“Well, let’s get the addresses and visit them one by one. Surely, it’s better than wandering around a neighborhood hoping someone might remember something that happened years ago.”
Miranda hit a button that started the printing process and turned to him with her arms across her chest. She gave him a tight smile and avoided his eyes. When the printing completed, she pulled the pages out and held them toward him.
Spencer took the papers with a frown. “Are you angry at me for having an idea, Miranda? I thought you wanted to find your sister.”
“Of course I want to find my sister,” she said. “But I know you just want this whole thing over with. And I don't blame you.”
Spencer struggled against mounting exasperation. “I’m sorry if I seem upset. But I am trying to help.”
Miranda seemed to deflate before his eyes. She put a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Spencer. You’re right. I really do appreciate your help.” She opened her eyes and gave him a weak smile. “Thank you.”
More mollified than he wanted to admit, Spencer cleared his throat and consulted the printed map. “There’s one within walking distance. Let’s check it out.”
***
Miranda stumbled on an uneven portion of sidewalk. Spencer’s arm came around her waist to steady her. When he released her, she mustered a rigid smile. Her own pettiness appalled her. Why am I upset that Spencer has thought of an idea I haven’t? A good idea was a good idea—at least it made more sense than trying to find a half-remembered neighborhood. Maybe this was the break they needed. She’d been in shock after the death of her mother, unable to put together a detailed strategy for locating a lost sibling in a city of thirty million people.
The hopelessness of the effort lodged in her throat. Who am I kidding? The task was insurmountable. Even with Spencer’s help, she despaired of finding Soledad. She tried to remember how she’d found her mother. Somehow it had seemed simple. But she remembered the doubts, the fear of failing, the terror of discovery once she brought her mother home. It was almost as if she’d found her mother by sheer force of her will. Why isn’t it working the same way now?
Miranda glanced up at Spencer. He strode along, appearing to her eyes to be confident, in control, and assured that whatever he put his hand to would prosper. Does he ever suffer from pangs of doubt? Has he ever experienced desperation?
Was that what separated them? She—tossed by desperation and worry, and he—secure and certain things would go his way? What if they didn’t? What if Spencer and his assurance failed? Could she accept returning to the states without her sister? The thought clawed at her, making her want to scream.
“Miranda?”
She focused her gaze on Spencer. He stopped and put his hand on her arm.
“Are you okay?”
Miranda blinked and nodded her head.
His expression relaxed. “You cried out like you were in pain. I thought you were hurt.”
“I’m fine.” Her voice sounded thick. She swallowed and resumed walking, aware of Spencer’s frequent glances in her direction. Anguish dogged her steps, slowing her down. Soledad, Soledad, where are you?
Moments later, Spencer stopped, putting out his arm to halt her.
“Miranda, we’re here.” He pointed to the paper in his hand. “First one on the list.”
He pulled on an old wooden door recessed into the stone arch of an impressive edifice and ushered her ahead of him. Miranda walked inside, feeling the cool, quiet air and smelling the mustiness of dry rot and old books. The dim interior contrasted with the jeweled light spilling in through the stained glass. Candle flames from votives wavered at their entrance. Rows of polished oak pews sat empty, awaiting the next Mass.
Spencer led the way up the aisle between the pews. Miranda looked at the domed ceiling adorned with heavenly frescoes. At the altar in front, a large crucifix towered over them. The life-sized, wooden Christ appeared weary with the endless human failures brought before him. Miranda averted her gaze.
“What are those?” Spencer asked, touching some tiny metal pieces festooning the white robes of the Christ figure. They were shaped as people, angels, and animals.
“Milagros.” Miranda said quietly. “It means ‘miracles’ or sometimes even ‘tears’. Worshipers leave those there, hoping for a miracle or a blessing.” She touched her necklace, her fingers worrying the pendant of the baby. Perhaps she should leave it at the altar. The figure felt so tiny in her hand. Such a small ornament for such a large problem.
