When Sparrows Fall (22 page)

“They won’t.”

“If they do, I’ll never trust you again.”

“You can trust me,” he said. “Like you trusted me when you named me as the guardian.”

She stuffed crayons into the box, every which way. A red one snapped in half. She crammed the broken pieces in and mashed the lid down. She looked up but didn’t speak.

“On my honor,” he said, “I will keep godless trash out of their hands. Would you like that in writing? in triplicate?”

“No. Go ahead. Take them to the library and use your best judgment.”

“All right, then.” In a hurry to escape with the kids before she changed her mind, Jack took his copy of his pledge into the living room. The girls and the archangels were nowhere in sight, but Timothy was prone on the couch. Book in hand, but not reading it.

Jack cleared his throat. “You overheard that bit of unpleasantness, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Timothy rolled over and met Jack’s eyes. “When are you leaving?” he asked quietly.

“For Chattanooga?”

“No.” Timothy darted a glance at Miranda. “For the library.”

“This afternoon, unless your mother kills me first. And that’s a distinct possibility.”

Jack tucked the paper into his briefcase. When he looked up, Timothy was smiling. Whether it was a sign of camaraderie or that the kid liked the idea of losing his uncle to murder, it was a nice change.

Miranda lowered herself gently onto the couch and savored the quiet. It had been years since she’d been completely alone on her property. Even now, she wasn’t truly alone; Jonah was napping in her bed. But, until he woke or Jack brought the others home, she would enjoy her solitude and relish her victory.

No doubt Jack thought he’d won because she’d let him take the children to the library, but she was the victor. He’d promised, in writing, that he would never report her.

He lived in a different world though, with different standards. There was no telling what kind of garbage he would allow the children to bring home.

“God, please protect them from evil,” she said. “Give Jack some common sense. Remind him to respect my wishes. And help me recover quickly, so
everything can go back to normal.” Her voice cracked. “And please, please, make Mason leave me alone.”

There. She had prayed; God either heard her or didn’t. Would answer or wouldn’t. These days, that was about as far as her faith could stretch.

She leaned toward the coffee table. Some of Jack’s papers lay under a scattering of Martha’s hearts. Miranda brushed a few of the hearts away. Her vision still swam sometimes, and Jack’s ragged penmanship didn’t help, but she could read his notes on the top paper. Some hapless student was coming under fire.

Why? Back up opinion w/facts
.

That sounded exactly like Jack. His own opinions, of course, he regarded as absolute truth. She tried to decipher another scrawled line but could make out only two words,
Not true
.

The handwriting in his letters had always been messy and cramped, as if he’d been in a hurry to jot down a thought and fly to the next one.
Dear Carl and Miranda
, he’d always written, his salutation wisely including both of them even in birthday cards for one or the other. Jack must have sensed that Carl’s jealous streak hadn’t left room even for brotherly friendship.

Exploring further in the paper, she found more of Jack’s pithy comments and questions, demanding facts, logic, references.
Dig deeper
, he exhorted in bright red ink.
Define terms!

Straightening the papers into a neat pile, she glanced at the author’s name. It was
Jack’s
paper? He’d directed his critique, not toward a student, but toward himself.

Smiling at her new perspective on him, she retrieved one of the women’s magazines she’d hidden under the couch. This time, she’d avoid any articles that might threaten her peace of mind.

Again, she found a perfume sample. She ran one finger over the white matte surface of the fragrance strip, then rubbed it over her left wrist. The scent was light and sweet, like violets. Like springtime without sorrow. It made her feel starved for sunshine.

She wrapped herself in her cape and took the magazine outside. With the bedroom window cracked open, she would hear Jonah when he woke.

Jack’s shiny black car stood uselessly in the drive. He had taken the van. She didn’t have keys to his car, nor did she have two good hands at the moment, nor did she know how to drive a stick shift. Carl had believed that was an unwomanly skill. Even if she didn’t have a child sleeping in the house, she couldn’t have escaped.

Tired of the porch, she proceeded to one of the two white Adirondack chairs that sat on the grass, their paint peeling. Above her, a hawk cried. Dark against the sky, the bird dipped and wavered, and the sun shone through its tail feathers, making them brick red. The hawk looped and circled over the woods and finally soared out of sight. Free to choose its own course. Free to make choices, bad or good.

Sometimes she wasn’t even sure she wanted freedom. Freedom wasn’t safe.

She opened the magazine—to a two-page ad for lingerie. It reminded her of Jack’s comment about pink lace. He hadn’t said anything racy, yet his wink and the twinkle in his eye had made her blush.

At least she hadn’t rebuked him. If she had, and he hadn’t meant a thing by it, then they both would have known that she, not Jack, was entertaining impure thoughts about lacy lingerie.

She closed the magazine. She should have brought her Bible outside instead, to cleanse her mind.

Jack probably had a girlfriend back in Chattanooga, anyway. A polished, professional woman. The kind who paid for real manicures and real haircuts in real salons. She would shop at department stores with her own money. She would make her own decisions about jeans and red sweaters and big, shiny earrings. She wouldn’t be a frumpy housewife who wore home-sewn clothes and hand-me-downs.

The purring of an engine caught Miranda’s ear. Abigail’s car pulled around the curve in the driveway. Miranda’s heart leaped—but Mason was at the wheel. He was alone.

