No. This one’s just us.”

  “Tell her to stop by for a visit.”

  “You know she will. She’s always pestering me to let her come see you. But I know…” Bob’s voice trailed off.

  “Bob, I’ve told you, I’m not in mourning.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “Good.” Elise reached out and squeezed his hand. “I’ll see you tonight.” She watched his retreat. Bob had recently developed a peculiar shuffling gait, as if he were practicing for the old age that was still a safe distance away. Although he was ten years Elise’s senior, there was nothing wrong with his health that exercise and diet couldn’t cure. Unfortunately Bob enjoyed the aging process and everything that went with it. Not for the first time Elise thought of the similarities between Bob and her mother, and suppressed a shudder.

  The chimes in the town hall tower announced that it was eleven o’clock. Elise knew that meant it was actually 11:06. The tower chimes had been six minutes off as long as anyone could remember. No one had bothered to fix them, and now if anyone suggested it, the town fathers pointed out that fixing the chimes would only confuse people. It was better they reasoned, to leave them alone.

  The prospect of a long hot afternoon stretched in front of her, and on the spur of the moment, she decided not to spend it at home. Nothing awaited her there except silence, unrelenting heat and a few unnecessary household chores. For the first time in her life she was really free to explore other options, and although there weren’t many to explore in Miracle Springs, there were a few. She stopped at the drugstore, bought a turkey sandwich to go and took a shortcut down Faith Street toward the source of the town’s name.

  There was no silence at the springs. Crowds of teenagers with radios littered the sandy brown beach. The dock stretching from the beach out over the water was covered with glistening, oiled bodies, and underneath it small children darted in and out between the piers that had been sunk deeply into the sand. Benches enameled a forest green sat in the shade of palm trees and moss-draped live oaks at the beach’s edge, and Elise settled herself on one to enjoy the clamor.

  She wasn’t alone for long. Former and soon-to-be students dropped by to say hello. She had known most of them since they were small children. Some were the sons and daughters of her own high school friends; others she had met at church or in her volunteer work teaching reading at the tiny Miracle Springs library. Elise was as certain of her popularity with the town’s young people as she was about anything in her predictable life.

  A petite teenage girl with a cap of curly blond hair waved and then came to stand in front of her. “Hi, Elise. I’ve never seen you here before.”

  Elise patted the bench, and the girl sprawled beside her, spreading sand in her wake. “Amy, where’ve you been all summer? I’ve missed you.”

  “Here mostly.” Amy’s expression grew serious. “Dad said you wouldn’t feel like visitors. Because of your mom. But I’ve been wanting to come and see you. He was wrong, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was.” Elise put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and gave her a quick hug. “But he was thinking of me so we won’t be mad at him.”

  “Like I said at the funeral, I’m sorry about Mrs. Ramsey.”

  “Thank you.” Elise smiled. “Now tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  They gossiped for a while, and then Elise watched as Amy was pulled away by boisterous friends. It was only as she finished her sandwich and settled back to watch the teenagers’ antics that Elise noticed the boy standing underneath a nearby tree.

  She had heard Sloane’s voice in the middle of a nearly deserted sidewalk. Now she was seeing his image, and it was just as clear. She resisted the desire to squeeze her eyes shut. The voice had been a product of her memory. The image wasn’t. And this obviously couldn’t be Sloane himself.

  She watched with fascination as the boy turned slightly, giving her a better view of his profile. She drew in a quick breath. He had Sloane’s wide forehead, and his golden-brown hair waved back with the same determination. Of course, this boy’s hair was much longer, but cut short, Elise knew it still wouldn’t settle down neatly. It would always be unruly and the girls would always ache to smooth it for him.

  The straight nose was Sloane’s; the deep-set eyes were too. Even though Elise couldn’t see their color, she’d bet her life they’d be that peculiar shade of pecan-shell brown that almost bordered on gray. But it was his mouth that gave away his relationship to Sloane. It was a perfectly formed mouth, chiseled by a master hand, a mouth that could draw back in a sardonic grin or remain locked shut in an effort to avoid trouble.

