“Don’t worry.” Sybill surprised Abigail by taking her hand as her sister walked off to help their mother with the puppy. “It’ll be fine. Your dog’s all right with kids around?”
“He wouldn’t hurt anyone.” Unless I tell him to, she thought.
“You bring him along. You’ll feel easier having your dog with you. We’re pretty nice people, and inclined to like anyone who makes Brooks happy. You’ll be fine,” she said, and gave Abigail’s hand a squeeze before she released it and walked back to the car.
There was a lot of laughing and chattering, a lot of waving and honking. Shell-shocked, Abigail stood, her deliriously happy dog at her side, and politely lifted her hand as the O’Hara-Gleason women drove away.
It was like being rolled over by a steamroller made of flowers, Abigail thought. It didn’t really hurt, it was all very pretty and sweet-smelling. But you were still flattened.
She wouldn’t go, of course. It would be impossible on so many levels. Perhaps she’d write a polite note of regret to Brooks’s mother.
She put her gardening gloves back on. She wanted to finish the bed; plus, she’d used finishing it as an excuse, so finish it she must and would.
She’d never been asked to go shopping and have margaritas, and wondered as she dug what it was like. She knew people shopped even when they didn’t need anything. She didn’t understand the appeal, but she knew others did.
She thought of that day, so long ago, in the mall with Julie. How much fun it had been, how exhilarating and liberating it had been to try on clothes and shoes with a friend.
Of course, they hadn’t been friends. Not really friends. The entire interlude had been one of chance and circumstance and mutual need.
And that interlude had led to disaster and tragedy.
She knew, logically, the harmless rebellion of buying clothes and shoes hadn’t caused the tragedy. Even her own reckless stupidity of forging the IDs, agreeing to go to the club hadn’t caused the events that followed.
The Volkovs and Yakov Korotkii held that responsibility.
And yet, how could she not link them together, not feel the weight and the guilt even after all this time? The argument with her mother had lit the chain reaction that had ended with the explosion of the safe house. If not fully responsible, she had been one of the links in that chain.
And still, as she planted she wondered what it was like to ride in a car with women who laughed, to shop for unnecessary things, to drink margaritas and gossip.
And wondering took some of the bloom off the pleasure of the sounds and smells of her solitude.
She planted it all, added more, worked through the afternoon into soft evening wheeling bags of mulch to the bed. Filthy, sweaty, satisfied, she set up the sprinklers just as her alarm signaled again.
This time she saw Brooks driving toward the house.
She’d lost track of time, she realized. She’d meant to go in, put the lasagna on warm in the oven before he arrived. And had certainly hoped to have cleaned up at least a little.
“Well, look at that.” He got out, a bouquet of purple iris in his hand. “These feel a little dinky now.”
“They’re beautiful. It’s the second time you brought me flowers. You’re the only one who ever has.”
He made them both a silent promise to bring them often. He handed them to her, pulled out a rawhide for Bert. “Didn’t forget you, big guy. You must’ve worked half the day putting that bed in.”
“Not quite that long, but it took some time. I want butterflies.”
“You’re going to get them. It’s pretty as it can be, Abigail. So are you.”
“I’m dirty,” she said, backing up when he bent to kiss her.
“I don’t mind a bit. You know I’d’ve given you a hand with the planting. I’m good at it.”
“I got started, and caught up in it.”
“Why don’t I get us some wine? We can sit out here and admire your work.”
“I need to shower and put the lasagna in to warm.”
“Go on, get your shower. I can put the food in, get the wine. From the looks of things you worked harder than I did today. Here.” He took the flowers back. “I’ll put them in water for you. What?” he said when she only stared at him.
“Nothing. I … I won’t be long.”
Not sure what to do, he concluded, when offered the most basic and minimal help. But she’d taken it, he thought, as he went in, filled her vase. And without argument or excuses. That was a step forward.
He put the flowers on the counter, expecting she’d fuss with the arrangement later, and likely when he wasn’t around. He switched the oven, set it low, slid the casserole in.
He took the wine and two glasses out on the front porch, and, after pouring, carried his own glass over to lean on the post, study her flowers.
He knew enough about gardening to be sure the job had taken her hours. Knew enough about gardening artfully to be sure she had a knack for color and texture and flow.
And he knew enough about people to be sure the planting of it was another mark of ownership, of settling in. Her place, done her way.
A good sign.
When she stepped out, he turned to her. Her damp hair curled a little around her face, and she smelled as fresh as spring itself.
“It’s my first spring back in the Ozarks,” he said, picking up her glass to offer it. “I’m watching it come back to life. The hills greening up, the wildflowers bursting, the rivers streaming through it all. The light, the shadows, sunlight on fields of row crops freshly planted. All of it new again for another season. And I know there’s nowhere else I want to be. This is home again, for the rest of it.”
“I feel that way. It’s the first time I’ve felt that way. I like it.”
“It’s good you do. I look at you, Abigail, smelling of that spring, your flowers blooming or waiting to, your eyes so serious, so goddamn beautiful, and I feel the same. There’s nowhere else. No one else.”
“I don’t know what to do with how you make me feel. And I’m afraid of what my life will be if this changes and I never feel this way again.”
“How do I make you feel?”
“Happy. So happy. And terrified and confused.”
“We’ll work on the happy until you’re easy and sure.”
She set down her wine, went to him, held on. “I may never be.”
“You came outside without your gun.”
“You have yours.”
He smiled into her hair. “That’s something, then. That’s trust, and a good start.”
She didn’t know, couldn’t analyze through all the feelings. “We can sit on the steps, and you could tell me what happened this morning.”
“We can do that.” He tipped her face back, kissed her lightly. “’Cause I’m feeling good about it.”
19
He filled her in while the shadows lengthened and her new garden soaked up the gentle shower from her sprinklers.
She’d always found the law fascinating, the ins and outs of the process, the illogic—and, in her opinion, often the bias—infused into the rules and codes and procedures by the human factor. Justice seemed so clear-cut to her, but the law that sought it, enforced it, was murky and slippery.
“I don’t understand why, because they have money, they should be released.”
“Innocent till proven guilty.”
“But they
“They’re entitled to their day in court.”
She shook her head. “But now they’re free to use money or intimidation against those witnesses and the
