“Oh, thank you, but—”
“Nothing fancy. Just a backyard barbecue. And I’ve got some yellow flags I need to divide. I’ll give you some. They’ll like that sunny spot over by the brook. I’ll round up that pup, and we’ll see you Sunday.”
“You’ve been seeing Brooks for a while now,” Mya commented.
“I suppose.”
“You know how he just chips amiably away at you until he gets his way?”
“Yes.”
Mya winked and grinned. “He comes by it naturally. We’ll see you Sunday.”
“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 liketo 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.”
