Tribute

TWENTY-ONE

How are you feeling?” Wilson asked when she sat on the sofa with Ford, with the dog between them.

"Oddly enough, lucky.”

“Have you been checked out by a doctor?”

“No, it’s bumps and bruises.”

“It would be helpful to have a doctor’s report, and photographs of your injuries.”

“I don’t have a local doctor yet. And I’m not-”

“I’ve got one,” Ford interrupted. "I’ll make a call.”

“We interviewed Hennessy,” Urick told them. “Took a first pass at him. He doesn’t deny ramming your truck or forcing you off the road. He claims you were harassing his wife.”

“I went to see her this morning. I forgot,” she said to Ford. “It wasn’t top of my mind after all this. I went to see him, actually, but she said he wasn’t home. We had a conversation, out on her porch. Then I left. I didn’t harass her, or anyone. And if he thinks having a conversation with his wife justifies running me into a ditch, he really is crazy.”

“What time did you speak with Mrs. Hennessy?”

“I don’t know. Around nine. I left and did a number of errands. Four or five stops, I guess, between Front Royal and Morrow Village. I saw his van coming from the direction of my farm as I was heading toward it. He saw me, and a minute later he was behind me, coming up fast. He rammed me. I don’t know how many times now. Three or four, at least. I know I was all over the road. I went into a skid, thought I was going to flip. I went into the ditch. I guess the seat belt and air bag kept it from being any worse.”

“You got out of the truck,” Wilson prompted.

“That’s right. Supremely pissed. I started yelling at him, he yelled at me. And he shoved me. He shoved me again, and knocked me back into the gate of the truck. He said, ‘I see you in there.’ And he raised his fist. That’s when I kicked him.”

“What do you think he meant by that? ‘I see you in there’?”

“My grandmother. He meant he saw my grandmother. And I’d say if he had to hurt me to get to her, that’s what he’d do. He attacked my friend, vandalized my property, and now he’s attacked me.”

“He hasn’t copped to any of the incidents before this afternoon,” Wilson told her. “He denies the rest.”

“Do you believe him?”

“No, but it’s hard to understand why a man who confesses to vehicular assault, reckless endangerment, assault with intent refuses to admit to trespass and vandalism. The fact is, Ms. McGowan, he seemed righteous about what happened today. Not remorseful or afraid of the consequences. If his wife hadn’t gotten a lawyer in there when she did, we might’ve gotten more.”

“What happens now?”

“Arraignment, bail hearing. Given his age, his length of time in the community, I’d expect his lawyer to request he be released on his own recognizance. And given the nature of the offense, his proximity to you, I expect the DA will ask for him to be held without bail. I can’t say which way it’ll go, or if it’ll land somewhere between.”

“His wife swears he didn’t leave the house last night.” Urick picked up the notebook in his lap. “That they left the park right after they saw you, and he stayed in all night. We did, however, pull out of her that he often spends time in their son’s room, locks himself in, sleeps in there. So he could’ve left the house without her knowing about it. We’ll push there, I promise you.”

Cilla had barely settled herself down after the police left when her father arrived, with Patty and Angie. Even as the anger and emotion level rose toward what she thought might be the unbearable, Ford’s mother sailed in carrying a large Tupperware container and a bouquet of flowers.

“Don’t you get up, you poor thing. I brought you some of my chicken soup.”

“Oh, Penny, that’s so thoughtful!” Patty sprang up to take the flowers. “I never thought of food, or flowers. I never thought-”

“Of course you didn’t. How could you, with so much on your mind? Cilla, I’m going to heat you up a bowl right now. My chicken soup’s good for anything. Colds, flu, bumps, bruises, lovers’ spats and rainy days. Ford, find Patty a vase for the flowers. Nothing cheers you up like a bunch of sunflowers.”

Clutching them, Patty burst into tears.

“Oh now, now.” Penny cradled the Tupperware in one arm, Patty in the other. “Come on with me, sweetie. You come on with me. We’ll make ourselves useful, and you’ll feel better.”

“Did you see her poor face?” Patty sobbed as Penny led her away.

“She’s just so upset.” Angie sat beside Cilla, took her hand.

“I know. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Gavin turned from staring out the front windows. “None of it is. I should have confronted Hennessy years ago, had this out with him. Instead, I just stayed out of his way. I looked away from it because it was uncomfortable. It was unpleasant. And because he left Patty and Angie alone. He didn’t leave you alone, and still, I stayed out of his way.”

“Confronting him wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“It would make me feel like less of a failure as your father.”

“You’re not-”

“Angie,” Gavin said, interrupting Cilla, “would you go help your mother and Mrs. Sawyer?”

“All right.”

“Ford? Would you mind?”

With a nod, Ford slipped out behind Angie.

Cilla sat, her stomach twisting with a new kind of tension. “I know you’re upset. We’re all upset,” she began.

“I let her have you. I let Dilly have you, and I walked away.”

Cilla looked into his face and asked the single question she’d never dared ask him. “Why?”

“I told myself you were better off. I even believed it. I told myself you were where you belonged, and being there, being with your mother, allowed you to do what made you happy. Gave you advantages. I wasn’t happy there, and whatever turned between your mother and me brought out the very worst in both of us when we dealt with each other. When we dealt with each other about you. I felt… free when I came back here.”

“I was only about a year old when you moved out, and not even three when you went away.”

“We couldn’t speak two sentences to each other without it devolving. It was better, a little better, when we had a few thousand miles between us. I came out every month or two to see you for the first few… then less. You were already a working actor. It was easy to tell myself you had such a full life, to agree that it wasn’t in your best interest to come here for part of your summer break when you could be making appearances.”

“And you were building a life here.”

“Yes, starting over, falling in love with Patty.” He looked down at his hands, then dropped them to his sides. “You were barely real to me, this beautiful little girl I’d visit a few times a year. I could tell myself I did my duty-never failed to send the support check, or call on your birthday, Christmas, send gifts. Even if I knew it for a lie, I could tell myself. I had Angie. Right here, every step. She needed me, and you didn’t.”

“But I did.” Cilla’s eyes swam. “I did.”

“I know. And I’ll never be able to make it up to you, or to myself.”

His voice went thick. “I wanted a quiet life, Cilla. And I sacrificed you to get it. By the time I understood that, you were grown.”

“Did you ever love me?”

He pressed his fingers to his eyes as if they burned, then, dropping his hands, walked over to sit beside her. “I was in the delivery room when you were born. They put you in my arms, and I loved you. But it was almost a kind of awe. Amazement and terror and thrill. I remember most, a few weeks after we brought you home. I had an early call, and I heard you crying. The nurse had fed you, but you were fussy. I took you, and sat with you in the rocking chair. You spit up all over my shirt. And then you looked at me. Looked right into my eyes. And I loved you. I shouldn’t have let you go.”

She took a breath as something opened in her chest. “You helped me pick out rosebushes, and a red maple. You painted my living room. And you’re here now.”

He put an arm around her, drew her against him. “I saw you,” he whispered, “standing on a veranda you’d built with your own hands. And I loved you.”

For the first time in her memory, for perhaps the first time in her life, she turned her face into his chest, and wept.

LATER, SHE ATE CHICKEN SOUP. It surprised her just how much better it made her feel. A tall green vase full of bright yellow sunflowers didn’t hurt, either. Cilla decided she looked a great deal better when Ford didn’t argue with the idea of her walking over to check on what work had been done that day.

“Walking around some’ll help you not stiffen up too much, I imagine.”

“It’s cooled off some. It feels good to be outside. Smells like rain’s coming.”

“Aren’t you turning into the country girl.”

Smiling, she lifted her face to the sky. “That, and like any contractor, I checked the weather channel this morning. Evening thunderstorms, sixty percent chance. And speaking of weather, you weathered the emotional storm earlier very well.”

“Barely, if you want to know the truth. My mother’s giving Patty the there-theres, and Angie gets going, and that gets my mother started. So I’ve got three women crying in the kitchen while they’re heating up soup and arranging flowers.” Looking pained, he dragged a hand through his mass of disordered hair. “I nearly bolted. Spock slunk out through his dog door like a coward. I thought about doing the same.”

“Sterner stuff is Ford made of.”

“Maybe, but it was touch and go when I looked in the living room to see if that coast was clear and you’re mopping at your eyes.”

“Thanks for sticking it out.”

“It’s what we men in love do.” He unlocked the door, pushed it open.

She paused in the doorway, as Spock made himself at home and walked straight in. “Were you ever, before?”

“Ever what?”

“In love?”

“I was in love with Ivy Lattimer when I was eight, but she treated me with derision and mockery. I was in love with Stephanie Provost at thirteen, who returned my affection for six glorious days before tossing me for Don Erbe and his in-ground swimming pool.”

She pressed her finger into his chest. “I’m serious.”

“Those were very serious love affairs to me, at the time. There were others, too. But if you mean has it ever been real, have I ever looked at a woman and known and felt and wanted and needed all at the same time? No. You’re the first.”

He lifted her hand, brushed his lips lightly over her knuckles and made her think of her father making the same gesture with Patty. “Looks the same in here to me. What do these guys do all day?”

She wandered into the living room. “Because you don’t know where to look. Switch plates and outlet covers I special-ordered-hammered antique bronze-installed. That was a nice, unnecessary thing to do. Matt left the trim in here because he knows I have an emotional attachment to it and want to hang it myself.”

She moved off, let out a happy sound at the doorway to the powder room. “Tile’s laid.” She crouched, studied. “Nice, very nice, the warm pallet in this mosaic ties in well with the color of the entrance foyer, the living area. I wonder if they got to the bathroom on the third floor, or finished the drywall?”

And she’s up and running, Ford thought, following her through the house.

By the time she’d checked everything to her satisfaction, the first rumble of thunder sounded. Spock let out a pip of distress and clung to Ford’s side like a burr.

She set the alarm, locked up.

“Wind’s starting to kick. I love that. I really love when it waits to rain until night, and doesn’t screw up time on the job. Brian’s crew is scheduled for tomorrow, and we’re finally going to work on the pond. Plus, we’re… Oh damn, I completely forgot. I put an offer in on the house this morning. Just had the impulse hit, and hit strong enough, it said do it now. I should hear if they’re going to counter tomorrow. Which is when I made an appointment for us to go through the other house. I figured if that didn’t work for you, I’d just reschedule. And I forgot about it.”

“Gee, wonder why? What time tomorrow?”

“Five. I’ve got a full slate, so five worked out.”

“It’s fine. We’ll go right after your doctor’s appointment. That’s at four.”

“But-”

“Four,” he said in that tone she heard rarely. Which, she imagined, spoke to its success.

"Okay. All right.”

