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 are guilty,” she insisted, “and it has been proven. They rented the room and caused the damage. Justin Blake assaulted your friend in front of witnesses.”
“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 others involved, or to run, or to craft delays. Your friends suffered a loss, and the people who caused it are free to go about their lives and business. The legal system is very flawed.”
“That may be, but without it, chaos.”
From her experience, chaos came with it.
“Consequences, punishment, justice, should be swift and constant, without the escape hatches of money, clever lawyers and illogical rulings.”
“I imagine most mobs think that when they get a rope.”
She frowned at him. “You arrest people who break the law. You know they’ve broken the law when you do so. You should be frustrated, even angry, knowing one of them finds a way through a legal loophole or, due to human failure, isn’t punished for the crime.”
“I’d rather see a guilty man go free than an innocent one go down. Sometimes there are reasons to break the law. I’m not talking about our three current assholes, but in general.”
Obviously relaxed, Brooks stretched out his legs, gave Bert a little rub with his foot. “It’s not always black and white, right and wrong. If you don’t consider all the shades and circumstances, you haven’t reached justice.”
“You believe that.” The muscles in her belly twisted, vibrated. “That there can be reasons to break the law.”
“Sure there are. Self-defense, defense of others. Or something as simple as speeding. Your wife’s in labor? I’m not going to cite you for breaking the speed limit on the way to the hospital.”
“You’d consider the circumstances.”
“Sure. Back when I was on patrol, we got called in on an assault. This guy went into a bar and beat the shit out of his uncle. We’ll call him Uncle Harry. Now, we’ve got to take the guy in on the assault, but it turns out Uncle Harry’s been messing with the guy’s twelve-year-old daughter. Yeah, he should’ve just called the cops and Child Services on it, but was he wrong to break Uncle Harry’s face? I don’t think so. You have to look at the whole picture, weigh those circumstances. That’s what the courts are supposed to do.”
“Point of view,” she murmured.
“Yeah. Point of view.” He trailed a finger down her arm. “Have you broken the law, Abigail?”
It was a door, she knew, that he invited her to walk through. But what if it locked behind her? “I’ve never had a speeding ticket, but I’ve exceeded the posted limit. I’m going to check the lasagna.”
When he wandered in a few minutes later, she was standing at the counter, slicing tomatoes.
“I harvested some tomatoes and basil from the greenhouse earlier.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“I like to be busy. I completed a contract a bit earlier than I projected, so I rewarded myself with gardening. And I had visitors.”
“Is that so?”
“Your mother and sisters.”
He was on the point of topping off her wine. “Say what again?”
“They were out this way. They’d had what your mother called a fancy ladies’ lunch, and were going shopping and to drink frozen margaritas. They invited me to join them.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mya explained they essentially came by to check me out. I liked her honesty, though at the time it was somewhat unnerving.”
Brooks let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “She can be.”
“They had Plato with them. Bert enjoyed playing with him.”
“I bet.”
“They laugh a lot.”
“Bert and Plato?”
“No.” And that made her laugh. “Your mother and sisters. They seem very happy. They seem like friends as well as relatives.”
“I’d say they are. We are.”
“Your other sister, Sybill, has a kind and gentle way. You appear to have qualities of both of your siblings. You also share a strong physical resemblance, particularly with Mya.”
“Did Mya tell you embarrassing stories about me?”
“No, though I would have been interested. I suspect she was more curious about me. She said when it came to women, to relationships …” Abigail paused a moment as she layered slices of buffalo mozzarella with the tomatoes. “In the past you tended toward the looks without necessarily much substance to back it up.”
Brooks watched her as she spoke, as she perfected the pattern on the dish. “I bet that’s word for word.”
“Paraphrasing can impart a different tenor, even a different meaning.”
“Can’t argue.”
“Is it true?”
He considered, shrugged. “I guess it is, now that I think about it.”
“I think it’s flattering.” And it also spoke to the novelty she’d brought up that morning. Novelty wore off.
“What surprises me is they had you three to one, and took no for an answer.”
“I was obviously, and honestly, deeply involved with the garden.” She picked up the wine now, drank. “Your mother did, however, invite me to an impromptu backyard barbecue this Sunday.”
He laughed, lifted his glass in salute. “See? They didn’t take no for an answer.”
She hadn’t considered that, and now saw Brooks was right. “Your mother seemed to ignore my reasonable excuse to decline. I thought it might be better to write her a polite note of regret.”
“Why? She makes great potato salad.”
“I have my gardening and household chores on my schedule for Sunday.”
“Chicken.”
“I’m sure your mother makes very nice chicken, but—”
“No. You’re a chicken.” He made a clucking sound that deepened her frown and stirred her temper.
“There’s no need to be rude.”
“Sometimes honest is rude. Look, there’s no reason to be nervous about hanging out in the backyard and eating potato salad. You’ll have fun.”
“No, I won’t, because I’ll have neglected my schedule. And I don’t know how to behave at a backyard barbecue. I don’t know how to have conversations with all those people I don’t know, or barely know, or how to meet the curiosity that would, I assume, be aimed at me because you and I have been having sex.”
“That’s a lot of don’t knows,” Brooks decided, “but I can help you with all of it. I can give you a hand with the gardening and household chores beforehand. You do just fine with conversations, but I’ll stick with you until you’re comfortable. And they may be curious, but they’re disposed to like you because I do, and my mother does. Plus, I’ll make you a promise.”
He paused now, waited until she lifted her gaze to his.
“What promise?”
“You give it an hour, and if you’re not having a good time, I’ll make an excuse. I’ll say I’ve got a call I have to handle, and we’ll go.”
“You’d lie to your family?”
“Yeah, I would. They’d know I’m lying, and understand.”
There, she thought, one of the complications that tangled into social duties and interpersonal relationships. “I think it’s best to avoid all of that and just send a note of regret.”
“She’ll just come fetch you.”
That stopped her slicing again. “That’s not true.”
“It’s gospel, honey. She’ll figure you’re too shy or too stubborn. If she decides on shy, she’ll mother you over there. If she decides on stubborn, she’ll push you every mile from here to there.”
“I’m not shy or stubborn.”
“You’re both, with some of that clucker tossed in.”
Deliberately, she brought the knife down on the board a little harder than necessary. “I don’t see the wisdom in insulting me when I’m preparing you a meal.”
“I don’t see being shy or stubborn as insulting. And everybody’s got a little clucker pecking around, depending on the circumstances.”
“What are your circumstances?”
“That’s a change of subject, but I’ll give it to you. Semiannual dentist visits, wolf spiders and karaoke.”
“Karaoke. That’s funny.”
“Not when I do it. Anyway, take my word. Give it an hour. An hour won’t hurt you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good enough. I’m repeating myself from last night, but that sure smells good.”
“Hopefully tonight will be more quiet and peaceful than last.”
It proved to be, until shortly after two a.m.
When her alarm sounded, she rolled out of bed, reaching for the gun on her nightstand and gripped it before her feet hit the floor.
“Take it easy.” Brooks’s voice stayed utterly calm. “Ease it down, Abigail. You, too,” he said to the dog, who poised at her feet, a low growl in his throat.