Miracle Man Read online

  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

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  ONE

  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.

  Once the rafters were cleared of dust webs and the floorboards were back to their weathered best, she went out to the car and retrieved two large boxes which took some effort from her small frame to haul inside. She dumped them side by side on the big soft couch before the fireplace, and opened them up. One was full with books, the other with DVD cases and old VHS video cassettes. "This is your new home guys," she said aloud, as if addressing the contents of the boxes. "Hope you like it."

  She turned to look at the wall around the fireplace. It was almost completely dominated by bookshelves, overflowing with books. Old books, new books, big books, small books, fiction and non-fiction. Along the wall to the right, beside the large television on the wall, the books gave way to videotapes, mostly VHS, though quite a few were professional U-matic tapes. Every tape was clearly labelled and numbered. Lahra scanned the wall, hands on hips, and quickly came to an obvious conclusion. "Well, it will be your new home as soon as I build you some shelf space."

  Seeing the books again brought on a sudden melahcholy. She ran her fingers along their spines, picked one out at random and brought it up to her nose. It was her father who first introduced her to the smell of books. "Books are like people," he used to say. "They each have their own personality, their own story to tell. They're alive, just like you or me. They even have their own individual smell. At first you might think they all smell the same, just as you might think all people are pretty much the same. But get to know them, draw them close to you, and it doesn't take long to appreciate that every book is different—unique."

  A bright, colourful book caught Lahra's eye, and she reached for it. It was a children's book called Harriet the Hamster. She opened it to the title page and read the words scrawled there in red crayon; 'This book belongs to Rebecca Brook age 6'. She lifted the book to her face and smiled, taking in its scent. It had been two years since she'd seen her sister.

  Lahra gave the wall of books a loving gaze, sighed deeply and retreated to the kitchen. Enough of the past. It was the first day of a month of relaxation for her, and she had people to see and things to do.

  She grabbed the phone by the kitchen's bay window and dialled, simultaneously running herself a glass of water from the tap. Wally wouldn't be expecting her for another day. It would be great to surprise him like this. She loved the way he'd always try so hard to remain cool and unaffected whenever they spoke on the phone or got together. In the sixteen years she'd known him, he could never quite hide the little-boy-excitement that dwelled within.

  The phone rang on. He must have been out. It was too early for him to be at the cinema yet, so she made a mental note to call again before dinner, and hung up.

  Which was when a movement outside caught her eye.

  The Ulonga-Bora River was a good forty metres from the house, and much of its bank was obscured by tr
ees and shrubs. On the opposite bank, like a reflection of her family's property, was a rising green hill and a big, colonial house that had belonged to the Taylors. But it was none of this that was out of the ordinary. It was as it had been for decades. It was the naked man swimming in the river that had stopped Lahra in her tracks.

  For an absurd moment Lahra thought she might remove and clean her glasses just to make sure she wasn't seeing things. She sipped from the glass resting on her lip, staring at the white, muscular form that glistened in the sun. The man appeared to be swimming against the flow of the river, his slow, strong stroke timed so that he made no forward progress. The only ground he made was that which the river conceded. Old Mr Taylor would have seized up after the first three strokes had it been him in the water, such was his distaste for physical activity. And Lahra couldn't remember there being anyone else from the Taylor family in the way of friends or relatives who might be there doing battle with the river now. This demanded closer inspection.

  She slipped out onto the verandah. The air outside was chill, winter paying its last respects for the year, and she considered going back in for a jacket. But she didn't dare turn her back on the stranger ahead. Jeans and T-shirt would have to do.

  She moved quickly and quietly down the hill, the grass whipping the denim across her shins, careful to keep an eye on the swimmer below. She went left, staying behind him, and arrived close to the bank where she and Janie had had their adventures so many years ago. The twisted gum trees and squat bushes provided ample cover for most of the way along the bank, and she crept forward, now aware of the noise of the swimmer splashing over the pleasant sound of the river's progress. Every moment or two she caught glimpses of flesh stretching in the water, until finally she came to a perfect vantage point, not too close, but close enough to assure her that there was indeed nothing wrong with her glasses.