“Now, what do you say we sit outside with some wine, and watch this storm roll in.”

“I say that sounds like a nice way to end a seriously crappy day.”

CILLA THOUGHT SHE was pulling it together pretty well. She’d gotten a decent night’s sleep-maybe aided by two glasses of wine, two Motrin and another bowl of Penny’s famous chicken soup. She’d managed to creak her way out of bed at seven without waking Ford. Another spin in the whirlpool, some very light and gentle yoga stretches followed by more Motrin and a breathlessly hot shower had her feeling almost normal.

Over a quiet cup of coffee she wondered why she needed a doctor’s appointment. It didn’t require a doctor to tell her she’d been banged around and would be a little stiff and sore, a little achy for a couple of days.

But she doubted Ford would see it that way.

And wasn’t that nice, when you got right down to it? There was someone who cared enough to get pushy and bossy about her welfare. It didn’t hurt to be flexible, to bend enough to accommodate.

Besides, the worst was over. Hennessy was in jail, and couldn’t touch her or her property. She’d be able to live, and finish her rehab in peace. And move on to the next.

She’d be able to sit down and really think about what it meant to have a man like Ford in love with her. And, yes, to worry and obsess about what it meant for her to be in love-if she really understood the state of being-with a man like Ford.

They could take some time, couldn’t they, to build on that? To restructure, to decide on tones and trim? They could take a good look at the foundation, evaluate. Because hers was so uneven. Lots of cracks there, she mused, but maybe they could be shored up, supported and repaired.

Since his were so solid, so sturdy, there had to be a chance to make the whole thing stand. To make it last.

She so badly wanted to make things last.

She wrote him a note to prop against the coffeemaker.

Feeling good. Gone to work.

Cilla

The truth would be closer to “less crappy,” but “good” worked well enough.

She filled her insulated mug with coffee and headed for the door only two hours later than her usual start time.

She jolted back a step. Mrs. Hennessy stood on the other side of the door, her hand lifted as if to knock.

“Mrs. Hennessy.”

“Miss McGowan, I hoped you’d be here. I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, under the circumstances.”

“Please. Please.” Mrs. Hennessy opened the screen door herself, crowded in so that Cilla was forced to step back. “I know you must be upset. I know you have every reason to be, but-”

“Upset? Yeah, I’d say I have every reason. Your husband tried to kill me.”

“No. No. He lost his temper, and that’s partly my fault. He was wrong. He was wrong to do what he did, but you have to understand, he wasn’t thinking straight.”

“When wasn’t he thinking? When he drove out here in the first place, or when he rammed into my truck, repeatedly, until he ran me off the road? Or would it be when he shoved me? Or when he raised his fist to me?”

Mrs. Hennessy’s eyes shone-fear, distress, apology. “There’s no excuse for what he did. I know that. I’ve come here to beg you to have some pity, some compassion. To open your heart and understand his pain.”

“You suffered a tragedy, over thirty years ago. And he blames me. How can I understand?”

“Thirty years ago, thirty minutes ago. For him, there’s no difference. Our son, our only child, lost his future that night. We could only have the one child. I had problems, and Jim, he said to me, it doesn’t matter, Edie. We have everything. We have our Jimmy. He loved that boy more than anything in this world. Maybe he loved too much. Is that a sin? Is that wrong? Look, look.”

She pulled a framed photo out of her handbag, pushed it at Cilla. “That’s Jimmy. That’s our boy. Look at him.”

“Mrs. Hennessy-”

“The spitting image of his daddy,” she said quickly, urgently. “Every-onesaid so, from the time he was born. He was such a good boy. So bright, so sweet, so funny. He was going to college, he was going on to college and to medical school. He was going to be a doctor. Jim and me, neither of us went to college. But we saved, we put money by so Jimmy could go. We were so proud.”

“He was a handsome young man,” Cilla managed, and handed the photo back. “I’m sorry about what happened. I’m sincerely sorry. But I’m not to blame.”

“Of course you’re not. Of course you’re not.” Tears trembling on the brink, she pressed the photo to her heart. “I grieved, Miss McGowan, every day of my life, for what happened to my boy. Jimmy was never the same after that night. It was more than never walking again, or using his arms. He lost his light, his spark. He just never found himself again. I lost him, and I lost my husband that same night. He spent years tending to Jimmy. Most of the time he wouldn’t let me do. It was for him to do. To feed him, to change him, to lift him. It took his heart. It just took his heart.”

She drew herself back up. “When Jimmy died, I’m not ashamed to tell you I felt some relief. As if my boy was finally free again, to be again, and walk and laugh. But what was left in my Jim just shriveled. Jimmy was his reason for being, even if the being was bitter. He snapped, that’s all. The weight of it all, it just broke him. I’m begging you, don’t send him away to prison. He needs help. And time to heal. Don’t take him, too. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

She covered her face, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Out of the corner of her eye, Cilla saw a movement. As Ford came down the stairs, Cilla held up a hand to stop him.

“Mrs. Hennessy, do you know what he did yesterday? Do you understand what he’s done?”

“I know what they’re saying, and I know he hurt you yesterday. I shouldn’t have told him you came. I was upset, and I started on him, how he had to let it go, leave it, and you. How I couldn’t take you coming to the house that way. And he went storming off. If I hadn’t riled him up-”

“What about the other times?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know about other times. Can’t you see he needs help? Can’t you see he’s sick in his heart, his mind, in his soul? I love my husband. I want him back. If he goes to prison, he’ll die. He’ll die there. You’re young. You have everything ahead of you. We’ve already lost the most important thing in our lives. Can’t you find enough pity to let us try to find our peace?”

“What do you think I can do?”

“You could tell them you don’t want him to go to jail.” She reached out to grip Cilla’s hands. “The lawyer says he could ask for a psychiatric evaluation and time in a hospital. That they could send Jim to a place where they’d help him. He’d have to go, isn’t that punishment? He’d have to, but they’d help him.”

“I don’t-”

“And I’d sell the house.” Her hands squeezed Cilla’s harder, and her desperation passed from skin to skin. “I’d swear it to you, on the Bible. I’d sell the house and we’d move away from here. When he’s well enough, we’d move to Florida. My sister and her husband, they’re moving to Florida next fall. I’ll find a place down there, and we’ll move away. He’ll never bother you again. You could tell them you want him to go to the psychiatric hospital until he’s better. You’re the one he hurt, so they’d listen to you.

“I knew your grandmother. I know she loved her boy, too. I know she grieved for him. I know that in my heart. It’s that Jim never believed it, and he blamed her, blamed her every time he looked at our boy in that wheelchair. He couldn’t forgive, and it made him sick. Can’t you forgive? Can’t you?”

How could she hold against such need? Cilla thought. Such terrible need. “I’ll talk to the police. I can’t promise anything. I’ll talk to them. That’s all I can do.”

“God bless you. God bless you for that. I won’t trouble you again. Jim won’t, either. I swear it to you.”

Cilla closed her eyes, then closed the door. With a tired sigh, she walked over to sit on Ford’s steps. She leaned her head on his shoulder when he stepped down to sit beside her.

“There are all kinds of assaults,” he said quietly. “On the body, the mind, and on the heart.”

She only nodded. He understood she felt battered by the visit, by the pleas, by the tears.

“It’s about redemption, isn’t it?” she said. “Or some part of it. Me coming here, bringing her house back. Myself back. Looking for her in it, for the answers, the reasons. She never recovered from Johnnie’s death. Was never the same. And most people say she took her life because of it. Couldn’t you say Hennessy didn’t have that luxury? His child was still alive, but so damaged, so broken, so needy. He couldn’t turn away from it, and had to live with it every day. And that broke him.”

“I’m not saying he doesn’t need help,” Ford said slowly. “That mandatory time in a psychiatric facility isn’t the answer. But, Cilla, it’s not him who’s asking for pity or forgiveness. It’s not Hennessy who’s looking for redemption.”

“No, it’s not.” And there, too, she knew he was right. “I’m not doing it for him. For whatever good it does, I’m doing it for that desperate and terrified woman. And more, I’m doing it for Janet.”

IN CILLA’S EXPERIENCE working with a good crew in construction meant no coddling because you happened to be female. She got questions, concern, anger and disgust on her behalf, but no more than she’d have been afforded as a man.

And she got plenty of jokes and comments about being a ballbuster.

It helped put her back on track so she could spend the morning hanging trim.

“Hey, Cill.” One of the laborers stuck his head in the living room as she stood on the stepladder nailing crown molding. “There’s a lady out here, says she knows you. Name’s Lori. Want me to send her in or what?”

“Yeah, tell her to come in.” Cilla shot in the last nails, started down the ladder.

“If I’d been through what you went through yesterday, I’d be lying in bed, not climbing up ladders.”

“It’s just another kind of therapy.” Cilla set the gun aside and turned to her Good Samaritan. “I was going to come by later today or tomorrow, thank you again.”

“You thanked me yesterday.”

“Not to diminish what you did, but I’m always going to have this image of you running down the road with a portable phone in one hand, and a garden stake in the other.”

With a laugh, Lori shook her head. “My husband and I took this week off, short holiday week, to putter around the house and yard. He was off with our two boys buying peat moss and deer repellant while I restaked the tomatoes. I can tell you, if he’d been home, he’d likely’ve beat that idiot over the head with the stake, even as he went down.”

With a sympathetic smile, she studied the bruise on Cilla’s temple. “That looks painful yet. How are you doing?”

“Not too bad. I think it looks worse than it feels now.”

“I hope so.” She looked around the room. “I confess, while I did want to see you, I’ve always wanted a look inside this place.”

“It’s in major transition, but I’ll give you a tour if you want.”

“I’d love a rain check on that. This room’s very nice. I love the color. Well, let me just wind my way around to the point. Of course I know who you are, and who your grandmother was. We moved here about twelve years ago, but Janet Hardy’s legend looms large, so we knew this had been hers. It’s good to see somebody finally tending to it, which is not the point I’m winding to.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know, because while I know who you are, and feel a particular interest in you now, I don’t know you. I’ve had two reporters call me this morning, wanting quotes and information and my account of what happened yesterday.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“I told them I gave my account to the police. In both cases, they got pretty insistent, and that put my back up.”

“I’m sorry you’re being bothered by this.”

Lori tossed up a hand, waved that aside. “I stopped by to let you know that someone’s been talking to reporters. For all I know you might’ve talked to them yourself, though I can see now that’s not the case.”

“No, but I’ll have to. I appreciate you letting me know.”

“We’re neighbors. I’m going to let you get back to work.” She glanced around. “I think it’s time to go nag my husband about painting the living room.”

