“You mean… Oh.” His face cleared with understanding. He nodded and headed to a nook under a steep staircase abutting the front door, close to where Abby still stood rooted to the spot. He came out with a gun—long and shiny and nasty-looking—and for just a second, her breath caught in her throat, telling her she’d made the stupidest of mistakes. She could picture the sneeringI told you sos from the people next door. She could hear Sammy’s cries. Isaiah’s sad, knowing sermon:Abigail Merkley died for her sins, he’d preach, and everyone would nod.
“Take this,” the man said and shoved the gun into her arms. “If I do anything you don’t like, shoot me.”
The laugh that bubbled out of her throat was unexpected. It was fresh and new, rejuvenating.My first laugh outside. My first taste of freedom.She bit her lip automatically, holding it in. It never served to appear too happy.
But the man didn’t seem to mind. For the first time since she’d arrived, something besides irritation washed over his features. He eyed her strangely, head cocked, his gaze on the place where her lip remained caught between her teeth.
“I am funny to you?” he asked, and for a second, she considered shaking her head, forcing a more placid expression and casting her eyes down and away. Always down and away.
But this wasn’t a Church member. This was outside. If she couldn’t be herself here, then what was the point?
“This.” She motioned with the gun, which was heavier than it appeared. “This is funny.”
One thick eyebrow rose, and a comma flashed next to his mouth, which threatened to smile, although it never quite committed.
“The gun is funny?”
“Oh, course not. I didn’t mean—”
“Never mind. French humor.”
“Is that what you are? French?”
He blinked. “How did you guess?”
“You talk with this accent. Kinda—Oh.You’re joking. Again.” Her cheeks ached from the smiling, and his expression had changed from the hard implacability he’d worn outside. Melted a bit, perhaps. At this moment, he looked…young, maybe? Flushed and almost sweet. Almost.
Abby watched as he strode to a woodstove, opened it, and stirred the embers. He added a few logs and motioned her to follow him through a doorway. In the kitchen, he filled an electric kettle at the sink and set it to boil.
“You got electricity here.”
“Yes. You don’t?”
Embarrassed, she shook her head. “Not in our homes. Just in the main building. The Center.”
He lifted his brows in an expression that struck her as being supremely French. As if she knew what that would be.
“Here.” He pulled out a straight-backed wooden chair before heading out again, leaving her alone to set the gun down and sit at the small table.
When he reappeared, he held a thick wool sweater and gloves. “Put these on.”
“Why don’tyouwear gloves when you work?”
“I like to feel the plants. Know what I’m doing.”
“I couldn’t take these from you. I’m fi—”
“You want work, you dress appropriately.” Prickly Grape Man was back.
“Yes, sir.”
“And please don’t call me that.”
“Sir?” Abby swallowed. “What should I call you?”
“Luc.”
“Look?” she asked, confused.