  Was the boy Sloane’s nephew? A cousin? A son? The last seemed
the most and the least likely. Elise hadn’t seen Sloane in seventeen years, but she’d heard all about him. There were enough Tysons living in Miracle Springs to keep her informed, although Sloane’s mother had died years before. She knew that he’d made a name for himself as an author. In fact, she’d read all his books. She knew that his personal life had been less successful. There’d been one marriage and one divorce a year later. To Elise’s knowledge there’d been no child, but even if she was wrong and Sloane had had a son by that union, the boy would only be five or six. This boy was a teenager.

  And yet, how could a cousin or a nephew emerge with Sloane’s body and face? For that matter, as far as Elise knew, she had met all the Tysons. This boy was new in town.

  As if he could feel her stare, the boy turned to face Elise. Even though politeness dictated that she look away, Elise could not. Instead she smiled tentatively. “Hi.”

  Elise accepted the fact that the boy would probably nod and move away. Talking to strange older women was no teenager’s idea of a good time. Instead, he moved closer. “Hello,” he said.

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?” she asked, encouraged by his proximity.

  “Yeah. We just got to town last week.”

  And I’ve been out of touch, Elise thought to herself. Or I’d know who you are. “I’m Elise Ramsey. I teach English at Miracle Springs High. Will you be a student there this year?”

  “I guess. If they let me in,” the boy said candidly. “My name’s Clay.”

  “I’m glad to meet you, Clay.”

  He nodded as if it only made sense she’d be glad to meet him. “What grade do you teach?”

  “Tenth. What grade will you be in?”

  “I don’t know yet. They’re having trouble deciding what to do with me.”

  Elise frowned. “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Well, most fifteen-year-olds are in tenth grade. Did your other school hold you back or push you forward?”

  Clay smiled. “I’ve never been to school.”

  It was an answer Elise hadn’t expected. “That’s surprising,” she said as nonchalantly as possible.

  “Yeah, I guess it is.” Clay came to stand beside her. “If they put me in tenth grade English, what will I be studying?”

  “I put a lot of emphasis on writing,” she told him, studying him with undisguised interest now that he was closer. His eyes were the color of Sloane’s. The confirmation gave her a slight jolt. After all these years she still remembered exactly what Sloane Tyson’s eyes looked like.

  “What kind of writing?” Clay asked.

  “Creative writing. Poetry, short stories, plays. We read a lot, too.”

  Clay nodded. “I’ll like that. I’ve done lots of writing. I started a novel when I was thirteen, but I needed help getting over a hump and nobody at the ranch that year was a writer.”

  “The ranch?”

  “Destiny Ranch, in New Mexico. I grew up there.”

  The name struck a familiar chord in Elise’s memory, but she couldn’t decide why. “I think I’ve heard that name before,” she ventured.

  “You probably have. They were always writing us up in the newspaper.” Clay pointed at a group of kids standing by the water. “Do most of these kids go to the high school where you teach?”

  “All of them and more besides. It’s the only high school in the county, so kids are bused in from the surrounding area, too. You’ll make lots of friends.” But even as she said the words, Elise wondered how true they were. With his extravagant ponytail and his curious combination of adult intelligence and childlike candor, Elise wondered if Clay would stand out in a school where standing out was thought to be the worst possible crime.

  But Clay had already shrugged off her optimistic prophecy. “I’m more interested in just finding someone I can talk to.”

  “Clay!” a voice on the other side of the dock shouted. “Clay!”

  Without turning, Elise knew who was shouting. Somehow the day had been leading up to this. The silence that had punished her with images of her lonely future, Sloane’s voice on the sidewalk, Sloane’s image stamped on the boy sitting next to her. They had all been warnings of a confrontation that was yet to come.

  “Sloane’s calling me.” Clay stood. “I’d better go. He hates to be kept waiting.”

  Not “Uncle Sloane,” or “Dad.” Not even the more formal, “my father.”

  “Clay,” she said, her courage failing rapidly, “are you talking about Sloane Tyson?”

  The boy nodded. The too familiar lines of his jaw were set now, and his body was suddenly tense. “Yeah. See you later.”

  Elise raised her hand in salute as Clay walked away. She knew that all she had to do was turn her head. A slight rotation and she would see, once again, the only man who had ever meant anything to her. Instead she continued to stare at the sparkling turquoise spring and the raucous children on the beach. It was no surprise that she lacked courage where Sloane Tyson was concerned.

