When Sparrows Fall (38 page)

“Sometimes you’re a little too perceptive, Jack.”

“Trying a new church doesn’t make you a rebel or a backslider or a traitor.” He looked in the rearview mirror. “You need a little more of the rug rats’ perspective. They’re as excited as if we were headed for a carnival.”

“I know, but it feels wrong. Like I’m abandoning my friends on a sinking ship.”

“So? They can jump ship too.”

Miranda lowered her voice. “What if this church’s pastor is no better than Mason?”

“I’d guess that nine out of ten pastors are better than Mason. Most clergymen aren’t in it for money or power. They’re in it because they love God and people.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

“And I wish I could drag you up to ’Nooga this morning to meet my pastor. He’s one of the good ones. I’d trust him with my life.”

She stared ahead at the winding road, remembering the day she’d met Mason. She’d thought she could trust him. “How did you decide on the church we’re trying this morning?”

Jack coughed. “I, uh, opened the phone book to the church listings and took a stab.”

“You what?”

He ran a finger under his collar as if it had grown too tight. “You heard me.”

“You steered me away from Yvonne’s church because they believe in prophecies but you’ll trust your fingers to pick the right church?”

“Yes ma’am. I’ll let you have your hang-ups if you’ll let me have mine. Deal?”

Miranda smiled and offered her hand. “Deal.” They shook on it.

Neither of them spoke again until he pulled off the county road to a side road, and from there to the parking lot of a small, brick church surrounded by shade trees. At the front entrance, a man and a woman handed palm fronds to adults and children alike as they arrived.

“It’s Palm Sunday,” Jack said, swinging the van into a parking space. “I’d almost forgotten.”

While he explained the tradition of palm fronds to the children, Miranda watched a middle-aged man help an elderly woman exit the passenger seat of a beat-up car in a handicapped spot. He maneuvered her walker so she could lean on it. Once she’d started moving, he pulled a black Bible and a large, pink purse from the front seat.

Then Miranda noticed his clerical collar. Matching the woman’s slow shuffle, the pastor escorted her toward the building. He let her take her time, as if ministering to a frail and needy lamb took precedence over everything else.

In nine years of knowing Mason Chandler, Miranda had never seen him perform such a simple, humble task. Carrying a woman’s purse was beneath Mason’s dignity, even if that purse wasn’t large and pink.

A purse-toting pastor certainly wasn’t looking after his own interests.

A smile started deep within Miranda and made its way to her lips. Jack’s fingers might have picked just the right church after all.

Jack knew he was leaving something undone. He just couldn’t think what.

It wasn’t as if he’d be gone for weeks and weeks, but an unfortunate confluence of deadlines and committee meetings required his presence in ’Nooga for at least four days. Maybe five.

He walked into the kitchen and cleared paper hearts from the refrigerator door so he had room to affix his phone number at a four-year-old’s eye level. “Martha asked me to teach her how to leave a message,” he told Miranda. “So I did. I’ll leave my number here, just in case.”

“Okay.” Miranda paused in tidying the counter. “I hope she won’t abuse the privilege.”

“I don’t think she will.” He smuggled the hearts into the trash. Martha would never notice.

Sunday had slipped through his fingers in a hurry, half of it taken up with going to church. It had gone well, for the most part. Miranda liked the pastor, Jack’s built-in heresy detector hadn’t gone off, and they’d caught Jonah just before he pilfered a twenty from the offering basket.

Jack had spent the afternoon collecting his belongings, rounding up every last paper and sock and book that had migrated there with him. Now his bags were packed and loaded into the car. Only minutes remained before he had to leave. Only minutes to nail down whatever it was that he’d forgotten.

Circling the kitchen, mindlessly counting rafts of paper hearts, he remembered. “Microwave. That’s it. I was going to run to Clayton and buy you a microwave.”

“I haven’t had one since college. I’ll get along fine without it.”

