Free Makin' Miracles by Lin Stepp Page A

gratefully.
    She gave him an odd look as they got into Spencer’s car out in the driveway. “What did Papa Vern say to you? You looked kind of stunned when I came out.”
    He grinned at her then. “He just warned me off.”
    Her eyebrows flew up. “He what?” She thought for a minute and then shook her head knowingly. “Oh, you mean he gave you the morals talk.”
    â€œHe does that often?”
    She looked thoughtful. “He usually only does it with boys I’ve been dating for a while.” She grinned at him. “He didn’t show you his shotgun, did he?”
    â€œThankfully, no.” Spencer shuddered.
    â€œWell, then you got off easy.” Zola laughed that warm, spontaneous laugh of hers.
    â€œWill you still come up to my place?” he asked.
    She stretched lazily. “Yes. If you’ll wait and let me change clothes first. I’ll want to hike back down, and I don’t want to do that in a dress.”
    Spencer started to say she looked nice in a dress but decided to keep that thought to himself. With the grandfather’s warning still rumbling in his mind, he wasn’t sure he wanted to get too close, too fast, to this girl who saw things in others’ lives all too clearly. He remembered then that the Daufuskie wise-woman’s husband left her while he lived on the island, said she caused him too much difficulty with her “knowing.”
    It wouldn’t be easy being close to a woman like Zola. And Spencer had dealt with enough difficult people in his past. He wanted his peace now.
    Perhaps the two could just be friends. Zola was an interesting girl.
    She changed clothes quickly while telling him to explore around the house. Zola lived in a rustic white farmhouse with a gray tin roof. A small, open front porch sat in the angle between the two sections of the farmhouse, and a screened porch opened off the kitchen in the back. Inside the house, a riot of rich colors and an eclectic blend of both Appalachian country and South Pacific island décor filled every room. Spencer grinned to see what looked like richly printed pareu fabric in the living room drapes and throw pillows right beside a Shaker table with Early American ladder-back chairs. He picked up a giant seashell that sat beside an ancient, antique clock on the mantel.
    â€œI found that shell on the beach at Mooréa,” Zola said, coming back into the room in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She carried a lined jacket over her arm.
    He noticed she’d made some effort to pin up her froth of naturally curly hair into a clasp behind her head, but it was hopelessly drifting out of the clasp already.
    She pointed to the old clock. “That clock was my great-great-grandfather Devon’s.”
    â€œNice mix of items everywhere.” He looked around him.
    â€œI’m a mix, too.” She shrugged. “It seems to suit me.”
    â€œIt does suit you, and I like it.” He resisted a desire to reach out and touch her face. “Every spot in the house is interesting and seems to yearn to tell a story.”
    â€œAhhh. There goes that artist in you speaking. I like that.” She led the way out the door. “We’d better go. The dog is wanting to get out at your house.”
    Spencer rolled his eyes. “Zeke has a dog door to an outdoor run, Zola.”
    She turned her brown eyes to his. “Yes, but he wants his walk. And he’s listening for your car.”
    As Spencer followed her out to his SUV he worried again about spending time with a woman who constantly popped out little personal details like she did. After all, a guy liked a little privacy. What if she read his mind when he was thinking something he didn’t want to share? Or when he was thinking something. . . well, sort of intimate. Would she just come right out and say what he was thinking? It creeped him out to even consider it.
    They wound their way out of the Jonas Creek