I came back, fully dressed, with my arms folded, and I stood in the doorway and stared at her hideous drawing.
“Are you mad at me?” Her brow was wrinkled and her eyes were worried, and she wasn’t smiling anymore. “I thought you would laugh.” She shrugged. “I told Kathleen I was going to surprise you. And she said, ‘Go right ahead!’ So I did. I used your paints, but I put everything back.”
“Why are you kicking me in the head?”
“It’s our story. We meet. You save me. I kiss you. You kiss me back, but you keep acting like you don’t like me even though I know you do. So I’m kicking some sense into you. And man, does it feel good.” She grinned cheekily, and I looked back at her depiction. That was some kick to the head.
“It’s a terrible mural.” It was terrible. And funny. And very Georgia.
“Well, we can’t all be Leonardo DiCaprio. You painted on my walls, I’m painting on yours. And you don’t even have to pay me. I’m just trying to bond with you over art.”
“Leonardo da Vinci, you mean?”
“Him too.” She smiled again and laid back on my bed, patting the spot beside her.
“You could have at least given me some biceps. That doesn’t look anything like me. And why am I saying, ‘Don’t hurt me, Georgia!’”
I plopped down on the bed and purposely landed partially on top of her. She wiggled and scooted breathlessly, trying to free herself from my intentional squishing.
“You’re right. Maybe I should have written those words coming out of my mouth,” she giggled. But there was a look in her dark eyes that had me ducking my head and burying my face in her neck so I wouldn’t have to think about the inevitability of her pain.
She stroked my head and I breathed against her skin.
“Are we bonding over art?” she whispered in my ear.
“No. Let’s bond over something you’re actually good at,” I murmured back, and felt her chest vibrate with her laughter.
“She wanted to bond with me over art,” I said, smiling a little.
Tag chuckled and crossed to the stick figures. He traced his finger over the heart Georgia had drawn over the kissing stick -figures. “I like her, Mo.”
“She could always make me laugh. And she was right,” I confessed.
“About what?”
“I was always acting like I didn’t like her, even though I did.”
“Imagine that,” Tag said mildly. But his eyes found mine as he turned away and left my bedroom.
“Mo?” Tag called as he descended the stairs.
“Yeah?” I found I wasn’t ready to part with this mural yet, and stood, soaking it in as if I’d discovered a ghostly Picasso, painting away in my old room.
“You’ve got company, man. But take your time. It’s not the female variety.”
When I came back outside, Tag was leaning against a white SUV with Juab County Sheriff’s Department emblazoned on the side, talking to Sheriff Dawson like they were just a couple of cowboys shootin’ the shit after a long day in the saddle. Sheriff Dawson hadn’t changed much—maybe a few more lines around his blue eyes. He leveled them at me and they were decidedly cool. That hadn’t changed either.
“Didn’t you and my dad do some horse business a few years back?” Tag just continued talking, easy as you please, pretending not to notice the change in the temperature or the fact that the sheriff wasn’t really listening anymore.
Sheriff Dawson shot Tag a look. “Uh, yeah. Yes, we did. But it’s been more than a few years. I shoed some of his horses and sold him a couple Appaloosas he liked.”
“That’s right. You and I talked about rodeo a little bit. I used to do a little steer wrestling when I wasn’t raising Cain. You did some team roping didn’t you?”
“A little. I was a heeler. But I had more success in calf roping.” The sheriff’s voice was mild, but he wasn’t distracted by Tag’s good ol’ boy conversation skills, and as I walked toward him, he ignored Tag completely.
“You sellin’ the place?” he asked bluntly. He didn’t extend his hand and I didn’t offer mine.
I shrugged. I didn’t owe him any explanations.
“Tag here says you’ve been painting. That’s good. People might get the wrong idea if they see what you painted all over that house.”
Tag shifted slightly, and a look crossed his face that I’d seen a few times before.
“You here for any purpose, Sheriff?” I asked calmly. I wondered if he had known Georgia was pregnant when he came to question me at Montlake about Molly Taggert. It was February, and Georgia would have been far enough along for someone to know. It shed some light on the snide comments and the little asides he had shared with his fat deputy. Sheriff Dawson was a close friend of Georgia’s family. I had no doubt he knew all about Eli. For that matter, I had no doubt the whole town did. I wondered suddenly if my son had been treated with scorn or fear because of me, because of the things I had done. I wondered if Georgia had. The thought made my hands grow cold and my gut twist uncomfortably.
“I’m just here to find out what your plans are,” he said plainly. Tag’s face contorted again.
“Oh, yeah?” I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried not to think about how people might have treated Georgia when they discovered she had my baby in her belly. I tried not to think about how people might have looked at her and Eli when they were out and about in the community. I tried not to think about them whispering or watching closely to see if Eli was going to turn out like me.
“Georgia has suffered too much. Her family has suffered. They don’t need you here adding to it, churning up a lot of talk and trouble all over again.”
I couldn’t argue with any of that, but it pissed me off that he was suddenly the family spokesperson.