“Rosie and her sister brought us,” Twila offered. “Uncle Porter said they could.”
“Because Moisey was crying and sobbing and yelling because she eavesdropped on a phone call and heard that you were in an accident,” Milo said, his white-blond bangs falling across his forehead. The twins were identical. Except for their scars. Old cigarette burns and cuts that she’d never asked about.
Maybe she should have.
She could have built a stronger bond with the kids, but even when she’d babysat them regularly, she’d been reluctant to do so.
She’d told herself it was because she wasn’t the motherly type. She didn’t coddle injuries and hover protectively. She liked to teach things. Like how to plow a field or build a chicken coop or clean, card, and spin wool.
But there’d been more to her reluctance than that.
Years ago, she’d wanted kids of her own.
Not fifteen like her father had had, and not one like her mother. Two or three. Maybe four. She and Sim had discussed it when they were dating, and he’d seemed as eager as she’d been to be a parent.
They’d married the day after she’d graduated with her BA. While Sim taught anthropology classes and fiddled in the business world, she’d worked as a teaching assistant and earned her doctorate.
She’d mentioned having a baby after she received a full professorship, but the timing had never been right. At least, according to Sim it hadn’t. First, because she was in school, then because she was teaching.
The year she’d turned twenty-nine, she’d hung up her dream of being a mom. Not because her biological clock was running out, but because she couldn’t stomach the idea of bringing an unwanted child into the world.
And Sim?
He didn’t want kids.
He’d given lip service to wanting them to keep her happy.
He’d sit across the dinner table, sipping wine and giving his opinion of baby names. Hell, he’d even bought a baseball bat and mitt for the son he’d said he was looking forward to having.
But the truth was he wanted to be the one and only, the center of her attention, the person she worked for, catered to, supported and encouraged.
A baby would have changed that.
Sim was smart enough to know it.
It had taken her a while, but eventually, she’d figured it out. Once she had, did she leave the lying bastard?
No! Of course she hadn’t.
She’d put aside the dream, tossed out the baby name books, gifted all the quilts and booties and baby sweaters she’d made to the local hospital, and then she’d kept as far away from kids and babies as she possibly could, because being around them reminded her that she was giving up a lot to have forever with Sim.
“Moisey is an eavesdropper, an eavesdropper, an eavesdropper,” Maddox chanted, dancing around like he’d had six pounds of sugar for dinner.
“I am not!” Moisey shouted. “I overheard, because Rosie talks loud. She has hearing aids, you know! Because she can’t even hear herself barely at all!”
“Rosie isn’t the only one who’s loud,” Heavenly said, hiking Oya a little higher on her hip. “Your voice could break glass.”
“That’s not very nice,” Twila said, putting her arm around Moisey’s shoulders. “Not everyone can have a beautiful singing voice like yours.”
“I wasn’t talking about her singing. When she speaks, it’s like nails scraping chalkboard.”
“That’s enough, Heavenly,” Clementine warned. “Your sister is right. You’re not being very nice.”
“Why should I be? We had to come out here because she was crying, and now we’re going to be stuck here forever. I have two tests tomorrow, and I need to study.”
“If you didn’t want to come,” Clementine said, “you could have stayed home. You’re old enough. Or you could have brought your schoolbooks with you. One of your siblings could have entertained Oya while you studied.”
Heavenly scowled, but she didn’t argue.
Which was good, because Clementine’s head ached and her throat burned, and all she really wanted to do was go home, chug six glasses of water, and sleep.
“Tell you what, how about we all calm down, go find Rosie and her sister, and get home?” she suggested, keeping her voice calm and her expression neutral, because that was the best way to deal with Sunday’s kids.
“They’re down in the cafeteria. Getting coffee and a snack because of Peg’s blood sugar. She needs to eat or she faints. We were supposed to not talk while they were gone,” Twila said, biting at a cuticle and looking worried. “They said if we were good, we could get a treat. Do you think we were good, Clementine?” she asked.
“You were better than good. You were perfect.”
“She’s always perfect,” Moisey said, patting Twila’s shoulder. “She’s the best of the best. Mom always said that.”
“Sunday said we were all the best of the best,” Heavenly said with a tiny smile. “She lied a lot, but she was still pretty cool.”
“I wish we could visit her instead of going home,” Moisey said. “I have the power to bring her back right here in my hands. I can feel it. I bet it came upon me when I cut my finger today. Blood seeped out and power seeped in.”
She held out her hands and stared at them.
“If an entire medical team doesn’t have the power to bring Sunday back, neither do you,” Heavenly said, the gentleness of her tone surprising Clementine.
“Why not? Remember in church? The pastor talked forever about laying hands on people and healing them. And it wasn’t just Jesus who was doing it. Anyone who had faith as big as a pumpkin seed—”
“As small as a mustard seed,” Twila corrected.
