The Law of Moses (10 page)

“And Lucky is just like you!” I said.

Moses just stared at me blandly, but I could tell he was enjoying himself. “Because he’s black?”

“No, stupid. Because he’s in love with me, and he tries to pretend every day like he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me,” I shot back.

Moses choked, and I punched him hard in the stomach, making him gasp and grab for my hands.

“So you want the clients to not pay any attention to the color of the horse. That’s not even human nature, you know.” Moses pinned my hands over my head and stared down into my flushed face. When he could see I wasn’t going to continue punching he relaxed his hold, but he looked back toward the horses and continued talking.

“Everyone always talks about being color blind. And I get that. I do. But maybe instead of being color blind, we should celebrate color, in all its shades. It kind of bugs me that we’re supposed to ignore our differences like we don’t see them, when seeing them doesn’t have to be a negative.”

I could only stare. I didn’t want to look anywhere but at him. He was so beautiful, and I loved it when he talked to me, when he suddenly became philosophical like this. I loved it so much I didn’t want to say anything. I just wanted to wait to see if he would say more. After several long minutes of silence he looked down at me and found me staring at him.

“I like your skin. I love the color of your eyes. Am I supposed to just ignore that?” he whispered, and my heart galloped to the round corral, cleared the fence, and raced back to me in giddy delight.

“You like my skin?” I breathed, stupefied.

“Yes. I do,” he admitted, and looked back at the horses. It was by far the nicest thing he’d ever said to me. And I just laid there in happy silence.

“If you had to paint me, what colors would you use?” I had to know.

“Brown, white, gold, pink, peach,” he sighed. “I’d have to experiment.”

“Will you paint me?” It was something I desperately wanted.

“No.” He sighed again.

“Why?” I tried not to be hurt.

“It’s easier to paint the things in my head than the things I see with my eyes.”

“So . . . paint me from memory.” I sat up and placed my hands over his eyes. “Here. Close your eyes. Now picture me. There. See me? I’m the Palomino filly up in your grill all the time.”

His lips twisted and I knew he wanted to laugh, but I kept my hands over his eyes. “Now keep them closed. You’re holding a paint brush in your hand already. And here’s the canvas.” I brought the hand holding the brush to my face. “Now paint.”

He dropped his hand back to his lap, holding the brush, debating. I dropped my hand from his eyes, but he kept them closed. Then he lifted his hand once more and slid the dry brush softly against my face.

“What was that?”

“My forehead.”

“What part?”

“The left side.

“And here?”

“My cheek.”

“Here?”

“My chin.” It tickled, but I didn’t let myself move. Moses traced the tip of my chin, followed it down and around, making a straight line to my neck. I swallowed as the brush slid down my throat and whispered down my chest to the opening of my T-shirt. My T-shirt made a neat V above my breasts, and Moses paused, holding the brush pressed against my skin, directly over my heart. But he kept his eyes closed.

“If I were to paint you, I would use every color,” he said suddenly, almost wistfully, as if he was sure he couldn’t paint me . . . but he wanted to. “You would have crimson lips and peach skin and ebony eyes with purple shadows. You would have hair streaked with gold and white and blue and skin tinted with caramel and cream, swirled with pink and shaded with cinnamon.”

As he talked, he moved the brush this way and that, as if he were actually painting with the colors in his head. And then he stopped and opened his eyes. My breath was stuck somewhere between my heart and my head, and I concentrated on letting it out without giving myself away. But he knew. He knew what effect he had on me. He threw the brush and stood up, breaking the spell he’d woven with gentle strokes and soft words. He headed back into the house and I could have sworn I heard him mutter to himself as he left me lying on the grass, “I can’t paint you Georgia . . . you’re alive.”

Moses

GEORGIA WOULDN’T STAY AWAY. I did my best to make her go. I didn’t need her tying me up and tying me down. I was leaving as soon as I could, and she was not part of my plans. I treated her like shit most of the time. And she just shrugged it off and handed it right back. It didn’t faze her and it definitely didn’t make her go away. The problem was, I liked kissing her. I liked the way her hair felt in my hands and the way her body felt when she crowded me and got in my space, demanding attention and getting it, every damn time.

And she made me laugh. I was not the laughing kind. I swore more than I smiled. Life just wasn’t that funny. But Georgia was extremely funny. And laughing and kissing does not make it easy to convince someone you want them to go away. And she just wouldn’t go away.

I thought after that night at the rodeo, tied up and terrorized, Georgia would lose some of her sass. Terrence Anderson, who had nothing but insults for Georgia, had definitely lost his sass when I cornered him a few nights after the stampede and made sure he knew that little boys who liked rope got sliced up by men who liked knives. The truth was, I was good with knives—I could throw them and hit the target dead center at twenty paces—and I made sure Terrence knew that. I showed him a nice big one I’d taken from Gigi’s kitchen drawer, and I gave him a little knick on his cheek, marking him up in the same place where Georgia’s cheek had bled.

