Love Finds You in Miracle, Kentucky

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “It’s only homework and—” He thought quickly. “—and some of those missionary biographies from the church library. That imagination of yours is on a major diet.”

  “But—”

  “Life isn’t some fictional drama filled with villains and heroes.”

  “But there’s good people and bad people in the world.”

  “True, but Nicole Foster and your aunt aren’t the bad ones.” He shook his head and softened his tone. “Punkin, Mrs. Foster never wanted me to place you in an institution.”

  “Yes, she did. I heard her say so.”

  “When?”

  “Well, I don’t remember exactly all the other times, but I did hear her say so that last day she came here.”

  It took a few seconds, but Vance suddenly recalled the exact day to which his daughter referred. “So you were eavesdropping after all.”

  Cammy swallowed hard.

  “You lied to me. You said you weren’t listening to our conversation.”

  “It was just a fib, Daddy, and I crossed my fingers really tight.”

  Vance didn’t get it. “Come again?”

  “Sasha told me that if you cross your fingers when you fib it’s not a lie.”

  “That’s not true. A lie is a lie is a lie.” Vance shook his head at her. “I’m disappointed in you.”

  “But I didn’t mean it.”

  He sat back in the chair and the last of his anger melted away. “Cammy, if you lie to me—and a fib is a lie—then I can’t trust you anymore. That means that if you tell me something, even if it’s the truth, I’ll always have a hard time believing you.”

  She sucked in her bottom lip and a worried frown creased her brows.

  “Look at me.”

  She did.

  “Don’t ever lie to me again, okay?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Vance could tell by her misty eyes that his words had reached her heart. “Now, as for Nicole…Cammy, you’re wrong in believing that she wanted me to send you away. Sure, she was emotional the day we broke up, but I believe she was only thinking about you, about what’s going to happen when you become a young lady. She’s worried that I won’t be able to take care of you when you get older because, well, I’ll be older, too. She merely suggested the idea of a Christian group home—for when you become a woman and you have to learn how to get a job.”

  “But I’ll be walking by then, Daddy, and I’ll do all the taking care of you.”

  Sadness sprang up inside him. It’d never happen. Not with the injuries Cammy had sustained in the car accident. Vance had seen the X-rays himself. Sure, he’d been in shock after losing Angie and seeing his daughter battered and bruised, but he still recalled hearing “SCI” or “spinal cord injury” over and over in reference to Cammy’s injuries.

  Then the doctors broke more bad news to him: His little girl would never have the use of her legs again.

  Since the accident, Vance had been faithful about taking Cammy to her medical appointments and physical therapy, much of which he learned to do at home. Her legs continued to grow normally, but her prognosis hadn’t changed. She’d never walk again.

  Reaching out, he captured his little girl’s hand. It appeared so small and fragile as it lay in his much larger palm. “It’s good to hope and dream, sweetheart, but—”

  “It’s not a dream. Not pretend. Jesus said that if we pray, believing that what we ask will come true, He’ll do it. My Sunday school teacher said so.”

  Vance released her hand and slowly began rubbing his whiskered jaw. He couldn’t very well argue with Jesus. “Listen, I’m going to clean off the table and then I want you to rewrite your paper.”

  “But I wrote the truth.”

  “Not quite. You didn’t know all sides of the story—just your side. And that’s not fair to everyone involved.”

  Cammy jutted out her bottom lip and folded her arms. Stubborn little thing.

  Vance set out to reason with her. “You brought up Jesus—would He want you to drag someone’s name through the mud just because you didn’t see eye-to-eye with her? And what about forgiving and loving your enemies? Jesus taught those things, too.”

  Cammy thought for a moment, and he watched her resolve weaken. When she looked up at him, Vance recognized his sensitive and obedient little girl again.

  “O-kaay. I’ll write it over again.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Adoration shone in her eyes. “I’ll always be your girl. Right, Daddy?”

  “That’s right.” He sent her a smile.

  “But—”

  Vance had started to stand and paused halfway up. “But what?”