“Right. Thanks. Anyone with faith that small could tell a mountain to run, and it would just get up and go,” Moisey continued. “And if someone wanted to heal someone else, he only had to believe he could and it would happen. Back in those days, lame people were running and jumping up all over the place. Blind people were seeing puffs of smoke on cloudy days. Deaf people were hearing pins drop in hay fields. And dead men . . . Dead men were rising up and living again!” She pressed her hand to her chest, enraptured by the tale.
And it hit Clementine like a bolt of lightning. Moisey was a storyteller. Born to bring ancient tales back to life. She’d soak up everything she was told, memorize the details, and repeat them for the sheer pleasure of feeling the words in her mouth, tasting their truths on her tongue.
Just like Clementine and her father and all the generations who’d come before him.
If she were planning to stay longer than it took to get the fields planted, Clementine would teach Moisey some of the ancient tales. But she wasn’t. She had a life to go back to. A life she’d given up for too long because of Sim.
“Only special people can do what the pastor was describing,” Heavenly explained. “Adults. Not kids. But if it makes you feel better to think you can do it, go ahead. Just don’t ask about visiting Sunday tonight, okay? I really do have two tests, and I need to study.”
“It’s not about me feeling better. It’s about Mom coming home. I need her there, Heavenly. Because my heart is broken into a million pieces, and she’s the only one who can put it back together.”
“We have to put our own hearts back together, Moisey. That’s just the way it is.” She shifted her grip on the baby, so she could take Moisey’s hand. “Come on. Let’s do what Clementine said and find the sisters, okay?”
They walked into the hall: Moisey, Heavenly, and Oya. Twila. Maddox and Milo. They were a disparate group of kids—different ethnicities and backgrounds, different circumstances that had brought them into the family—that had become a family because of Matt and Sunday.
Now Matt was gone.
Sunday was out of reach.
And the kids were trying to find their way back home.
Clementine followed them into the corridor, her legs rubbery, her heart beating a little too fast.
; She told herself it was because of the epinephrine she’d been given, but she thought it might have as much to do with Moisey and her broken heart.
Children should never be left to piece themselves back together.
“I was thinking,” she said as they reached a bank of elevators, “it would be nice if we did a project together.”
“What kind of project?” Milo asked, punching the call button once, twice, and again before Clementine caught his hand and tugged him back.
“One that will teach you a little patience,” she said, and he scowled.
“Maddox and I don’t want to learn how to knit baby hats for the hospital. Do we, Maddox?”
“No,” his twin agreed. “We don’t.”
“Who said that’s what we were going to do?” Clementine asked, because knitting hats was the last project she’d pick for the Bradshaw kids. They needed to saw wood and pound nails and build something that would last.
“They’re supposed to be doing it as community service,” Twila said. “They can’t return to school until they make five hats each.”
“You were suspended again?” Clementine asked, wondering how many more chances the twins would have before they were expelled.
“Only because Dallas Winter said Moisey stuck her finger in a light socket and that’s why her hair is so curly.” Milo punched the button again.
“He said that, and you were the one who got suspended?” That was it! She was going up to the school the next day. She might not be their mother, their aunt, or even their kin, but she wasn’t going to let the boys get suspended for someone else’s bullying.
“No. I got suspended for punching him in his lying mouth.”
“Milo, you know that hitting doesn’t solve problems,” she said.
“Maybe not, but it shuts people up fast,” he responded, flipping nearly-white hair out of his eyes and glaring at her.
“Your mother would be really sad to hear that you think that’s okay,” she reminded him, and he looked away, his lips pressed tightly together, his chin wobbling.
He was trying not to cry, and she didn’t have the heart to keep pushing him until he did.
“What about you, Maddox? Did you punch Dallas, too?”
“I don’t believe in physical violence,” he said.
“So, you’re just knitting hats in solidarity with your brother?”
“No. I got suspended for stealing five dollars from Dallas’s backpack.”
“Stealing? You actually took property from someone else and thought that was okay?”
“I didn’t think it was okay. I thought that Moisey didn’t need to cry anymore, and I thought buying her something at the five and dime would cheer her up.”
“He bought me a pink pencil with smiley faces,” she offered.
“And that cost five dollars?”
“It cost twenty-five cents.”
“What did you do with the rest of the money? Spend it on candy? Buy something for your mother?”
“I put it back in Dallas’s bag when I got to school the next day. That’s how I got caught. Mr. Williams saw me zipping the bag back up, and then he found the change, and I pretty much had to tell him the whole story.”
“Maddox,” she said with a sigh. Just that. His name. Because she had no idea what else to say.
How could she be angry at a nine-year-old for wanting to cheer up his sister? How could she judge him for taking twenty-five cents from the kid who’d hurt Moisey’s feelings?
“Rosie said she’d teach the boys to knit the hats, but she’s not very good at knitting,” Twila said. “Everyone was getting frustrated, and Uncle Porter said that enough was enough. He was going to the store, and he was going to buy the hats, and if the school didn’t like it they could kick every one of us out.”
“Only he said every damn one of us,” Moisey whispered.
“I don’t think he’d appreciate you repeating that.”
“I’m not. I’m just telling you that’s what he said.”
