When Sparrows Fall (25 page)

“Oh, you and your big words. What’s an antinomian?”

“You didn’t learn that in Bible school?”

“If I did, I’ve forgotten.”

“Look it up. As I tell my students, if you want to own your answers, you have to earn them.”

She smiled, remembering the stern notes he’d written to himself.
Dig deeper. Define terms
. “I suppose you always verify your facts before you draw conclusions?”

“I try to anyway.”

“What conclusions have you drawn about me?”

He was silent for a moment, then spoke slowly. “You’re stubborn. Smart. Kind. A loving mother. A sincere Christian. A person of integrity.”

“Except for that little matter about my friend, the shoplifter.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, perhaps you skirted around the facts. Just a bit.”

“Or maybe you didn’t verify the facts.”

“How could I, when you didn’t give them to me?”

“Okay, you’re right. I skirted around the fact that my ‘friend’ was my mother.”

The liquid in his glass made a sloshing sound.
“Mother?”

“I’ve never stolen anything except once when she told me to wear a pair of jeans out of the dressing room under baggy pants. I did it, but under protest. And when she stole a prom dress—”

“Prom dress?”

“Would you please stop repeating everything I say? Yes, when I was in eleventh grade, my mom stole a prom dress for me. Exactly the one I wanted. I couldn’t enjoy it though. I was afraid I’d wind up in jail.”

“And did you?”

“No, but Mom did. Not that time, but several other times. That’s why I went to live with my great-aunt for my senior year. She sent me to Bible college, where I met Carl, with all his rules about modest dress and godly music. After my mom’s problems, his rules looked like righteousness.”

“This explains a lot.” Jack’s voice held a note of relief.

“Are you glad to know I’m not a thief?”

“I wouldn’t have held it against you, but I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me the whole story.” He emptied his glass, set it down, and took her hand.

Startled, she looked down at their clasped hands; barely visible in the darkness, their shared warmth served as a physical token of friendship.

A familiar rumbling shattered the quiet night.

Headlights flashed between the trunks of the pines and snaked through the curves of the drive. Mason’s truck pulled into view, its pale blue paint luminous in the light of the moon.

“That’s Mason.” She pulled her hand free and hid it under the quilt as if her skin now bore Jack’s fingerprints.

“He needs some muffler work. That truck’s loud enough to wake the dead. Does he often drop by at this hour?”

“Not at my house,” she said, wondering about Nicole’s cozy apartment. No chaperone there but a cat.

“I hope everything’s all right.”

“Everything’s wrong, Jack. You’re staying under my roof. You’re smoking. You’re drinking. I don’t see how it could look much worse.”

He patted his thigh. “Come sit on my lap, sweetheart. That should do it.”

She startled herself with an unladylike snort of laughter. “You’re terrible.”

“Yes ma’am, but why are you so worried about what Mason thinks?”

Anger raced through her in a white-hot flood. She shouldn’t care anymore what Mason thought. “I’m not worried,” she snapped.

“Liar,” Jack said cheerfully.

The truck’s engine coughed and quit. The headlights died, returning the yard to darkness. Jack stood up, cracked the front door open, and switched on the porch light and the security light that illuminated the stretch of grass between the front steps and the driveway.

“Turn off the lights,” she said, eyeing his empty glass and cigar.

“Why?”

“Just turn them off.”

“I thought you weren’t worried about what Mason thinks.” Leaving the lights on, Jack shut the door. “By the way, several days after I told him about your fall, I met his wife, but she still hadn’t heard. Strange, isn’t it, that he hadn’t told her? And she looked as if she’d been crying.”

“Abigail—when did you—never mind.” Miranda inhaled, trying to suck courage from the night air, and winced as her ribs rebelled.

“She said she’d be praying for you,” Jack added.

Miranda had no time to answer before Mason emerged from the truck and started toward the porch.

“Good evening,” he said. “Are you feeling better, Miranda?”

“Yes, thanks,” she said, her voice tight.

“Thank God.” Mason climbed the steps. “Hello again, Jack.”

The men shook hands, and Mason turned to Miranda again. “Are you in much pain?”

“Not too much.”

“Have a seat, sir.” Jack propped himself up against one of the porch’s columns. “Join the conversation. It’s always fascinating.” He was smiling. As relaxed as could be.

“Thank you, Jack.” Mason sat, planting his feet firmly. Not allowing the chair to rock. “And thank you for being here to take care of one of my flock.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

“It’s a concern as well, of course.”

“And why is that, padre?” Jack sounded too friendly, like a cat that purred as it stalked its prey.

“You know how people talk,” Mason said, staring up at the starry sky. “I’m not accusing anybody of anything, but we’re commanded to avoid even the appearance of evil. It doesn’t look good, Miranda, to have a man staying under your roof.”

She rose so quickly that her chair rocked like mad. So did her head. “I may have a number of things on my conscience, but certainly not
that
. Of course Jack can stay under my roof. He’s family.” Woozy, she limped toward the door.

Jack held it open. “I’ll vouch for Miranda’s character, Reverend,” he said, smiling at her. “She’s a good example for her daughters. And a good example for her sons of the kind of wife they’ll want to find someday.”

“Of course,” Mason said. “But wouldn’t it be better, Miranda, if one of our own women stayed with you instead?”

“No, thank you,” she said, then addressed Jack but raised her voice so Mason would also hear. “You’ve been a godsend, Jack. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Jack’s smile broadened to a wicked grin. “I don’t, either. Good night, Randi.”

The forbidden nickname must have singed Mason’s ears, but Miranda didn’t care anymore. She escaped inside. Jack shut the door after her, and she turned to face it.

“And what do you have on
your
conscience, Reverend Chandler?”

Outside, Jack laughed about something. He had no idea what was at stake, and she didn’t dare tell him.