Cilla walked Lori to the door, then went back and sat on the stepladder. She considered the cleanest, most direct way to get out a statement. She still had contacts, and even if tapping any of them was dicey, the Hardy name would ring the bell. She needed something brief and concise, carefully written. She’d been taught not to duck a story but to confront it, spin it and ride it out with class.

She pulled her phone off her belt when it rang, then closed her eyes as she answered. “Hello, Mom.”

“Cilla, for God’s sake, what’s going on out there?”

“I had some trouble. I’m handling it. Listen, could you contact your publicist? You’re still using Kim Cohen?”

“Yes, but-”

“Please, contact her and give her this number. Ask her to call me as soon as she can.”

“I don’t see why I should do you any favors after the way you treated-”

“Mom. Please. I could use some help.”

There was a beat of silence. “All right. I’ll call her right now. Were you in an accident? Are you in the hospital? Are you hurt? I heard some crazy man thought you were Mama’s ghost and tried to run you over with his car. I heard-”

“No, it’s not like that. I’m not hurt. I need Kim to help me straighten it out, get out a statement.”

“I don’t want you to be hurt. I’m still mad at you,” Dilly said with a sniff that made Cilla smile. “But I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I know, and I’m not. Thanks for calling Kim.”

“At least I know how to do a favor,” Dilly said, and hung up.

Cilla couldn’t deny it as the publicist called within twenty minutes. In another twenty, they’d refined a statement between them. By the time Cilla hung up, she knew she’d done the best she could.

“I’M NOT MAJOR JUICE,” Cilla said to Ford as they drove from the doctor’s office to the appointment with the realtor. “But there’s always some ripples when there’s any sort of violence or scandal. And the Hardy connection may give it a little more play. But the statement should cover most of it. There won’t be much interest.”

“There will be locally. It’ll be big news around here, at least for a few days. And if it goes to trial. Did you get in touch with the cops?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t-and yes. I know Wilson thought I was the crazy one for asking if they’d consider Hennessy’s emotional and mental state.”

“What did he say?”

“Psych evals are already in the works. One from the defense, one from the prosecution.”

“Dueling shrinks.”

“It sounds like it.”

“I’d say it’s going to be pretty clear to both that Hennessy downed a big bowl of crazy.”

“Yeah. I guess the upshot depends on what the prosecution’s guy has to say as to whether or not the DA holds on the charges, makes a deal or recommends a psychiatric facility and treatment. The house is coming up on the left. The little Cape Cod there.”

“Huh?”

“Red compact out front. She’s already here. Vicky Fowley. It’s a rental-empty-the owner wants to unload. And Vicky’s anxious to get it off her list.”

Ford looked at the overgrown, weedy front yard and the small brown box of a house sitting on it. “I can’t imagine why. Could it be the extreme uglies?”

“Perfect attitude. Keep that up, seriously.” She gave his hand a bolstering pat. “And let me do the talking.”

TWENTY-TWO

Ford knew he had a strong imagination. He considered himself to be a man of some vision. As far as Cilla’s "little Cape Cod” went, he couldn’t imagine how anyone could define it, however loosely, as a house, and could only visualize it being mercifully razed.

Stains of a suspicious and undoubtedly unpleasant nature stamped and streaked the carpet in the pint-sized living room. He could only be grateful he’d let Spock play job dog again, otherwise Spock would’ve been honor bound to re-mark all the previously marked areas.

Either an animal or an army of rodents had gnawed on the baseboard. The ceiling, also unpleasantly stained in one corner, was bumpy with what Cilla called popcorn.

The kitchen was a truly ugly hodgepodge of mismatched appliances, torn linoleum and a rusted sink. The stingy counters carried the round burn marks of pans carelessly set on blue-speckled white Formica. Grime, and God knew what else, lived in the corners.

In his mind’s eye he imagined cockroaches flooding out of that rusted sink, armed with automatic weapons, driving tanks and armored vehicles to wage war against spiders in combat gear firing bazookas.

He found it easy to let Cilla do the talking. He was speechless.

The second floor consisted of two bedrooms scattered with the debris of former tenants and a bathroom he wouldn’t have entered while wearing a hazmat suit.

“As you can see, there’s work to be done!” Vicky showed white, white teeth in what could only be a pained, somewhat desperate smile. “But with some elbow grease and sweat equity, it could be a little dollhouse! Such a cute starter home for a young couple like yourselves.”

“A couple of what?” Ford said and got the fish eye from Cilla.

“Vicky, would you mind if we just looked around on our own for a few minutes? Talked about it?”

“Of course not! Take all the time you want. I’ll just step outside and make some calls. Don’t rush on my account!”

“Why does she say everything in exclamation points?” Ford asked when Vicky was out of earshot. “Is it fear? Excitement? Does she have multiple, spontaneous orgasms?”

“Cute.”

“Cilla, I think that pile of what may have once been clothing in that corner just moved. There may be a body in there. Possibly an army of cockroaches waiting to ambush. We should leave. And never come back.”

“If there was a body, it would smell a lot worse than it does in here.”

“How much worse?” he muttered. “And have you ever actually smelled a body?”

She gave him the fish eye again. “Cockroaches may be a factor, however. If the seller had any brains, he’d have cleaned this place out, ripped up this incredibly smelly carpet. But his loss could be our gain.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. The only thing we could gain from this place is a rampant case of typhoid. Or bubonic plague.” He kept a wary eye on the pile of rags. He wasn’t entirely sure it hadn’t moved. “Cilla, this place has no possible redeeming value.”

“Because you don’t know where to look. Deal was, you don’t want to risk it, you don’t. But let me give you the idea first. There’s hardwood under this carpet. I checked when I went through before.”

She walked over, crouched to pull up a loose corner. “Random-length oak, and in surprisingly good shape.”

“Okay, it’s got a floor.”

“And a good foundation, a nice-sized lot.”

“That looks like a minefield. Probably booby-trapped by the atomic spiders.”

“New sod,” she continued, undaunted, “some plantings, a pretty little deck on the back. Gut the bathroom.”

“Wouldn’t it be more humane to bomb it?”

“New tub, new sink, a nice ceramic tile. For a room that size, I could probably find enough of a discontinued style, neutral color. All the carpet goes. Replace the closet doors, add shelves. Redo the ceilings, paint. You’ve got a couple of nice kids’ rooms.”

“And where would the parents sleep?” He slid his hands into his pockets rather than risk accidentally touching something. “In a hotel if they have any sense.”

She crooked her finger. “This wall moves out fifteen feet.”

“It does?”

“It will and, running the width of the house, will hold the master suite, overlooking the backyard. Walk-in closet, attached bath with soaking tub and separate shower. Double sinks, granite countertop. Maybe slate tile. Have to price that out.”

“What holds it up? Hopes and dreams?”

“The new kitchen/great room.”

“Oh, that.” But oddly enough, he began to see it as she did. Or as he thought she did.

“Horrible carpet treads out, oak treads in,” she said as she started down the steps. “Replace skinny banister. Carpet goes, ceilings redone, new trim, some crown molding. New windows throughout. Gut kitchen.”

“Thank the Lord.”

“Half bath and laundry room here. Kitchen, dining area and family room, open floor plan, breakfast bar for the casual, family meal, all leading out through atrium doors to the nice little deck. Exterior paint in a cheerful color, replace the cracked concrete walkway with pavers, plug in some plants, a little dogwood tree. And that’s about it.”

“Oh, well, that’s hardly anything.”

She laughed. “It’s a lot, but it’ll be a lot. Poor, sad thing. Sixteen weeks. It could be done in twelve, but not with juggling, so I’d say sixteen. With the top offer I’d make and materials and labor, mortgage payments for, we’ll say, five months, and the market value after improvements in this neighborhood, you could see between forty and forty-five K in profit.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah. Depending on the market when it’s done, that could be closer to sixty thousand. The neighborhood’s on an upswing.” She began ticking items off on her fingers. “Younger couples, small families moving in, prettying things up. It’s in a good school district, only about ten minutes from a shopping center. Master suites, kitchens and baths- that’s where the sales are made and you get your biggest return on your investment.”

“Okay.”

“No, you have to be sure. Take a little time to think about it. I’ll draw up some floor plans.”

“No, I’m sold. Let’s go make Vicky’s day.” And get the hell out while the cockroaches and spiders have their moratorium.

“Wait, wait. We need to let her suffer more. You’re going to steal this place, Ford.” He found the sly delight on her face infectious. “It deserves to be stolen because the seller couldn’t even be bothered to make an attempt. We’re going to tell her, very unconvincingly, that we’ll think about it. Then we’re going to walk away. In a week, ten days, I’ll call her back.”

“If somebody buys it in the meantime?”

“When it’s been sitting here for over four months, even with two price reductions? I don’t think so. We’re going to go give Vicky the disappointment she’s expecting. Then I want to go home, soak in your hot tub and relax.”

RELAXING PROVED PROBLEMATIC because of the half-dozen reporters camped at her wall.

“Not much interest, you said?”

“This is nothing.” And hardly more than she’d expected. “Just a spillover from the statement. They’ll mostly be local, or out of D.C., maybe. We’re close enough for that. You go inside. I’ll handle it.”

“You’re going to give them interviews?”

“Not exactly. A few crumbs. They’ll take the crumbs and fly away. There’s no reason for you to be involved in this. And you’ll just give them another angle.”

But the minute they stepped out of the car, cameras lifted. Like one entity, reporters surged across the road, shouting Cilla’s name, calling out questions. As it struck Ford as a kind of attack, he moved instinctively to Cilla’s side.

“Georgia Vassar, WMWA-TV. Can you tell us your thoughts on the altercation yesterday with James Robert Hennessy?”

“How serious are your injuries?”

“Is it true Hennessy believes you’re the reincarnation of Janet Hardy?”

“I’ve already issued a statement about the incident,” Cilla said coolly. “I don’t have any more to say.”

“Isn’t it true that Hennessy threatened you previously? And, in fact, assaulted Steve Chensky, your ex-husband, while Chensky lived with you? Was that assault the reason for your failed reconciliation?”

“To my knowledge, Mr. Hennessy hasn’t been charged with the assault on Steve, who was visiting me for a short time this spring. We’ve been friends before, during and after our marriage. There was no reconciliation. ”

“Is that due to your relationship with Ford Sawyer? Mr. Sawyer, how do you feel about the attack on Ms. McGowan?”

“There’s speculation that you and Steve fought over Cilla, and he was injured. How do you answer that?”

“No comment. Gosh, you guys seem to be on my property. We’re pretty friendly around here, but you’re going to want to step off.”

“I won’t be as friendly if any of you trespass on mine,” Cilla warned.

“Is it true that you came here in an attempt to commune with the spirit of your grandmother?” someone shouted as she turned with Ford toward the house.

