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"Are you implying only gay men have good taste and a flair for decorating? Way to stereotype," he teased.
"I'm sorry, it's just that most of the guys I know decorate with antlers, milk crates, and beer signs. They wouldn't know a lotus flower from a ceiling fan," Abigail said, walking over to the unlit fire pit.
Leif laughed. "Well, maybe my standards are a bit higher because I grew up believing animals were our brothers and sisters here on this good earth. I was taught to enjoy the colors of the sunset and see potential in every element. Making the world more aesthetically pleasing was encouraged."
Abigail turned to him. "That's not a bad way to be raised."
"I always thought so." Leif gestured to the cushions."Slip off your shoes and make yourself at home while I start the fire and get the appetizers from the fridge."
A few minutes later a nice warm fire crackled in the pit, and a slate tray containing cheeses, hummus and figs sat between them. Leif handed her a glass of wine, clinking his against hers. ''To what lies beneath."
Abigail crinkled her nose. "Wasn't that a horror film?''
He tilted his head, a soft smile gracing his pretty mouth. “I don’t know. But I like that toast for you."
She crooked an eyebrow.
"Because beneath the layers you cover yourself in lies your true spirit. And I'm looking forward to knowing the real Abigail."
"Oh," she said, nodding at the buttery apple of the chardonnay, trying to ignore the sudden fluttering of nerves. "Good wine."
"From one of my friends, as is the goat cheese."
"So tell me about where you grew up," Abigail said, snagging some cheese and nodding again to indicate her enjoyment.
"In Sawyer's Peak, Colorado. My mother lived in the Seaton commune there did many other artists."
''A commune?"
"Yeah, but it wasn't like what most people think. Sure, we were self-sufficient, sharing the work, creating things to sell in the farmers' market. It was a gentle way to live. Simple, much like what the early transcendentalists embraced."
Abigail couldn't imagine living any other way than how she lived. She knew very few vegetarians. Louisianians' cultural dishes and overall outlook reflected a different way of life. So a life without modern conveniences like bug spray and air-conditioning sounded miserable. "I can't imagine growing up that way, but obviously you embrace that lifestyle.”
"Not always. You saw how complex things were with Marcie. I'm not always good at being...calm."
Abigail smiled. "Difficult situation. So you said your mother was an artist, and I saw her work, but what about your father? What did he do?"
"I don't know."
Abigail lifted her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know who my father is."
11
LEIF WATCHED ABIGAIL'S reaction to his statement. Revealing his father was someone still living in Magnolia Bend was a risk. But a calculated one. He needed help and knew he could trust Abigail.
''Oh, well, that's, uh, a hard thing, I guess." She shifted her gaze, embarrassed, looking endearing in her trendy jeans and the white shirt with the snaps. With her hair down and slightly messy and bare feet peeking out at the hem, she looked much more approachable.
"It was, but I had plenty of role models in the elders of our community so I never really lacked for male influence."
"Oh," she said, her forehead crinkling. Several seconds ticked by. "So your mother..."
''Oh, she knew. She just wasn't forthcoming."
"But isn't it important from a medical history standpoint? Or didn't you wonder?"
"Sure, I'm normal. Mostly."
