Miracle

Chapter I.

  “The Thompson’s place finally sold.”

  Lyra Grant looked up at her father from across the kitchen table.

  Her mother put down her fork. “Really? Who bought it—anyone we know?”

  “No. An out-of-towner, a man by the name of Carsen. A columnist for the New York Times. A real recluse, as I understand it. Tired of the big city, I suppose.”

  Lyra went back to picking at her dinner uninterested. A reclusive old man wouldn’t make much of a difference in the neighborhood.

  “Jimmy over at Tri-Lakes Realty told me when he came in to sign his will.” Gordon and Olivia Grant were attorneys. “He has a nephew who lives with him. The boy’s in his teens. He’ll be starting at Placid High this year.” Her father took another bite of his manicotti before continuing. “They’re closing on the house tomorrow and moving in this weekend.”

  “It will be nice having someone over there again,” her mother commented.

  Lyra wondered about the boy—probably some annoying big-city punk with an attitude who would expect a ride to school every day. Lyra scolded herself; she wasn’t being nice (or fair). Then she realized he must not have parents if he lived with his uncle and she felt really guilty. Of course she would give him a ride to school if he needed one. Lyra, who knew she had great parents, couldn’t imagine not having any.

  Lyra ate another bite of the cheese ravioli her mother had brought home for her and took the rest to the sink. She rinsed her plate, put it in the dishwasher, and turned to go to her room. “Thanks for dinner, mom,” she said, kissing her mother’s cheek on her way out. “I’m going upstairs to practice. C’mon, Harry.”

  Harry, named after her a favorite fictional character, was a gray and white Siberian Husky whom Lyra had gotten for Christmas almost two years ago. He’d finished his dinner too and was lying on the rug by the back door. Harry was on his feet in a second and raced past her, his nails clacking on the wooden floor.

  Lyra bounded up the two flights of stairs to her bedroom on the third floor. Harry went straight to his fluffy blue dog pillow at the foot of her bed and, with a contented sigh, stretched out. Lyra went to her window. She could just make out a corner of the Thompsons’ (now Carsens) roof and chimney through the trees.

  James and Tammy Tompson had divorced over a year ago. They spent three years building their dream house, then only one year living in. It became the center in a bitter battle over the couple’s assets. After months of fighting over it, the Thompsons had been forced to put the house up for sale. Apparently, neither one could afford the mortgage on their own, and both had racked up exorbitant legal fees during the protracted litigation. The house had been vacant ever since.

  The homes on their wooded, winding road, high above the village of Lake Placid sat far apart. The Grants’ was situated on three acres, so new neighbors really weren’t that big of a deal. She’d probably never see them—except the nephew. Lake Placid’s Junior/High School contained grades six through twelve and new faces were easy to spot.

  The new school year started on Monday. Lyra would be a junior. She was looking forward to being back with her friends, most of whom had been busy with summer jobs over the last two months. Lyra herself had worked at her parents’ law firm, Grant & Grant L.P., answering phones and filing, but it had lost all its glamour after the first week.

  The Grants’ thriving law practice was located in downtown Lake Placid. Though a small town, Placid played host to wealthy tourists all year round. Her parents were never at a loss for clients needing legal advice on estate and financial planning and real estate contracts.

  Despite the constant stream of tourists, and winter six months out of the year, Placid was a great place to live. Set in the midst of the Adirondack Mountains, there was no end to the outdoor amusements and sports available. Lyra enjoyed the warmer weather activities best, particularly hiking. Next summer, she thought, she’d get a job at one of the canoe or river raft rental stands like most of her other friends had done.

  Lyra turned from the window and went to sit at her vanity. Did she look a year older? Her birthday was November 25th and she would be seventeen. She was rather tall, at five feet, seven inches and thankfully, a few curves had finally emerged to round out her slender figure. Her face was tan from being outside every weekend. Her wavy, dark brown hair framed her face and fell to her shoulders in a new, more flattering, layered style. Clear green eyes fringed in thick lashes stared back. Her phone rang, interrupting her critical inspection. She picked it up and saw it was Aimee, her best friend.

  She flipped it open. “Hi, Aimee. What’s up?”

  “Hey girl. Just wanted to see how your day was. It was nightmare at the store.”

  Aimee worked at Olympic Outfitters, where they sold gear for kayaking, canoeing, fly-fishing, and hiking in the summer and cold-weather gear in the winter.

  “I swear! Everyone within two hundred miles must be planning one last summer outing this weekend. It was wall-to-wall people all day. Oh my gosh, but this guy came in and he was so cute. He was flirting like crazy and I thought for sure he was going to ask me for my phone number. He said he was down from Chazy Lake and…”

  Lyra tuned her out. Even though Aimee had been going out with Connor Evans for the last three months, she was still completely boy crazy. Lyra guessed her own hormones were just late to kick in because she had not yet caught Aimee’s fascination, or maybe it was the lack of selection in Placid. When Aimee finally wound down about the Chazy Lake guy, Lyra related her only bit of news.

  “Our neighbor’s house finally sold. Some editor or journalist or something and his nephew. Dad says the nephew’s a teenager.”

  “How old?” Aimee asked.

  “I don’t know” Lyra replied.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Um. Their last name is Carsen. Jim Taylor told Dad, and I don’t think Dad knew much more. They’re moving in this weekend.”

  “Cool. Well, be sure to make yourself neighborly while they’re unpacking so you can get the scoop on the guy.” Aimee had a one-track mind.

  “I’m sure, Aimee. I’m not going to go over there. Anyway, Dad says the uncle is really anti-social.”

  “Well, we’ll see him on Tuesday—and you probably shouldn’t go over there. Kyle might get jealous if you get too chummy with the new guy.”

