couldn't make myself throw them away or let 'Lissa recycle the canvases. So I hung them up in here, and told Melissa that they were my birthday gift to myself that year.”
“They're amazing. I recognize the one of the Mississippi, but what's the other?” I ask, so entranced that I feel like I could walk through the canvas to the painting itself. It's both hyperrealistic and surreal at the same time in some strange way. The reds are just slightly off, the mists are slightly too luminescent silver, but it adds to it. It's not a foggy morning on the Delta, but it's the way you want a foggy Delta morning to look.
“The cliffs above the Malian Gulf in Greece,” Carson says. “She painted it for me when I was really into history, back in high school. It was the site of the battle of Thermopylae. So the painting is her interpretation of how it looked in 480 BC, a month after the battle itself.”
I look more closely, and can see the churned-up ground in the lower right half of the painting, and recognize the mounds for what they are. “She makes it sad, like a graveyard. But noble too, like the people tried to do what they could to honor the dead.”
“That's what I said too, the first time she showed it to me,” Carson says. “Come, let's go to your friends. You said you brought Jackson with you?”
“Yes... actually, you've met our family friend as well perhaps,” I tell him, figuring I might as well get it out of the way. “Nathan. He came here Thursday.”
“Your friend. I see. Being cautious,” Carson says, but I don't hear any anger in his voice. Instead I hear a wary sort of respect, like he knows that we're living a dangerous life, and thinks our idea was a good one. “'Lissa might be surprised, but I don't fault you. Not with what your father has done.”
“Peter DeLaCoeur isn't my father,” I reply shortly, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. Carson didn't mean anything by it. Still, he gives me a questioning look, so I feel like I have to explain. “He may have fucked my mother, so I may carry half his DNA, but that son of a bitch is not my father.”
“I understand,” Carson says gently, and in his voice I can hear something that neither Nathan nor Katrina has said. Not even Jackson. They accept me for who I am, but in Carson's voice I hear more than just acceptance. I hear agreement as well. There's also a hint of attraction in it, which makes me wish he'd take me upstairs for an extended tour of the house instead of out the back.
We come out onto the back porch, and Carson stops, staring as Maverick climbs out the back of the van. “You said a dog. That's not a dog, that's a small horse.”
“Maverick is a dog. He's just a big puppy,” I reassure him as the three and a half foot tall dog walks around, sniffing happily. Then I notice the bulge at the back of Carson's pants, and see he's carrying a pistol. “And you should tell Katrina and Nathan that you've got a weapon. They're both very protective of their family.”
“I understand,” Carson says, reaching behind his back and unclipping the concealed carry holster and taking it out. He holds it at arm's length and then brings it back in, clipping it instead to his right hip where it rests in plain sight. “And no offense, but I am too.”
“Well, let's say our hellos then, and go meet Melissa.”
Introductions are pretty short in the dirt yard, Jackson giving Carson a quirky smile as they shake hands. “Sorry about that when you called. Your timing was too Twilight Zone to not trip a few alarms in our heads.”
“Not a problem. Shall we go see Melissa?” Carson asks. “I can hear her in the barn. It sounds like she's grinding on her newest piece, so if you all can please stay behind me, I'll go in first and help her get ready. Can you wait in the dooryard?”
“Sure,” I agree readily, smiling despite myself. Carson's eyes meet mine and hold me for just a few seconds, but in that look I know for certain that he's
“They're amazing. I recognize the one of the Mississippi, but what's the other?” I ask, so entranced that I feel like I could walk through the canvas to the painting itself. It's both hyperrealistic and surreal at the same time in some strange way. The reds are just slightly off, the mists are slightly too luminescent silver, but it adds to it. It's not a foggy morning on the Delta, but it's the way you want a foggy Delta morning to look.
“The cliffs above the Malian Gulf in Greece,” Carson says. “She painted it for me when I was really into history, back in high school. It was the site of the battle of Thermopylae. So the painting is her interpretation of how it looked in 480 BC, a month after the battle itself.”
I look more closely, and can see the churned-up ground in the lower right half of the painting, and recognize the mounds for what they are. “She makes it sad, like a graveyard. But noble too, like the people tried to do what they could to honor the dead.”
“That's what I said too, the first time she showed it to me,” Carson says. “Come, let's go to your friends. You said you brought Jackson with you?”
“Yes... actually, you've met our family friend as well perhaps,” I tell him, figuring I might as well get it out of the way. “Nathan. He came here Thursday.”
“Your friend. I see. Being cautious,” Carson says, but I don't hear any anger in his voice. Instead I hear a wary sort of respect, like he knows that we're living a dangerous life, and thinks our idea was a good one. “'Lissa might be surprised, but I don't fault you. Not with what your father has done.”
“Peter DeLaCoeur isn't my father,” I reply shortly, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. Carson didn't mean anything by it. Still, he gives me a questioning look, so I feel like I have to explain. “He may have fucked my mother, so I may carry half his DNA, but that son of a bitch is not my father.”
“I understand,” Carson says gently, and in his voice I can hear something that neither Nathan nor Katrina has said. Not even Jackson. They accept me for who I am, but in Carson's voice I hear more than just acceptance. I hear agreement as well. There's also a hint of attraction in it, which makes me wish he'd take me upstairs for an extended tour of the house instead of out the back.
We come out onto the back porch, and Carson stops, staring as Maverick climbs out the back of the van. “You said a dog. That's not a dog, that's a small horse.”
“Maverick is a dog. He's just a big puppy,” I reassure him as the three and a half foot tall dog walks around, sniffing happily. Then I notice the bulge at the back of Carson's pants, and see he's carrying a pistol. “And you should tell Katrina and Nathan that you've got a weapon. They're both very protective of their family.”
“I understand,” Carson says, reaching behind his back and unclipping the concealed carry holster and taking it out. He holds it at arm's length and then brings it back in, clipping it instead to his right hip where it rests in plain sight. “And no offense, but I am too.”
“Well, let's say our hellos then, and go meet Melissa.”
Introductions are pretty short in the dirt yard, Jackson giving Carson a quirky smile as they shake hands. “Sorry about that when you called. Your timing was too Twilight Zone to not trip a few alarms in our heads.”
“Not a problem. Shall we go see Melissa?” Carson asks. “I can hear her in the barn. It sounds like she's grinding on her newest piece, so if you all can please stay behind me, I'll go in first and help her get ready. Can you wait in the dooryard?”
“Sure,” I agree readily, smiling despite myself. Carson's eyes meet mine and hold me for just a few seconds, but in that look I know for certain that he's
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