“Tabloid crap,” Cilla stated. “I’m sorry. Most of that was tabloid crap.”

“No problem.” Ford shut the door behind them, locked it. “I’ve always wanted the opportunity to say ‘No comment’ in a stern voice.”

“They’ll give up. It won’t play more than a day or two, and most of that’ll be in the supermarket sheets alongside stories of alien babies being homeschooled in Utah.”

“I knew it!” He shot a finger in the air. “I knew that was the reason for Utah. How about a glass of wine with that soak, while I figure out how to get my dog back?”

“Not a good idea. The wine, yeah, and Spock, but you’ve got a lot of glass in your gym.” She offered an apologetic look, the best she could give him. “Glass, telephoto lenses. No point in handing it to them. They’ve got your name. You’re going to find yourself alongside the alien babies, too.”

“Finally, a lifelong dream fulfilled.” He reached for glasses, glanced down at his answering machine. “Aren’t I the popular guy today? Forty-eight messages.” Even as he spoke, the phone rang.

“You should screen, Ford. I really thought by issuing a short, clear statement I’d head this off. Kim, the publicist, agreed with me. But for whatever reason, some of the media wants to run with it, and turn down cockeyed angles.”

“Let’s do this.” He lifted the phone, switched off the ringer. “I’ll do the same with the others. My family, my friends have my cell number if they need to reach me. I’ll call Brian, see if he’ll take Spock home with him tonight. We’ll take some wine, cook up a frozen pizza and camp upstairs in the bedroom behind the curtains. At last, the opportunity to expose you to a marathon running of Battlestar Galactica.”

She leaned back on the counter as the tension in her shoulders dissolved. Not angry, she realized. Not upset. Not even especially irked. How had she ever managed to connect with someone so blessedly stable?

“You really know how to keep it simple.”

“Unless the Cylons are bent on destroying your entire species, it usually is simple. You get the pizza, I’ll get the wine.”

CILLA WOKE at five A.M. to the beep of the internal clock she’d set in the middle of the night after the alarms had sounded at the Little Farm. Something else she should have expected, she thought as she went to shower. There were some members of some media who routinely ignored the law in pursuit of a story. So she’d spent an hour with the police and Ford across the road.

And she had a lock set on her back door bearing the scratches of a botched jimmy attempt.

She dressed, left a note for Ford. The radio car remained in her drive, where it had been posted after the attempted break-in. Birds chirped, and she caught sight of a trio of deer at her pond. But no reporters camped outside her walls.

Maybe she’d gotten lucky, she thought, and that was that. Using Ford’s car, she drove into town. She was back by six-thirty, and carried a box of doughnuts and two large coffees down her drive.

The cop behind the wheel rolled down his window.

“I know it’s a cliché,” she said, "but.”

“Hey. That was nice of you, Miss McGowan. It’s been quiet.”

“And a long night for both of you. It looks like the invaders have retired the field. I’m going to start work. Some of the crew will be coming along by seven.”

“It’s a nice spot you’ve got here.” The second cop pulled a glazed with sprinkles out of the box. “Heck of a bathroom up there on the second floor. My wife’s been wanting to update ours.”

“If you decide to, give me a call. Free consult.”

“Might do that. We’ll be going off shift pretty soon. Do you want us to call in and request another car?”

“I think we’ll be fine now. Thanks for looking out for me.”

Inside, she set up to finish her run of baseboard. By eight, the hive of activity buzzed. Grouting, drywall mudding, consults on driveway pavers and pond work. Turning her attention to the third bedroom, Cilla checked her closet measurements. As she removed the door, Matt stepped in.

“Cilla, I think you’d better take a look outside.”

“What? Is there a problem?”

“I guess you need to look, decide that for yourself.”

She propped the door against the wall, hustled after him. One look out the front window of the master bedroom had her gasping.

Six reporters had been a nuisance, and not unexpected. Sixty was a disaster.

“They just started showing up, kind of all at once,” Matt told her. “Kinda like there was a signal. Brian called me out, said some of them are yelling questions at his crew. Jesus, there’s TV cameras and everything.”

“Okay, okay, I need to think.” She had at least a dozen crew working between the house and the grounds. A dozen people she couldn’t possibly censor or control.

“There shouldn’t be this kind of interest in me being in a wreck, even with the circumstances. A few blips on the entertainment news maybe, reports locally. I need to make a call. Matt, if you could try to keep the men from talking to them, at least for now. I need a few minutes to…” She trailed off as the gleaming black limo streamed through her entrance.

“Man, look at that.”

“Yes, look at that,” Cilla echoed. She didn’t have to see Mario climb out of the back to know who’d arrived. Or why.

By the time Cilla reached the veranda, Bedelia Hardy stood under the supportive protection of her husband’s arm. She tilted her face out at the perfect angle, Cilla thought with burning resentment, so those long lenses could capture her poignant expression. She wore her hair loose so it shone in the sun over the linen jacket the same color as her eyes.

As Cilla let the screen door slam behind her, Dilly threw open her arms, keeping her body angled for the profile shots. “Baby!”

She came forward in rather spectacular Jimmy Choo sandals with three-inch heels. Trapped, Cilla walked down the steps in her work boots and into the maternal arms and clouds of Soir de Paris. Janet’s signature scent that had become her daughter’s.

“My baby, my baby.”

“You did this,” Cilla whispered in Dilly’s ear. “You leaked to the press you were coming.”

“Of course I did. All press is good press.” She leaned back, and through the amber lenses of Dilly’s sunglasses, Cilla saw the calculatedly misted eyes widen in genuine concern. “Oh, Cilla, your face. You said you weren’t hurt. Oh, Cilla.”

It was that, that moment of sincere shock and worry, Cilla supposed, that dulled the sharpest edge of resentment. “I got some bumps, that’s all.”

“What did the doctor say? Oh, that horrible man, that Hennessy. I remember him. Pinched-faced bastard. My God, Cilla, you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, why don’t you at least put on some makeup? No time for that now, and it’s probably better this way. Let’s go. I’ve worked it all out. You’ll just follow my lead.”

“You sicced them on me, Mom. You know this is exactly what I didn’t want.”

“It’s not all about you, and what you want.” Dilly looked past Cilla to the house, then turned away. And again, Cilla saw genuine feeling. Pain. “It never has been. I need the column inches, the airtime. I need the exposure, and I’m going to take it. What happened, happened. Now you can let them keep pushing on that, on you, or you can help spin some of it, maybe most of it, around to me.

“Jesus! What is that?”

Cilla glanced down and saw Spock sitting patiently, paw out, big, bulbous eyes latched onto Dilly.

“That’s my neighbor’s dog. He wants you to shake.”

“He wants… Does it bite?”

“No. Just shake his paw, Mom. He’s decided you’re friendly because you hugged me.”

“All right.” She leaned over carefully and, to her credit, in Cilla’s mind, gave Spock’s paw a firm shake. Then smiled a little. “He’s so ugly, but in a weirdly sweet way. Shoo now.”

Dilly turned, her arm firm around Cilla’s waist, and flung out a hand to her husband. “Mario!”

He trotted up, took her hand, kissed it.

“We’re ready,” she told him.

“You look beautiful. Only a few minutes this time, darling. You shouldn’t be out in the sun too long.”

“Stay close.”

“Always.”

Clutching Cilla, Dilly began to move toward the entrance, toward the cameras.

“Great shoes,” Cilla complimented. “Poor choice for grass and gravel.”

“I know what- Who’s this? We can’t have reporters breaking ranks.”

“He’s not a reporter.” Cilla watched Ford shove through the lines. “Keep going,” she told him when he reached them. “You don’t want any part of this.”

“This would be your mother? It’s unexpected to meet you here, Miss Hardy.”

“Where else would I be when my daughter’s been hurt? The new love interest?” She scoped him head to toe. “I’ve heard a little about you. Not from you,” she said with a glance at Cilla. “We’ll have to talk. But now, just wait with Mario.”

“No. He’s no Mario, and he won’t be hanging back at heel like a trained lapdog. Don’t give them that, Ford.”

“I’m going to go in and get some coffee,” he decided. “Want me to call the cops while I’m at it?”

“No. But thanks.”

“Isn’t he all southern-fried and yummy,” Dilly commented as Ford continued toward the house. “Your taste’s improved.”

“I’m so angry with you now.” Indeed, the anger vibrated and pulsed inside her chest. “Be careful, very careful, what buttons you push.”

“You think this is easy for me, coming to this place? I’m doing what I need to do.” Dilly lifted her chin, the brave mother, supporting her injured child. Questions hurled out, but Dilly walked through them, a soldier stoically braving the front line.

“Please. Please.” She held up a hand, lifting her voice. “I understand your interest, and even on some level appreciate it. I know your viewers and your readers care, and that touches me. But you must understand that our family is, once again, going through a difficult time. And this is… painful. My daughter has been through a terrible experience. I’m here for her, as any mother would be.”

“Dilly! Dilly! When did you hear about Cilla’s accident?”

“She called me as soon as she was able. No matter how grown up, a child still wants her mother when she’s hurt. Even though she told me not to come, not to break off rehearsals for my cabaret act, not to expose myself to the grief and the memories this place holds for me, of course I came to her.”

“You haven’t been back, by your own statements, to this house since shortly after Janet Hardy’s suicide. How does it feel, being here now?”

“I can’t think of it. Not yet. My daughter is my only concern. Later, when we’ve had time to be together, in private, I’ll explore those feelings. My mother…” Her voice cracked, on cue. “My mother would want me to give my daughter, her granddaughter, all my energies.”

“Cilla, what are your plans? Will you open the house to the public? There’s speculation you hope to house memorabilia here.”

“No. I plan to live here. I am living here,” she corrected, cold, clear-voiced, while the temper beat and beat. “The property has been in my family, on both the Hardy and the McGowan sides, for generations. I’m restoring and remodeling it, and it will be, as it’s always been, a private home.”

“Is it true that you’ve been plagued by break-ins, by vandalism during your restoration?”

“There have been incidents. I don’t consider them a plague.”

“What do you say to the claims that Janet Hardy’s spirit haunts the house?”

“My mother’s spirit is here,” Dilly said before Cilla could answer. “She loved her little farm, and I believe her spirit, her voice, her beauty and her grace remain. We’re proof of that.” Dilly drew Cilla closer. “Her spirit’s in us. In me, in my daughter. And now, in some way, three generations of Hardy women are here. Now please, I need to get my daughter inside, where she can rest. I ask you, as a mother, to respect our privacy. If you have any more questions, my husband will try to answer them.”

Tipping her head close to Cilla’s, Dilly turned and walked with her toward the house.

“A little heavy on the mother card,” Cilla told her.