She hid the magazine under her cape. Feeling like a turtle, she pulled her hands and arms in too so he wouldn’t smell the fragrance on them. Then she went cold all over. She couldn’t hide Jack’s car.

Mason climbed out of the Buick, the wind whipping against his trousers. Paying no attention to the Audi, he gave Miranda a warm smile. “Hello, Miranda.”

“Hello.” A heavy strand of hair fell into her face. She felt like a messy child who’d been playing with Mommy’s perfumes. And Mason—why was he pretending he didn’t see the unfamiliar car sitting there? Didn’t he see her scrapes and bruises?

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“Yes … you’ve heard about my fall?”

“I stopped by when you were in the hospital. Jack filled me in.”

Mason knew about Jack? Jack hadn’t said a word about it.

Her pulse speeding, she gave Mason a casual nod. “I see.”

Mason took the other chair, crossing his legs at his ankles. “Where is everybody? The van’s missing.”

“Jack took the children to town.”

Mason ruminated on that for a moment. “As you can imagine, I was surprised to find him staying here. I was even more surprised when he told me you’d named him as the guardian of the children.”

“He’s a Hanford. He’s family.”

“True, but I’m concerned about his influence. You haven’t been in church for weeks.”

“That isn’t his fault. First, we had that bout of chickenpox. I had one contagious child after another for weeks. Then I fell. Then Jack came.” She took a quick breath. “How’s Abigail?”

“She’s packing. She’s looking forward to the move. That’s what we need to discuss, Miranda.” He ran his forefinger over the weathered arm of her chair as if to point out that it needed a fresh coat of paint. “You’ll get a much better price if the place is in good shape. Have you taken even the first steps on the checklist?”

Until that moment, she hadn’t recalled wadding up his list and tossing it over the cliffs. “No, I haven’t. It’s still hard to get through the day without dealing with anything extra.”

“If you’d started the process before your fall, the place could have been on the market for weeks already.” He pulled two business cards from a pocket and handed them to her. “These folks will put you on the fast track.”

She squinted at the cards. One of them read
Palisades Properties
. The other one advertised a handyman’s services. Their numbers had been on the checklist.

“Miranda, I still sense a certain resistance,” he said. “You don’t want to be the last one to sell and move, do you?”

“No.” She didn’t want to sell and move, period.

“Then you’d better get busy.”

Why was he so determined to make her move? Some reckless impulse dropped the question onto her tongue. “Is Nicole moving?”

“You let me worry about Nicole. You need to worry about Miranda.”

No sign of nerves or guilt. He was so smooth—or he was innocent.

He stared off into the distance for a long time, then spoke softly. “I’m sure you don’t want to face the elders again.”

She shook her head. Robert Perini was the only tender-hearted man among them. She’d squirmed on a hard metal chair while Mason scolded her and the other men sat still and silent as a jury. Tiny, colicky Jonah had cried until Abigail took him to the back room, but he’d still refused to be comforted. Miranda’s aching breasts had leaked milk as she’d endured what she remembered now as the Inquisition.

All because she’d refused to give up her camera.

Mason stood, towering over her, the late sun catching a faint sheen of perspiration above his upper lip. “Ever since you lost your husband, you’ve leaned on the church for a great deal of support. Financial support, moral support. If you stay behind, you’ll be on your own.” His silvery eyes bored into her.
“That will be difficult if DFCS starts poking around. I hope it won’t go that far, but it could.”

Stunned, she stared up at him. “Are you threatening me?”

“Not at all, but I’ll always do whatever my conscience requires, even if it means exposing someone’s wrongdoing.”

She hesitated, her pulse racing. “What if my conscience requires that I expose yours?”

“Who has the most to lose?” he shot back.

Then he was guilty—of something. An innocent man wouldn’t have responded that way, wouldn’t have to calculate who had the most to lose.

Miranda couldn’t speak. She could hardly breathe.

His nostrils flared. Then his face softened with a sympathetic smile. “It’s happening again, isn’t it, Miranda? The mixed-up thoughts. The topsy-turvy emotions. If you’re not careful, you’ll find yourself in trouble again.”

About to argue, she stopped herself. If he thought he could manipulate her into confusion and compliance, he might leave her alone a little longer. She could buy time by playing along.

She hung her head so he couldn’t read the contempt in her eyes. “I need to examine my heart.”

“You do indeed. I’ll be praying for you, Miranda.”

“Thank you.”

She watched his shiny black shoes until they turned in the long grass and moved toward Abigail’s car.

Long after he’d driven away, Miranda sat there, weighing her risks and responsibilities. They were many. If she was meant to stay in Slades Creek, she would pay a high price.

She tore both business cards in half, then in quarters, a task that became painful when one of the nearly healed cuts on her right hand broke open again. Some of the pieces were smudged with blood when she tossed them into the wind.

Facing a cold breeze, Jack led Miranda’s brood out of the library and tucked her library card into his wallet. He’d picked up applications for the kids in the hope that she would sign them. If he’d thought ahead and brought proof of Miranda’s residence, he could have taken advantage of having the same surname and signed the forms himself.

Everybody climbed into the van. While the engine was getting its wits together, he turned on the heat, buckled his seat belt, and checked in the mirror. “Ready to roll, troops? Everybody strapped in?”

“Yes sir,” five young voices chorused, drowning out the irritating roar of the heater’s fan.