“I don’t want to get kicked out of school,” Twila said, her eyes shimmering with tears. “I like my teachers and my friends. Besides, being home without Mom around is boring.”
“You aren’t going to get kicked out of school. As a matter of fact, from this day forward, no one is getting kicked out ever again,” Clementine said, digging through her purse until she found the pack of tissues she kept there. She handed them to Twila as the elevator doors slid open.
She ushered all the kids in, counting heads twice before she let the doors close. “Starting now, we’re all going to live by the golden rule.”
“What golden rule?” Milo asked suspiciously.
“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. In other words, if you want kindness, give it. And that doesn’t mean punching people in the mouth.”
“I didn’t want to punch Dallas,” Milo said. “But Maddox and I are the men of the family now. We have to take care of business.”
“First,” she said, “you are not the men of the family. Your uncles are. Second, taking care of business doesn’t ever involve putting your hands on someone in anger or revenge. If you wanted Dallas punished, all you had to do was talk to your teacher. Or you could have gone to your uncle or Rosie or . . .”
Don’t say it, her brain screamed.
“Me,” she finished as the doors opened again.
She might have said more. Maybe backtracked. Reminded the kids that she wasn’t family and that going to her should be a last resort, but she stepped off the elevator and Porter was there, his hair ruffled, his eyes shadowed, his lips curved in a welcoming smile.
And she lost every word that had been in her head.
She lost every thought.
“Hey,” he said, “I was just heading up to see how you were doing. I thought they were keeping you overnight.”
“I think they mentioned that. I decided I’d rather go home.”
“Then I guess you won’t need these.” He held up a canvas grocery bag that was filled with clothes. “I had Harley grab some of your things. I figured she’d probably have a better idea of what you’d need than I would. I hope you don’t mind me letting her into the house.”
“No. Of course not,” she said, taking the bag, her cheeks hot with something that could have been embarrassment or pleasure. Maybe it was a mixture of both.
She wasn’t used to being taken care of.
Even before she and Sim had split, she’d taken care of herself. If she was sick and needed medicine, she went to the store for it. If she had a flat, she changed it. If she ran out of gas on the side of a busy road, she’d walk to the nearest gas station herself. She cooked. She cleaned. She carried groceries in without ever asking for help, because she hadn’t needed help.
But, sometimes, help was nice.
She’d watch her friends with their partners, juggling jobs and families and chores. They asked for help when they needed it. They gave help without complaint. And the ones who were most successful didn’t keep tabs. They did things because they wanted to, because they could, because being part of a couple was harder and more challenging and more wonderful than being alone.
“Are you okay?” Porter asked, and she nodded, taking the bag from his hand.
“I’ll have to thank Harley when I see her next.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“What?”
“Harley. I drove her to your place to get the stuff. When we finished there, I offered to drop her off at her house. She gave me an address that’s a little outside town. It’s basically a shack. As far as I could see, the place has no running water or electricity. When I asked her about it, she said the property belonged to her grandmother, and it’s a temporary situation.”
“How temporary?”
“She was pretty closemouthed about it, so I called Randall. He said she’s been living there since her parents kicked her out of the house.” He glanced at the kids. “Four years ago. She had a
baby and gave her up for adoption, got into some debt trying to pay doctor’s bills, and she can’t find a rental because her credit tanked. Randall gave her a job at the paper because he felt sorry for her. At least, that’s what he said.”
“Paying five dollars an hour isn’t feeling sorry. It’s taking advantage.”
“He insists he was paying her minimum wage. Not that it’s a whole lot better.”
“Did you want to give her a job on the farm?” she asked, imagining the young woman with the high heels and tight dress trying to fix a fence or plow a field.
“That was my first thought. There’s sure as heck plenty of work to do. But I wanted to run it by you first. She didn’t exactly look like the farmhand type, and I don’t want to add another project to your docket without asking first.”
“I doubt she’d appreciate being thought of as a project,” she responded, thinking through the list of things she needed to get done before planting season was in full swing. “The kids and I are going to build a chicken coop.”
“We are?!” Moisey asked excitedly. “That’s better than knitting hats. Isn’t it better, Milo and Maddox?”
“We’ll be knitting the hats, too,” she clarified. “But the chicken coop is going to replace the one that’s standing. I figure we can start with thirty hens and a rooster. Eventually, the farm should produce enough organic eggs to sell to the local market. For right now, we’ll just concentrate on raising some chicks who will produce eggs for the family. If Harley wants a job, she can help with that. We’ll move from there to expanding the pig pen. I’d like to add another hog, maybe get a few pigmy goats.”
“We’re not going to eat them, are we?” Heavenly asked. “Because I’ll starve before I do that.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a petting zoo. Each of you will choose a pet to hand raise and we’ll let kids who visit the farm feed and interact with them.”
“Why would people visit the farm?” Twila said. “There’s nothing on it but weeds and dead cornstalks.”
“Right now, that’s all there is on it. But this fall, there’ll be a pumpkin patch and a corn maze. Apples to pick. Maybe bonfires every weekend with homemade cider for sale.”
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