“It’s the principle of the thing. You need to get over your fear of—”

“Fear? Jack, I’ve never been afraid of microwaves. That was Carl’s notion. I just never got around to shopping for one.”

“Sorry. I’ll—I’ll bring you one.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to. Will you remember to lock up at night?”

She gave him a wan smile. “We’ll be fine. And don’t start lecturing me again, professor.”

“No, I won’t. I’ve been thinking though. I’m glad you like this new church, but maybe you should ask Yvonne to put you in touch with some good, sane homeschoolers. They’re everywhere. Big families, little families. Conservative and not so conservative. Most of ’em are some variety of nonconformist. You’ll find some new friends.”

“I’d say that nearly qualifies as a lecture.”

“I’m sorry. Old habits die hard. Miranda, if you can only—”

“No wonder I have a hard time hearing God speak.” Her voice rose. “There’s always some man telling me what to do, and I can’t hear God for all the noise!” She seized the broom that stood in the corner and started sweeping the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Here, let me sweep.”

“No.”

“Please. It can’t be good for your shoulder.”

He moved behind her, encircling her with his arms and taking charge of the broom, his hands over hers. Bits of construction paper, crumbs of dried Play-Doh, even stray grains of rice from Martha’s bridal spree several days ago. The floor was a mess, and he was inordinately grateful because it gave him more time to waltz across it in a broom dance with Miranda.

“Waltzing Miranda, waltzing Miranda,”
he sang softly. At the last moment, he remembered to turn the line into a question:
“Will you come a-waltzing, Miranda, with me?”

Her shoulders shook in a tiny, carefully controlled sob.

He stopped moving and leaned his head against hers. “Everything’s going to be all right, darlin’.” He brushed his lips against the nape of her neck and felt her shiver. Encouraged, he nuzzled her again. “You smell delicious.”

Timothy walked in, quiet as a cat. Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise or anger or something worse.

Miranda froze. Jack held her more tightly, his lips poised to nibble her ear.

Jack took a breath. “Timothy, you can be loyal to your father but still let your mother move on with her life.”

“Oh, yeah. You two are a great combination.” Timothy curled his lip. “The guy who harps about digging for the truth, and my mother, who lied to me for years about Jeremiah.”

“Show your mother some respect, young man, or you’ll answer to me.”

Miranda twisted out of his arms, and the broom clattered to the floor. “You’re not in charge of disciplining my children.”

Jack raised his hands. “Sorry. I was treating him the way I’d treat him if he were my own son.”

“He’s not your son, Jack.”

“Yeah,
Jack
, I’m not your son.” Timothy swaggered out of the kitchen.

Miranda’s face was white. “I can’t believe he said that.”

“It’s true. He’s not my son.”

“Not that. He called me a liar.”

Jack rubbed his face with his hands, trying to squelch the doubts that kept plaguing him. Maybe it was better to be blunt.

“That’s true too,” he said. “You lied for years by keeping quiet. You deceived Timothy. You made him think he was going insane. He has every right to feel betrayed.”

A small sound behind Jack proved to be Timothy at the table, his hands white-knuckling the back of one of the chairs and his eyes pleading. He wasn’t a guard dog or the alpha male. He was a gangly, half-grown puppy.

“That’s what I tried to say before, but it didn’t come out right.” Timothy’s voice was rough but held no hint of mockery. “Thanks, Uncle Jack.”

Uncle
Jack. He was finally in, but he sensed that in some terrible way, Miranda was out.

“People die all the time,” Timothy said. “Mrs. Perini’s mother died, and the Tenneys’ baby died, but their families still talk about them.” Still gripping the seatback, he hunched his shoulders, shrinking into a younger, smaller
version of himself. Frightened—yet brave enough to keep talking. “Why didn’t you ever talk about Jeremiah before?”

Jack waited. If Miranda explained the fear that Timothy and Rebekah would have blamed themselves, Timothy surely
would
blame himself.

