The Law of Moses(101)

Jacob Dawson is believed to have killed more than a dozen girls in Utah in a twenty-five year period, and may be responsible for similar disappearances of girls matching the same profile in surrounding states. Considering that he had inherited one hundred acres of land, including the land that bordered the truck stop and the highway overpass where Molly Taggert was found, there was still a lot of ground to cover, and, sadly, a lot of bodies to uncover.

The whole town of Levan followed the story, watching the reports, pretending like they had the inside scoop, and making up what they didn’t know, just to feel important, just like the first time Levan made the news. It was a great story, and people love stories, just like they love babies.

And although people loved the story of baby Moses who grew up to be a seer of sorts, when the news cameras left and life returned to normal, it was a story that many people had a hard time believing and accepting. Like Moses said, if you’re afraid of the truth you’ll never find it. But that was okay. We didn’t especially want to be found.

We let people believe what they wanted and accept what they would. We let the colors blur and the details fade. And in the end, people would tell the story and pretend that’s all it was. It was a great story, after all.

A story of before and after, of new beginnings and never-endings. A story flawed and fractured, crazy and cracked, and most of all, a love story.

Our story.





Georgia




“DON’T MOVE, I’M ALMOST DONE,” Moses insisted, and I sighed and laid my head back down on my arm. He was obsessed with painting me. My pregnant body wasn’t especially beautiful, but Moses disagreed, including my round belly as one of his daily five greats, along with my legs, my eyes, my blonde hair, and the fact that my breasts were a full size bigger.

Who needed a photographer when your husband was a world-famous artist? I just hoped that someday nude paintings of Georgia Wright wouldn’t be hanging in some rich old man’s bedroom, or worse, in a museum where thousands of eyes perused my greats, daily.

“Moses?” I said softly.

“Yeah?” His eyes lifted from the canvas briefly.

“There’s a new law in Georgia.”

“Does it directly contradict one of the laws of Moses?”

“Yes. Yes it does,” I confessed.

“Hmm. Let’s hear it.” He set his brush down, wiped his hands on a cloth and approached the bed where I was positioned, draped in a sheet like a Rubenesque Madonna. I learned the term from him, and he seemed to think it was a good thing.

“Thou shall not paint,” I commanded sternly. He leaned over me, one knee on the bed, his strong arms bracketing my head, and I turned slightly, looking up at him.

“Ever?” He smiled. I watched his head descend and his lips brushed mine. But his golden-green eyes stayed open, watching me as he kissed me. My toes curled and my eyes fluttered, the sensation of lips tasting lips pulling me under.

“No. Not ever, just sometimes,” I sighed.

“Just when I’m in Georgia?” he whispered, his mouth curving against mine.

“Yes. And I need you here often. All the time. Frequently.”

Moses kissed me deeply, stroking his hands up over the curve of my abdomen, and the baby kicked enthusiastically, making us pull apart abruptly and laugh in wonder.

“It’s pretty crowded in there,” he said soberly, but his eyes danced. He was happy, and my heart was so full I couldn’t catch my breath.

“It’s crowded in here too.” I rested my hand on my heart, trying not to be an emotional pregnant lady and failing miserably. “I love you, Moses,” I said, cradling his face.

“I love you too, Georgia,” he said. “Before, after, always.”





Moses



I TRIED NOT TO HAVE ANY EXPECTATIONS. Life after death was one thing, life coming into the world was another. Georgia was calm. Beautiful. An old pro, as she put it. But I had missed the first time around, and I was afraid to blink for fear of missing something. And I was not calm.

Tag was not calm either. He had to wait outside. He was my best friend, but even best friends did not share some things. Plus, I didn’t think Georgia could give birth and keep us both from passing out.

It was all I could do to hold Georgia’s hand and stay at her bedside, praying to God, to Gi, to Eli, to anyone who would listen, to give me strength and self-control. Strength to be the man Georgia needed and self-control to resist covering the walls of Georgia’s hospital room in a frenzied mural.

When our daughter came into the world, screaming like it was ending, I could only cry with her. I’d turned into a crier. After years of controlling the waters, they seemed to be controlling me. But how could I not cry? She was beautiful. Perfect. Healthy. And when they put her on Georgia’s chest and Georgia smiled at me like we’d made a miracle, I could only nod and agree. We’d made two of them.

“Kathleen,” she said.

“Kathleen,” I agreed.

“I think she might have your eyes and your nose,” Georgia said, comforting our daughter who most definitely did not have my nose. Or at least not yet. But she did have my eyes. They were my mother’s eyes too. I could admit that now.

“Do you have your daddy’s eyes?” Georgia cooed.