“I don’t think so. What happened to the tree?”

“What tree?”

“That one, with the red leaves. It was bigger. A lot bigger.”

“It was damaged, dead and dying. I replaced it.”

“It looks different. There were more flowers.” Dilly’s voice shook, but Cilla knew it was uncalculated this time. “Mama loved flowers.”

“There will be more when it’s done.” Cilla felt the dynamic shift with every step until she supported Dilly. “You’ve trapped yourself. You have to go inside now.”

“I know it. The porch was white. Why isn’t it white?”

“I had to replace most of it. It’s not painted yet.”

“The door’s not right.” Her breath quickened, as if they were running instead of walking. “That’s not her door. Why is everything changed?”

“There was damage, there was mold and dry rot. My God, Mom, there’s only been the very minimum of maintenance in the last decade, and not much more than that for twenty years before. You can’t neglect without incurring damage.”

“I didn’t neglect it. I wanted to forget it. Now I can’t, can I?”

Cilla felt her mother quiver, and would have soothed, but Dilly nudged her away as they walked inside.

“This is wrong. It’s all wrong. Where are the walls? The little parlor? The paint’s the wrong color.”

“I made changes.”

Eyes hot and gleaming, she whirled toward Cilla on her fabulous shoes. “You said you were restoring it.”

“I said I was rehabbing it, and I am. I’m making it mine, and respecting what it was.”

“I’d never have sold it to you if I’d known you’d tear it apart.”

“Yes, you would,” Cilla said coolly. “You wanted the money, and I want to live here. If you’d wanted it caught in amber, Mom, you had decades to do it. You don’t love this house, it’s a jagged edge for you. But I do love it.”

“You don’t know what I feel! I had more of her here than anywhere else. Second to Johnnie, of course, always second to her beloved son.” Tears ripped through the words. “But I had more of her when we were here than anywhere. And now it’s all changed.”

“No, not all. I had the plaster repaired, and the floor will be refinished. The floors she walked on. I’m having the stove and refrigerator she used retrofitted, and I’ll use them.”

“That big old stove?”

“Yeah.”

Dilly pressed her fingers to her lips. “She’d try to bake cookies sometimes. She was terrible at it. She’d always burn them, and laugh. We’d eat them anyway. Damn it, Cilla. Damn it. I loved her so much.”

“I know you did.”

“She was going to take me to Paris. Just the two of us. It was all planned. Then Johnnie died. He always did spoil everything for me.”

“God, Mom.”

“That’s how I felt then. After the shock, and that first awful grief because I did love him. I did love him even when I wanted to hate him.

But after that, and when she wouldn’t go to Paris, I thought, he’s spoiled that for me.” Dilly took a slow, hitching breath. “She loved him more dead than she did me alive. No matter how hard I ran, I could never catch up.”

I know how you feel, Cilla thought. Just exactly. In her way, Dilly loved her mother dead more than she could love her daughter alive.

Maybe this was about redemption, too. So Cilla took another step. “I think she loved you very, very much. I think things got horribly twisted and broken the summer he died. And she never fully mended. If she’d had more time-”

“Why didn’t she take it, then? She took the pills instead. She left me. She left me. Accident or not-and I’ll always, always believe it was an accident-she took the pills, when she could’ve taken me.”

“Mom.” Moving to her, Cilla touched Dilly’s cheek. “Why didn’t you ever tell me that before? How you felt?”

“It’s this house. It upsets me. It dredges everything up. I don’t want it. I just don’t want it.” She opened her purse, took out a silver pill case. “Get me some water, Cilla. Bottled.”

The irony, Cilla thought, would forever be lost on Dilly. The daughter who grieved because her mother chose pills over her, perpetuated the same behavior.

“All right.”

In the kitchen, Cilla pulled a bottle of water out of her mini fridge. She got a glass, added ice. Dilly would have to live without her usual slice of lemon, she mused. Pouring the water, she glanced out.

Ford stood with Brian and her pond expert by the choked waters. He held a mug of coffee, and the thumb of his other hand was hooked through one of the belt loops of his jeans.

Long and lean, she thought, with just that hint of gawky. Messy brown hair with sun-kissed tips. So wonderfully, blessedly normal. It steadied her just to look at him, to know he’d stay-this man who created super-villains and heroes, who had every season of Battlestar Galactica-both series-on DVD. A man who, she was fairly certain, didn’t know an Allen wrench from a Crescent, and trusted her to handle herself. Until he decided she couldn’t.

“Thank God you’re here,” she murmured. “Wait for me.”

She took the water back to her mother, so Dilly could wash down her tranquilizer du jour.

TWENTY-THREE

So they’re gone.” Ford gestured toward the house with the Coke he’d copped from Cilla’s kitchen.

"Yes. After a finale of motherly embraces in view of the cameras".

"Back to California?”

"No, they’re staying over in D.C. for the night, at the Willard. In that way, she can stage another couple of press ambushes, and get in the plug for her show at the National Theater in September.” Cilla held up her hands, shook her head. “It’s not entirely that calculating. Only about eighty percent was calculated. The remaining twenty was actual concern for me, which she’d have expressed and assuaged on the phone if it hadn’t been to her advantage to make the trip. It took a lot of need for her to come here, to this house. I didn’t understand until today, or fully believe until today, how genuinely it upsets her. It makes it a little easier to forgive the neglect, and accept why she was so bitter when I made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.”

“And it doesn’t enter into logical thinking that if she didn’t want it, couldn’t handle it, she could have given it to you?”

“Not in Dilly’s world. It’s tit for tat. I didn’t know how much she felt unloved at the end, or how completely she felt pushed into second place to her brother in Janet’s heart. I’m not sure she’s wrong. And yes, I know she did something today she knew I didn’t want, and can justify doing it not only because it was to her advantage, but by convincing herself it was what was best for me. It’s a talent of hers.”

“She’ll be an interesting mother-in-law.”

“Oh, really.” Panic teeth clamped on her throat. “Don’t go there.”

“Already through that garden gate and meandering up the walk. ‘Meander’ being the key for now,” he said, lifting his Coke for another sip. “No rush on it.”

“Ford, you have to understand-”

“Cilla. Sorry,” Matt added, stepping out. “Looks like the flooring for the third floor’s coming in. Thought you’d want to take a look, check it out before we take it up.”

“Yeah, yeah, I do. Be right there.”

“Flooring already?” Ford asked her.

“It has to rest on site, a kind of acclimating, for a few days before installation. Since we’re doing built-ins up there, the floor has to… Never mind.”

“Okay. If my services are no longer needed here, I’m going to go try to salvage some of my workday.”

“Good. Good,” she repeated, struggling against nerves.

“Oh, I finished scanning those photos for you. Remind me to give them to you.”

“God, I’d forgotten all about them. I’ll have to thank your grandfather.”

“I think he considers it thanks enough that he got to see you in a towel.”

“And thanks for that reminder.” They came around front where the delivery truck slowly backed down her drive. “Hot dog!”

“I’ll leave you to the thrill of your wood planks.” He caught her face in his hands, kissed her. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

They would, she thought. He and his strange little dog would do just that. It was both wonderful and terrifying.

FORD LOCKED HIMSELF in his box for four straight hours. It rolled, and it rocked along. Even with all the distractions-sexy neighbor, break-ins,a new friend in the hospital, worry about sexy neighbor and falling in love with her-he was making excellent progress.

It occurred to him that Brid might be finished just about the same time Cilla’s house was. That was some superior synchronicity. But now, he deserved to shut it down and indulge in some serious sitting-on-the-veranda time. He unlocked the box, stepped back to take a long, critical look at the day’s work.

“You’re damn good, Sawyer. Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

With his back warm from the self-pat, he walked downstairs, stopping to look out the window. Not a reporter in sight, he noted, pleased for Cilla. No trucks in sight, either, which meant her day’s work should be wrapped, too. He headed to the kitchen to get a cold one and to call Spock in from the backyard for the veranda-sitting, wait-for-Cilla portion of their day.

He found a note inside the fridge, taped to a beer.

Finished? If so, drop over to Chez McGowan.

Come around back.

He grinned at the note. “Don’t mind if I do.”

She sat on the slate patio, at a teak table under a bright blue umbrella. A trio of copper pots, filled to bursting with mixed plantings, cheered the three stairs of the veranda. With her ball cap on her head, her legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles of her work boots, and roses rioting behind her, he thought she looked both relaxed and extraordinary.

She smiled-relaxed and easy-when he sat across from her. “I’m basking,” she told him, and gave Spock a rub.

“I noticed. When did you get this?” He flicked a finger up at the umbrella.

“It came in today, and I couldn’t resist setting it up. After I did, Shanna hauled over the planters. I picked them up on one of my sorties, and figured I’d get around to doing something with them, eventually. But she saw the table here, and ran out to the nursery, picked up the plants and did the job, just because. I’ll have to move them when we do the exterior staining and painting, but I really love looking at them now.”

She shifted, reached down and pulled two beers out of the ice in a drywall compound bucket. “And now, even better, you can bask with me.”

He twisted off the tops, then clinked his bottle to hers. “To the first of many basks under blue umbrellas. I take it you had a good day.”

“Ups and downs. It couldn’t get worse than it started, though there were bumps. My excitement over the flooring was short-lived when I discovered they’d delivered the wrong hardwood. Then claimed I’d called in to change the order from walnut to oak, which is just so much bullshit, and will delay the third-floor work schedule a full week. I did finish the closet in the third bedroom, and got a start on the one in the fourth. The vendor messed up the cut on a panel of the steam shower doors, which means a delay there, but the soaking tub I’ve had my eye on for the third bath, second floor, just went on sale. The insurance company is balking at giving me another loaner after getting hit with two claims in two days, and will surely raise my rates. I decided to bask instead of being pissed.”

“Good choice.”

“Well, delays and glitches go with the territory. The roses are blooming, and I have a blue umbrella. So enough about me. How was your day?”

“Much better than average. I solved a major problem in the work, and it rolled from there. Then I found a very nice invitation in my refrigerator. ”

“I figured you’d see it first thing, after you surfaced. I actually came upstairs first, but if I’ve ever seen anyone in the zone, you were.” Curious, interested, she cocked her head. “What was the problem solved?”

“The villain. Early version of him was Mr. Eckley, my tenth-grade algebra teacher. I’m telling you, the man was evil. But as the character developed, I knew I didn’t have the right look-physically. I wanted leaner, a little meaner, yet handsome, maybe slightly aristocratic and dissipated. Everything I tried ended up looking like John Carradine or Basil Rathbone.”

“Good looks, both. Hollowed cheeks, piercing eyes.”

