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Miranda is still angry.
She goes about her day as usual; taking care of the goats, doing laundry, teaching piano to the Nichols girl for an hour after school. She measures out the chicken feed and divides it into rations to last until Tuesday.
By the time she comes back in from pulling weeds in the back garden it’s getting dark. Fellowship dinner and bible study are about to start at church, and if she hurries she might be able to get there before the weekly talk starts.
But rage burns.
She’s angry with James. Angry with the world. And the last thing she wants to do is dress up and play pretend like everything is alright.
Instead, Miranda eats a sandwich over the sink and takes a shower.
It’s nearing ten o’clock and she’s halfway through her book when there’s a knock at the door. Slowly she replaces her bookmark. Pistol in hand, Miranda slips to the window, looking for a car in the drive. It’s late and there’s only a handful of people who even know where the house is. Gates is gone with James. Mrs. Nicholas barely tolerates her for the sake of cheap piano lessons. And the two times she ordered pizza delivered the year she broke her foot the poor delivery boy had called the landline and she’d had to walk him through the last three miles.
Parked just before the stone walkway is an old, but well-kept sedan. A cross hangs from the rearview mirror.
With a sigh Miranda replaces her pistol on the bookshelf. She wraps her robe tightly around herself tightly and goes to answer the door.
Despite being the one who knocked, Pastor Lambrick looks surprised when she opens the storm door.
“Good evening pastor,” Miranda says. She gives him a tight smile and leans against the doorframe. “Is everything alright?”
“Oh, oh everything's just-- everything's fine,” he rushes to assure her. He’s tall and blonde (just like him, but nothing like him) and the similarity jars her for a moment. “I just wanted to check on you. You weren’t at fellowship this evening.” Lambrick pauses and swallows, like there’s more he wants to say, but doesn’t.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” Miranda lies. She shifts her weight, letting her smile lessen incrementally. “I’m sad to have missed the discussion this evening.” Against her better judgment, she doesn’t dismiss him outright. It’s late and there is a young man on her porch that looks at her in a way that makes her feel wanted for the first time in years. (Miranda loved James, she loves him still, but sometimes she doesn’t want that love. Doesn’t want the burdens that come with it.)
It’s late and she knows exactly why he’s here.
“It was enlightening,” Lambrick replies. He’s clutching his bible Miranda realizes belatedly. Tucked under his arm, against his side. She’s watching his face, trying to parse out if he is aware of his own motivations. “But the debate was not quite as…spirited.” He shifts on the porch, and holds his bible out slightly. “I know it’s late, but might I speak with you for a moment?”
Miranda studies him for a moment, wrapping her arms around herself. It’s summer, so the breeze isn’t exactly chilly. But the air iswet and her chair was so warm…
Miranda makes up her mind. “Come in pastor.”
She steps back and holds the door open.
They settle in the living room. Miranda returns to her chair, moving her book to the side table. Lambrick sits on the couch across from her, with a confidence that doesn’t quite make it to the rest of him.
“What would you like to speak to me about, pastor?” Miranda asks, sitting on the edge of her armchair. Ask me, she thinks. Say it.
If this were ten years ago, if this were another time and another place, she wouldn’t have to put up with this awkward song and dance. She could reach and take and not worry about miscalculation.
But it’s here and now. And while Miranda doesn’t have to maintain the same facade she once did, she doesn’t want to lose one of the few people who will talk to her in town. One of the few people even James is forced to admit poses no threat.
“I was wondering…” Lambrick pauses and wets his lips. Glances behind her at the rest of the dark house before continuing. “Are you alright? Is he…keeping you here?”
Miranda laughs. Lambrick is startled.
“Pastor,” she says, smiling. “I assure you I am quite fine. James is my friend, not my captor.”
He presses on. “There are services the church has for women in need of help. You don’t have to be afraid. We will protect you from the others if you fear retribution.” As Lambrick speaks he grips his bible ever more tightly, knuckles white. As if by simply believing hard enough she will tell him the truth he wants to hear.
“I am in no danger,” Miranda tells him firmly. She leans back in her armchair and gestures to the room around them. “This is my home. I chose the couch you are sitting on, the fixtures in my bathroom, and most importantly I choose to be here. James does not keep me here against my will. He brought me here and I am thankful. But, I am free to leave at any time.”
“He brought you here?”
It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth. Miranda didn’t want to wade through those memories again. Open up the wounds so freshly bandaged from their fight the days before. She leans her head back and looks up at the ceiling. Tries to parse out what she could say that would satisfy Lambrick and move things how she wants.
“I was married, before,” she says slowly. “And we were happy. But when my husband died, I was not well. And James saved me. He took care of me, and brought me here.”
There’s movement on the couch. Miranda tips her head just enough to see Lambrick on the edge of his seat, one hand bracing him on the coffee table.
“May I pray with you Miranda?” His voice is hoarse and strained. Perhaps from her story, perhaps for other reasons. “To thank the Lord for delivering you.”
She feigns surprise, but nods. “Oh course pastor.”
Lambrick drops to his knees in front of her, the bible clutched in his left hand. Miranda clasps her hands in prayer and Lambrick places his right hand against the arm of her chair. He closes his eyes and bows his head, hardly waiting for her to do the same before he begins speaking.
