Free Makin' Miracles by Lin Stepp

ice cream, after a huge Sunday after-church meal. Spencer felt pleasantly stuffed—like after Thanksgiving—and he was still working his way through the cake, drizzled with a sticky homemade caramel icing worth shouting about.
    Spencer counted eleven adults around the long dining room table and four children at the kitchen table around the corner. He could hear the children giggling periodically, and their young voices often trickled into the room with the adults.
    Wayne’s wife, Patricia, a sunny blonde, stood up. “I’m going to start clearing these dishes off, Nana. And Becky Rae and the girls and I are washing and putting up today. You’ve done enough cooking. You go out in the living room and visit with everyone.”
    There seemed to be a rumbling movement as everyone started to get up from the table.
    â€œThat was a great meal, Mama,” Ray said. He pushed his glasses up on his friendly, smiling face. He turned to Spencer. “And it was good having you with us, Spencer. We all feel a little better about Raven’s Den being sold now that we’ve met you. Sounds, from what you told us, like you’re trying to keep the place natural—like God made it.”
    Zola’s grandfather, Vernon Devon, shook a warning finger at Spencer. “You be sure you don’t ever cut down that old tulip tree up toward the top of Shinbone Ridge. It must be nearly thirty feet in diameter. I remember I couldn’t even stretch my arms around it. There’s not many virgin trees around here like that one anymore.”
    Spencer smiled. “I know that tree. I’ve photographed it.”
    â€œWell, I’d like to see that photo.” Vernon licked a last dab of caramel icing off his finger before he left the dining room. “I can’t get up that ridgetop quite like I once did.”
    Spencer thought of suggesting he’d e-mail him a copy of the photo print of the tree but then changed his mind. He hadn’t even seen a computer in the house. “Mr. Devon, I’ll make you a copy of the picture and bring it by sometime.”
    Vernon nodded. “Well, that would be right good of you, Spencer. I hear tell you do good photo work. I’ll have to come down to your gallery someday. Maybe see some of your pictures.”
    Spencer smiled. Everyone seemed to be filing into the big living room at the front of the house now. Some of the family carried a few of the dining room chairs into the room with them as they shifted locations.
    Zola joined Spencer, still standing by her grandfather. “I think Spencer needs to get home, Papa.” She gave her grandfather a hug. “I may let him take me over to my house as he leaves.”
    He patted her fondly. “Well, you go tell your grandmother good-bye first. She went back to the bedroom.”
    â€œI’ll be right back,” she told Spencer.
    â€œFine girl.” Vernon Devon looked after her. He turned his still-keen hazel eyes to Spencer. “Zola was raised for much of her life in the South Pacific islands. Perhaps you know that. Her mother was Tahitian. My son Stanford’s a missionary doctor over there in Mooréa next to Tahiti. Warmhearted people the Tahitians—generous, kind, welcoming. Maybe a little too warmly affectionate.”
    He eyed Spencer candidly. “You ever take advantage of that affectionate streak in our girl and I’ll learn of it, boy. We watch our women real carefully here in the valley. We don’t condone none of them new ‘goings on’ you see on the television and hear about that young folk are doing these days. We still live by the Good Book. Just wanted you to know that right up front.”
    Spencer wasn’t quite sure what to say in reply. “I’ll remember that, sir.”
    â€œSee that you do.” He nodded several times as if to affirm the words again.
    Zola came back then to save him. “Ready to go?”
    Spencer nodded