“And too obvious for the character. It kept bogging me down. Today I hit on it. I’m not looking for dissipation, cut cheekbones and intensity. I’m looking for a thin coat of polish and sophistication over a whole lotta smarm. Not the lean and bony Carradine, but something slighter, edging toward effete. The contrast between looks and intent,” he explained. “Between image and purpose. It’s a lot more evil when a guy coldly destroys while wearing an Armani suit.”

“So you based him on a Hollywood agent?”

“Pretty much. He’s Number Five.”

She managed to swallow the beer, barely avoiding a spit take. “Mario? Are you serious?”

“Completely. One look at him out front today, and the scales fell from my eyes. He’s got it all-the build, the posture, the five-hundred-dollar haircut and that sheer, shiny layer of oil. I don’t know why I didn’t see it when I met him before. Too locked into Mr. Eckley, I guess.”

“Mario.” She jumped up to grab Ford by the hair and crush her lips to his in a hard, smacking kiss that sent Spock into his happy dance. “This actually makes that clusterfuck this morning worthwhile. Thank you.”

“I didn’t actually do it for you. Any enjoyment you get from it’s just a side benefit.”

“I’ll take it.” She dropped back in her seat. “This has, indeed, turned out to be a better-than-average day.”

CILLA TACKLED the next batch of trim in the shady shadow of the barn. She liked the work, and the quiet. There might have been miles of trim to strip, replicate, stain and seal through the farmhouse, but she wanted to keep the project her own. One day, she thought as she peeled away layers of white and, unfathomably, baby-blue paint from walnut, she’d walk through her house and admire every inch of restored trim. Best, she’d be able to say: I did that. Every inch.

She stripped down herself, to a tank and army-green cargo shorts as a concession to the heat that had snuck in, even in the shade. When she stopped to guzzle some water, she watched the pond crew removing and dividing water lilies, digging out over-propagated cattails.

Once it was done, she mused, ecologically balanced, she saw no reason she couldn’t maintain the pond herself. She’d need some help with the grounds, she admitted, even once she bought a riding mower. She thought she’d enjoy puttering around, cutting the grass, pulling weeds, blowing and raking leaves in the fall, shoveling snow in the winter, planting new flowers in the spring.

But it wasn’t realistic to believe she could handle it all-house, grounds, pond, gardens-and run a business.

Cleaning service, she thought, reholstering her water bottle and picking up her sandpaper block. That was a weekly definite. Maybe she’d talk to Brian about a once-a-month service, say March through October, at least until she got a better sense of what needed to be done, and just how much she could handle.

Plus, she needed advice on that kitchen garden she hoped to start, especially since she just hadn’t been able to work it in this year as she’d hoped. And she needed to know if the fields should be plowed and planted-and with what. And who the hell would do that? More advice if she gave in to that nagging longing and got a horse. Which would require exercise, housing, feeding, grooming, and was probably a crazy idea.

But… wouldn’t a couple of horses be gorgeous romping and grazing in one of the fields? Wouldn’t they be worth the work, the time, the expense?

Next year, she told herself. Maybe.

She couldn’t get cocky and complacent just because she’d had a couple of days of smooth sailing, because she was so damn happy. Reality included leaky faucets, and aphids and crabgrass, clogged gutters and fractious appliances. She’d be dealing with that, and a whole lot more, for the rest of her life.

And wasn’t that just fabulous?

She sang as she sanded the old walnut trim.

“I’d forgotten how much you sound like her.”

She looked up, squinted, then smiled as Gavin stepped from sun to shade. “Without her range, depth or natural vibrato.”

“It sounded wonderful to me, and interesting that a girl of your age would sing ‘Blue Skies.’”

“The place sort of calls for old standards. Or maybe she does. And, well”-she pointed up-“we’ve sure got them today.”

“I came in through the front and saw the finished product.” He tapped a finger on the trim. “That’s another thing I’d forgotten, or never noticed when I came here all those years ago. It’s beautiful. Truly beautiful.”

“It makes me happy. Hence the singing. I was wondering when you might drop by again, so I could talk you into picking up another paintbrush.”

“Show me the walls and the paint.”

“I’ve got a bedroom just waiting for a couple coats of Spiced Cognac.” She gestured to the newspapers he carried. “We provide drops. You don’t have to bring your own.” When he didn’t smile, she felt a little warning dip in her belly. “Uh-oh.”

“I heard about the media invasion, and your mother’s visit the other day. There’s been some coverage-TV, newspapers.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen some of it. Look, I know they brought your name up, and-”

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “That’s not important. Cilla, I debated doing this, and decided someone would tell you or show you before much longer. It might be better if it was me. Patty was in the supermarket this morning. They’d just stocked these at checkout.”

“The tabloids.” She nodded, pulled off her work gloves. “I knew they’d be hitting any day. Don’t worry. I’m used to it.” She held out a hand for the papers.

The headlines screamed. They always did in the tabs, she knew, but the screams seemed only more strident when her name was involved.

JANET HARDY’S GHOST HAUNTS HER GRANDDAUGHTER!

FORMER HOLLYWOOD PRINCESS IN NEAR FATAL CRASH! BEDELIA HARDY RUSHES TO HER DAUGHTER’S SIDE

AFTER ATTACK BY MADMAN!

IS LITTLE KATIE THE REINCARNATION OF JANET HARDY?

The pictures were worse, grainy, exploitative. Splashed on one front page was a photo of Cilla, angled to spotlight her injured face, with Dilly holding her close, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Behind them floated the ghostly image of Janet with the caption: “‘My mother’s spirit remains trapped here,’ Bedelia Hardy claims. Photographic PROOF corroborates her mournful statement.”

An insert shot showed Cilla carrying the very trim she now worked on out of the house. Cilla struggles to exorcise Janet’s ghost from her Virginia farm.

Ford hadn’t escaped, she noted. They’d slapped his photograph, his name, their ridiculous captions inside.

“Okay, worse. A lot worse than I expected it to be.” She pushed the papers back at her father. “Front page, multiple stories in each. Mom will be thrilled. I don’t care how that sounds,” she snapped before her father could speak. “She amped it up. Everyone I work with, do business with, will see this crap. And Ford’s sucked into the shit pile because he had the poor judgment to fall in love with me. Now he’ll-”

“He’s in love with you?” Gavin interrupted. Even as she started to shrug, Gavin set a hand on Cilla’s shoulder. “He’s in love with you? You’re in love with him?”

“The L word’s been spoken by both parties-or alluded to by me. Or, according to that rag there, spoken by Janet through me as they’re speculating whether Cilla’s outraged lover has been seduced by my grandmother’s spirit. Don’t say I shouldn’t let it upset me. Don’t say everyone knows this stuff is a load of crap. These papers sell because people love reading loads of crap.”

“I was going to say I’ve always been fond of Ford. If he makes you happy, I’m even more fond of him.”

“He’s not going to be happy with me when he sees all this, and has to explain to his family, his friends, his publisher, for God’s sake, why his name and his face have been smeared all over the place.” Helpless, she pressed a hand to her nervous belly. “I knew they’d pull him in, and I warned him, but I didn’t know it would be this bad.”

“You’re either giving yourself too much credit or Ford not enough. Either way, you’ve got a right to be upset. To be thoroughly pissed. I don’t have as much experience with celebrity as you do, but I know you have two choices.”

He spoke calmly, his eyes solemn. “You go out, make a stink, demand corrections and retractions, threaten legal action, or you ignore it. Do the first, and you have a slim chance for some satisfaction, while the story gains legs and they sell more papers. Do the second and it burns in your guts, at least for a while.”

“I have to ignore it, I know that. But it doesn’t go away. They’ll pull out those pictures, the worst of them, anytime they decide to run with another Janet Hardy story, or when Mom eventually divorces Number Five. I need a lot more thoroughly-pissed time before I can resign myself to it.”

“I could buy you a puppy.”

“A what?” Baffled, she pushed a hand at her hair. “Why?”

“Then you could spread these ridiculous papers on the floor for him to poop and pee on.”

She smiled a little. “I always wanted a puppy, but I guess I should actually finish the house before I put on additions like pets.”

“Then why don’t I paint that bedroom for you instead? Spiced Cognac, right?”

“That’s the one. I’ll show you where it is.”

FORD STEPPED OUT of the box for a bottle of water and to study the last pencils he’d completed. He liked the subtle changes in Cass, after she’d awakened and merged with Brid. The look in her eyes, the difference in posture when she was alone. She’d changed, and not just when she called out for power, and the symbol of her rank burned into her arm. The quiet, self-effacing academic would gradually come into her own, until that persona was more of a mask than her true self.

Then that loss would become an issue in future volumes.

To choose a path to destiny, as the Immortal told her in panel three, page sixty-one, required sacrifice. She would never be exactly who or what she had been once that choice was made.

How would she deal? Ford wondered. How would she handle who she became, and who she left behind on that journey?

He thought it would be interesting to find out. He hoped the readers did, too.

It wouldn’t hurt, he decided, to hit some blogs, give a few cryptic hints as to what was in store. He needed to check his e-mail anyway. And an hour break from the work would let the creative juices simmer.

He started to sit at his desktop when he heard a knock on his front door. Cautious since the Invasion of the Reporters, he checked out the window before he went down to answer.

“Hey, Mr. McGowan.”

“Ford. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“No, actually, I was just taking a break. Come on in.”

“There are a couple of things I’d like to talk with you about.”

“Sure.” Stupid to feel nervous, Ford told himself. It had been a long time since he’d had term papers and final exams on the line. “Ah, you want something cold?”

“That would be nice. I just finished doing some priming over at Cilla’s.”

“Is there a problem over there?” Ford asked as he led the way to the kitchen.

“Something about the hot water heater, a protracted debate over drawers versus doors on some sort of cabinetry and Buddy bitching about O rings. Otherwise, it looks to me as if the work over there is going very well.”

“Cilla seems to be able to juggle all the balls. Have a seat. Tea work for you?”

“Perfect.” Gavin waited while Ford poured the cold tea over ice in tall glasses. Then he set the tabloids on the counter.

Ford glanced down, turned the angle of the top paper for a better view. “Ouch. Has Cilla seen these?”

“Yes. I take it you haven’t.”

“No, I’ve been in Centuria most of the day. Working, I mean,” he explained. “How’d she take it?”

“Not well.”

“Jesus, could this be any cheesier?” Ford asked, tapping the photo with Janet’s “ghost.” “Any twelve-year-old can Photoshop better than that. But this insert of Cilla when she was a kid’s pretty cute.”

