Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love)

by Bonnie Blythe

  Miranda. She’d kept him well supplied with crackers and drinks over the last forty-eight hours, though she always popped in when he was asleep or in the shower. He hadn’t actually seen her face.

  He quickly dressed in a light T-shirt and jeans. The exertion cost him. Stretching out on the bed, Spencer released a long sigh. Since returning from England, everything had gone awry. He should’ve stayed overseas. He glanced at his Bible, which sat on top of the small dresser. He hadn’t much opportunity to read it in the last couple of weeks. Perhaps that was part of the problem.

  Spencer closed his eyes. “Lord, I may have messed up here. I should’ve sought You before rushing to Miranda’s aid. But I felt so guilty about what happened to her. Now that I’m here, help me to have Your perspective.” He remembered Miranda in that dress and cleared his throat. “Your perspective. And please help us do the impossible and find her sister. You specialize in miracles, Lord, and I ask for one now.”

  He breathed an amen and opened his eyes, already sensing a lightening of spirit.

  Spencer looked once more at the crackers and bottled drinks. Maybe Miranda forgives me after all.

  ***

  Spencer deserves whatever he’s gotten. Miranda paced in the confines of her room, batting at annoying flies. But after she’d experienced the stomach illness herself when she was last in the country, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy.

  She wondered what he thought of the crackers and drinks she’d taken to him. Did he view it as a peace offering? Did it matter?

  Despite his apology, Miranda knew everything about her and her background shocked him. She hated herself for wanting his approval. Why do I, anyway? He was self-absorbed, stuck-up, born with a shiny silver spoon in his mouth—

  She stopped and stared at a section of lathe peeking out from chipped plaster, remembering his help with her mother’s funeral, and his moments of quaint chivalry.

  Miranda began pacing again, wishing her ambivalence toward Spencer would resolve itself. It didn’t help that she found his looks so appealing. She wondered what he thought when he saw her in the dress she’d worn to the embassy. She knew he’d disapprove in his pooh-poohing way had he known beforehand, so she wore the coat until the last minute. Does he find me attractive?

  Miranda stopped and blew out a breath. It doesn’t matter. She was here for one reason and one reason only, to find her sister. Spencer was an accessory, and she really should try to keep him placated in order to finance the search. All that mattered now was locating Soledad Ruiz Perez. Her feelings for an unattainable man were inconsequential at this time.

  In fact, if she weren’t so worried about Spencer’s health, she would’ve commenced her search by now. Instead, she’d spent two days wringing her hands, wondering what Spencer really thought about her. She needed to focus on the search. To think. To get a plan put into action.

  Miranda sat down at the small desk and looked at the list she’d started on a piece of paper. The information she’d received at the embassy hadn’t been helpful. They more or less directed her to contact the INS in the States. Spencer was right, she needed paperwork. And a lawyer. And bucket loads of money.

  Miranda thought back to how she’d found her mother. All she had to go on then was the name of the orphanage. She might’ve had access to documentation, but it would’ve taken months to go to court and request that the records be unsealed for her perusal. Miranda didn’t have that kind of patience. In the end, it hadn’t been necessary.

  After locating the orphanage listed on her birth certificate, she’d started asking questions from the locals, using mordidas for obtaining information, usually pesos, but dressing a certain way hadn’t hurt either. Miranda’s face flamed at the memory. Drat Spencer for making her feel guilty!

  Her search led her to the last-known address from the record keeper. From there Miranda had made her way to a broken down section of the city. It had taken some cajoling, even more pesos, and finally her pretty gold necklace to pry the location of a woman matching the name and description of her mother from the new tenant of the old address. She’d found her mother in a tiny shack, living in abject poverty.

  Miranda felt a fresh flood of anger wash over her as she sat at the desk. Grief for her mother made her heart break again. She couldn’t imagine such an existence. Poor Lupe coming to the city, with high hopes of a new life, only to be crushed by the despair of rampant unemployment, few and overburdened social services, and the tyranny of the strong who preyed on the weak.

