Love Finds You in Miracle, Kentucky Read online

  BY ANDREA BOESHAAR

  SummeRSIde

  PRESS

  Love Finds You in Miracle, Kentucky

  © 2008 by Andrea Boeshaar

  ISBN 978-1-934770-37-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.

  Cover and Interior Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group,

  www.mullerhaus.net

  Published by Summerside Press, Inc., 11024 Quebec Circle, Bloomington, Minnesota 55438, www.summersidepress.com

  Fall in love with Summerside.

  Printed in the USA.

  To Heather

  May you look over your shoulder and find

  Love standing there

  Where He’s been all along.

  IN 1777 A VIRGINIAN NAMED COLONEL BENJAMIN LOGAN came through the mountains with Daniel Boone seeking fortune. While Boone went north to found Boonesboro on the Kentucky River, Logan’s trail led to the banks of a creek where he built a fort that later became Stanford, Kentucky. Around 1865, the railroad became a major part of Stanford and provided a much-needed railhead for southern Kentucky. The depot that served this railroad still stands, having been restored to its original splendor. Located just north of Main Street in Stanford, it inspired the name of The Depot Restaurant, where Meg first meets Vance. Miracle is a small rural area located outside of Stanford that was named for a prominent family in the area. Bill Miracle, a member of this family, is the mayor of Stanford. Locals pronounce the name “merkle” rather than “miracle.” Though small, Miracle is a friendly Kentucky town populated by honest, hard-working people.

  Andrea Boeshaar

  Chapter One

  Meghan Jorgenson’s heart banged an erratic beat against her ribcage as she rushed out of the apartment that she had once considered her home. The last of her belongings filled her arms, and an unpredictable man followed on her heels. Dillon had never harmed her physically before, but Meg wasn’t taking any chances.

  In a word, she didn’t trust him.

  “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

  Dillon’s voice echoed in the dim hallway, but Meg didn’t reply as she ran down the wide apartment stairwell. She had tried not to wake him, but she needed to retrieve her clothes from the bedroom closet—and it was ten o’clock in the morning, for pity’s sake. Every normal human being Meg knew was up well before ten on a weekday morning. But not Dillon, the loser-poet, who had stayed up all night, pacing the apartment and agonizing over a simple line of prose. “My heart is a stone. My heart is a stone. My heart is a stone…”

  Finally, Meg had replied, “And your mind is on loan—as in get out of here, Brainless, and let me get some sleep!”

  Dillon had several choice expletives for her. “You’re the reason I can’t write. I can totally feel negative energy everywhere.”

  “Then go write somewhere else.”

  “But this is my crib, my creating space.”

  “Whatever.” Meg had turned over on the couch and pulled the blanket up over her head, relishing the thought that the apartment she shared with Dillon McDade for more than a year wouldn’t be her “crib” in another twenty-four hours.

  And now it was the time to get out.

  “Meg, stop. Talk to me, will you?”

  “Nothing to talk about.” She reached her car and walked around to the driver’s side. Juggling her load, she managed to open the back door. She tossed in her clothes and a small cardboard box.

  “How can you up and leave? Aren’t you even going to say good-bye?”

  “I said good-bye to you months ago, when you brought home that sleazy waitress.” She glared at Dillon, who stood in the doorway of the 1940s brick apartment building. She noted his navy gym shorts and a white T-shirt. His streaky blondish-brown hair, which he usually pulled back in a ponytail, was parted in the middle and hung to his shoulders. He looked unappealingly disheveled. What had she ever seen in this guy? How had she ever found him charming, his words stirring? Without the clouds in her eyes now, Meg saw him for what he was: a two-timing hack poet who desperately needed a day job.

  “I told you that tumble meant nothing,” Dillon shouted from the doorway.

  “Yeah, well, it meant a lot to me. It meant our relationship was over. O. V. E. R.”

  He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” She sent him a wide-eyed stare. “I made it clear months ago that it was over between us.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I’ve been sleeping on that lumpy, sorry excuse for a couch all summer.” She cocked her head. “Or has your bed been so occupied that you didn’t bother to notice I wasn’t in it?”

  “That’s a cheap shot, Meg.”

  “You deserve a lot worse.”

  A man walking by realized he’d wandered into a war zone and quickened his strides.

  “Look, Meg, this is crazy. Let’s not fight. I thought all was forgiven and forgotten. I swear I didn’t know you felt this way.”

  Meg looked at him in disbelief. He didn’t know? How could he have forgotten all the times she’d begged him to move out, only to have him refuse, stating that his name was on the lease along with hers and that he had his rights? So she decided she’d be the one to leave, but, unfortunately, she didn’t have the immediate funds necessary and hadn’t been sure of where to go. Mom said she could move in, but Meg didn’t think her mother’s situation was any better than the one in Chicago with Dillon. She’d begun to feel trapped. Everything in her life had seemed so hopeless.

  But not anymore.

  With her financial commitments fulfilled, various other obligations met, and a small sum in her purse, she was free to leave. She had a plan and a place to stay. She’d no longer be stuck in a dead-end tutoring job, hoping in vain to get into the state’s public school system, and she’d no longer be Dillon’s meal ticket.