It’s a generic prayer, utterly devoid of anything more meaningful than allegories of shepherds and shelter. To Miranda it has the same quality as a child reciting a memorization lesson. She opens her eyes and watches his face, forsaking whatever benediction she might have possibly received.
He’s handsome, in his own way. A different face from the same one she’s imagined for the last ten years. A different face from the man who returns to her more and more tired and drawn each time.
This close she can vaguely smell him; laundry detergent or deodorant. Something clean and bright that clashes against the obvious denial Lambrick is struggling with. Even with his eyes closed, praying to Our Lord and Savior, Lambrick looks both desperate and terrified. He’s shaking ever so slightly, the ribbons in his bible swaying with it.
Miranda watches, catalogs it all. This is the first time she has been able to truly look at him so overtly. Not gossiping church groups, no angry James hovering in the background.
If this were another time, another place, another life…she wouldn’t hesitate.
“In Jesus name we pray, amen.”
“Amen,” she whispers.
Before Lambrick can open his eyes Miranda places one hand over his. His head shoots up, red blooming across his face in a damning mask.
“Pastor,” she says, voice barely more than a whisper. “I think we both know why you’re here.”
A spark of horror crosses his face, eyes wide. He stutters as she continues stroking the back of his hand. “I’m, I-I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s late,” Miranda tells him softly. “You know James is gone. And you’ve been visiting me for some time.”
“I was concerned,” Lambrick protests. He looks down at where she’s holding his hand. “I was worried.”
“And I thank you for your concern,” she says. Carefully she reaches for the bible clutched in his left hand and takes it. Lays it aside on the table next to her book. “But, I think we both know why you are here,” she repeats.
Miranda shifts to the edge of her seat, forcing Lambrick to sit back. She slides off the chair, onto the floor, and into his lap.
Beneath her Lambrick is warm and solid. His pants are rough against the skin of her thighs. The flush on his face extends to his neck and ears, painting them a bright,lusty red. But he hasn’t pushed her away or told her no. Hasn’t asked her to stop touching him. Miranda pauses and leans back slightly, giving him an opening to turn her away, to make up an excuse to leave, or tell her why they can’t do this.
But he doesn’t.
She must pause a little too long, because Lambric grabs her hips and pulls her to him. He’s panting and desperate as he kisses her. His hands shake and he doesn’t seem to know what to do other than try to completely consume her.
Miranda wants to laugh in triumph. Wants to giggle at the enthusiasm. But Lambrick is skittish enough she doesn’t trust it. The last thing she wants, after all this effort, is to scare him away.
Together they get her robe open and her nightgown up around her hips. Lambrick is awed by each inch of skin she bares to him, each kiss she gives him, each time she gives him permission to touch her somewhere new.
He’s inexperienced. Miranda expected that. The absolute desire and need he has outweighs it. Whenever she tells him to move like this, or touch like that, or “it’s alright, you won’t hurt me, go ahead” he laps it up like a man thirsting for water.
When finally she sinks down on him, he stares up at her like she’s something both terrifying and wonderful. And for the scant minutes he lasts, Miranda basks in the adoration.
She’s been so lonely. So angry. And this is a bandage hastily slapped over that wound, just enough to make it bearable.
Lambrick finishes long before her. Laying back on the rug panting and gasping, his eyes closed as he recovers from the pleasure she wrought from him. (Briefly Miranda wonders if this is the first time he has ever touched himself, has ever experienced carnal pleasure. If her touch will be the first and the last.)
Gently, she guides his fingers against her. Shows him how to bring her pleasure. Lambrick watches with awed fascination, eyes glued to where his fingers disappear into her body and her fingers press and rub.
A twisting fist of pleasure grasps low in Miranda’s belly. She stiffens, riding it out and letting it consume her wholly. With a gasp she chases the end of it and slumps forward, bracing her hands on Lambrick’s still clothed chest.
They’re silent. The only noise is the hum of the refrigerator around the corner and the creak of the floor beneath them.
Lambrick pulls her down into a kiss, this one softer. She can feel the stubble of his beard against her chin, smell the salty tang of his sweat. He’s breathing hard through his nose, echoing the minute shudders that still course through him every time Miranda shifts on top of him.
Carefully Miranda slides off of him. Still panting, she leans back against her chair and grabs a few kleenex from the box on the side table. From the corner of her eye she sees Lambrick freeze as she wipes the seed from between her thighs.
“Might you fall…a child?” Lambrick is stiff as he chokes out the words.
“No,” she replies simply. He doesn’t say anything more.
Lambrick is silent as he fixes his pants and takes his bible from the side table. He nods a farewell at Miranda without looking her in the eye and lets himself out the front door. Miranda listens for the sound of his car. Gravel crunches under the tires and the headlights shine briefly through the living room window as he presumably turns around before driving off.
Miranda looks up at the ceiling once more.
Her anger has dissipated, liquified in the heat of their tryst and left something calm and cold in its stead. The desire to rage and hold a grudge and make James hurt just as badly as she had was gone.
In the days before, this kind of thing might have hurt him. Terrified him with the thought he was replaceable. (James wasn’t replaceable. Even when she wanted him to leave her to her thoughts and grief and anger, she didn’t want to replace him.) But now it was just another thing he ignored.
Miranda pushes up off the floor and goes to lock the front door. She turns off the porch light, checks the back door, and goes upstairs to take her second shower of the night.
Later, lying in bed alone, she dreams of blonde hair and books.