Miranda dropped the necklace back into place and forced her hands to her sides. Exhaling, she took several steps away from Spencer, hoping he hadn’t noticed her furtive behavior.
A footfall echoed in the stillness. A form detached from the deeper shadows of the sanctuary and seemed to float toward them. Miranda assumed him to be the priest. He smiled in greeting. “Buenas dias, hijos míos. ¿Cómo les puedo ayudar?”
Spencer glanced at Miranda. She took a deep breath. “Has this church ever been involved in adoptions of Hispanic children to American families?” she asked in Spanish. “It would have been about twelve years ago.”
The priest put his hands together and bowed his head as if in prayer. Miranda stifled a stab of impatience. Yes or no? Already, in her bones, she felt she knew the answer.
“I’m sorry,” he said in Spanish. “We have only just begun working with a Chicago based church in that ministry. We have not done any adoptions in the past.”
“Are you aware of any area churches who've been involved in adoptions?”
“I'm sorry. I'm newly assigned here and still learning my way around. The secretary is out for the afternoon, but perhaps...”
Miranda shook her head. “That won't be necessary.”
She gazed up at Spencer, knowing he'd gotten the gist of the conversation. He nodded, his expression void of emotion.
Miranda thanked the priest for his time and she and Spencer exited the church. She winced at the light outside, feeling assaulted by its glare.
“Well, we’ve narrowed our search by one. That’s something.”
Spencer’s attempt at cheer did little to dispel the gloom settling in her heart. For once, she was grateful for his confidence and purpose. At the moment, she had none.
***
Miranda closed the door behind her and sagged against cool wood. The hotel room sat shrouded in darkness and she made no move to turn on the lights. She welcomed this short respite from disappointment. After visiting twenty-two churches and coming up with no information, she needed the break. She tried not to think of the hundreds, maybe thousands of churches they had not visited. How many more times could she take a negative response? “I’m sorry, señorita, but we cannot help you.” A litany of apologies from priests and caretakers went round in her brain.
Miranda thought of the baby milagro she wore around her neck. She half-wished she’d placed it on the hem of the Christ-figure along with the others. Even if the act would be largely symbolic, there was no denying she needed a miracle. She realized that now. Any logical hope of finding Soledad was ridiculous. For once, she had to agree with Spencer.
Miranda moved away from the door and changed into her pajamas. After washing her face and brushing her teeth, she wandered around the room. Swallowing back a dry sob, she sank onto the edge of the bed, wrapping her arms around her middle as despair squeezed her heart in a giant fist.
Spencer. She appreciated his attempts at helping, and once again, her conscience stung at her rude treatment of him. Miranda wished she didn’t feel so beholden. Who was she to demand anything of him?
She suddenly remembered how wonderful it felt to be in his embrace after he pulled her back over the edge of the balcony. She was an idiot. She’d had him to herself all day and she’d dragged her heels every step of the way. Now, she sat alone in a dark room and Miranda didn’t know if she could bear it.
The longing to be in his arms overpowered her. She rose from the bed and took a step toward the door
. And stopped. What would he say if he opened the door and she launched herself into his arms?
Would he understand her desire for comfort, and not for plans, facts, and strategies? Thinking of his subtle strength and tenderness, she groaned out loud. But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go to his door and beg for the affection she craved. She flopped back onto the bed and closed her eyes.
Restless, Miranda got up and walked out onto the balcony. She listened to the thumping of music in clubs, of traffic, of the nighttime chatter below. Feeling disconnected from all of it, she gripped the edges of the railing and allowed the weight of her body to shift her forward. Miranda looked down. The necklace hung suspended from her neck, the little junk silver pendant twisting and twinkling in the night lights.
She caught it in her hand. It felt warm to the touch. Miranda reached to the back of her neck and unclasped the necklace. She looked at it in her palm. The edges seemed blurred as if she couldn’t distinguish the shape.