  Lyra exhaled in a huff. “Kyle? As if I care what Kyle Douglas thinks. He’s not my boyfriend. I’ve seen him twice this summer—and only because my parents arranged it. We are not a couple.”

  “Sure, sure,” Aimee said placating. “Anyway, I gotta go. It’s my turn to cook dinner tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Aimee’s mother was a single parent and worked late hours at the Whiteface Mountain Ski Center so Aimee often had more responsibilities at home than her friends, including looking after her little sister, Kimmy.

  Lyra hung up the phone and started pacing. Did everyone think she and Kyle were dating? She’d known Kyle for years. Their parents were close friends and they got together at the country club a couple times a week for tennis or golf, or sometimes dinner. Kyle was definitely not someone she was romantically interested in, though. Except for his light-brown hair, Kyle reminded her of the ego-manic Gaston from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. He was very into himself. Surely everyone knew her better than to think they were going out. She was sure that Kyle would squelch any rumors of that kind. He was a senior and she doubted he wanted people thinking they were dating either.

  She shrugged off Aimee’s remark and went to the corner to get her cello. She hadn’t played in a couple days and her fingers were stiff and clumsy at first. She limbered them up with some scales and arpeggios and then chose a concerto by Beethoven. She soon forgot about Kyle and school and new neighbors as she lost herself in the soulful melody.

  When Lyra was six years old her parents had bought her a violin and hired a
private instructor to teach her. She still played it occasionally, but at the age of twelve, her parents had taken her to see Yo Yo Ma in New York and she had fallen in love with the cello. Its warm, rich tones and mellow timbre inspired her in a way the violin had not. It took weeks to convince her parents to let her switch instruments, but once they’d given in, even they had to admit Lyra’s enthusiasm for playing and aptitude increased exponentially. Her instructor, Bartholomew “Barty” Masters, was a cellist in the Sinfonetta-a small, local orchestral group which played a short season of concerts in the summer. He was retired from the New York Philharmonic and Lyra was very grateful to have such an accomplished instructor. She also liked him as a person. They had become good friends over the years. He was small and spry with a zest for life that was contagious. Under his tutelage, she had developed a love of classical music and a penchant for perfectionism. Their hour together each week was one Lyra eagerly anticipated, a testament in itself not only to his prodigious skill as a teacher, but his vivacious personality.

  Lyra’s parents were happy she had a hobby she liked and they were delighted to act as audience but they never encouraged her to pursue music any further. Like the ballet lessons (which she’d given up after a couple years), and the voice lessons (which she’d given up after a couple months), Lyra’s parents exposed their daughter to the arts to round out her education, but the arts were not an approved career path. Gordon and Olivia Grant wanted Lyra to go into law or medicine. Unfortunately for Lyra, neither option appealed to her at the moment.

  The cool evening breeze blew in her window as the sun set behind the mountains. It was very peaceful on the third floor of their stone and cedar house. The top-most floor consisted only of her spacious bedroom and bath. Her parents’ bedroom and the two guest rooms were on the second floor. From her wide window she had a fantastic view of the surrounding Adirondack Mountains and of Mirror Lake, hundreds of feet below. Actually, the entire house was serene and tranquil. Though large, its cedar and rough stone blended naturally with its surroundings. And her parents were very quiet. When they weren’t working or out with friends, they spent most of their time in the family room reading, talking, or watching television.

  Gordon and Olivia Grant had met in law school and married soon after graduation. They got busy with their careers, practicing at different firms in Manhattan. From what they had told her, new lawyers were expected to work long hours to prove themselves, so they put off having children. When they finally got around to it, her mom was thirty-eight and her dad was forty-one. Her mother’s pregnancy was difficult and the doctors advised her not to risk trying again after Lyra was born healthy. Her parents had thus doted on her as a child. Her mother suspended her law practice until Lyra started kindergarten.

  Though often left alone now that she was older, Lyra never felt lonely. She knew her parents loved her. They still took vacations together every summer and they were interested in all she did. In the last couple of years, she had become more self-sufficient and socially active, but even when home alone, had no problem with the solitude. She had Harry, her music, and her love of reading to keep her occupied.

  When her fingers began to ache, she put away her cello. She went back to her window and lifted it a little higher. Kneeling on the sill, she twisted around until her legs dangled below searching for the ladder steps. She climbed down onto the roof that hung over the first story deck and unfolded the lounge chair she kept up there and laid down. The crescent moon was rising slowly above the distant peaks.

  Lyra was eleven years old before she convinced her parents to turn the third-story loft space of their home into her bedroom. Lyra had been enchanted with the peaked, beamed ceilings, the angled walls and large window with its spectacular views of the distant mountains.

  Before allowing her to move upstairs, though, her father had insisted on putting in an adjoining bathroom and, more importantly, a fire escape. The vertical rungs lay flush against the exterior wall of the house, descended to the roof of the deck, then picked back up again against the back of the house a few feet over where the deck roof ended. The weathered wooden ladder blended inconspicuously with the rest of the house.

  When she started getting sleepy, Lyra climbed back into her room and then into bed. She thought about the upcoming weekend—only three more days until school started. Her parents were playing golf with the Douglases on Saturday and she definitely didn’t want to get stuck spending the day with Kyle, especially since rumors were already flying. School clothes shopping had been finished up with her mom the weekend before, so maybe she and Harry could go on a long hike Saturday. With over 2,000 miles of trails in and around Lake Placid, she never got tired of exploring the outdoors. Harry would appreciate it too. He’d been cooped up all week at the office with her (one of the perks of working for your parents in a small-town office) and would be ecstatic to get the exercise. Then maybe Aimee would want to go canoeing on Sunday afternoon. What was it she’d said about everyone wanting one last summer outing? Lyra thought that was a great idea.