Muriel Jensen - Man With A Miracle

“No, it’s your business!” Evan accused. “Sheila and the boys are your business! Did you give them any thought when you did this? What’s it for? The boat’s not big enough? You need a second summer home to attract more clients? Another classic Jag? Sheila seems perfectly happy…”

“Yeah, well, my girlfriend’s expensive.” Grabbing the bag with both hands, Blaine swung it onto his lap. “Now stop the car. I’ve got to go back! The bag has to be where I left it or I’m—”

“We’re not going back. You’re going to redeposit the money and I’ll help you find another—”

As they approached another intersection, Blaine reached for the steering wheel. Evan tried to push him away, and caught sight of a big black Dodge Ram coming quickly down the side road. Completely unaware, Blaine pulled at the wheel, and with a screech of tires, the Austin-Healy headed straight toward the truck.

Evan shouted, but the squeal of brakes drowned out the sound. There was a bone-shattering impact, the grinding whine of tearing metal, then blackness.

January 4, 2002

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND why you feel you have to go.” Alice Turner, Evan’s mother, followed him from the kitchen to the driveway, where he packed two suitcases into the back of a brand-new white Safari already loaded with boxes, an apartment-size refrigerator and a television. She’d said that several times a day for the two weeks since he’d made the decision.

He couldn’t tell her the truth. “I just have to, Mom,” he said, taking a plastic-wrapped stack of blankets and a pillow from his stepfather, who’d followed them out. “I appreciate all you and Dad and Sheila have done for me since I got out of the hospital, but…”

“You think we blame you,” his mother accused, tears spilling from her grieving brown eyes. She folded her arms pugnaciously.

“No.” He avoided her eyes as he found a place for the blankets on top of a box. They didn’t blame him, and Sheila didn’t blame him. In fact, they’d sat with him every day for the long three months it took to heal his broken legs, his right arm, his pelvis that resulted from his ejection from the car upon impact. They’d helped with his physical therapy, then brought him home to complete his recovery at his parents’ place. His sister-in-law, Sheila, and his two nephews, Mark, 6, and Matthew, 4, had visited often, bringing him cookies, and crayon artwork for his room.

But Evan saw the grief they tried to hide from him, the loss in their eyes even when they smiled and encouraged him. Their suffering compounded his own sense of failure as a brother and a son, until he felt he couldn’t stay another moment. He had to spare all of them the constant reminder that he survived the crash and Blaine died, and he had to find another way to go on, before despair overtook him.

The only good thing to come out of the accident was that it put an end to the issue of the borrowed money. The car had been incinerated and the money burned up. Blaine must have sufficiently hidden his “loan” in the books, because when the franchise was purchased in August, an audit revealed nothing untoward. Or maybe Blaine had some fail-safe method of payback that he hadn’t had a chance to explain before the accident.

Whatever the reason, Evan was grateful that neither his parents nor Sheila had any idea Blaine had done anything criminal.

“I just have to get my life together again, Mom,” he explained, hugging her, “and I can’t do it here. A company in Maple Hill advertised for a housepainter. I love that kind of work and I’m pretty good at it. Maple Hill is close enough that I can come home regularly to visit, and you can come and see me.”

“Are you going to be happy painting houses?” his stepfather, Barney, asked as he wrapped his arms around Evan. “You were such a good cop.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad,” Evan assured him. Barney Turner had been his father since he was four, and he’d never made Evan feel less important or less loved than Blaine.

“You know who to call if you aren’t.”

“I do.”

“Mark and Mattie will miss you,” his mother prodded as they followed him around to the driver’s side.

“Alice, don’t torture the boy,” Barney chided. “He knows they’ll miss him. He spent all day with them yesterday, explaining things. They’ll be fine, and he’ll be fine.”

His mother gave his father a reproachful look. “Men are always fine because they’re the ones off on adventures. Women are the ones who stay behind and worry.”

Barney squeezed her shoulders. “He’s going to Maple Hill, Allie, not to war. Good luck, son.”

Evan hugged his mother again, climbed in behind the wheel and drove away.

December 9, 2002

EVAN IGNORED THE PAIN in his right leg as he ran around the track of Maple Hill High with three of his friends. He and Hank Whitcomb, Bart Megrath and Cameron Trent formed an irregular line across the lanes as snow fell steadily in large flakes.

“What? Are we training for the Winter Olympics?” Bart asked Hank, his breath puffing out ahead of him. Bart was a lawyer, and much preferred the comforts of his home or office to the uncompromising cold of western Massachusetts in the winter.

“Can’t be,” Cam put in, pulling a blue wool watch cap a little lower over his ears. “Track-and-field is a summer event. Hank just likes to torture us because he’s our boss. Thank God it was icy at the lake, or he’d have us running there, with the wind-chill factor making it even colder than it is here.”

“Hank’s not my boss,” Bart corrected.

“No, but he’s your brother-in-law,” Evan put in. After eleven months on the job with Hank and Cam, and working on community projects with the two of them and Bart, he was comfortable in their company. He considered himself fortunate to have their friendship, and thought often how much brighter his life had become in the past year. “If you don’t get your exercise, he’ll report you to Haley like he did last time, and she’ll tell the ladies at Perk Avenue not to serve you those double mochas and cream horns anymore.”

“That was a joke,” Bart said.

“You didn’t think it was funny.”

Haley was Bart’s wife, Hank’s sister, and the publisher of the Maple Hill Mirror.

Bart laughed. “You’re just being superior, Evan,” he said, “because you’re still a bachelor. Wait till my mother-in-law fixes you up with some pretty young thing who makes you lose your senses and forget your backbone. You won’t be able to laugh at us anymore.”

Addie Whitcomb was a confirmed matchmaker. Evan had skillfully avoided her machinations so far, but she was growing more determined all the time.

“I’m not laughing,” he insisted, even as he tamped his amusement. “I just think it’s interesting that the town’s leading attorney—” he pointed a gloved finger at Bart “—the head of the much-acclaimed Whitcomb’s Wonders—” he indicated Hank, who modestly inclined his head “—and Cam, the Wonders’ brilliant plumber and my inspired partner in land development, can be so cowed by three of the town’s most beautiful and talented, but very small, women. Guys, come on. You’re whipped!”

His friends looked at one another, laughed and ran on, dragging him with them, apparently not offended.

“It’ll happen to you,” Cam warned.

“No,” he denied affably.

“That’s what I used to think,” Hank said with a knowing glance at him from beneath the bill of a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. “And look at me now.”

Hank’s wife, Jackie, was mayor of Maple Hill and the mother of four children, whom Hank had adopted.

“I like my privacy,” Evan insisted.