  “But maybe Miss Jorgenson could be your other girl.”

  “Cammy—” Vance narrowed his gaze.

  She rolled her shoulder in a prissy sort of shrug. “Well, I did say maybe.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  At five minutes past seven, the doorbell rang. Meg couldn’t seem to help dragging her feet to answer it. When she did, she found Kent standing on the stoop beneath the white aluminum awning. His light jacket was unzipped, revealing a pea green polo shirt that matched his eyes.

  “Come on in.” She stepped aside while he crossed threshold, and she noted his tan trousers. She found it a tad humorous to see him attired in something other than shorts.

  “Hungry?” He pressed an innocuous kiss on her cheek. “I’ve got a taste for Mexican. How’s that sound to you?”

  “Actually—” Meg closed the door, noticing how his upscale cologne suddenly overpowered the aroma of Grams’ stew. “—my grandmother made dinner already, and I thought you might like to join us.”

  “Here?” He leaned forward. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Serious as a heart attack.”

  Kent winced.

  Meg held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t stay. But before he could reply, Grams entered the room. She had changed clothes and now wore a pair of black slacks, a maroon turtleneck, and a multicolored, quilted vest.

  “Mr. Baldwin. So nice to see you again.” At his puzzled expression, Grams expounded. “I’m Loretta Jorgenson. You and I met at the Labor Day picnic.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Meg had a hunch he didn’t recall meeting Grams. “I live with my grandmother for the time being,” she explained after he sent her another curious glance.

  “Really? And here I thought you were renting this place.”

  “If I were renting, I’d live closer to school.” She tipped her head. “How did you know where I lived, anyway?”

  “Oh, I had some time to waste last weekend so I looked up various teachers’ addresses and did a few drive-bys. Acquainted myself with the area, you might say.”

  Yeah, right. Meg kept her sarcasm to herself. Miracle wasn’t exactly on the main drag. Kent must have purposely tracked her down.

  She watched his gaze dance around the dining and living rooms. “Quaint.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Grams said, her tone tinged with pride. “I want my home to feel cozy.” She smiled. “Did Meggie tell you that you’re welcome to stay for supper? It’d be an honor to have you as our guest. Wouldn’t it, Meggie?”

  “Sure.” She put more feeling into the reply than she actually felt. “What do you say, Kent?”

  “Well, um…” His gaze ping-ponged between the two ladies.

  Again Meg hoped he’d opt to dine elsewhere—and alone, since she had no intentions of eating Mexican food tonight. The savory smell of Grams’ beef stew had been making her mouth water for more than an hour.

  “Well, okay, then. I’ll stay.” He chuckled in a way that conveyed the awkwardness of the moment. “What the heck.”

  Meg veiled her disappointment while Grams introduced Tom, who had just made his way in from the back porch where he’d been puffing on his pipe. The scent of tobacco followed him, tickling Meg’s nostrils.

  “Good to meet you formal-like. I seen you at the picnic.”


  “Nice to meet you as well.” Kent shot an uncertain look in Meg’s direction. No doubt he assumed Grams and Tom were regular country hicks.

  “Please have a seat, Mr. Baldwin,” Grams said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Gin and tonic would be great, but if you don’t have that, I’ll take a beer.”

  A crimson hue crept into Grams’ cheeks. “I’m afraid I don’t serve alcohol. Don’t even keep it in the house unless, of course, you count my vanilla extract.”

  Tom chortled as he moseyed over to the thick wood-framed, six-cushioned couch. Meg always remembered it being there, up against the longest wall in the room. The deep brown and beige plaid piece of furniture had a boxy look to it, and its heavily shellacked arms were nicked and scared. A matching two-cushioned chair occupied a corner of the neutral-colored living room. Grams said she loved the set because, like her, it had survived three rambunctious little boys. Survived the grandkids, too.

  “How about some coffee or sweet tea? Oh, and there’s pop.” Grams flashed a smile at Meg. “I’ve stocked up on the Diet Coke ever since I learned Meggie likes it.”