  But I found her! I got her out! Miranda remembered the suffocating feel of excitement and fear when she walked down the narrow streets, wending her way around piles of refuse and attracting the interest of dirty-faced children. Finally, she’d arrived at a village of shanties at the outskirts of town.

  After talking to several neighbors and being pointed onward, she arrived at a tiny structure. She’d knocked on a door, a piece of metal propped in place against the opening of the structure. A small, wizened woman had peered out from a slit in the wall.

  Miranda sensed suspicion and fear in the dark eyes holding her gaze. She identified herself and who she was the daughter of. “Soy Miranda, la hija de Guadalupe Ruiz Perez. ¿Está mi mamá?”

  She heard a cry from inside. The door shifted to the side and the woman appeared, dressed in an assortment of American cast-off clothing, a Gap T-shirt, a jean skirt, and a ragged, crocheted shawl around her thin shoulders. She was barefoot. The woman placed her gnarled hands on Miranda’s arms and whispered, “Mi niña?”

  Miranda had stared at her in shock. Surely this woman was too old to be her mother! Her dark face had a weathered look and gray streaked her hair. Her eyes spoke silently of ageless suffering and grief. She placed her hands over the woman’s.

  “Sí, Mamá. Sí.”

  With tears running rivulets in the seams of her face, the woman pulled her into the shack. Miranda had tried to keep the dismay from registering on her face. A small cot in the corner covered with dirty blankets took up most of the space. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling in the center of the room. A small hot plate sat next to a chipped assortment of cups and bowls.

  Miranda decided then and there, even if somehow she had the wrong information and she was in no way related to this woman, she was taking her home to the States.

  The woman had pushed her down onto the side of the bed, while she lit a candle at a small altar set up with a tiny engraving of the Sacred Heart of Jesus icon, and spent several minutes mouthing silent prayers. When she finished, she joined Miranda on the cot.

  She told a fractured story of coming from the Mexican state of Oaxaca to el DF to pursue work in the field of nursing. She only spoke the native Indian tongue of her region, not Spanish, and found el DF very frightening and confusing. She said she was very innocent and when a man, a norteamericano, with bright red hair and blue eyes, offered to find her a job, she believed him. He said he’d marry her and take her to the U.S. Instead, he left her pregnant and hungry in the streets.

  By then, Lupe understood the life her child would have to endure. She went to a nearby church to confess her sins. When the priest learned of her pregnancy, he arranged for the child to be placed in an orphanage run by the church. Lupe told her the priest pressured her mercilessly, and it tore her heart in two. Since then, daily she’d prayed to be reunited with her daughter.

  Miranda’s eyes teared up at the memory. It wasn’t until just before Lupe died that she learned her mother had become pregnant again. That child, Soledad, had been placed in another orphanage.

  Miranda knew the admission had cost her mother. Her words had dripped with shame, tears flooded her thin cheeks. Only a few years before had Lupe found her way off the streets. She’d sought forgiveness from God and decided to starve rather than use her body to survive. She’d gone on to eke out a living by brewing herbal remedies for her neighbors.

  Miranda thought back to her own tainted past. Her failures were borne of stupidity, not
need. She had no excuses of poverty or circumstance to comfort herself with. Miranda blinked moisture away, hating her tendency to become emotional over things she couldn’t change.

  She got up from the desk and walked over to the window. The setting sun, a brassy yellow light through the perpetual smog, blinded her for a moment.

  Despite her intention not to cry, tears scalded her throat. Would she ever be free from her own shame? At least her mother had obtained the absolution Miranda thus far found elusive. She walked out to the balcony and gripped the edge of the ornate iron railing. The sun sank below the jagged horizon, and she saw a few twinkling lights below.

  On her first trip to the city as an adult, Miranda fancied such a view as a Spanish treasure chest thrown open to display the winking riches inside. This time around, the gold had taken on a decidedly tarnished hue.

