by Meg Moseley
“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 court
eous 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
Jack 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.
Miranda wished he hadn’t chosen to sit in the Adirondack chairs. After nine or ten days, it wasn’t likely he would find a bloodied scrap of a business card in the grass, but if he did, she’d be hard pressed to explain.
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re always picking up something for us. Books, bubbles, my photos …”
“Speaking of photos, may I ask why you named the camera Jezebel?”
She shook her head, remembering Robert Perini’s quiet suggestion. If she was forbidden to use the Jezebel camera to earn money, it was only fair to make it up to her by helping out with the church’s benevolence fund. As much as she’d appreciated the gesture at the time, the small checks had only made her feel more indebted to Mason.
“I bought the camera from a retired photojournalist,” she said. “A woman who traveled all over the world. Even when I was only taking pictures in my own back yard, I tried to imagine all the sights the camera had seen. It helped me see everything with new eyes.”
“But you haven’t explained where the name came from.”
“It was my little joke about working women.” She waited, expecting another question.
“Oh, no,” Martha wailed. “I spilled half of it.”
“You still have half,” Jack called. “Enjoy it.”
She whirled around, flouncing her skirt and cape, and went back to blowing bubbles.
“I knew that would happen,” Miranda said.
“So did I. I bought a couple of jumbo refills, but I haven’t let the kids see them.”
“For not having children, you seem to understand them pretty well.”
“I spent five years as an uncle. Ava has a niece and two—”
Martha screamed. “Oh, no! I spilled the rest! It’s all gone, every drop!” She clapped her hands over her mouth, muffling heartbroken sobs.
“I predict a theatrical career for that one,” Jack said. “But look. Her devoted servant is coming to her rescue.”
Timothy was already by Martha’s side, offering his jar and wand. She grinned through her tears. He gave her braid a gentle tug, then went back to supervising Jonah.
“He does love his siblings,” Jack said. “He watches after them like they’re the lambs and he’s the sheepdog.”
“Yes, he does. You and Timothy have a lot in common.”
“No, he’s a lot more responsible than I was at that age.” Jack shook his head. “He’s a good kid. Mad at the world though. Do you know why?”
“No.”
“Carl died only two years ago, and God only knows how that still affects Timothy. You might need to get him into counseling.”
Anything but counseling. She shivered.
“My dad put me in counseling when my mom died,” Jack added. “It helped.”
She didn’t answer. She tugged her cape more securely over her legs.
“Cold? Would you like a quilt? A cup of hay water?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Except something’s bothering you.”
“Just a few things. A miserable headache, dizziness, ribs that hurt every time I move—every time I breathe—not to mention bruises and scrapes and scratches. And I am so tired of wearing this sling.”
Jack smiled. “Sorry I asked.”
The children had scattered all over the yard. Martha quickly blew and dribbled and spilled her way to the bottom of Timothy’s jar of bubbles. She dropped it on the grass and wiped her soapy hands on her skirt.
“Push me in the swing, Timothy? Please?”
“Sure.” He followed her to the old wooden swing that hung from the tallest oak. Once she was situated, he gave her a solid, steady push. Her cape billowed behind her as he pushed her into a higher and higher arc.
I
t was like going back to childhood, or to a dream of childhood as it should have been. The wind sang in the trees, joined by the friendly creaking of the swing’s ropes. If Miranda focused only on the moment, it was a happy moment.
But Mason kept encroaching on her thoughts. The way he’d threatened another session with the elders. The way he’d asked who had the most to lose. Something plagued his conscience. If she could find proof of it, whatever it was, she’d have ammunition to use against him. Even if it wasn’t equal firepower.
That was mutual blackmail though, ugly and ungodly. On the other hand, it wasn’t right to let a church blindly follow a man who wasn’t trustworthy.
Jack was saying something about child-rearing practices, but she hadn’t been listening.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“I was just saying they’re kind to each other, usually, and they have good manners. They’re excited about bubbles and bikes and baking a perfect loaf of bread. They aren’t numbing their brains on video games or ruining their spelling by texting their friends. I can honestly say I’m proud to be their uncle.”
“Thank you, Jack. And I’m very thankful that they have you.”
Across the lawn, Michael and Gabriel argued cheerfully about something. Rebekah walked backward across the grass, watching her bubbles float away. Jonah still sat in the chair, blowing a steady stream. Her last-born child, he looked very much like her firstborn.
As Timothy pushed Martha, she started singing, her voice jerking loud and soft with the swing’s movement. It was too far away to make out the words.
Timothy gave her a savage push that shoved the swing sideways. “It’s not funny.”
“Is too!” Martha went on singing while the swing rocked out of its usual orbit.
“So much for kindness and good manners,” Jack said.
Timothy yanked one of the ropes, then let go. Thrown off kilter, the swing twisted in a crazy spiral. Martha screamed as if she were in mortal danger although she was perfectly all right.
Her brother backed away from her flailing shoes. “Shut up, Martha!”
“Stop being mean to your sister,” Miranda said, but the wind swallowed her voice.