Jack studied Mason for a moment—the perfectly combed hair, the neat suit, the black dress shoes—and sniffed. The man smelled like toothpaste and a powerful deodorant soap. If he’d reeked of aftershave too, he would have strongly resembled a teenage boy out to impress a girl.

Deciding on barbed civility as his best approach, Jack made himself comfy in Miranda’s chair. “May I offer you a Scotch? Or, if that’s not to your liking, I’d be glad to fix you something else. Coffee? Hot cocoa?”

“No, thanks,” Mason said. “Now, tell me the truth, Jack. What’s going on here?”

“Child care, housework, and good conversation. We haven’t engaged in any hanky-panky—yet.”

“That answer reveals your heart.”

“Can’t you take a joke? Like she said, I’m family.”
And you’re not. Swine
.

“Miranda’s church is her family. We’re the ones who should be here, caring for her and the children.”

“Mmm,” Jack said. “And that’s why you’re here so late? After the kids’ bedtime?”

“I happened to be passing by.” Mason splayed his hands flat against the rocker’s arms, as if bracing himself to rise.

“Why didn’t you come around weeks ago? If I’d been in an accident like Miranda’s, my pastor would have been at my bedside in an hour. Where were you?”

“It isn’t my fault she didn’t call me.”

“You might want to ask yourself why she didn’t. You never called her, once you knew, and you never sent your wife over. You never even told your wife.”

Mason shook his head. “That’s not true. I told her.”

“When? After she’d finally heard it from me?”

Mason let out a slow breath. “Jack, I’m sorry we seem to be getting off on the wrong foot. I hope we’ll get along better in the future.”

“I suppose that’s possible.”
On some other planet
.

Mason got to his feet and pulled keys from his pocket. “I’d better be going. Good night, Jack.”

“Good night.” Jack rose too. His glass was empty but he lifted it anyway. “Cheers!”

Mason didn’t reply. He walked down the steps with great dignity but wasted
no time climbing into his truck and igniting the noisy engine. As the taillights wended their way between the pines, Jack sat down and picked up his cigar. It had gone out. He lit it again, then closed his eyes and tried to absorb everything.

Mason was slick. A tad too courteous and smooth … until somebody crossed him. And there was no missing the tension between him and Miranda. Her narcotics-induced “cold war” comment might have been accurate.

Jack caught himself puffing his expensive cigar as if it were a cigarette. Burning it hot, ruining the flavor. He put it down, poured a second finger of Scotch—a rarity for him—and took a deep breath of the mountain air.

He couldn’t enjoy any of it. Not until he’d had a chat with Miranda.

Grinding out the cigar, he tossed back the rest of his drink, then gathered bottle and tumbler. Inside, he left the booze on the coffee table and caught Miranda as she was about to enter her bedroom.

“Why doesn’t Mason treat you with some respect?” he asked. “He was way out of line to imply that we had something to be ashamed of.”

She retreated a few feet into the room and turned around, breathing hard. “Yes, he was out of line, but I hope you weren’t rude.”

“No ruder than he deserved. But explain the cold war, darlin’.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Men always complicate my life. They tell me what to think. what to do. One of them even slipped drugs into my food.”

Jack fiddled with the box of matches in his pocket and assessed her again. Pale skin—except for the flush of anger in her cheeks. Dark circles under her eyes. A tendency to sway like a reed in the wind. If he still had the drugs, he’d be tempted to slip her another dose.

“You know that was for your own good,” he said. “If you pass out in the middle of a phonics lesson tomorrow, I’ll call your doctor and tattle on you for entertaining visitors until all hours.”

She straightened her spine and lifted her chin as if a puppet master had jerked her into perfect posture. “I didn’t invite either of those visitors to my porch.”

“No? I seem to remember an early morning phone call that invited me to join your household. Actually, ‘commanded’ would be more accurate.”

“Whatever you want to call it, I’m very grateful. Good night.” She closed the door.

“Come back here,” he said to the smoothly planed planks. “I still want to hear about your cold war. If you won’t explain, maybe Mason will.”

The door opened a crack, and he found himself regarding one crystal blue eye.

“Remember when I asked you not to make waves?” she asked.

He leaned forward, bringing his face a few inches from the crack. “Yes. Is Mason the boat you don’t care to rock?”

The door opened an inch wider, revealing a narrow strip of her face. “He’s the boat I don’t
dare
rock.”

“Too late. Between the two of us, we nearly capsized him.”

Her lips parted with a sharp intake of breath, but she said nothing.

Jack bent nearer. If he could talk her into opening the door a few more inches—

She shut the door, nearly catching his nose.

He stepped back, abandoning the imagined kiss. “Miranda? Why did Morgan put you in such a foul mood?”

There was no answer except her footsteps limping across the floor in an uneven rhythm. As their pattern faded into silence, an old song popped into his head.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda, with me
.… The lyrics had always struck him as a passive-aggressive assumption that this Matilda, whoever she was, would let somebody drag her into a waltz. It should have been posed as a question instead.

He walked slowly toward the living room. “Waltzing Miranda, waltzing Miranda,” he sang under his breath.

Mason was waltzing Miranda along, against her wishes, but she still didn’t trust Jack enough to tell him what was going on.

eighteen

J
ack had bought a tiny jar of bubble solution for each of the children. Martha, Gabriel, and Michael laughed and screamed, chasing bubbles across the grass. Rebekah stood still, her cape flapping in the wind that carried hers away.

Jonah, with a minimum of instruction from Jack—don’t drink it, don’t get it in your eyes, and don’t dump it—had taken to it right away. Still, Timothy hovered near, supervising and trying to act as if he were too old to join in the fun.

“Bubble juice is to kids as catnip is to kittens,” Jack said, stretching out his legs.