  She turned away from the window and went to the bed. Lying on top of the spread, she closed her eyes, hoping sleep would quiet the din of her restless thoughts and impossible longings.

  Fourteen

  Spencer raised his hand to knock on Miranda’s door, but paused before he made contact. He’d done a lot of thinking while recovering from his bout of what she had called turista.

  He still felt embarrassed by the fact Miranda had seen him in such a state, but there wasn’t really anything he could do about it. He’d spent almost three days nibbling on soda crackers and sipping bottled drinks and felt somewhat better. Still weak, but at least composed.

  He also felt guilty for delaying Miranda’s search. Instead of swooping into Mexico City, quickly locating the lost sister, and setting the adoption in motion, he’d been more of a dead weight, dragging his heels, causing arguments, and getting sick.

  Spencer wondered what she’d done during all this time. Had she left the room and prowled the city alone? He wouldn’t be surprised. She might be gone even now. He glanced at his watch. Eight p.m. Surely she was in. Even she knew better than to go out alone at night.

  Spencer tapped on the door. When he heard sounds of movement within, he exhaled a small sigh. The door swung open and Miranda appeared around the side. Her blue eyes regarded him with solemn wariness. She wore a deep blue blouse tucked into dark slacks, all wrinkled. No more purple dress. He also noticed her mussed hair. She opened the door further and waved him into the room.

  Spencer entered and glanced at the rumpled blankets of her bed. “Did I wake you up?”

  Miranda nodded. “That’s okay. I needed to get up anyway.” She peered up at him, making him feel like he was a specimen at a science fair. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better. Thanks for the crackers and drinks.”

  “Not having too much though, right?”

  He nodded with a grin. “Right.” Spencer tucked his hands in his pockets. “I want to apologize for being such a hindrance on this trip. I’ve only caused more problems.”

  A ghost of a smile played on Miranda’s lips. “El DF isn’t easy to get to know. She demands all your attention, especially if you want something from her.”

  “You make it sound like the city is a person.”

  Miranda lifted a brow. “Isn’t she?”

  He cleared his throat, not comfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. “Um, since there’s not much we can do to find your sister today, I wondered if you wanted to go for a stroll.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” She grimaced. “You still look a little peaked.”

  The reaction of most females he came in contact with told him he could be generally considered attractive. Leave it to Miranda to make him feel his company was distasteful. “I’ve been stuck in my room for a long time. I have a touch of cabin fever.”

  Miranda gave him a resigned smile. “Okay. Just let me freshen up.”

  She disappeared into the bathroom. While he waited, Spencer allowed his gaze to travel around the room. The contents of her purse spilled out onto the surface of the desk. The bed blankets were unkempt. Clothes were draped over the bed and chair, along with that purple dress. He stifled an urge to pick it up and inhale its fragrance. He swallowed, alarmed at the turn of his thoughts.

  Spencer noticed the window curtain lifting in the heavy breeze. He approached the balcony opening and glanced outside. The balcony sported an ornately curved railing. He walked out and gripped the railing with both hands. Solid as a rock. Naturally.

  He gazed out at the lights feebly pressing against the absorbing darkness. The lights reminded him of sullen eyes glaring at foreigners like himself. Maybe she, el DF, as Miranda referred to the city, didn’t like him. He shivered, feeling a superstitious dread creep over him. Spencer exhaled and tried not to breathe too deeply of the oppressive air.

  A sound behind him made him jump. He jerked his head around, still holding onto the railing. Miranda stood silhouetted from the light of the bedroom, her dark head surrounded by the light reflecting on her hair. Spencer stepped forward, wondering if the hammering of his heart was audible. Turista must’ve really knocked the stuffing out of him to make him so jumpy.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  Spencer swallowed, willing himself to calm down. He pointed to the decorative scroll-work edging the balcony. “You have a railing.”

  Miranda stepped close to him, light from a nearby building illuminating her face. She had a quizzical expression on her features. “This is a balcony. Of course it has a railing. Why wouldn’t it?”

  He released the rail and took a step toward the doorway. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “A stupid question.”