Saying nothing, Gavin opened the paper, watched as Ford skimmed down and saw his own face. “Man, I need a haircut. I keep meaning to take care of that. Hmm, ‘Cilla’s Outraged Lover Rushes to Her Aid.’ I don’t appear especially outraged in this shot. Concerned would fit better. They ought to…”

The full phrase, and the fact that Cilla’s father sat at his counter drinking iced tea, sank in, and had him clearing his throat. “Listen, Mr. McGowan, Cilla and I- That is, it’s not… Well, it is, but-”

“Ford, I’m not shocked by the fact that you and Cilla are sleeping together, and I don’t own a shotgun.”

“Okay. Well.” He took a deep gulp of tea. “Okay then.”

“Is it?” Gavin opened another paper. “If you read this one, you’ll see it’s suggested you’ve been seduced by the lonely, trapped spirit of Janet Hardy-or you’ve seduced the granddaughter in an attempt to become Janet’s lover.”

Ford actually snorted. "Sorry, but it just strikes me funny. I don’t know, if they had any real imagination, I’d be the reincarnation of somebody cool. Bogart or Gregory Peck, who’s slaking his lust for the reincarnation of Janet Hardy by banging Cilla every chance he gets. And God, sorry about the banging comment. Really.”

Gavin sat back, took a sip of his tea. “You were one of my best students. Bright, creative. A bit awkward and eccentric, but never dull. I always enjoyed what could be called your unique thought process. I told Cilla this morning I’ve always been fond of you.”

“I’m really glad to hear that, considering.”

“And considering, what are your intentions toward my daughter?”

“Oh boy. I just got this thing in my chest.” Ford thumped on it. “Do you think extreme anxiety can cause a heart attack in somebody my age?”

“I doubt it, but I promise to call nine-one-one if necessary.” Eyes direct, Gavin inclined his head. “After you answer the question.”

“I want her to marry me. She’s not there yet. Still got that thing,” he added, rubbing now with the heel of his hand. “We’ve only been…” Probably not the way to go, Ford decided. “We’ve only known each other a few months, but I know how I feel. I love her. Am I supposed to tell you about my prospects and stuff? This is my first time.”

“It’s mine, too. I’d say between you and Cilla, your prospects are more than fine. I’d also say, in my opinion, you suit each other.”

“There, it’s going away.” Ford took his first easy breath. “She needs me. She needs someone who understands and appreciates who she is, and who she’s decided to be. And I need her, because who she is, and who she’s decided to be are-big surprise to me-what I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

“That’s an excellent answer.” Gavin rose.“I’m going to leave those here,” he said, gesturing to the papers. “You handle that with Cilla however you think best. I’m going to go paint. I’ll see myself out.” At the edge of the kitchen, he turned back briefly. "Ford, I couldn’t be more pleased.”

Pretty damn pleased himself, Ford sat down at the bar and read through all the papers, all the stories. And knew just how he’d handle it.

It took considerable time, but the end result more than satisfied. He and Spock crossed the road, and finding the front door locked, Ford used the spare key she’d given him. He gave a shout and, when she didn’t answer, started upstairs. The sound of the shower solved the mystery of where Cilla was. He thought briefly and intensely about joining her, but that would spoil the order of events.

Besides, surprising a woman in the shower in a locked house invited screams-and the woman could produce a serious scream. So he contented himself with sitting on the side of the guest room bed-as it remained the only bed in the house-to wait.

She didn’t scream when she saw him, though from the amount of air she sucked in when she stumbled back, she’d have shattered every piece of glass for five miles if she’d cut loose.

“God, Ford. You scared the hell out of me!”

“Sorry. I figured I’d scare you more if I came in the bathroom while you were in the shower.” He fisted his hand as if over the hilt of a knife, pumped it and did a fair imitation of the Psycho shower scene.

“It might’ve been worse. No Spock?”

“He wanted to go see if there were any invisible cats out back.”

“I need to get dressed. Why don’t you go sit out on the patio. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Unhappy, he thought. Irritated. And with a faint haze of discouragement. His idea would either help or make it worse. He might as well find out.

“I brought you something.”

“What? Why don’t you take it down, and I’ll…” She trailed off when he took the thin package wrapped in tabloid paper from behind his back.

She hitched the towel a little more securely between her breasts. “So, you’ve seen them.”

“Yeah. Oh, and two of your subs, my supposedly lifelong friends Matt and Brian, snuck off the job to come over and rag me about it. Punish them as you will. But meanwhile, open your present.”

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I completely underestimated the interest, the angles. And I walked straight into it by using my mother’s publicist in the first place. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“Okay, you can claim the stupid award. Open your present.” He patted the bed beside him.

She sat, stared down at the package he put in her lap.

“I didn’t use pages with any of the stories on them. We might want to make a scrapbook.”

“It’s not funny, Ford.”

“Then you’re really not going to like your present. I’ll just take it back, bury it in the backyard. Where I may come across some worms we can both eat.”

“Really not funny. You have absolutely no idea…” Temper had her ripping the paper. Then she could only stare down.

It was a slim volume, comic-book style, she supposed. The cover held a full-color drawing of her and Ford, locked in a passionate embrace. Over their heads, in what she could only call a lurid font, the title read:

THE AMOROUS ADVENTURES AND

MANY LIVES OF CILLA AND FORD

“You wrote a comic book?”

“It’s really more a very short, illustrated story. Inspired by recent events. Come on, read it.”

She couldn’t think of anything to say, not initially. The five pages he’d done in black and white, complete with dialogue balloons, narrative captions and illustrations, ranged from the ludicrous, to pornographic to brutally funny.

She kept her face expressionless-she still had some acting chops-as she read it through.

“This.” She tapped her finger on a panel depicting Ford, full monty, sweeping a naked Cilla into his arms while Spock covered his face with his paws. “I don’t think this is to scale. A certain attribute is exaggerated. ”

“It’s my attribute, and I’m the artist.”

“And do you really think I’d ever say, ‘Oh, Ford, Ford, hammer me home’?”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

“But I do like this part in the beginning, where the horny ghosts of Janet and Steve McQueen are floating over our sleeping bodies.”

“It seemed appropriate as there’s that legend of how they got it on in the pond. Plus, if I’m going to be possessed by the spirit of somebody, he’d be top of the cool scale.”

“All-time champ,” she agreed. “I also like how the paparazzo falls out of the tree while taking pictures through the bedroom window, and the little X’s in his eyes in the next panel before Spock drags him off to bury him. But my favorite, possibly, is the last panel, where all four of us are in bed smoking cigarettes with expressions of sexual gratification on our faces.”

“I like a happy ending.”

She looked up from the book and into those green eyes. “And this is your way of telling me not to take all this so seriously.”

“It’s my way of giving you another way to take it, if you want.”

She scooted back to prop herself at the head of the bed. “Let’s have a table read. I’ll be Cilla and Janet, you’re Ford and Steve.”

“Okay.” He moved back to sit beside her.

“Then, we’ll act it out.”

He grinned over at her. “Even better.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Every day brought visitors. Some she welcomed, and some she ignored. There was little she could do but ignore those who parked or stood on the shoulder of the road taking pictures of the house, the grounds, of her. She shrugged off the members of the crew who entertained themselves by posing. She couldn’t blame them for getting a kick out of it, for grabbing a portion of that fifteen minutes of fame.

Sooner or later, she told herself, the interest would die down. When she caught sight of paparazzi stalking her while she shopped for hardware or lumber, she didn’t acknowledge them. When she saw pictures of her home, of herself in the tabloids or gossip magazines, she turned her mind to other things. And when her mother’s publicist called with requests for interviews and photo layouts, Cilla firmly hung up.

She went about her business, and prayed that one of the current Hollywood crop of bad girls would do something outrageous enough to shift the attention. As July sweated its way toward August, she concentrated on the house. She had plenty to do.

“Why do you want a sink over here,” Buddy demanded, “when you’re putting a sink over there?”

“It’s a prep sink, Buddy, and I don’t honestly know why I want one.

I just do. Sink here.” She laid a fingertip on the revised, and absolutely final, drawing of her kitchen. “Dishwasher here. Refrigerator. And over here, the prep sink in the work island.”

“It’s your business.” He said it in the way, as he often did, that told her she didn’t know squat. “But I’m just saying, if you’re putting this here island in, you’re cutting into your counter space by putting a sink into it.”

“It’ll have a cutting-board top. On when I want to chop something, off when I want to wash something.”

“What?”

“Jesus, Buddy. Um, vegetables.”

He gave her his bulldog frown. “Then what’re you going to wash in the other sink?”

“The blood off my hands after I stab you to death with my screwdriver. ”

His lips twitched. “You got some weird-ass ideas.”

“Yeah? Wait for this one. I want a pot-filler faucet.”

“You’re going to have two damn sinks, and you want one of them gadgets that swings out on an arm from the wall over the stove to fill pans with water?”

“Yes, I do. Maybe I want to fill really big pots with water for pasta, or for washing my damn feet. Or for boiling the heads of cranky plumbers who argue with me. Maybe I’ve developed a faucet fetish. But I want it.”

She walked over, tapped her fist on the wall where she’d drawn a circle with an X in it with a carpenter’s pencil. “And I want it right here.”

He cast his eyes to the ceiling, as if asking God what possessed her. “Gonna have to run pipes, so we’re gonna have to cut that plaster to run ’em down, tie ’em in.”

“I know that.”

“It’s your house.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“I heard you bought another one, that old place out on Bing.”

“It looks that way.” The little flutter in the belly signaled excitement and nerves. “We don’t settle until October, but it looks that way.”

“I guess you’ll be wanting your fancy doodads in that one, too.”

“You’ll be pleased to know I plan to go more basic there.” She had to fold her lips when she caught the disappointment on his face.

“You say that now. Well, I can start the rough-in on Thursday.”

“That’d be great.”

She left him to his scowling and calculations.

The kitchen cabinets should be done in a couple weeks, she estimated, and could be stored, if necessary, while the plumbing, the wiring were roughed, inspected, finished, inspected. The plaster repaired, the painting done, the floors laid. If her countertops came in on schedule, she might have a finished kitchen, excepting the refitted appliances, by Labor Day.

Maybe she’d have a party after all. And even thinking about planning a party probably jinxed the entire thing.

“Knock, knock!” Cathy Morrow poked her head in the front door. “Brian said you wouldn’t mind if I came right in.”

“I don’t. How are you?”

“Just fine, except for dying of curiosity. Brian’s been telling us how wonderful everything looks, so Tom and I just had to come by and see for ourselves. Tom’s out there in the back where you’re having the stone wall built up. For shrubs, Brian said.”

“It’ll add height and depth to the yard and cut back on the mowing.”

“I don’t think Brian’s ever done so much work for a private client-noncommercial, I mean. He’s just… Oh, Cilla! This is just beautiful.”