  Kent held up a hand, palm side out. “Don’t touch the stuff.” He winked at Meg and sat down in the chair. In the next moment he furrowed his brows and looked back at Grams. “Is sweet tea hot or cold?”

  “Cold. But I could probably heat it up if you wanted.”

  “No, no. Cold is good.”

  Grams gave him a gracious nod of her head before regarding her relic of a neighbor. Tom seemed to blend right in with the décor. “More coffee?”

  “Nope. I’m set, Retta.”

  Grams took off for the kitchen, and Meg took a seat in the wooden rocker. To her left, the book titled Daily Strength for Daily Needs lay on the table, right where Grams had set it after her “God time” this morning. Out of sheer discomfort, Meg slid it into her lap and flipped it open to today’s date.

  “So…” Tom stretched one thin arm across the top of the couch cushion. “Meggie says you’re from Minneapolis.”

  “That’s right,” Kent replied. “Land of ten thousand lakes.”

  “Pretty country up there, I hear.”

  “It is.”

  “Harsh winters.”

  “Plenty of snow for skiing and snowmobiling.”

  “Too cold for me. Blood’s too thin.”

  “You get acclimated after a while.” Kent cleared his throat. “Isn’t that right, Meg? You’re all about acclimation—or rather assimilation.”

  Meg gritted her teeth and turned her attention to the day’s Bible verse, Isaiah 38:14: “O Lord, I am oppressed; undertake for me!”

  She found herself savoring the irony of the situation and added a plea of her own: Please deliver me!

  “What are you reading over there?”

  It took a moment for Meg to realize that Kent was speaking to her. She looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I’m being impolite. Some, um, poetry caught my eye.”

  “Let’s hear it.” Kent sat back and crossed his legs.

  “Okay.” Meg lowered her gaze to the page and read aloud.

  “Being perplexed, I say,

  Lord, make it right!

  Night is as day to Thee;

  Darkness is light.

  I’m afraid to touch

  Things that involve so much; —

  My trembling hand may shake,

  My skill-less hand may break:

  Thine can make no mistake.”

  She mulled over the words of the stanza during the few silent moments that passed until Tom spoke up.

  “Ain’t no doubt about it; God minds our business better’n us.”

  “Indeed.” Grams had re-entered the room and now handed Kent a glass of sweet tea.

  Meg gently closed the book and replaced it on the table.

  “You’re a poetry lover, huh?” Kent’s voice held a note of interest.

  “Very much. There’s no better catalyst for soul searching.”

  Kent took a few swallows of his tea. “This might surprise you, but I used to write lyrics for my buddy to set to music. I think our songs would have been big hits. They were that good.” He shook his head, grinning at the recollection. “But the competition out there in the music industry is steep. So I went to college instead.”

  “Did you give up the music idea completely?” Grams seated herself beside Tom.

  “Yep. I’m a guy who likes a sure thing.”

  “You don’t strike me as someone who’s afraid of a little competition,” Meg said. “Sports and all that.”

  “I’ll play the game only when I know I can win.”

  Figures.

  The monologue continued with Kent recounting his life’s achievements: hunting, fishing, boating, swimming. He’d apparently done it all and won awards to prove it.

  Meg sighed with relief when Grams announced that dinner was ready.

  In the dining room, the round table had been set with four pumpkin-colored placemats and matching napkins. The backdrop of the rain streaming down the windows made it feel decidedly like fall even though autumn hadn’t yet begun.

  They took their places and Grams served the steaming stew in heavy white porcelain bowls. Tom said grace and they began eating.

  Meg wasn’t shy about enjoying her first bite. The rich, slow-cooked beef practically melted in her mouth. “Mmm, Grams, this is the bomb!”

  “The bomb? Is that good?”

  “Uh-huh.” Meg grinned and cut into a piece of potato, done to perfection.

  “Used to be when folks mentioned bombs we’d think fallout shelters.” Tom chuckled and passed the platter of flaky biscuits to Meg. Accepting one, she handed the plate to Kent.

