When Sparrows Fall (26 page)

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.

It 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.

“Be a gentleman.” Jack’s voice carried clearly over the wind. “Gentlemen don’t treat ladies that way, and they don’t say ‘Shut up.’ ”

Timothy glared at him. “You’re always telling us to hush up. What’s the difference?”

Jack shrugged. “Good point.”

Miranda made a megaphone of her hands. “No more roughhousing, Timothy, and no more smart remarks. Do you hear me?”

He nodded. Folding his arms across his chest, he watched Martha’s back while the swing straightened its course.

When the swing had slowed, she bailed out, her cape ballooning behind her and her dress flapping. She landed with a thud, windmilled her arms to catch her balance, then faced Timothy and planted her hands on her hips. “I’m nice to you even when you’re ugly,” she screamed. “Uncle Jack says we have to be nice to you, ’cause you’re different.”

Timothy shot a furious look at Jack. “Yeah, I’m different. Glad you noticed,
Jack.”
He stalked inside the house, the door slamming behind him.

Miranda turned on Jack. “What were you thinking? That was a terrible thing to tell his sister!”

“Hold on, now. One night, around the fire, the other kids started calling him a grouch. It bothered me, so I asked them to be kind. Now Martha has given a slightly inaccurate quotation, taken a wee bit out of context, and we’ve got the wheels comin’ off this chariot.”

“We certainly do, thanks to you.”

Jack spread his hands wide. “Timothy has been hostile toward me since I showed up. Why would I deliberately say anything to make it worse?”

Miranda hesitated, weighing the likelihood that he’d been misquoted. “You wouldn’t, but for a man who earns his living with words, shouldn’t you choose your words more carefully so you can’t be misquoted?”

He opened his mouth then shut it again. Eyes on the ground, he nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” Miranda watched Martha chase Gabriel’s bubbles, her spat with Timothy already forgotten. “I’m sorry Timothy and Martha ruined a nice afternoon by scrapping with each other. That wasn’t your fault.”

“I guess it’s natural for siblings to clash.” Jack let out a short laugh. “The one time I spoke with Carl, he picked a fight with me.”

“I wish he hadn’t.”

“Well, it’s too late for me to get along with Carl, but I’d like to get along with Timothy, at least.”

The sadness in Jack’s voice made the decision for her.

The younger children were upstairs, asleep or reading. Jack, grumbling about some kind of deadline, sat in the living room, his fingers flying over his laptop’s keyboard. And Timothy stood in the doorway of Miranda’s room, his hands curled into fists and his chin tilted with the belligerence she knew so well. No doubt he expected a rebuke and a loss of privileges, at the very least.

He was nearly a teenager. Any day now, he’d want to start shaving.

Seated in the bedside chair, Miranda attempted a smile. Timothy didn’t return it.

“Come in and close the door, please.”

He obeyed and resumed his stubborn stance. So much like his father, but without Carl’s unreasonable harshness.

She recalled Carl’s heavy hand on her back, shoving her into Mason’s office while the little ones clung to her legs and cried. If only she’d disobeyed.

If only, if only.

“You’re the oldest,” she said. “I need to start treating you differently.”

His face tightened but he didn’t reply.

“Starting tonight, you may stay up until ten.”

His eyes narrowed as if he expected a trap. “But what’s my punishment?”

“None, this time. You bear more responsibilities than the younger children, and you’re old enough to enjoy more privileges too.”

Timothy scuffed a toe across the rag rug. “I thought you were going to punish me.”

“I should. You were mean to your little sister. You were rude to your uncle and to me.”

He hung his head. “Martha drives me crazy. She’s always bugging me. Always saying these weird things …”

“She’s four. Show her some grace. I know you love her, so start acting like you do.”

“Yes ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“Now, about your attitude toward your uncle.”

“I know, I know.” Timothy’s voice cracked. “He’s Father’s brother.”

“Half brother. I’m going to explain the situation. It’s not something to share with your brothers and sisters though. Do you understand?”

Timothy raised his head. “Yes ma’am.”

She moved to the bed and patted the quilt, signaling him to sit beside her, but he ignored the cue. “All right. Your grandfather left his first wife, your father’s mother, for another woman. Jack’s mother. Your grandmother spent the rest of her life feeding her hurt and hatred to your father, and I believe you picked it up from him. But is that fair? Is Jack responsible for his parents’ wrongdoing?”

“No ma’am.”

“When you were three, he stopped by to meet your father. They’d never met, which was ridiculous because they lived in neighboring counties. But your father wouldn’t speak with him.”

Timothy’s forehead wrinkled. “Not at all?”

“Just long enough to ask him to leave. Jack didn’t give up though. He wrote letters. Your father read the first one and told me to write back, to say that if any more came, he would throw them in the trash. I gave that message to Jack in a note, but I tried to be polite about it. His letters kept coming. When
each one came, I read it and hid it, in case your father changed his mind someday. Jack wrote for years, and your father never knew.”

Timothy’s expression turned smug. “I knew though. Remember when I said I was old enough to walk down to the road and get the mail? And you said I wasn’t?”

She nodded, remembering a small, quiet boy who never asked for much but didn’t give up once he’d set his heart on something. “You were eight.”

“You finally gave in, but you told me not to stand there and look through it. Just to grab it and take it to you. But I always looked, and I noticed you acted funny whenever there was a letter from this guy named Jack. Like you were hiding a big secret.”

“It was an innocent secret. I saw Jack as a brother. I hoped your father would relent and want to know him after all. But even after I stopped hoping for that, I kept reading the letters. They brightened my life. Can you understand that?”

After a long, doubtful pause, Timothy nodded. “I guess.”

“He wrote for seven years, until I let him know your father had died. Then there was one more note. A sympathy card. Jack offered to help, but I never took him up on that offer—until the poor man suddenly found himself in charge of six children. He dropped everything to come when you called. Don’t throw his kindness back in his face.”

“Why didn’t you pick somebody from church?”

She ran a finger across a seam of the quilt. “We might not always be part of this church, but Jack will always be part of the family. He’s your father’s brother. How would you like it if somebody treated Michael the way you’ve been treating Jack?”

Timothy looked toward the most recent family portrait, the one that had captured Michael’s irrepressible grin. “I wouldn’t like it.”

“All right, then. Please work on your attitude.”

He met her eyes. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you. I trust you to make an honest effort. I think you and Jack have a lot in common, actually, and that may be why you clash.”

Timothy indulged in the hint of an eye roll but didn’t argue.

She pointed toward her closet. “In the back, on the highest shelf, you’ll find a box that’s labeled ‘sewing scraps.’ If you’ll get it down, you can look through Jack’s letters with me.”