“That was your father’s decision,” Miranda said. “I didn’t agree with it, but I obeyed.”

“You mean he told you not to talk about Jeremiah?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Why? What happened? Did you … hurt him or something?”

Raw pain flashed across her face. “We never would have hurt him. We loved him. We
loved
him, Timothy. We’ll talk about it again, soon, and I’ll tell you more. But not now.”

Timothy nodded, leaving the room with his questions unanswered. Jack had never felt more kinship with the boy or more distance from Miranda.

His doubts winged back to roost in his mind. There were too many questions she had never answered to his satisfaction.

Even her good-bye kiss was tentative. When he let go of her, his heart felt as empty as his arms.

He walked down the steps and made the rounds of the children, giving each one a hug and steeling himself against Martha’s tears. When he reached Timothy, they shook hands, man to man.

“You have my number,” Jack said. “Call anytime. I mean that. And would you like some of my dad’s history books? I’d like to pass them on to you.”

Timothy shrugged.

“You’re his grandson,” Jack said. “I think he would have liked for you to have them. I can bring them next time I come.”

“You’re coming back?”

“Of course. I couldn’t not come back.”

Slowly, Timothy nodded. His eyes warmed. “Okay. I’d like the books.”

“Then I’ll bring them.” Jack surveyed the semicircle of grave faces. “Cheer up, y’all. I’ll be back in a few days. Be good.”

He climbed into the car amid a chorus of good-byes. Miranda stood alone on the porch, leaning her shoulder against one of the pillars.

He turned the key in the ignition, then looked back at the porch and counted the blond heads he’d first counted in a family photo, before he met the younger kids. He’d wished then that Timothy had a smaller number of siblings.

Jack shook his head. Now, he wished Timothy had just one more. Jeremiah.

The younger kids were still clumped together, waving, but Timothy stood apart. As wary and watchful as a Border collie guarding a flock of sheep. Quiet, canny, determined. He might have been capable of helping his mother stand up to the wolf, except he was only twelve.

twenty-eight

I
n the checkout line at the Slades Creek Kroger, Miranda tucked her checkbook into her purse and imagined drawing a big red
X
across another day on her calendar. In a little over twenty-four hours, Jack would be back in town.

She dreaded his visit.

She hated the way he’d looked at her just before he left for Chattanooga. Timothy was acting chilly too. Neither of them trusted her, but she couldn’t offer apologies or explanations until it was safe or at least until it was over.

The red-haired bag boy made short work of pushing her cart out to the van in the warm sunshine, then loaded the bags into the back and closed the door. “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

“Thanks.” She dug in her purse for keys. “You too.”

The boy looked so nice and normal. And—she smiled despite her worries—so did she. Even the checker had noticed her new haircut and the jeans that felt like her personal Declaration of Independence every time she put them on.

“Miranda, wait!” Abigail scuttled between parked vehicles, her long skirt flapping and her face as pink as if she’d run a block.

Miranda scoped out the parking lot, her heart pounding, but didn’t see Mason anywhere. Not that her jeans should matter, but a Declaration of Independence could start a war.

“I can’t talk long,” Abigail said, breathing hard. “Mason’s at the bank. He’ll pick me up in a couple of minutes.” She stopped a few feet away. “I didn’t recognize you at first.”

“Is it too much?”

“No. You look wonderful.” Abigail waved her hand at her hot cheeks. “Mason’s still fixing up the house to sell. He’s scheduled another workday on Saturday. I’ll try to slip away while he’s distracted. Even if he figures it out, he can’t stop me with people watching.”

“This
Saturday? The day after tomorrow?”

“Yes, and if you’d like to tell everybody why, be my guest. Just wait until I’ve had a decent head start.”

Miranda felt faint. She’d wanted it to happen soon, but now it was happening too fast. And she was losing Abigail.

“Does Mason keep the notes he takes in counseling sessions?” she asked.