by Meg Moseley
What is it?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“You know what it is? Tell me.”
“No, love. You’ll have to wait.”
Martha made a face. “Okay.” Still in a whisper.
“Why are you whispering?”
“I know a secret.” Martha climbed onto the bed and snuggled close. “Uncle Jack did something really, really bad. That’s why he’s sad in his eyeballs.”
“In his … oh. You mean his eyes look sad sometimes?”
Martha nodded against Miranda’s shoulder.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No.” Martha’s head moved sideways this time. “He said nobody knows what he did. Nobody but him and God.”
“Martha, do you know what you are?”
There was a long silence. “A tattletale?”
“Yes. And a gossip. You shouldn’t have repeated what Uncle Jack told you. Now, scoot.”
“Yes ma’am.” Martha climbed off the bed again and ran off, leaving the door open.
“Ah, Jack,” Miranda said softly. “We’ve all got secrets.”
She knew what it was like to have a guilty conscience. Sure, she’d been obeying the authority God had placed over her, but she could have refused to go along with it.
Too late now.
She closed her eyes. With effort, she transported herself into a pleasant daydream of springtime, with flowers blooming and the girls helping her in the garden. They all wore jeans. Bought and paid for too. Not stolen. And pretty shirts. Martha would be adorable in pink.…
Jolted back to the present, Miranda realized she’d dozed off. Outside, Jack yelped, his voice an octave higher than usual.
By the time she made it to the porch, the girls were there, gawking at Jack as he came up the walk with a kitten clamped to his shoulder. A squirming, gangly creature, it was all long legs and big ears, and obviously older than eight weeks.
Jack surrendered the kitten to Rebekah, who snuggled it to her heart.
“Who’s it for?” she asked.
“Anybody who’s brave enough to take her.” Jack massaged his shoulder with a scratched hand. “The little monster clawed her way out of the carrier on the way over.”
“Thank you, Jack,” Miranda said. “I’m sorry you were injured in the line of duty.”
“It was worth it.”
Rebekah carried the writhing kitten to the middle of the rug and sat, cross-legged. The kitten looked around with big green eyes and stilled.
“Look at all her colors,” Rebekah said. “Orange and black and brown and white, all swirled together like—like clouds.”
“One of God’s dappled things,” Jack said, smiling.
Nose to nose with the kitten, Rebekah laughed. “Oh, she’s sweet.”
The other children got wind of the excitement through some mysterious communication system that brought them from all corners of the house. Timothy stood at a distance, but the others crowded as closely as Rebekah would allow.
Two years ago, Miranda couldn’t have adopted a kitten. Carl wouldn’t have allowed it. Now she didn’t have to worry about his preferences. The realization was like the closing of a door in a series of doors. Life never stayed the same. Everything kept moving, kept changing.
Rebekah nudged Jonah away when he tried to lay his head on the kitten. “She’s not a pillow.”
He sat up and stroked the kitten with one finger, then gave Rebekah an inquiring look.
“Yes, that’s good,” she said. “Because kittens are fragile.”
“Not this one,” Jack said in a tone of grim amusement. He sat on the corner of the hearth and stretched out his legs.
“What’s the kitty’s name?” Martha asked.
“Miss Yvonne calls her Hellion,” Jack said, “but your mother might insist we change it to something more genteel, like … Helen.”
“That doesn’t sound like a kitten name,” Rebekah argued.
“Picture her as a grown cat,” Jack said. “An elegant, snooty cat with a rhinestone collar. Helen. Beautiful Helen.”
The kitten twisted onto her back and swatted Rebekah’s dangling braid, then latched on to it with both paws. Rebekah squealed, hunching over and cuddling the kitten to her cheek.
“I think Hellion is appropriate,” Miranda said.
Jack smiled. “Do you object to that, Rebekah?”
“I think it’s nice.” Rebekah kissed the kitten’s head. “Beautiful Hellion.”
The kitten flipped over again. She sat with her tail curled primly around her feet and scrutinized her new home with wary eyes.
