by Lynn Bulock
Miranda unfastened the clip holding her hair in its elegant pulled-back style and brushed out the wavy masses as she eased the kinks in her neck. Perhaps she could truly believe that things were possible for God. Maybe she could entertain the vaguest hope that someday she’d have her own home outside this forbidding stone mansion. There might be a life out there for her that included more than being everyone’s favorite aunt, like Winnie, and spending her days alone in her studio.
She could see her eyebrows knot in the mirror as she pulled the silver brush through her hair. That is a lot to hope for, she thought. With her puny amount of faith perhaps it was too much to consider. Maybe she should start with something smaller, like going more than one day without the panic attacks that kept her virtually imprisoned in her home. And maybe she could daydream a little about something much less grand than marriage and a home of her own, but still satisfying.
Maybe, she thought, she should contemplate meeting the compelling Pastor Brown again soon. She gathered her hair into a loose band at the nape of her neck and reveled in the release of removing her dressy sandals. Wiggling her toes on the cool surface of the hardwood floor felt delicious.
Thinking about meeting Gregory Brown in the near future made her smile to herself. And just maybe the next time they met, the meeting could be more intimate than within the confines of a tent with several hundred people in it. Considering an actual date after one meeting was much too unrealistic, and more forward than Miranda could imagine.
Still, her newfound optimism certainly made the rest of her evening in the studio, hand-sewing bindings for that limited edition of books, go by in a flash. And, she had to admit, remembering the young minister’s warm smile and even warmer brown eyes helped the time pass as well. Only after finishing her work, setting her studio in order and getting ready for bed in her room did Miranda realize something more startling than anything else that had happened all day. She hadn’t hummed her mother’s lullaby at all today, not one note.
“Thank you,” she whispered to God as she drifted off to sleep. That night she dreamed of possibilities yet to come.
THREE
Journal entry
June 3
He’s free! My darling Ronald got released from jail. Now maybe that legal team that is costing him so much money can go to work and get the ridiculous charges dropped. Isn’t it obvious to everyone that he wouldn’t stoop to murdering a woman like that? A person like her wouldn’t be worth the effort. Now that they have released him maybe we can plan a lovely future together. I know he’s only pretending to ignore me right now. As soon as it’s safe he’ll be by my side.
“Remind me again why I didn’t take the day off,” Greg Brown said, sifting through the stack of messages the church secretary put on his desk.
“I have no idea,” Janice said, her curly hair bobbing around her slightly rounded cheeks as she shook her head. He almost expected her to cluck at him in disapproval, mother hen that she was. “You did a wedding on what’s usually your day off, and then went home and did who-knows-what until late at night.”
Is it that obvious? he felt like asking. Six months ago he would have asked, but now he knew that Janice’s perceptions were right on target, even when no one else noticed something. “Now how do you know I didn’t go straight home and go to sleep early, like I usually do on Saturdays?”
“Because you dragged in here this morning with the largest cup of coffee the Beaumont Beanery sells and now it’s half-gone and you still don’t look all that perky. What kept you up, anyway?”
“If I said working on yesterday’s sermon some more, would you believe me?”
Janice made a huffy noise. “Not likely, unless the wedding provided some last-minute inspiration. Otherwise I know you, Pastor Greg, and that sermon was polished to perfection by Friday afternoon.”
Ouch. She had him there. Janice had been the church secretary at Unity for so long that there were people in town who were sure they’d built the big brick church around her. She’d been invaluable helping him get settled in at Unity, and around Stoneley.
He wasn’t going to tell her that he’d gone to bed at a decent hour, but sleep had been elusive. All he could see when he closed his eyes was a woman with masses of dark hair and vaguely troubled golden eyes. Funny how Miranda Blanchard had entered his thoughts so thoroughly after only one real meeting. All morning Sunday he’d anticipated seeing her again, only to be disappointed when neither Winnie nor her charming niece came to services.
“You should have at least taken the morning off,” Janice chided. “That way you would get in one of those long hikes you like to take, or go digging around in the archives at the county Historical Society. Although why you like rooting around there is beyond me. If I did that my allergies would act up so fiercely I would be sneezing for a week.”
“Studying history is fun, Janice. It relaxes me and invigorates me at the same time. I want to know more about that Revere bell in the steeple and what it meant to the people who gathered together the funds and determination to put it there. I want to know more about the men of God who were here before me and how they got here,” he said, raising his hands to take in his comfortable office.
“If you say so. Why don’t you just read the book Muriel Whitby put together for the one-hundred-and-fiftieth anniversary of the church instead?”
Because Muriel’s pamphlet is full of inaccuracies and it’s boring, he felt like saying, but he kept his thoughts to himself. For all he knew Janice was related to dear, departed Muriel and his comment would open up a whole can of worms. Today he didn’t feel like dealing with that kind of thing.
What he really wanted to do was sift through his dwindling stack of messages in Janice’s neat handwriting, wondering why none of them were from Miranda. Perhaps he could find a reason to call the big house outside Stoneley and talk to her. Hadn’t Winnie mentioned that her father was still terribly ill? And surely the family needed comfort in this time of stress, with Ronald Blanchard in jail.
