When Sparrows Fall (17 page)

That was a far cry from her own experience. Carl’s behavior was anything but reckless, and he was only twenty-nine. From her teenage perspective though, he was a much older man. He’d made her feel grown-up. Important. Honored to be the object of his affection.

She turned the page and frowned as she read on. If the relationship was forbidden, involving marital infidelity or an age gap that was too large to be socially acceptable, the thrill was greater still. When a young woman fell for a much older man, she was likely to fall hard. He, flattered by her interest, would encourage it. With both parties adding fuel to the fire, the romance could heat up in a hurry.

I’m not afraid of a little heat
, Nicole had said, linking her arm through Mason’s.
I want to know your mystery ingredients
. He’d smiled and said he wanted her secret spices too.

Miranda’s heart thumped at the memory and the inappropriate suspicion that followed. But that was ridiculous. They’d only been talking about chili.

Closing the magazine, she placed the recollection in context. Abigail’s kitchen after the chili cookoff in the fall. Abigail was still outside clearing the picnic tables when Miranda stopped in the doorway, searching the counter for a bare spot where she could set a basket of leftover cornbread.

If Mason and Nicole were only discussing food, they shouldn’t have dived for opposite ends of the kitchen when they realized they weren’t alone anymore. He went to the sink and washed his hands. She opened the fridge, her dark hair tumbling onto pink cheeks.

Miranda’s heart beat faster as she recalled other snatches of overheard conversations. Furtive smiles. Body language that whispered secrets beyond recipes.

Mason—and sweet, naive Nicole? Nicole, who blushed and simpered when he gave her a fatherly wink. Or maybe those winks weren’t fatherly.

Nicole lived alone with a cat while she waited—and waited—and waited—for God to send her a husband. And there was Mason, a handsome, smooth-talking man in a position of authority. A man who was, on occasion, a
little too charming in the presence of the single women, especially when his wife wasn’t in the room.

“No,” Miranda said out loud. Surely these fears about Mason were only some kind of concussion-related paranoia. Refusing to dwell on evil imaginations, she opened the magazine to an article about inexpensive family vacations. But she couldn’t concentrate.

Rustlings came from the kitchen. Jack, probably. Making himself entirely too much at home. Browsing through her school records, maybe, looking for something to show DFCS.

Her fears came roaring back. Ignoring her smashed ribs, she eased her legs over the edge of the bed and put her weight on them. Still working her robe over her shoulders, she moved down the hall.

Light spilled into the living room from the kitchen. The couch was empty.

Jack sat at the table with his back toward her, flipping through a thin pile of papers. One of her Christmas angels stood beside his elbow, and he’d taken some books from her shelves.

Of all the nerve.

She crept close enough to squint over his shoulder at the paper in his hand. A heading, in bold print, read
Scriptural basis for submission
.

At least he wasn’t snooping in her school records.

“From smoke into the smother,” he said softly. “From tyrant duke unto a tyrant brother.”

A board creaked beneath her feet, betraying her.

He jumped. “Miranda. Are you all right?”

She fumbled to hold her robe closed over the sturdy flannel of her nightgown. “Do you rummage everywhere? What are you doing with that angel?”

“I was stashing my Glenlivet in the cupboard. Found the angel and took a closer look.”

“Your Glen—what?”

His smile managed to be both innocent and challenging. “My booze. Don’t worry, I never abuse the privilege. But shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I can’t sleep. Don’t tell me to rest. And don’t tell me to take a pill.”

His smile faded away. “I worry about you.”

“Please don’t.”

“Very well, then. Since you’re up …” He pulled out a chair for her, but she ignored it. “I would like to know what you believe. And why.”

“Believe about what?”

“Various teachings. Some of them I found online and printed at my house.” He indicated a sheaf of papers on the table. “The author of this particular batch is the same man who wrote some of your books.”

“Why are you snooping through my bookshelves?”

“I didn’t snoop. They were in plain view. Please, can we talk about these things?”

It would be better than lying awake, imagining horrible things about her pastor. Miranda sighed and settled into the chair beside Jack’s, careful to hold her robe closed. Her ribs complained with every movement.