  Miranda raised her hand and placed it on his forehead. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to a walk? I think you’re still too weak.”

  Weak-minded maybe. “I’m fine. Ready?”

  ***

  Spencer stepped aside as Miranda went ahead of him back through the bedroom and down the curved stairway of the old hotel. The desk clerk flashed a smile at them as they made their way out to the street. Spencer’s returning smile felt more like a grimace.

  Outside, Miranda turned to him. “Where to?”

  He shrugged. “Is the Zócalo within walking distance? I remember reading about it a little in the guidebook.”

  She nodded and started out along the street, keeping a slow pace. They passed noisy groups of people congregated on the sidewalk, dimly lit cafés and bars, and taquerías emitting the hot, greasy smell of tacos. Spencer grabbed his mid-section and held his breath as he passed.

  A few twists and turns later, down a confusing maze of narrow streets, she led him around a corner to a suddenly wide open space. A vast expanse of cobblestones, edged by majestic buildings in Spanish Colonial and Baroque styles, were lit up from below with shafts of golden light, casting bluish shadows along the hollows and portals of the florid construction.

  “Wow.”

  “El Zócalo. Also known as the Plaza de la Constitución,” Miranda said, pointing. “Like a river flowing to the sea, all streets in the city flow to the Zócalo.” She paused as if in awe of the sight, too. “That building along the entire east side is the Palacio Nacional where the Mexican president lives. To the north is the Catedral Metropolitana on an original Aztec site where a rack of skulls from sacrificed victims was kept, and at the south is the Departamento del Distrito Federal, which houses more governmental departments.”

  “Rack of skulls huh? Sounds like a typical government.”

  He saw Miranda's lips lift a little. Spencer looked back at the skyline. There was no comparison between the real thing and a black and white photo in a guidebook. Spencer scanned the skyline. “These buildings seem level. Is it just me or have I seen some buildings around the city leaning to one side a little?”

  She smiled. “I would say it was you, but some, like the Palacio de Bellas Artes, actually are leaning. The city is built on a drained lake bed. A lot of buildings are sinking, several inches a year in some instances.”

  “There’s a metaphor in that somewhere.”

 
; “Very funny.”

  Miranda began walking toward the plaza, which was sparsely populated by tourists and natives alike. Spencer opened his eyes to their widest to try to take it all in.

  “Sure we shouldn’t save this for another day?” she asked, turning to touch his arm. “It’s quite a trek around the square, and during the day, we can go inside for tours and see murals painted by Diego Rivera. They depict the history of Mexico from Aztec times and the colors he used are extraordinary. ”

  Her face suddenly went blank, like a light extinguished. Spencer imagined she must’ve realized they would never get to take that tour. This wasn’t a pleasure trip. He frowned and looked out at the enormous vicinity and history spread out before him. Wrong time and place. Wrong everything.

  Miranda tucked her arm through his. He looked down at her in surprise.

  “You can lean on me if you feel tired,” she said with a noncommittal smile.

  Spencer was forcefully reminded of leaning on her at the embassy, of the fragrance and warmth of her skin. He struggled to forget the image of her in that dress. She led him along the edge of the square, stopping in front of a statue depicting an eagle with a snake caught in its beak, perched on a cactus.

  “That’s Mexico’s symbol since Aztec times. It was a sign from the gods to build a city here. In fact, much of the area is sacred and was the site of frenzied sacrificial rituals to placate their gods.” She looked up at him with raised brows. “On at least one occasion, hearts were torn from some twenty thousand victims until the priests had to stop from exhaustion. It was believed if the god Huitzilopochtli didn’t receive human hearts, the sun would not rise in the morning to battle the evil of darkness.”

  “Sounds like the Aztecs were a bloodthirsty lot.”

  Miranda regarded him for a long moment. “Isn’t the God of the Bible rather bloodthirsty Himself?”

  Spencer jerked his mind away from his grim imaginings of priests acting out such grisly deeds. “What?”