Free Makin' Miracles by Lin Stepp Page B

valley and back to the parkway leading into Gatlinburg. Zola pointed out local spots of interest along the way and told him humorous stories. She was entertaining company.
    â€œTell me how you ended up coming to Gatlinburg via Richmond, Virginia, and Savannah, Georgia.” She turned her bright face toward his with interest.
    â€œI was raised in Richmond, as I think I mentioned before.” Spencer tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as he replied. The traffic in Gatlinburg was heavy and slow today. “My parents own a rural place outside the city near a seventy-five-hundred-acre park called Pocahontas State Park. It’s about twenty minutes from Richmond. I grew up in a house near the park’s border and explored nearly every inch of it with my best friend, Peter Bradley.”
    â€œDo you still stay in touch with him?”
    â€œI do.” Thinking of Peter brought happy memories to mind. “Peter is a park ranger out in Yosemite. Whenever I go out West to do photography, I stay with him. He’s moved around a time or two to other national parks, so I’ve had a chance to visit each of the ones he’s worked with.”
    â€œAnd do you have brothers and sisters?”
    â€œI have an older brother and a younger sister.” He frowned. “As I’ve told you, I’m not very close to my family. My father inherited the Jackson Studio, a photography business that my grandfather Stettler Jackson started in downtown Richmond. It’s well-known there for weddings, special events, and portrait photography. All my family work in the business. My mother added a catering end, called Jackson Catering, after she and my father married. She and my sister and my brother’s wife work in different aspects of that. My brother works with my father and my grandfather.”
    Zola smiled. “Your grandfather still works in the business?”
    â€œHe will until they drag him out with his toes up, if you know what I mean. He loves that business.” Spencer felt himself gripping the steering wheel tighter while he was talking about his family. Zola didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. It was good to know she couldn’t always know what he thought or felt.
    She looked out the window, watching the tourists milling around the sidewalks of Gatlinburg on a Sunday afternoon. “I guess you learned your photography skills from your family.”
    â€œMy father taught me,” he admitted. “He always loved the out-of-doors and I liked to go on walks with him as a boy. He told me once he’d hoped to be a biologist, to teach biology in college. I learned a lot from him about nature. It didn’t interest my brother. That love of nature was the one thing my father and I had in common.”
    Spencer realized he’d told her more than he meant to.
    â€œIt’s good you and your father had something in common you could share.” She smiled at him. “Those are good memories.”
    They were, and it was odd how Spencer found himself remembering those good times suddenly.
    â€œWhat took you to Savannah?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
    Spencer maneuvered the car into the turn lane and negotiated his way off the parkway to start up Ski Mountain Road before he answered. “I went to college there. The Savannah College of Art and Design has a fine photography program. I wanted a change, and my parents were supportive—after some argument—for me to go to Savannah. My mother’s parents, the Chatsworths, lived in the city then. That’s where my mother was from. My grandparents had a small apartment over their garage. It was agreed I could go to school in Savannah if I lived with them.”
    Her eyes brightened. “Did they live downtown in one of those gorgeous row houses?”
    He grinned. “Oh, yeah. In an old house steeped in history. It was a great place. I didn’t mind living there. I doubt I’d