“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 whilethe shadows lengthened and her new garden soaked up the gentle shower from her sprinklers.