The milagro was a symbol of her sister, a symbol of all her problems. She let it dangle out over the sidewalk below. What if she dropped it? Would her problems disappear as well? Miranda spread her fingers wide. The necklace slithered between her middle and ring fingers until it was free.
She caught her breath as the necklace seemed to be lifted aloft by an errant wind. Then it sank deeper into the darkness below. Miranda strained her ears, hoping to hear the sound of it hitting the sidewalk. She heard only a hollow silence.
She frowned, experiencing a stab of disappointment. Maybe she could see it if she looked hard enough. Miranda leaned over the railing, the bar cutting into her mid-section. She ignored the pain. Her gaze scanned the area below, hoping for a flicker of light reflected on metal. Where was it? It had to be right below.
Miranda leaned even further, her muscles straining to hold her outward. For a moment, she felt strangely weightless.
Then she tumbled over the edge.
Eighteen
Spencer laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. His room was cloaked in darkness, so there was nothing to actually see. Since arriving in the city, he’d suffered from insomnia. Being in a luxurious hotel hadn’t seemed to help matters either.
He looked around the room. Light from the city glowed through a crack in the curtains and did little to illuminate the space. The only other light came from the red numbers of the clock, reading three a.m. He considered going out onto the balcony, but decided the air was probably better right where he was.
He and Miranda had talked to people in several churches yesterday and that was no doubt responsible for his exhaustion right now. So why couldn’t he sleep? He thought of Miranda’s face, mirroring his own fatigue. He sensed hers was due more from discouragement than physical tiredness.
Questioning churches about past adoptions had been a good idea and there were plenty more to visit, but somehow he figured Miranda had lost the will to go that direction. Even if they did find someone who had information, they’d undoubtedly require even more information and documentation in return.
Spencer closed his eyes, willing sleep to come. Why did Miranda seem so uncomfortable in the churches? Granted, they were nothing like what he was used to. He found the garish, sometimes grotesque Christ figures, the florid Moorish and Colonial architecture, and eerie silence rather creepy. But he had no doubt the congregations worshiped with deep fervor and passion.
He remembered the way Miranda played with that little silver charm on her necklace. Why didn’t she put it with the others? If she had, he wondered if it would’ve been a ritualistic act or a real plea for divine intervention. He couldn’t figure out the state of her faith—or lack of it. He hoped she believed in God. If she did, he wondered in what way.
Spencer plumped his pillow and tried to get comfortable. A whimpering sound, like the cry of a child, caught his attention. He listened hard, trying to discern if the noise came from the street below.
There it was again. The hairs rose along his arms.
Spencer sat up in bed, his heart careening off his rib cage. After a moment, he tossed back the blankets and stood, his ear cocked to the darkness. When he heard the sound once more, he walked over to the wall separating his room from Miranda’s. He pressed his ear against the cool plaster and listened. It didn’t take long to discover the source of the sound.
Miranda. Was she crying? Then he heard a scream. Spencer shoved away from the wall. Visions of an attack raced through his brain. He lunged for his door and stumbled out to the hall. He pounded on Miranda’s door. She screamed again.
“Miranda!” He tried the handle. It was unlatched and he stormed into her room. Muscles tense, ready to fight if need be, he scanned the room—and saw her in her bed.
She appeared to be asleep, but thrashed about, tangled in her sheets. A quick survey of the room revealed no intruders. Spencer’s tension faded as he realized Miranda was in the throes of a nightmare. He approached the bed, softly calling her name. When she didn’t respond, he bent over and gripped her upper arms.
“Miranda, wake up!”
Her eyes snapped open, but seemed sightless, as if she were still caught inside the dream. He gave her a little shake, and released a slow breath when she came fully awake. She stared at him for several seconds, panting with apparent fright. Her cheeks were wet and her hair, tousled.