  The weight of the world seemed lifted from Meg’s shoulders.

  “No more talking. I’m outta here.”

  “Hey, what about the rent? It’s due on the first.”

  “Good luck.”

  Dillon’s face turned specter-white. “But—”

  “I worked it out with the landlord. My name’s off the lease.”

  His dark eyes now sparked with fury as he stepped from the building. He cursed her up and down while another passerby gawked at him.

  Meg slipped behind the wheel of her black Honda Civic and started the engine. As she stepped on the accelerator, she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Dillon standing on the sidewalk, bellowing obscenities at her taillights.

  She grinned. Not only did he look like a raving maniac, but when the heavy glass front door had slammed shut, he’d locked himself out of the apartment building.

  Maybe there’s a God after all, she mused, making her way to the interstate. Once on the ever-congested tollway, she weaved through traffic. Her nerves were taut, her muscles tense. Turning on the radio, she willed herself to relax, to let the music emotionally distract her. But the intenseness of the situation she’d just left behind troubled her all the way through Indiana.

  Meg recalled the day she’d been given a way out of her situation in Chicago. Grams had called from her home in Miracle, Kentucky, to inform Meg that a charter school for gifted kids in nearby Stanford was in need
of a new third-grade teacher.

  Meg had decided to go for it. She was both qualified and familiar with the area from visiting over the years. Grams had always been good to her, and Meg had no qualms about moving in with her until she could find a place of her own.

  So she applied for the job, managed to scrape together enough money to drive to Kentucky for the interview at Fairview Academy, and wished upon every nighttime star that she’d get the job.

  She did.

  And now, as she drove across the bridge that spanned the wide Ohio River and spotted the blue WELCOME TO KENTUCKY sign, something soared deep inside of her. It was really happening! She’d made the break. A new life awaited her.

  “You expectin’ company, Retta?”

  Squinting against the brilliant sunshine, made even brighter by the linens she pulled off the clothesline, Loretta Jorgenson saw her neighbor traipsing through the yard.

  She smiled. “Well, good mornin’, Tom. And yes, I am expecting company. Don’t tell me you forgot. Today’s the day Meggie moves in.”

  “That’s right. Guess she won’t be company for long, then, eh?” Wearing blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a lopsided grin, Tom lowered his lanky frame onto one of the wooden benches at the picnic table.

  Loretta regarded the man who’d lived next door for the past thirty years. His bristly hair had gone from blond to white over time, and a scant few wrinkles had been added to his crinkly face. Through thick and thin, he’d been a true friend to Loretta and her late husband, Jeb. But for the last couple of years, since Jeb’s passing, Tom had become as much of a necessary fixture around her place as the clothesline in her backyard.

  “After I make up Meggie’s bed, I’m fixing me a cup of coffee. Want some?” Loretta lifted the brown wicker laundry basket and tossed a smile at Tom.

  “You know I do.”

  “All righty, then. I’ll be back in some minutes with a couple of mugs full.”

  Tom’s grin remained plastered on his weathered face as he retrieved the pouch of tobacco from his T-shirt’s breast pocket. His black pipe, with its worn brown trim, already lay on the picnic table. “I’ll be here waitin’.”

  Loretta entered the house, the linens draped over one arm. The fresh scent of sun-dried bedding made its way to her nose. She longed to bury her face in the sheets and inhale their crisp, clean smell. When her youngest son, John Edward, was a boy, he used to insist he’d have “good dreams” whenever Loretta changed his bedding.

  The remembrance made her smile and prompted her to hum “You Are My Sunshine” as she marched up the creaking staircase to the second floor. Down the narrow hallway, she turned into the bedroom on her left. Gone were the scuffed bunk beds and banged-up dressers. In their places stood a double bed, a polished oak chest of drawers, a desk, and a matching wooden chair.

  How did I ever fit three boys in this house? Loretta wondered as she made up the bed for her granddaughter. It’d be nice to have somebody else in this place again. Young blood. Fresh ideas.

  Loretta couldn’t tamp down her anticipation.

  The bed neatly made, she peeked into the much smaller room across the hall. It had once been hailed as “the single room,” and each son had taken a turn occupying it. These days, the space served as Loretta’s sewing room. She loved to create colorful and meaningful quilts and looked forward to making one for Meggie. Each of her seven grandchildren owned a “Queenie Quilt,” or a “Queenie” for short. The quilts earned their title from an old nickname Loretta received after her third boy was born. Friends had dubbed her “queen of the house,” and some still called her Queenie to this day.

  Loretta smiled at the memory. Those sure were the days. Lots of hard work, but happy times just the same. Now life had slowed—so much so that Loretta had time for quilting.

  Well, Meggie might be the eldest grandchild, but she’d be the last one to receive a Queenie. The quilt would have to wait until Loretta learned more about her granddaughter’s hobbies and habits, likes and dislikes. They knew so little about each other, really.

  Such a pity. All those wasted years.