  “Honestly, that phraseology is so yesterday, Meg.” Kent sent her an amused stare. “I thought you were from Chicago.”

  “I’m from all over, really.”

  “Then you should know better.” His brown eyes twinkled.

  “And what would you have said, Mr. Withit?” Meg couldn’t help throwing out the challenge.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something like, ‘Mrs. Jorgenson, your stew is delicious.’”

  “Why, thank you—both of you.” Grams smiled and dunked her biscuit in the thick gravy.

  Kent threw a good-natured grin in her direction, and Meg had to admit to being amused.

  “Tell us more about yourself, Mr. Baldwin.” Grams wiped her mouth with the linen napkin. “How did you end up in the Blue Grass part of Kentucky?”

  “That’s a long and rather sordid tale. I’ll spare you the details, of course. I’ll only say that I made some mistakes and my marriage of seven years fell apart. It was a difficult decision for me, but I left my ex-wife and two kids in Minneapolis and moved here to, um. . .well, to let the dust settle, so to speak.”

  Meg quickly read between the lines. He cheated on his wife and ran away from his responsibility. Great guy.

  “My kids are seven and three. They’re young but resilient. In no time they’ll forget all the ugliness that transpired between their mother and me.”

  Meg suddenly lost her appetite. She hadn’t been much older than three when her own folks divorced. Didn’t anyone believe in forever anymore?

  “I have an older sister in Lexington,” Kent went on. “A brilliant woman who’s making money hand over fist—takes after my father, who founded Baldwin Manufacturing. But that’s another saga for another time. Anyway, my sister runs an employment agency and with the South growing like it is, her business is skyrocketing. She’s the one who told me about the teaching position here. I applied, and the rest is history.”

  “Don’t you miss your kids?” Meg couldn’t help asking.

  “I miss them a lot. More than words can say.”

  Searching his expression, Meg thought he might actually be sincere.

  When everyone finished eating, she helped Grams clear the table and set a pot of decaf coffee to brewing. Then at precisely eight o’clock, every clock in the house proc
eeded to whistle, chime, and gong.

  “What in the world?” Kent sat back. His blond brows furrowed and he gaped at the commotion around him.

  From the kitchen, Meg caught his shocked and bewildered expression, and the sight tickled her so she nearly doubled over with laughter. When the racket ceased, she tried to explain but couldn’t manage to speak.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.” Grams rolled her eyes in dramatic fashion. Then she turned to Kent. “I have a clock collection that my granddaughter obviously finds hilarious.”

  “I’m sorry, Grams. It’s just that Kent’s reaction—”

  “Don’t blame it on me.” He lifted a hand, curbing the rest of her reply.

  Grams herself had a hard time containing a grin now. “You see, it all started when my boys were little.”

  “Oh, dear.” Kent wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’d better get comfortable. This could take awhile.”

  Grams looked embarrassed, and her forthcoming words seemed pasted to her lips.

  “Don’t mind Kent.” Meg sent him an annoyed glance. He’d only been droning on about himself for the last hour. “I want to hear the story.”

  “Oh, Meggie, you’ve heard this story a hundred times.”

  “No, I haven’t.” Meg suddenly realized that, for whatever reason, she’d never thought to ask. Instead, she had politely accepted the racket as just one of those things about her grandmother’s house.

  “Go ahead, Grams. Tell us the story.”

  “Well, all right.” She sat up straighter, more poised and dignified than ever. “Every year my boys would give me some sort of clock at Christmastime. I suppose it was all they could afford back then. But as the years went by, the clocks kept coming. One holiday I worked up the nerve to ask my sons why they felt compelled to purchase clocks for me. I was never a forgetful person. Always punctual.”

  Her eyes lit with fondness. “Turns out the idea sprung up from something I used to tell my boys when they’d laze around the house instead of doing their homework or their chores. I’d say, ‘Lost time is never found again.’” She gave a little laugh. “So my sons set out to prove me wrong.”

  “Now she can’t never lose time,” Tom added. “She’s got more of it than she knows what to do with.”