Will you listen to yourself? Greg felt so stupid he wanted to smack himself in the forehead. Did Miranda really need his self-serving attempts at seeing her again? With all the trials her family was facing already, the last thing she needed was another burden in the form of a man who had as many problems as she did…or more. At least Miranda had five sisters to support her and help her deal with the challenges in her life. For Greg, his only choice was to go it alone, and that wasn’t working very well.
He looked down at the top message on the pile of slips. It was from his counterpart at the Presbyterian church across town, wondering if he wanted to give the program at the next Stoneley clergy fellowship meeting. Now this was more like it. Interface with the other clergy in town and building his ministry here at Unity was the business he should be about now. This was not the right time to work on his personal life, especially if that meant trying to get closer to Miranda Blanchard.
Sighing softly, Greg punched a number in his phone and waited for it to ring at the Presbyterian church. If this was what God wanted him to do, why did he feel so isolated? He didn’t have an answer for that one.
“Can you believe he’s coming home?” Portia said, sitting down with a thump on the love seat in Aunt Winnie’s sunny library and sitting room.
Miranda shrugged, sipping her iced tea and fighting the urge to hum to herself. The events of the morning had her fighting off symptoms of panic, even in places like this room, usually one of her safest havens. “He hired the best legal team he possibly could. Bianca’s recommendations helped with that. Did you honestly expect they’d let the head of Blanchard Fabrics sit in jail a moment longer than they could help it? Reputation is a huge part of the legal world, especially in criminal law.”
“Yes, and reputation is everything to Father as well. He and his legal team must get along quite well together.” Portia’s dark eyes flashed. “Mick is so upset about this. He doesn’t believe bail should have been set that low for anybody with ac
cess to everything Father has at his disposal.”
Miranda found herself shuddering. “Does Mick think he’s a flight risk?” At this point she didn’t know whether her father leaving the country would be a blessing or a worry.
“I’m not sure. There are some things I’m not comfortable discussing. I don’t want Mick to tell me anything he couldn’t tell anyone else, including the journalists hounding him.”
“I can understand that.” Miranda patted her sister’s shoulder. “This must put you in an awkward position between the two of them.”
“Not really. After everything else that’s gone on with this household, it’s hard to have any sympathy for our father. Now Grandfather is a different story. As ill as he is, do you think he’s noticed all the uproar?”
“I’m not sure. He’s so sick I don’t know if he’s even aware that Father was arrested. I’ve kept my visits short this last week because every time I go in there it seems he’s napping. Peg says he’s still regaining his strength after the…poisoning attempt.” Miranda had trouble even saying the words. Why would anybody give her grandfather poison, especially when it was obvious that only the watchful ministrations of his nurse and his family kept him alive and grounded to this world?
Nothing about her grandfather’s poisoning made sense. At first Miranda, like the rest of the family, had just assumed that Howard had somehow overmedicated himself with one of his prescriptions during one of Peg’s rare moments of leaving him on his own. Miranda knew it would be quite some time before the image of her grandfather unresponsive on the floor of his room left her. Maybe that was one of those things that Aunt Winnie would say showed God’s hand in their lives. If Miranda hadn’t chosen just that moment to go and visit her grandfather, the outcome of his illness might have been far different. At least now he was making some progress, even though it was slow.
Winnie bustled into the room, smiling to see her nieces already there. “I thought I might find you two here. And I couldn’t help overhearing that last bit, Miranda. Sadly, I don’t think your grandfather pays attention to much of anything these days. Of course my visits are even more limited than yours, so I’m not positive.” Her smooth forehead furrowed slightly with consternation. “At least he appears to welcome my presence for short periods of time. For a while I agreed with Peg that I might be disturbing him.”
Miranda rose automatically to give her aunt a brief hug. “If you disturb him, then everyone must be disturbing.” She couldn’t imagine her sweet, thoughtful aunt being a bother to anyone, even the confused, angry man their grandfather had become.
“You’re kind to say so, dear. I just hope he doesn’t have one of his lucid spells tomorrow and want to join us for dinner. I’ve invited Tate already and I’d hate to uninvite him. Now that your father is coming home today dinner might be uncomfortable enough as it is.”
Miranda’s chest tightened just considering the confrontations that might take place. She willed herself to stand still and breathe deeply. Maybe she ought to make sure that Portia and Mick would join them for dinner. Ronald and Tate might be on better behavior in front of the police detective engaged to her sister.
“Now that makes me glad that I’ve already got plans to take Kaitlyn shopping for a new bathing suit and out for ice cream afterward.” Her sister laughed. “It’s so nice to hang out with somebody who can eat ice cream without guilt right after trying on swimsuits.”
Miranda found herself smiling. “It helps that she’s only six.”
“True. I guess at that age I wouldn’t have worried either.”
