“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.”