Page 62 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland
In front of the market, she almost tripped over a crate of apples being unloaded from a truck double-parked on the street. “Be careful, lady,” admonished the delivery person.
Good idea.
She was careful not to glance into Fritz’s café as she passed, nor did she look into the bookshop window. She didn’t want to talk to anyone right now. She just needed to get back home. Hopefully Reno would be done working on the bookcases for the day and Beatrice could—what? Bully herself into believing the majority of psychic predictions were bullshit? She already believed that. Why the hell was she feeling so shaky?
Which Craft was just a few doors up, so she crossed the street and kept her face averted. In the grassy park at the center of the village, a group of children was racing around the playground,and a joyful golden retriever bounced after a ball thrown by its owner. The rubble of the burned tree was almost all gone, tidily spirited away at some point, but there was no hiding the blackened grass. She could still smell the char of it.
The same busker she’d seen her first day in town was leaning against an oak tree near the gazebo, playing an old song Dad liked. A Townes Van Zandt tune, maybe? She caught a few words: “I tried to kill the pain, bought some wine, and hopped a train, seemed easier than just waitin’ around to die.”
Beatrice stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Whatwasn’teasier than waiting around to die?
She closed her eyes and tried to feel anything wrong inside her body, but all she felt was her heart, thumping along like it always did. Maybe a little faster than normal, but no pain. Just fear.
Open your eyes.
The words were insistent and almost audible in her head—neither male nor female, just there. Fair enough. If she wanted to remain unnoticed on her walk back to the houseboat, standing with her eyes closed in the middle of the sidewalk wasn’t the way to do it.
So she opened her eyes.
Just in time to witness a very small boy dart in front of a fast-moving car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sometimes there are no answers to our questions. And that’s why the Universe made TikTok.
—Evie Oxby,CBS Mornings
The double-parked delivery truck had obviously blocked the driver’s vision, and in what felt like a hundredth of a second, Beatrice saw the driver’s face contort with shock. But no matter what, no matter how quickly the woman slammed on her brakes or spun the wheel, there was no way to prevent the impact. She was going too fast, with no one close enough to the boy to grab him out of the way.
There were no screams, no sound. Not yet. There would be soon. For now, Beatrice was the only witness.
A blast of heat roared through her and suddenly she was toppled, crumpled to the cement.
Then the boy was in her arms, slammed into her body like he’d been thrown at her, which, essentially, he had been.
Because he’d flown.
She’d watched.
One instant, he was about to be mown down by the woman driving the red car, the next it was as if he’d sprouted wings, his small body bent backward as he was shot through the air into her arms. Beatrice looked down at him. His nose was bleeding. His mouth was wide open for three, four, five long seconds, and then his wail matched that of his mother’s, who dropped to the cement next to Beatrice.
“How—I saw him—Dario, Jesus.” The dark-haired woman wiped away the blood with her hand. “Dario, baby, are you okay?”
The boy launched himself out of Beatrice’s grasp and into the arms of his mother.
The driver, an older woman wearing a bedazzled denim jacket, raced toward them, her car abandoned in the roadway. Beatrice could still hear the squeal of her brakes echoing in the air.
“Did I hit him? I swear I didn’t touch him, but how did—did I hit him?”
Beatrice shook her head. “He wasn’t hit.”
“I saw it,” stammered Dario’s mother. “Isawhim fly. To you. It was a miracle. You performed a miracle.” She held the boy in one arm, and with her free arm, she grabbed at Beatrice’s hand. It wasn’t until the woman was pressing her lips to Beatrice’s fingers that she understood what she was doing.
Beatrice yanked her hand away. “I didn’t do anything!”
The driver had tears running down her face. “I swear I didn’t hit him. There was no impact.”
Dario was bawling normally now. The nosebleed had already stopped, and he pulled at his mother’s shirt, trying to hide his face.