  Seventeen years had passed, but she, like the town Sloane had hated, was still essentially the same. She could not take risks; she could not reach out for what she wanted. She was no different than she had been the day she told Sloane she would not marry him and leave Miracle Springs forever.

  Long minutes passed and finally Elise stood, turning to begin the walk back home. The laughter and shouts from the beach were no longer comforting. They only reminded her of what was missing in her life.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I met a woman at the springs,” Clay told Sloane, although Sloane hadn’t asked about his day. As a small child, Clay had learned that if he wanted to talk about himself, he had to initiate the conversation and pick an adult who would be receptive. Since Sloane was the only adult available, he would have to do, even if his expression was shuttered and his arms crossed firmly in front of his ribs as they walked down Faith Street. Clay, a master at reading body language, gave the conversation no more than a fifty percent chance of success. But it was worth a try.

  “Good,” Sloane replied.

  Clay tried again. “She teaches English at the high school.”

  Sloane nodded but the length of his step increased. Clay, who was tall for his age, had to hurry to keep up.

  “Her name’s Elise Randall or something like that.”

  “Ramsey. Elise Ramsey. And yes, I know her.”

  “I hope I’ll be in her class.”

  This time Sloane didn’t even nod. He hadn’t been close enough to get a good look at the woman sitting beside Clay on the bench, but his gut level reaction had assured him that it was indeed Elise Ramsey talking to his son. He had had a perfect opportunity to approach her, say a casual hello and permanently loosen the knot in his stomach that formed every time her name was mentioned. Elise Ramsey, for God’s sake. Seventeen years had passed, and he had lived the equivalent of several lifetimes since then. So why was he behaving like an anxious adolescent, letting his reactions build and submerge his common sense?

  All it would take was one simple conversation, one short series of pleasantries to put Elise in the proper place in his psyche. The longer he waited the harder it was going to be. She was nothing to him, just a woman from a small Florida town, a schoolteacher whose idea of fun was probably dinner at one of the two local restaurants and a drive to Ocala to take in a first run movie. She had undoubtedly absorbed Miracle Springs’s value system, and now that she was finally free of her mother, she was probably hunting a husband with the frenzied tenacity of a spinster who sees her biological time clock winding down.

  Sloane backed up mentally and shook his head. Why was he trying so hard to convince himself that Elise was anything other than the warm, intelligent, sensitive woman he had known? Of course, she hadn’t quite been a woman seventeen years ago. She’d been poised on the razor’s edge between adolescence and maturity. He had gone that far with her himself, and by now the years would have completed the transition. There was no reason to believe
that all that had been wonderful about Elise had changed.

  Nor was there any reason to believe that all that was not wonderful about Elise had changed, either. Underneath the warmth, the intelligence, the sensitivity had been a woman too weak to stand up for herself. In the end she had taken the easiest road. And with a flash of insight, Sloane realized that he had never forgiven her for doing so.

  “Sloane?”

  Sloane grunted, too lost in his own thoughts to pull himself out of them easily.

  “I asked you if you used to go to the springs when you were a boy.” Clay’s tone was patient. Adults didn’t like petulance. In that way he was sure Sloane was no different from any of the dozens of adults who had taken care of him throughout his fifteen years.

  Sloane realized he was leaving Clay behind, and he slowed his pace a fraction. “I practically lived there when I was your age. Did you enjoy the water?”

  “I didn’t go in.”

  “Why not?”

  “I never learned to swim.”

  Sloane flinched. There was so much he didn’t know about this boy, this son who was a stranger. “I guess you didn’t have much of a chance to learn in the desert,” he conceded. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize it before, Clay.”

  Clay heard the genuine regret in Sloane’s voice and it surprised him. “What could you have done about it?” he asked curiously. “Besides, I always figured I’d learn how to swim once I got the chance.”

  “I’ll see about getting somebody to teach you.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll teach myself.”

  In spite of himself Sloane was intrigued. “How do you propose to do that?”

  “I’ve taught myself to do lots of things. I have a system.” Clay paused. “Do you want me to tell you about it?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Encouraged, Clay began. “First you have to divide everything into parts. Take swimming, for instance. You have to decide exactly what part of swimming you want to learn. If you want to learn more than one part, then you have to decide what order you want to learn the parts in.”