The Homecoming of Samuel Lake. Jenny Wingfield

was sitting there at the breakfast table, in this sleek white satin robe that must’ve been designed for the same purpose. Her hair was all brushed out over her shoulders—gleaming—quite possibly from the lemon juice. She looked for all the world like a picture out of the Sears and Roebuck.

      Willadee gave Bernice a patient look and explained that sometimes a pastor needs some time off, like for a family vacation, or an emergency, or whatever. She went on to say that someone like Samuel, who was licensed to preach but didn’t have a congregation, could hold services in another pastor’s absence, and it could be very helpful and beneficial to all concerned.

      “Lots of churches need relief preachers,” Willadee finished brightly.

      Calla thought about that, and sipped at her coffee, and shook her head mournfully. “They won’t get any relief if they get Samuel,” she said.

      Swan was in a terrible hurry to get back upstairs after breakfast. She was worried that Blade Ballenger might wake up alone in a strange place and be afraid. Or that he might come tumbling down the stairs any minute, and then everyone would discover that she had been hiding him. But her anxiety was nothing compared to something else she was feeling. Blade Ballenger had chosen her as a refuge. Hadn’t she been wishing fervently for someone to bond with? All of a sudden, her wishes were coming true right and left.

      Just as she was about to bolt out of the kitchen, Samuel nabbed her. He and Willadee led her and her brothers into the living room, and closed the door, and gathered them into a circle, just like a scene from Ideals magazine.

      “Our lives are about to change in a lot of ways,” he told them. “We’ll have to work at keeping our equilibrium. But I don’t want you to worry or feel afraid. Whatever is about to happen to us, it’s going to be good, because all God’s purposes are good.”

      “Will one of the changes be that I can wear blue jeans?” Swan wanted to know. “Because I think that would be good. Us being here on a farm and all.” (She had gone back to wearing dresses the day before. Naturally. When Samuel came back from conference, the kids always immediately stopped breaking all the rules they’d been breaking while he was gone.)

      “You know better than that, Swan,” Willadee said. Swan blinked indignantly at her. Willadee gave her back a placid look. She could look mighty innocent when she wanted to.

      “Well, it’s not like there’ll be a whole church full of people watching every move we make anymore.”

      “We don’t decide how we’ll live according to what other people think,” Samuel said. “We just try to live by the Bible.”

      Swan argued, reasonably, that the Bible never said one solitary word about how a kid should dress to play in a cow pasture, but Samuel was already moving on to other things. They wouldn’t have much money—not that they had ever had much money—but their income would be uncertain now, so they’d all have to make sacrifices. And he hoped they would understand, and pitch in, and do their part without complaining.

      Swan wasn’t sure what the word sacrifice signified, in present-day terms. In Bible times, it had meant offering something precious on the altar in order to gain God’s favor. In Abraham’s case, that something had been Isaac, but God had sent a scapegoat, so Abraham didn’t actually have to slay his son. Swan had always secretly thought that sounded just a little too convenient. She didn’t say this out loud, of course. You don’t go around questioning the Bible, not if you want to go to Heaven one of these days. Besides, once you start picking holes in things, it’s hard to figure out which parts to throw away and which parts to keep.

      Still, if Samuel was asking them not to complain, that meant there might be something to complain about. This not being a preacher’s kid was sounding less and less appealing. What worried her most was the niggling thought that maybe her father had fallen out of God’s favor. She couldn’t imagine how that could have happened. Nobody tried harder to do the right thing than Sam Lake. Surely God was aware of that.

      Naturally, Blade didn’t hang around waiting until Swan got back to her room. By then, he’d already slipped out of the house and trotted home. He told his mama he’d been playing down by the creek, and she said he must’ve followed it north to Alaska, he sure didn’t answer when she called him half an hour ago, and since when did he go out to play before the rest of the family got their eyes open.

      Geraldine had the ironing board set up in the living room (she took in ironing for pay), and she was smoking a Pall Mall. Her face was about five different colors, mostly shades of blue, with cuts and scrapes crisscrossing each other along her jaw. What had happened the night before was, Blade’s daddy had been teaching his mama how to behave right, and Blade had just wanted to get away. It was scary when his daddy taught anybody about anything. Sometimes, when it happened, Blade pretended to be asleep, but last night, there’d been no pretending. Ras had been pulling Geraldine around the kitchen by the hair of her head and whacking her with a metal spatula. Geraldine had gone from crying and begging him to stop to trying to fight back, which was never a good idea. Blade had tried not to hear, and tried not to hear, and finally, he had just climbed out the window.

      At first, he had sat huddled against the well shed, drawing pictures in the dirt with his fingers, which was something he did a lot at times like this. He didn’t have to see what his hands were doing when he was drawing, and he didn’t have to be looking at something to draw it. He’d always drawn in the dark, usually without even thinking about it. Anyway, he could still hear everything, so he had walked out farther in the yard, and then down the lane, until he was far enough away that it all got pretty quiet. And then that girl had come along.

      Blade didn’t know why he had decided to follow her. Maybe it was because he had the feeling that, wherever she was headed, nothing scary was going to happen. She sure didn’t seem afraid of anything—except for when she first fell down. She was awful scared then, for a minute, like she thought the devil was about to get her. But once she got over that, she was solid as a rock.

      Anyway, he was glad that he had trailed along behind her. In his own mind, he had already laid claim on Swan Lake. She was a safe place—and something more that he was too young to understand or put into words. All he knew was that he wanted to hold on to the feeling he’d had the night before, and to let it wrap around him like a warm blanket on a cold night.

      Chapter 9

      Bernice could hardly stand the way she felt the next few days. For one thing, she kept imagining the whole family knew about her throwing that fit the other night. Everybody except Toy. Generally, Toy was careful not to know things he’d be happier and more comfortable not knowing. He’d been that way ever since that ugly business with Yam Ferguson, back after the war. But as for the rest of them—with everybody living in a heap like this, nobody would be able to poot without somebody smelling it.

      Not that Bernice ever pooted.

      The other thing that was making Bernice miserable was that, lately, she’d been having this time’s-a-wasting-and-so-am-I sort of feeling. You don’t go along for years being the prettiest thing around, and then realize that you’re in full flower, without getting a little anxious, since the next stage after full flower is when the petals start to droop and fall. So here she was, ripe and lush, with all her petals still pointing in the right direction, and Sam Lake didn’t even notice.

      Well, she’d have to do something about that.

      Bernice tried to think of ways to make Sam notice. She thought about it in the daytime, after she and Toy got back to their own house. He always hit the sack as soon as they got home from Calla’s, and usually didn’t wake up until midafternoon. While he was asleep, Bernice would roam from room to room, as silent and graceful as a butterfly. Briefly lighting here and there. On a chair. On the couch. Sometimes, outside, on the porch rail. There were gardenias blooming beside the steps, and the smell was so sweet, it would catch in her throat and make her want to cry.

      She thought about it at night, when she sat alone in Calla’s swing, with the music from Never Closes rollicking in the background. She thought about it when Samuel and Willadee