  After the divorce more than two decades ago, Meggie’s mother, Tricia, moved to Louisville. From there she took off for San Diego with a military man she’d met in a local tavern. When that relationship failed, just like all the rest of them did, she moved from city to city, state to state, finally landing in Illinois long enough for Meggie to graduate from high school. Suffice it to say, Loretta rarely saw her precious granddaughter, with the exception of those times when her son Paul had custody privileges.

  Even so, Loretta did her best to stay in contact.

  Over the years, she had sent Meggie birthday gifts and Christmas presents, and when Meggie was awarded a scholarship at Northwestern University, Loretta often mailed her small-summed checks so she could buy a little something special for herself. Meggie always expressed her gratitude, whether it came in the form of a quick note…or a phone call.

  But such nominal contact had never been enough for Loretta. She longed to have a close relationship with her oldest granddaughter, just like the closeness she once shared with her boys and now shared with her other seven grandchildren. She hoped her prayers would at long last be answered now that Meggie was moving in—at least temporarily.

  Praise God for Fairview Academy’s growth and the fact it needed more teachers. It’d been a fluke that Loretta even heard about it. She’d been getting a haircut at the same time that the principal’s wife, Julia Sutterman, was getting a manicure. They began a conversation, and when Loretta learned the news, she thought of Meggie right away. Why, Meg had earned her degree in elementary education at Northwestern University—a girl had to be pretty smart to graduate among the top of her class from that place.

  Julia was impressed enough to share the particulars of the job with Loretta, who was quick to tell her granddaughter about the opening. Loretta had sensed that life in Chicago didn’t turn out quite the way Meggie had planned. During their occasional phone calls, Meggie had sounded so down and depressed.

  But now she’d be living here, and Loretta could finally get to know her. Still, she had prepared herself in the event things didn’t work out. After all, a young, independent woman might want her own apartment and more privacy than this quaint, three-bedroom, one-bathroom home afforded. But at least Meggie would have the upstairs to herself and some semblance of privacy.

  She’ll be here soon.

  Loretta’s fingers trembled with anticipation as she closed the door to her sewing room and made her way back downstairs. In the kitchen, she pulled out two mugs and poured coffee for herself and Tom. She carried the mugs outside, where Tom still sat at the picnic table, smoking his pipe.

  “You know, Retta,” he drawled as she set the coffee in front of him, “I think that flashin’ around the chimney came loose again. I’ll have to fix it before it gets cold.”

  “Oh, no! You’re not climbing around on my roof at your age.” She seated herself opposite him. “I’ll hire someone.”

  “Won’t do as good a job as me.”

  Tom sipped from a blue and gray mug on which the words I’D RATHER BE FISHING were boldly printed. Loretta realized that one of her boys must have left it behind, because she couldn’t fathom where the thing came from.

  “And I don’t cost you anythin’,” Tom added, “’cept maybe a home-cooked meal now and then.”

  Loretta grinned at her neighbor, half teasing. “What would I do if you fell off the roof?”

  He shrugged. “Call 911.”

  “Oh, please.” She sent him a glance filled with feigned exasperation. “You think the Stanford Fire Department wants to come all the way out here and waste the taxpayers’ money just to save the likes of your old hide—a man who should’ve known better than to be climbing around on a rooftop in the first place?”

  “Stop your cluckin’.”

  “I’ll cluck if I have a mind to.”

  The sound of crunching gravel caused Lorett
a to swallow further retorts and sit up a little straighter. Seconds later her granddaughter’s black compact car pulled into view and parked on the driveway.

  Loretta sucked in a breath of anticipation and placed her palm over Tom’s gnarled hand. “She’s here.”

  Meg crawled out of her car and stretched, pulling her arms up over her head. Next she inhaled deeply of the clean country air. Almost at once, her gaze fell on Grams and an older gentleman sitting at the picnic table. Meg didn’t remember the guy’s name, but she did recall meeting him a couple of months ago when she’d visited and interviewed at Fairview Academy. If her memory served her right, the older man lived in the somewhat dilapidated home on the next property.

  “Meggie! I’m so glad you arrived safely!”

  Grams crossed the yard in seconds flat and pulled Meg into a snug embrace. The welcome brought tears to Meg’s eyes. How refreshing to arrive in fresh air and a loving hug after she’d left smoggy Chicago and a nasty scream fest with Dillon.

  “How was the drive?” Grams wanted to know. She stepped back but continued to hold Meg by the shoulders.

  “Most of it was intense. I’m glad I stayed overnight in Louisville.” Meg could have made the trip in eight or nine hours. Sooner if she hadn’t gotten caught up in construction along the way. But around five o’clock the previous afternoon, hunger and exhaustion got the best of her and she stopped for the night. Besides, maneuvering the steep, winding road leading into Miracle after dark wasn’t something Meg relished. “The drive from Louisville this morning wasn’t bad at all.”

  “Good.”

  “Kentucky is beautiful in August. It’s so vibrant and so—” She glanced around, noting the tree-covered hills looming beyond Grams’ farm. “—spacious.”

  “We’re country folk out here, but it’s only about a five-mile drive into town.”

  “Seems longer than that.”

  “Only because 698 snakes up and down and all around. A body could walk to Stanford if it was a straight shot.”