Maggie took a deep, unsteady breath and Ava heard the tears in her mother’s voice. “Sweetie…”
Ava’s throat tightened. “You’re not upset, are you?”
“No! No, of course not. I wish I’d been there, but no, baby, I’m not angry.” She sniffled. “You twobelongtogether. The connection you’ve got with him–” There was a rustling of her hair against the phone, and Ava envisioned her shaking her head. “I know running off to get married isn’t the sort of thing parents want for their kids, but with you two, it’s the absolute right thing. I’m so happy for you,” she said, and Ava felt the burning of fresh tears in her eyes. “You and him. He’s already our family; might as well be official on paper.”
When Maggie asked what they’d done that day, Ava left out all mention of Dee and Mercy’s dark past involving her. She talked instead about the Café au Lait and beignets at Café du Monde, the St. Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, the gorgeous architecture of the Quarter. She went on at length about all the little details, sensing that her mom needed a distraction from the troubles of the day.
As they hung up, Maggie said, “Kiss that monster for me. I love you both.”
“Love you, Mom.”
Mercy walked in, arms full of firewood as she was setting the phone back in its cradle. “Mags?” he asked, heeling the door shut.
She nodded. “She’s says to give you a kiss.”
He came to dump the wood into the leather-lined basket beside the stove and leaned down so she could do just that, a fast, smacking, childish kiss that made him smile and her laugh.
“You wanna check my work, teach?”
He lifted the lid off the sauce pot and leaned over it, pulling in a deep breath. “Smells good. You put the pasta on?”
“Yep. It’s about ready, I think.”
He reached for a fork on the drying rack. “Let’s taste it to see if it’s–”
They both heard it at the same time, the distant buzzing of a boat motor. It pricked their ears, came closer, and then stopped, while they strained, frozen, eyes locked to one another.
“The O’Donnells?” Ava asked, not believing it, but hoping anyway.
He shook his head and straightened slowly. “Nah. Not their engine.”
He reached and set a hand on the top of her head as his eyes went to the windows, an unconscious reassurance to himself that she was there, that she was fine. “I want you to lock the doors behind me,” he said, as he pulled away. “Go ahead and drain the pasta and add it to the sauce. Let it simmer a bit. It’ll be ready when I get back.”
“Mercy.”
He went for Lew’s shotgun, checked that it was loaded, and propped it over his shoulder. His Colt 1911 was in his waistband.
“Mercy. Don’t–”
“Lock the doors,” he reminded. “And don’t answer it until you’re sure it’s me. You’ve got your nine mil?”
Realizing there was no reasoning with him when he got like this, she nodded. “Yeah.”
“Keep it close.”
He went out the back door, and she locked it dutifully behind him, pressing her nose to the glass, watching his shadow disappear into the darkness.
She checked the deadbolt again, once she was sure that all she saw were shifting pockets of shadow in the glow from the windows. Then she turned and put her back to the door, breath catching as adrenaline flooded through her.
“Keep him safe,” she chanted. “God, keep him safe.”
As she waited, went to the stove and forced herself to drain the pasta and keep working on their dinner, her mind began to cycle through the possibilities. What if Mercy was hurt? Hurt badly? How could she drag him into the boat? Would she be able to navigate them back to civilization? Through these treacherous swamps. If she called 9-1-1, would anyone respond?Couldthey?
She jumped when she heard the gunshot. “Jesus!” The pot lid crashed to the floor, tomato sauce splattering like blood across the boards.
The sight of it propelled her heart up into her throat, her pulse hammering in her ears.
Hands shaking, she knelt and wiped up the mess, put the lid up on the stove. She breathed through her mouth, uneven panting, muscles locking up tight with fear.