Timothy moved closer. “We can’t let her go outside,” he said.
“Because of the wolves?” Martha asked.
“Coyotes.” He scratched the kitten’s white chin with one finger and smiled when she tilted her head to beg for more.
Martha giggled, her face smudged with dirt and her eyes shining.
They were so sweet, each one of them. So vulnerable. And their mother was so tired of living in the fear that she would lose them.
Fasting and prayer. For now, those were her weapons.
Blinking back tears, Miranda tried to focus on the moment and savor the pretty tableau. Six beautiful children and one homely kitten. Everybody was watching the kitten.
Everybody but Jack. From the corner of her eye, Miranda saw him, watching her.
twenty-two
After almost a week of fasting, Miranda didn’t have the energy to join Jack at the window to watch the children as they blew bubbles in the yard. They’d used up the first refill jar already, and he’d produced another from the trunk of his car. It must have seemed like Santa’s sack to the children.
The bubbles were cheap, of course, but his generosity drove her crazy. The photo developing. Construction paper and crayons. Replacement glass for the lily photo. Smoke alarms, carbon monoxide detectors, safety latches. A soccer ball. She was grateful, yet she hated to be in debt to him, and he refused her offers to reimburse him.
“School went well today,” he said. He had Hellion tucked under his arm like a football, and she purred like a rattle-trap jalopy, in fits and starts.
“Yes, it did. Thanks to you.” Another debt.
She would have laid her head on the table and wept except she couldn’t let Jack see her weakness. Once he’d realized she was fasting, he’d made it abundantly clear that he disapproved of the practice.
At the moment, she wasn’t too fond of it herself. Emptiness gnawed at her stomach. She felt faint, airy, disconnected. Every hunger pang was a sharp reminder of her goal: to overcome the flesh so she could hear what God had to say to her, if anything.
Hellion plunged to the floor and galloped out of the room.
“Ungrateful beast,” Jack said, picking a black cat hair from his white shirt.
Except for the cat hair, he could have stepped out of an ad in a men’s magazine. A fashionable bit of stubble on his jaw, a white button-down shirt, khakis. He jingled coins in his pockets. That habit, more than the faint family resemblance, reminded her of Carl. But Jack was kind.
There. She’d admitted it, at least to herself. Carl hadn’t often been kind. Jack drove her to distraction with his teasing and his bossy arguments, but beneath it all, there beat a compassionate heart. He’d become a friend as well as a brother, and he treated her as an equal. That was something Carl had rarely done.
But Jack thought he had all the answers when he didn’t know half the questions.
Miranda’s stomach growled. She tried to pretend it hadn’t.
“When are you going to eat something?” Jack asked, facing her.
“When I’ve finished fasting.”
“Why do you fast? Are you trying to manipulate God into doing something for you?”
“I’m trying to hear God. There’s a big difference.”
“Personal messages from God don’t fit into my theological framework.”
“Neither does God,
then. He’s too big for any man-made box.”
“Touché. But if God speaks to you, please tell me. I want to know if I agree with Him.”
“Oh, listen to your arrogance. Just hush.”
Again, he played with the coins. “I know your history, Miranda. Learned it from Dean, the sheriff’s deputy, who heard it from Tim.”
“Excuse me?”
“When you fast, you faint. When you faint, you fall. Falling isn’t a recommended activity for someone who’s recovering from a brain injury. I’ll be spending less time here, shortly, and I want your word that you won’t starve yourself when I’m gone.”
“Your leave of absence is over?”
“I won’t teach again until the May session, but my other responsibilities keep piling up. Some of them require being on campus.”
“Of course. You’ve already spent days and days looking after us. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t. Thank you, Jack.”
He smiled and waved away her words. “That’s what family is for.” He looked out the window again. “Visitors. A big white van. Does everyone you know have a noisy vehicle?”
A big, noisy, white van. Wendy Perini’s?