He spoke her name again, gently in an attempt to comfort her. He didn’t want to cause additional distress at finding him in her room, standing over her. When cognizance seemed to dawn in her eyes, he smiled.
“Spencer?”
He loosened his grip on her arms but found himself reluctant to break the contact. Her eyes glistened in the silvery light shining through the open balcony door. She seemed vulnerable, frail almost, a state that roused a surge of protectiveness within him. Spencer suspected her tough exterior was a front to keep the world at bay.
“Why are you in my room?”
Her question startled him from his admiration. “I heard you scream. You left your door unlocked. A bad idea, by the way. Worse than a nightmare could happen if you aren’t more careful.”
She frowned. “Did you come in here to lecture me?” Her voice sounded hoarse.
Spencer released her and straightened. “Sorry. I’m just concerned for you.”
“Well, don’t be,” she snapped. “As you can see I’m fine.” She struggled to a sitting position. She wore a loose, sleeveless top with wide straps and ruffles at the neckline. One of the straps slid off her shoulder. Miranda pulled her blankets close to her chest.
Spencer averted his gaze and tightened his jaw, surprised at how huffy her tone made him feel. When he looked back at her, he saw a tear sliding down her cheek. His pique evaporated and he sank onto the edge of the bed.
“What is it? The nightmare?”
Miranda swallowed and nodded. She brushed her hand across her face and huddled into the blankets. “I dreamt I was falling.”
Spencer wanted to reach out and touch her hand, but worried she might see it as him taking advantage. After the treatment she endured from his father, she’d suspect any overture. He clenched a fistful of blankets to keep his hand still. “Tell me what it was about.”
Miranda’s gaze strayed toward the open balcony door as she touched the pendant at her neck. A tendril of breeze shifted a lock of her hair. “I dreamed I fell from the balcony and died. To avoid going to hell, I was forced to wear one of those yellow sanbenitos I told you about. One had my name written on it, along with my crime.” She shuddered. “It was horrible.”
Spencer took a deep breath. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”
She turned to him, her gaze guarded. “Okay.”
He paused, searching for the right way to phrase his question. “You seem to have a lot of knowledge of religion, historical and otherwise. You tell me you were raised in a Christian home and that you went to Sunday School. I guess I don’t understand why you seem so confused about spiritual matte
rs.”
Miranda ran a hand through her hair. He wondered if he imagined the deepening color of her cheeks.
“Why is it important to you?”
Spencer sensed she was hedging. He shrugged. “I guess I’m just curious.”
“Well don’t be. Maybe it’s none of your business.”
Spencer flushed, feeling as if he’d been slapped. He stood, keeping his mouth clamped shut, determined not to say one more word. Exiting the room, Spencer closed the door with a snap and returned to his own room. Once inside, he blew out a ragged breath. Unbelievable!
Collapsing onto the bed, he gritted his teeth, resolving not to offer Miranda Adams one more expression of warmth. From here on out, I’ll be cool and clinical. I’ll find that sister of hers, by hook or by crook, and then forget I ever met either one of them.
He remembered Miranda’s disheveled state and felt his face grow hot. He sat up. What if she hadn’t been having a nightmare? What if she wanted him to come into her room just to taunt him? How could she forget to lock her door, for crying out loud?
Spencer walked to his suitcase near the bed and opened it. After locating his appointment book, his fingers slid into one of the pockets. He pulled out the photograph of the man and woman he’d found in his father’s study. He stared hard at the grainy image, willing the identity of the woman to be revealed.
What if the woman was Miranda? Does it matter? Spencer closed his eyes. Yes. It does. Spencer went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. He didn’t know what to think any more. One minute Miranda seemed to be a troubled young woman in need of help, and the next, a calculated temptress who delighted in spurning him.
One thing for sure, whether good or bad, every emotion she provoked from him was uncomfortably fierce.
He began to feel sympathy for his father.
Milagro For Miranda (Book Three Oregon In Love) Page 12