“All right,” she said. “Go ahead.”

Jack ran a finger down the page. “Let’s start with this statement. ‘Obedience to God-given authority is the linchpin of society. Children are to submit to their parents; wives, to their husbands; believers, to the spiritual authority over them.’ Agree or disagree?”

She agreed with the general principle, so she nodded.

“All right; next one. ‘Marriage vows are to be honored at all times, and God’s blessing of conception must never be avoided or refused.’ Agree or disagree?”

“I agree about the wedding vows, of course, and I believe every child should be welcomed as a blessing from God.”

“Do you believe every married couple must have as many children as possible?”

She repressed a shudder at the memory of childbirth and the dark days afterward. “No.”

Jack nodded. “Okay, how about this one? ‘A married woman’s calling is to
serve her husband and children at home, while a single woman should remain in her parents’ home and serve them until she is married. She should not pursue higher education because her calling is higher still as she is her husband’s God-given helpmate.’ ” He raised his eyebrows and waited.

Her eyes watered. Poor Nicole. Even if she was guilty of nothing more than infatuation, she might have been better off if she’d gone away to college. “That’s a mixed bag. It all depends on the situation.”

“Okay,” Jack said. “Now, here’s an interesting belief. ‘A woman should not vote, as her opinion is represented by her husband if she is married or by her father if she is single.’ ” He waited, tapping one finger against the table.

“Carl let me vote.”

“No, the Constitution lets you vote. It shouldn’t have been Carl’s decision. If I’d told Ava she couldn’t vote or had to agree with my vote, she would have kicked me to the curb.”

Miranda shrugged, trying to imagine any woman kicking Jack anywhere. “Go on.”

“All right. Some fathers believe a teenage girl shouldn’t get her driver’s license because her future husband, when he comes a-courtin’, might prefer that she doesn’t drive. Are you familiar with that belief?”

“It’s a new teaching that’s making the rounds lately. I think it’s extreme.”

“That’s one way to describe it.” Jack shuffled through his papers. “The folks who abide by the extreme rules … do they think their obedience will make them a little more saved?”

“I don’t know, but obedience honors God.”

“Are they obeying God though? Or are they obeying men who claim to speak for God? Men who might be wrong?”

She kept quiet, remembering Mason’s pronouncement about the move.
I have a word from the Lord
. Carl had used the same phrase to justify the worst decision of his life.

Jack gestured toward the books and booklets scattered across the table. “Where did these come from? From Mason?”

She felt like a suspect being grilled by a shrewd and unsympathetic lawyer. “No. Carl had most of them before we were married. I’m not sure where he got them.”

“Would Mason agree with them, in essence?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’s no better than a common thief.”

That was one of the phrases they’d thrown around, she and her mom, in that horrible argument about the prom dress. An unexpected flood of shame heated Miranda’s cheeks.

“What do you know about common thieves, Jack?”

“Enough to know Mason’s worse. He hasn’t stolen your possessions. He’s stolen your freedom. Your ability to think for yourself. And all in the name of God.”

Maybe he’d done worse too. Miranda felt like a child standing on the beach with the sand being swept out from under her feet.

Jack picked up the angel, turned it over, and inspected the oval label on the bottom. “One of the books teaches that failure to conceive is God’s punishment for sin, and that neglecting to tithe opens the door to infertility and miscarriage. Do you agree?”

Those views didn’t make sense when she held them up to the light of real life. Mason always put ten percent of his salary right back into the church’s coffers, yet he and Abigail had never been blessed with children.

Of course, if he was an adulterer … But then, if his philandering was a recent development, there was no cause-and-effect. Miranda hoped she was wrong about him, anyway. It was only a crazy hunch with no facts behind it.

She started to shake her head in sheer weariness but stopped. Jack would take it to mean “No” to his question, and she simply didn’t know what to believe anymore.

“Miranda, do you agree or disagree?”

She couldn’t recall the original question. “I … I don’t know.”

He blew out a short breath. “You don’t know.”