Miranda hurried to the front door with Jack close behind. It was indeed Wendy’s van. Leah sat in the passenger seat, and several of the younger girls sat in the back, waving. Martha and Jonah hopped up and down on the grass, waving back, while Rebekah pumped her bike furiously up the drive after the van, her skirt hiked up to her knees.
Jack’s arm brushed Miranda’s back as he leaned against the door jamb. “Friends of yours?”
“That’s Wendy—one of the elders’ wives—and some of her children.” Miranda edged forward, away from the disconcerting warmth of his arm.
Wendy parked her van beside Miranda’s, making the Audi look tiny and outnumbered.
Miranda couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen those two vans side by side. She and Wendy often joked that their vans were twins, so similar that sometimes the younger children climbed into the wrong van after church gatherings.
Leah climbed out, carrying a large covered dish, and shoved the door shut with her hip. Her cape flapped in the wind. Very pretty, that one. Mason had often complimented Robert and Wendy on raising such a beautiful and godly young lady. According to Mason, Leah would make a perfect wife for some lucky man who needed a supportive helpmeet.
Another innocent lamb who didn’t know her pastor was a wolf.
The wind picked up. Leah’s skirt billowed around her long legs, then clung to them as if it were made of flimsy gauze instead of sturdy denim. Sometimes, those baggy dresses were no more modest than jeans.
“They’re bringing a meal,” Miranda said, stating the obvious to help her focus.
“Too bad you’re fasting,” Jack said, oozing mock sympathy.
“Hush.”
Wendy came around the van, and three more of her daughters spilled out of the back. She handed dishes and bags to each one, even little Mary, and the girls followed their mother toward the house. Five capes streamed in the wind like gray sails on a curiously disjointed ship. Wendy was the pregnant masthead, her delicate features drawn with fatigue emphasized by the gray streaks in her ash brown hair.
“Even the vans are clones,” Jack said in Miranda’s ear. “Send in the clones,” he sang softly, then went on humming.
She knew the original. Her mother had stolen the soundtrack.
Miranda stepped onto the porch with Jack right behind her. “Thank you, Wendy, but you should be home with your feet up.”
“It’s no trouble.” Wendy gave Jack a wary peek as she climbed the steps. “We brought a couple of meals, and Leah baked her famous sourdough muffins and a loaf of bread.” Wendy scrutinized Miranda’s bruises and scrapes. “Abigail was right. You had quite a fall.”
“Yes, I did. Wendy, this is my brother-in-law, Jack Hanford. Jack, this is Wendy Perini. These are her daughters. Leah, Esther, Rachel, and Mary.”
“Glad to meet y’all.” A dangerous undercurrent sharpened Jack’s genial tone.
Mary, five years old, smiled at him. Rachel, a chubby nine-year-old, barely glanced at him before she started scanning the yard for Rebekah. Esther, a beauty at fourteen, greeted him politely, while Leah whispered a hello but kept her eyes downcast.
Rebekah ditched her bike and raced across the yard and up the steps to hug Rachel. Wendy gave her younger girls permission to stay outside and play. Jack relieved Rachel and Mary of the bread and muffins just as Gabriel and Michael ran around the corner and shouted their greetings. Timothy followed, more reserved, and agreed to stay outside to watch over the little ones.
Martha slung an arm around Mary’s shoulders. “C’mon, let’s blow bubbles. Uncle Jack bought ’em for us. He gave us a kitten, except she’s really from Miss Yvonne, but I love having an uncle. Do you have an uncle?”
“Come on in, ladies.” Jack held the door open. Wendy, Leah, and Esther swept in, their capes settling in the still air of the house. Then Jack motioned Miranda inside with a nod of his head and brought up the rear.
“Sit down, darlin’,” he said as the others filed into the kitchen. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine.” She lowered her voice. “And don’t call me darl—”
“You’re about to pass out.” He took her elbow and propelled her toward the couch. “Sit. If you faint, I’ll force-feed you whatever they brought.”
He would too. She obeyed, her knees nearly buckling as she sank into the cushion.
“I’ll be fine, as long as you behave yourself.” She tried to make him meet her eye, but he kept looking somewhere past her right ear. “Jack. Look at me.”