He said he hadn’t done it. But his eyes shifted around like maybe he had. Even if he hadn’t done it, he was an asshole, so I didn’t feel bad that I made him bleed. The only thing I felt bad about was that I had been compelled to scare him off at all. Georgia’s problems were not my problems. Georgia was my problem. Like right now, when she was determined to help me repair fence, talking and making me laugh and then making me angry because she was making me laugh.

“I can’t get any work done when you’re around. And it’s gonna rain, and I’m not gonna finish. This section of fence has been a bitch, and you aren’t helping.”

“Whine, whine, whine,” Georgia sighed. “You and I both know I rock at repairing fence.”

I laughed. Again. “You suck at repairing fence! And you didn’t bring gloves, so I had to give you mine, and now my hands look like porcupines from all the damn splinters. You are not helping.”

“That’s it, Moses. Give me five greats.” Georgia said, like she was demanding push-ups, a drill sergeant barking out a command.

“Five greats?”

“Five things that are great about today. About life. Go.”

I just stared at her sullenly.

“Okay. I’ll go first. It’s easy. Right off the top of my head, five things I’m grateful for. Bacon, wet wipes, Tim McGraw, mascara, and rosemary,” she said.

“That’s kind of a strange assortment,” I said.

“What did you tell me about finding beauty in little things? What was that painter’s name? Vermeer?”

“Vermeer was an artist, not a painter,” I objected, scowling.

“An artist who painted nails and stains and cracks in the wall, right?”

I was impressed that she remembered.

“The five greats game is kind of like that. Finding beauty in ordinary things. And the only rule is gratitude. My mom and dad use it all the time. Grumbling isn’t really allowed around my house. Foster kids learn that real quick. Any time you start feeling sorry for yourself or you go into a rant about how bad life sucks, you immediately have to name five greats.”

“I can name five grates. Five things that are grating on my nerves.” I smiled sarcastically, pleased at my play on words. “And the fact that you’re wearing my gloves is at the top. Followed by your annoying lists and the fact that you just called Vermeer a painter.”

“You gave me your gloves! And yeah, it’s annoying, but there’s something to it. It changes your focus, even if it’s just for a minute. And it shuts down the whining. I had one little foster sister who named the same five things every time. Toilet paper, SpaghettiOs, shoelaces, light bulbs, and the sound of her mother snoring. She had a pair of flip flops when she came to us, and nothing more. The first time we bought her shoes, we got her a pair with fluorescent green laces with pink hearts on them. She would walk, staring down at those laces.

“The sound of her mother snoring?”

“It meant she was still alive.”

I felt a little sick. Kids all over the world put up with too much from people who should know better. And then those kids turned into adults that repeated the cycle. I would probably do the same if I ever had kids. All the more reason not to. Georgia continued on while I considered how much people truly sucked.

“My mom lets the kids tell her five things that are bothering them, things they needed to express. They count them off on their fingers.” Georgia grabbed my hand and ticked the items off on my fingers to demonstrate. “Like, I’m tired. I miss my mom. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to go to school. I’m scared. Whatever. Then they make a fist with the fingers they just used to express their problems. And then they throw the things away, they toss them.” Georgia illustrated the motion with my hand, wrapping my fingers around my palm, making a fist so I could throw away the imaginary ball of wadded up complaints. “Then she makes them name five greats. It helps them to refocus and it reminds them that even when life is pretty bad, it isn’t all bad, ever.” She looked at me, still holding my hand, waiting. I stared back.

“So give it to me, Moses. Five greats. Go.”

“I can’t,” I said immediately.

“You sure as hell can. I can name five things for you, but that doesn’t work as well. Gratitude works best when you’re the one feeling it.”

“Fine. You do it then—you name five greats for me,” I fired back and pulled my hand from hers. “You think you know me?” I said it mildly, but there was a prickling under my skin, an irritation that I couldn’t quite tamp down. Georgia thought she had it all figured out, but Georgia Shepherd hadn’t suffered enough to know shit about life.

Georgia grabbed my hand back stubbornly, and lifting it up, she gently placed a kiss on each fingertip for each item on the list. “Georgia’s eyes. Georgia’s hair. Georgia’s smile. Georgia’s personality. Georgia’s kisses.” She batted her eyes. “See? Definitely five greats for Moses.”

I really couldn’t argue with that. All of those things were pretty great.

“Feeling pretty good about yourself, aren’t you?” I said, shaking my head, grinning in spite of myself. My fingers tingled where her lips had been. I wanted her to do it again. And somehow, she knew it. She pulled my hand back to her mouth. “And these are mine.” She kissed my smallest finger. “Moses’s eyes.” She moved to my ring finger. “Moses’s smile.” Another kiss on the tallest tip. “Moses’s laugh.” Her lips were so soft. “Moses’s art.” She rounded to my thumb and placed her mouth gently against the pad. “Moses’s kisses.” Then she moved her lips from my fingertips and pressed her mouth to my palm.

“Those are my five greats for Georgia today. Those were my five greats yesterday and they will be tomorrow and the next day, until your kisses get old. Then I’ll have to think of something else.”