He righted the angel and clenched it, squeezing the life out of it. She wanted to tell him to be gentle. To honor what it represented.

“You don’t know,” he repeated. “You think there may be some truth to those teachings?”

Desperate to end the conversation, she nodded.

Jack spoke a sharp word under his breath, and the angel’s wing snapped in his hand.

thirteen

A
brown dragonfly zigzagged in front of the dirty windshield as Jack drove across a narrow bridge. The shallow creek was the same one that flowed at the bottom of Miranda’s cliffs, a couple of miles away.

Mason Chandler’s number wasn’t in the phone book, but Miranda’s address book had yielded the necessary information. Jack had also noticed a listing for “Gilbert,” crossed out with a single line of bright red ink. He’d entered the Gilberts’ number into his phone and the Chandlers’ address into his memory.

He found Hollister Road tucked into a steep valley between rocky hillsides. Taking a right, he drove slowly, reading numbers on mailboxes until he found the one he wanted. A realty company’s sign stood beside the Chandlers’ mailbox.

He parked on the shoulder and took a flier from a holder below the sign. The price seemed low for the area’s property values. Considering what that might mean, Jack folded the flier and tucked it in his pocket. He hiked up a
steep, winding driveway thickly bordered with evergreens. Like Miranda’s place, it was almost too secluded.

Around a curve, a small brick house came into view. An aluminum flagpole stood in the middle of the yard, the American flag rippling in the breeze. Smoke drifted from the chimney, but no lights were on, even in the fading light of late afternoon.

The burgundy Buick stood beside a blue pickup truck, its paint flaking and faded. The truck’s door sported the words
Chandler Electrical Contractors
and a phone number. There was nothing wrong with a man of the cloth running a business on the side, but judging by the condition of the truck, the electrical business didn’t contribute much income.

The house and yard were well-kept, if devoid of charm. Through a gap in the trees, Jack saw a plot of cultivated ground. A garden, waiting for spring. Even in summer, it must have been starved for sunlight.

At the door, he tried the bell. Nothing happened. The electrician’s doorbell was broken.

Jack knocked. Waiting, he counted tiny pine cones in a dried-flower wreath that resembled the one on Miranda’s door. Mrs. Chandler must have also been into earth-mother crafts. Being married to Mason though, she wasn’t likely to make Jack’s list of favorite people.

Fourteen pine cones. He was tempted to pull one off, merely to make it an odd number, but he refrained. He’d done enough breaking of delicate items lately. Every time he remembered the hurt on Miranda’s face when the angel’s wing snapped, he wanted to kick himself.

Footsteps approached. A dead bolt slid back. The door swung open to reveal a short, plump woman of sixty or so in a dark, conservative dress. Silver braids topped her head like a crown. Jack thought immediately of Queen Victoria in mourning.

“Mrs. Chandler?” he asked, suddenly unsure.

“Yes?”

“I’m Jack Hanford. Miranda’s brother-in-law.”

She frowned. “Why are you here? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, she’s improving every day.”

Mrs. Chandler drew a sharp breath. “Improving? What’s wrong?”

“You never heard about her accident?”

“No.” She took a quick look over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “What happened?”

“She fell from the cliffs and wound up in the hospital.”

“The cliffs? Oh, poor Miranda. Is she still in the hospital?”

“No, she’s home, and there’s not much wrong with her that a little time won’t fix. I’ve been helping out.”

Another furtive peek behind her. “Are you sure she’s going to be all right?”

“Absolutely. She’s doing well except she won’t take her pain pills.”

Mrs. Chandler clasped her hands and worked them against each other. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been there. How are the children?”

“They’re as lively as ever. When I left, they were finishing their Saturday chores.”

“I have a big pot of soup if you need anything for tonight.”

“Thanks, that’s very kind, but what I’d like most is to speak with your husband.”

Her eyes, flickering toward the blue pickup, might have shown the sheen of tears. “He’s … not available.”

Jack hesitated, reluctant to press her for a more direct answer. “I can try again sometime.”

She was in a hurry to close the door. “Tell Miranda I’ll be praying for her,” she said so softly that she might have thought someone was listening.