“You certainly didn’t,” Winnie chimed in. “And you wanted the brightest hot-pink one you could find, preferably a two-piece with sunglasses and flip-flop sandals to match.”
“I’m surprised she didn’t ask for a grass skirt to go with it,” Miranda muttered, bringing laughter to the other two. She felt a momentary pang of jealousy watching them, both women calm and full of self-confidence. Winnie and Portia could each feel sure that they had the love and support of a good man. What did she have? Worries about a run of a hundred poetry books still unfinished and a huge, ongoing case of writer’s block.
Nothing’s impossible with God. Now why did that thought choose this moment to bubble up in her consciousness? It even came complete with an accompanying picture of Pastor Greg, laugh crinkles around those dark chocolate eyes just as they had been at Saturday’s wedding reception.
Suddenly the room felt warm enough that Miranda grew uncomfortable in her wheat-colored linen shirtdress. Perhaps a little more ice in her tea might help. Perhaps not thinking of Gregory Brown might help even more, she chided herself.
How far outside the house could she go today without bringing on a full-fledged panic attack? It was worth finding out, just to take some action instead of sitting around entertaining visions of the good-looking Greg. “I think I’ll refresh my tea and take it out to the rose garden,” she said, deciding to push the issue. Maybe if she took a few of those books that needed to be sewn together she could distract herself from all the other things clamoring for her attention.
With a wide-brimmed straw hat and a lightweight white cotton long-sleeved shirt for protection, Miranda sat in the rose garden for hours while she stitched book pages together, then affixed them into their covers. The mindless work kept her busy and panic-free. She hummed her calming lullaby in time with the droning of honeybees around Winnie’s roses.
The afternoon had proved perfect for being here in the garden. White, puffy clouds scudded by occasionally, but not the kind that threatened rain. The pile of finished books in the basket beside Miranda gave her a feeling of satisfaction.
“So there you are, Miranda.” The familiar deep voice startled her and she gave an involuntary yelp as she stuck her finger with the needle instead of completing the stitch in front of her. She dropped the book into her lap quickly and put her finger in her mouth. The taste of blood repelled her, but bleeding on the book cover would mean she would have to scrap it and start over.
“Did you have to come up behind me and startle me?” Perhaps it wasn’t a friendly greeting for her father, but she didn’t feel friendly toward him right now to begin with. Wrapping a tissue from her pocket around her finger, she set the book aside on the bench seat of the trellis and stood up, glaring at Ronald.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. But I did think that perhaps you’d be glad to see me.” His handsome face wore the expression of mild distaste he always seemed to have for Miranda. “I should have gone to the factory instead of coming straight home. Barbara might at least have expressed some appreciation that I was back.”
Leave it to her father to be direct. If the events of the past few weeks had any effect on him at all, it might be a slight widening of the silver streaks at his temples. And he was right about one thing: if anyone would be happy to see him today it might be his loyal assistant Barbara Sanchez.
“She probably would have. Maybe it’s not too late to find out.” Miranda willed herself to breathe deeply as she looked boldly into her father’s cold, dark eyes. If he had come straight here from his release, the authorities had given Ronald Blanchard plenty of leeway in jail. His tanned cheeks were clean shaven and he wore one of his custom-fitted charcoal suits with the white silk shirt Miranda knew came from Hong Kong.
“Ouch. How sharp as a serpent’s tooth is the reaction I’ve got from my daughters today,” he said, maiming a Shakespearean quote. If he thought that would make her or any of her sisters feel more generous toward him, the man had better think twice.
All she could do was shake her head. “Your daughters have real reasons to be thankless where you’re concerned. You put your business before your family for two decades while lying to us and deceiving us about virtually everything in our lives. Now your fancy lawyers get you released on bail for murder and we’re supposed to welcome you with open arms?”
Miranda felt surprise at seeing actual hurt in her father’s eyes. It wasn’
t an emotion she thought him capable of sharing.
“You don’t think I actually did what they accused me of, do you?” Ronald said.
“Somebody shot Genie and left her on the floor to die. And with her dead we may never know for sure where Mama is now. If you didn’t kill Genie, her death came at quite a convenient time for you.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t have to stand here and listen to this.” Ronald turned his back on Miranda and headed toward the house. “I think I’ll take your earlier suggestion and go in to the office. It’s obvious there’s no welcome here for me.”
“Okay, where are Your possibilities in this?” Miranda asked God softly as she watched her father’s stiff retreating back. When he was gone she sat down on the bench again in disgust. The peace she’d felt before Ronald had interrupted her was ruined. And try as she might, she couldn’t understand what even God could do with the impossible situation facing her right now.
FOUR
Journal entry
June 4
Why is Ronald ignoring me? I thought that once he was free again he would come back to me at once. His rotten, ungrateful daughters are to blame for his absence, I know. If only they’d all go away and take their foolish faith with them. Ronald can’t really have had such a naive change of heart. He’s only pretending to make them all happy. Perhaps soon they’ll get the message and the prying will stop. Then their father would be back in my arms where he belongs. Unless something happens soon, I’ll have to take action again.
