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with moderate success.
    At two minutes past, the phone rang. He grabbed it. “Jack’s Diner. The best breakfast in town.”
    Gabriel busted loose with a belly laugh. Within seconds, everybody started laughing. Everybody but Timothy, who stared off into space, and Miranda.
    “I want to talk to my children,” she said after a frosty silence.
    “Certainly, madam. Here, start with Martha. She’s about to blow a gasket.”
    Martha nearly dropped the phone in her excitement. “Mama! Guess what? Uncle Jack gave me a book! And Frosted Flakes!”
    He slunk away, smiling. In Martha’s sheltered existence, maybe he was nearly a tsunami.
    “Hey, look.” Gabriel pointed toward the window. “Pastor Mason’s here.”
    It was mighty early for a pastoral visit. He must have heard about Miranda’s accident.
    Jack watched from a window as an old burgundy Buick rolled to a stop behind the van. A tall, solidly built man climbed out and frowned at the Audi. Probably pushing fifty, the visitor wore a dark suit and a white shirt but no tie. Lacking the full beard that Jack had imagined for him, Mason Chandler bore no visible resemblance to an Old Testament prophet. A televangelist, maybe, or a game show host.
    Jack pondered some of his experiences with ultraconservative churches. He’d found two schools of thought regarding facial hair for men. According to one view, it was sinful to shave. According to the other view, it was sinful not to. Chandler’s mug was as hairless as a baby’s bottom, and so was Carl’s in every photo.
    Jack ran a hand over his jaw and considered losing his razor for a while.
    The man moved his attention from the car to the house, studying it with narrowed eyes, and started walking.
    Jack stepped onto the porch. “Good morning.”
    The man broke stride but recovered quickly and jogged up the steps. “Good morning. And who are you?”
    “Jack Hanford.” He offered his hand. “Carl’s brother.”
    Chandler shook hands but scrutinized Jack as if he might have been guilty of an overnight tryst with Miranda. “Mason Chandler. Miranda’s pastor. Is she home?”
    “She’s in the hospital. She fell from the cliffs.”
    Mason’s eyebrows rose. “How did she manage that?”
    That was entirely the wrong question. Jack’s needle drifted toward the orange zone.
    “She was taking pictures, apparently.”
    Mason shook his head. “Miranda and that camera.”
    “In case you’re interested, she’s going to be all right.”
    “Thank God. I’ll be praying for her. How did you get involved, Jack?”
    “On Miranda’s orders, Timothy asked me to help out.”
    “Why you, Jack?”
    Like a used car salesman, Mason used first names at every opportunity. The habit grated on Jack’s nerves.
    “I’m the children’s guardian,” he said.
    Mason’s face hardened. “When did that happen?”
    “Recently.”
    “How long do you plan to stay?”
    “For the duration.”
    “That’s not necessary. The church can take over.”
    Jack’s needle jumped to the red zone but he hung on to civility. “No, thank you. We’re doing fine.”
    “You must have more important things to do with your time, Jack.”
    “Not at all. I’m glad to help. Apparently I’m the only family she has.”
    “The church is her family now.”
    Then it was a dysfunctional family. The clues were adding up.
    The door creaked. Jack looked over his shoulder.
    Gabriel peered through a three-inch gap but didn’t speak. Even when Mason gave him a warm “Good morning,” Gabriel only nodded, closing the door with an unwelcoming click. The kid had good taste, if not good manners.
    Mason began his retreat. “Nice meeting you, Jack. I’ll stay in touch.”
    “You do that. I’ll be here.”
    After the Buick rolled away, Jack paced the porch until he’d put a lid on his temper. When he went inside, the kids were off the phone, and they’d scattered. All except Martha.
    Cute as a bug, she was curled up on the couch, her hair still in those messy