Still, he didn’t quite manage it. “What?” He sounded too vague, too casual.
“Don’t stir up trouble. Behave yourself.”
“Yes, Mama. I’ll try.” He took the bread and muffins into the kitchen.
He wouldn’t make any off-color remarks, would he? Wendy had already looked at him askance, as if his presence created a scandal.
“Oh, no. Don’t think that.” Miranda got her legs under her and stood, but they went weak in an instant. She collapsed on the couch again and put her head between her knees. After a few moments, she straightened cautiously and listened, but she couldn’t make out much from the muddle of voices.
They were only putting food away, after all. It wouldn’t take long. Surely Jack could behave himself for a few minutes.
If he felt like it.
Miranda had questions—did the Perinis have any prospects for selling their house, had Robert given notice to his employer, was anyone speaking out against the move?—but hurrying Wendy out the door was more important. The Perini children must have heard about the move, and Miranda wasn’t ready for that information to hit her own children’s ears. Or Jack’s.
When Wendy and the girls returned to the living room, Jack trailed behind, humming softly. Send in the clones. Miranda knew the soundtrack in her head would never return to the correct version of the lyrics.
Wendy took in the clutter of textbooks and library books everywhere. On the couch, the coffee table, the floor. She lingered longest on one that Timothy had brought home from the library. Its cover was a montage of famous faces, including Marilyn Monroe’s.
“Thank you for the meals,” Miranda said.
Wendy met her eyes. “You’re welcome. Is there anything we can do for you before we go?”
Miranda shook her head, wishing she didn’t have to hurry them away. “No, thanks. We’re doing fine.”
“We’d better run, then. I left Matthew in charge of Susanna and the boys, so we can’t stay. No, don’t get up, Miranda. Call if you need anything.”
“Thank you.”
Wendy and her daughters swept toward the door, their capes touching. Jack waved them out with slightly overdone gallantry and followed them onto the porch. There was no telling what he might say or do.
Miranda stood, swaying. By the t
ime she made it onto the porch to stand beside Jack, Wendy and her girls were halfway to the van. Jack kept humming as he watched them climb into the van. Wendy backed it up and turned around, and the van rattled away.
Jack turned toward Miranda. “I have some questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“In the kitchen, I asked that pale young thing—Leah—if she’s in school. She said no, she’s waiting on the Lord for a husband, and while she waits, she’s living with her parents. Serving them. How old is she?”
Trying to remember the number and ages of the Perini children who came between Leah and Esther, Miranda resorted to counting on her fingers. “Leah must be about twenty-six. Twenty-seven, maybe.”
“Still living with Mom and Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Not working? Not going to college? Just waiting for a husband?”
Miranda made a face. “She has some kind of home business or … something.”
“That’s all she’s allowed, isn’t it? Because higher education and careers are for men only. Women have to stay home and bake muffins and birth a baby every year or two. Leah’s mother must be in her midforties, and she’s expecting another baby. If I kept track of all the kids she mentioned, she has at least eight already. It’s insane.”
Ten, actually. “Which one of her children would you ask her to give up?”
“Not a one. Don’t twist my meaning, Mrs. H. I’m just.” He shook his head. “Flabbergasted is the word, I guess. No wonder their van is falling apart. How can they stay afloat, financially, when the man’s the sole breadwinner and the wife pops out babies as fast as she can?” He gave Miranda a cynical smile. “Some churches are known for their evangelistic efforts, but yours must be known for its reproductive excellence.”
“Watch it, Jack. I don’t want to hear your crude remarks.”
“Mother?” Rebekah, her arms folded across her chest, slowly climbed the porch steps. Tear tracks marked her cheeks.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Rachel says we’re moving—to North Carolina. All—all of us.” Rebekah’s choppy words came between sharp, miniature sobs. “The whole—church. What—was she—talking about?”
Miranda found it hard to breathe. Hard to think. A faraway siren split the silence, followed by a deeper sob from Rebekah.