With a flush of pride, Cilla watched Cathy walk around the living room. “It’s finished except for refinishing the floor, and we’ll do all of them at the same time. And for furniture, and accessories, art, window treatments and a few minor details such as…”

“It’s so open and warm. I love the light. Are those shamrocks on the collar, or whatever you call it?”

“Medallion, and yes. Dobby did an amazing job. And the fixture’s true to the architecture of the house. I don’t know what was there originally. I couldn’t find any pictures showing it, and my father couldn’t remember. But I think the straightforward Arts and Crafts lines and the design, with the diamond shapes of amber and deep blue, work.”

“It’s just lovely. But, oh my God, the fireplace.”

“Focal point.” Walking over, Cilla stroked her hand down the deep blue of the granite. “I wanted it to pop against the walls, the way the sky pops against the mountains. And a strong color like this needed a strong mantel.”

“Wasn’t it… Yes, it was brick before.”

“Smoke-stained and pocked, and the hearth didn’t meet code, which you can see by the burn marks from stray embers in the floor.”

“It’s funny, all I remember about this room, or the house, really, was so up-to-the-minute. The long sofa in lipstick pink with white satin pillows. I was so impressed. And the way Janet looked sitting on it in a blue dress. She was so beautiful. Well, everyone was,” Cathy added with a laugh. “The celebrities, the rich and famous and important. I couldn’t believe I was here. We were only invited because Tom’s father was a very important local figure, but I didn’t care why. We were invited here three times, and every time was almost painfully exciting.

“Lord, I was younger than you the last time I was here-in that era, I mean. So much time between,” she said with a wistful sigh. “The last time was a Christmas party. All the decorations, the lights. Champagne, endless glasses of champagne, music. That amazing couch. People begged her to sing until she gave in. There was a white baby grand over by the window, and… Oh! Who was it, who was it everyone thought she was having a blistering affair with… the composer? And it turned out he was gay. He died of AIDS.”

"Lenny Eisner.”

"Yes, yes. God, gorgeous man. Anyway, he played, and she sang. Magic. It would’ve been the Christmas before your uncle was killed.

“I’m sorry,” Cathy said suddenly. “I’m daydreaming out loud.”

“No, I like hearing about the way it was. The way she was.”

Cathy tucked back her swing of glossy hair. “I can tell you no one shone brighter than Janet. I think, yes, Marianna was just a few weeks old, and it was the first time we’d gotten a sitter. I was so nervous about leaving her, and so self-conscious because I still had all that baby weight on me. But Janet asked me about the baby, and told me how pretty I looked. It was kind of her, as I’d blown up like a whale with Marianna, and was barely down to hippo. And I remember because my mother-in-law nagged me about eating so many canapés. How would I lose the weight if I ate so much? Irritating woman. Oh, but Tom’s father, I remember, too, how handsome he looked that night. So robust and dashing, and how Janet flirted with him, which irritated my mother-in-law and pleased me to no end.”

She let out a laugh now, tickled by the memory. “We never did take, Tom’s mother and I. Yes, he did look handsome that night. You’d never have believed cancer would take him so horribly just twelve years later. They stood right in here, Janet and Drew-Andrew, Tom’s daddy. And then they were both gone.

“Now, I am sorry. How did I take such a morbid turn?”

“Old houses. They’re full of life and death.”

“I suppose you’re right. It’s about life now, isn’t it, and what you’re doing here. Oh, I completely forgot. I brought you two mimosas.”

“You brought me drinks?”

Cathy laughed until she had to hold her stomach. “No. Trees. Well, they will be trees in a few years, if you want them. I started a couple dozen of them from seed, to give as gifts. I have a pair of lovely old mimosas. You may not want to bother with them, and I won’t be offended if you don’t. They’re barely ten inches high at this point, and you won’t see blooms for several years.”

“I’d love to have them.”

“They’re out on your veranda in some old plastic pots. Why don’t we take them around to Brian, see where he thinks they’d do best for you?”

“They’re my first housewarming gift.” Cilla led the way out, and picked up one of the black plastic pots holding the delicate, fanning seedling. “I love the idea of planting them so young, and being able to watch them grow, year after year. It’s funny, you coming by, talking about the parties. I was thinking about having one, maybe for Labor Day.”

“Oh, you should! What fun.”

“Problem being, the house won’t be completely finished, and I won’t have it furnished or decorated, or-”

“Who cares about that!” Obviously already in the swing, Cathy gave Cilla an elbow bump. “You can have another when you’re all done. It’d be like… a prelude. I’d be happy to help, and you know Patty would. Ford’s mother, too. In fact, we’d take over if you didn’t whip us back.”

“Maybe. Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

AFTER THE CREWS HAD GONE, and the house fell silent, after two fragile seedlings with their pink, powder-puff blossoms still years from bloom had been planted in a sunny spot bordering the yard and fallow field, Cilla sat on an overturned bucket in the living room of the house that had once been her grandmother’s. The house now hers.

She imagined it crowded with people, beautifully dressed, beautifully coiffed. The colored lights of Christmas, the elegance of candle and firelight glowing, glittering, glimmering.

A lipstick-pink couch with white satin pillows.

And Janet, a light brighter than all the rest, gliding from guest to guest in elegant blue, a crystal glass bubbling with champagne in her hand.

The granddaughter sat on the overturned bucket, hearing the dream voices and drawing in the ghost scents of Christmas pine.

Ford found her, alone in the center of the room, in light going dim with the late summer evening.

Too alone, he thought. Not just solitary, not this time. Not quietly contemplative, and not basking, but absolutely alone, and very, very away.

Because he wanted her back, he walked over, crouched in front of her. Those spectacular eyes stared for another instant, two more, at what was away, then came back, came back to him.

“There was a Christmas party,” she said. “It must have been the last Christmas party she gave, because it was the Christmas before Johnnie was killed. There were lights and music, crowds of people. Beautiful people. Canapés and champagne. She sang for them, with Lenny Eisner on the piano. She had a pink couch. A long, bright pink couch with white satin pillows. Cathy told me about it. It sounds so Doris Day, doesn’t it? Bright pink, lipstick pink. It would never go in here now, that bright pink with these foggy green walls.”

“It’s just paint, Cilla; it’s just fabric.”

“It’s statements. Fashions change, go in and out, but there are statements. I’d never be a pink couch with white satin pillows. I changed it, and I’m not sorry about that. It’ll never be as elegant or bold and bright as it was, with her. I’m okay with that, too. But sometimes, when it’s me in here, I need-and I know this sounds completely insane-but I need to ask her if she’s okay with it, too.”

“Is she?”

She smiled, laid her brow against his. “She’s thinking about it.” She sat back, sighed. “Well, since I’m making crazy statements, I might as well lead up to asking you a crazy question.”

“Let’s sit outside on the crazy-question section of the veranda. There’s too damn much of me to squat down this way for long.” He pulled her to her feet.

They sat on the veranda steps, legs stretched out, with Spock wandering the front yard. “You’re sure this is the crazy-question section?”

“I have season tickets.”

“Okay. Did you know Brian’s grandfather? His father’s father?”

“Barely. He died when we were just kids. I have more of an impression of him. Big, strapping guy. Powerful.”

“He’d have been about, what, sixty that Christmas? That last Christmas party.”

“I don’t know. About, I guess. Why?”

“Not too old,” Cilla considered. “Janet liked older men, and younger, and just about any age, race or creed.”

“You’re thinking Bri’s grandfather and Janet Hardy?” His laugh was surprise and wonder. “That’s just… weird.”

“Why?”

“Okay, imagining grandparents having affairs, which means imagining grandparents having sex, is weird to begin with.”

“Not so much when your grandmother is forever thirty-nine.”

“Point.”

“Besides, grandparents have sex. They’re entitled to have sex.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to fix the image in my head, or the next thing I’ll be imagining my grandparents doing it, and see? See?” He gave her a mock punch on the arm. “There it is, in HDTV, in my head. Now I’m scarred for life. Thanks very much.”

“Yes, definitely the crazy section of the veranda. Ford, he could’ve written the letters.”

“My grandfather?”

“No. Well, yes, actually, now that you mention it. He had a crush on her, by his own admission. He took all those photographs of her.”

Ford simply dropped his head in his hands. “It’s a terrible, terrible series of images you’re putting in my brain.”

“Would he tell you if you asked?”

“I don’t know, and I’m not going to ask. Not in any lifetime. And I’m moving out of the crazy section of the veranda.”

“Wait, wait. We’ll switch grandfathers. Brian’s. It’s hard to see yours holding so fondly on to all those photos if their affair ended so badly. But Brian’s was the type, wasn’t he? Powerful, important. Married. Married with a family, a successful-and public-career. He could’ve written those letters.”

“Seeing as he’s been dead for about a quarter century, it’d be hard to prove either way.”

It was an obstacle, she thought, but didn’t have to be insurmountable. “There are probably samples of his handwriting somewhere.”

“Yeah.” Ford let out a sigh. “Yeah.”

“If I could get a sample, and compare it to the letters, then I’d know. They’re both gone, and it could end there. There wouldn’t be any point in letting it get out. But…”

“You’d know.”

“I’d know, and I could put away that part of her life that I never expected to find.”

“If they don’t match?”

“I guess I’ll keep hoping I’ll ask the right question of the right person one day.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

IT TOOK FORD a couple of days to figure out an approach. He couldn’t lie. Not that he was incapable of it; he was just so freaking bad at it. The only way he’d ever gotten away with a lie had been when the person being lied to felt pity for him and let it slide. He’d learned to sink or swim in the truth.

He watched Brian and Shanna turning a load of peat moss into the soil behind the completed stone wall.

“You could get a shovel,” Brian told him.

“I could, but there is also value in the watching and admiring. Especially in the watching and admiring of Shanna’s ass.”

She wiggled it obligingly.

“We all know you’re watching my ass,” Brian shot back.

“It’s true. Shanna is only the beard. To be more convincing, maybe she could bend over just a little more and… I’m sold,” he said when she did so and laughed.

It came, Ford supposed, from being friends all their lives. Only one more reason a lie wasn’t an option. But stalling was.

“What are y’all putting up there?”

Brian straightened, swiped a forearm over his sweaty forehead, then pointed to a group of shrubs in nursery pots. “Make yourself useful, since you don’t seem to have anything better to do. Haul them up here so we can start setting them, see how they look.”

“He’s just bitchy because I’m taking ten days off. Going out to L.A. to visit Steve.”

“Yeah?” Ford hefted an azalea. “So…?”

“‘The future has not been written.’”

You had to love a woman who quoted from The Terminator. “Tell him hey, and all that.”

He waited while they arranged the plants he handed up, rearranged them, argued about the arrangement, and eventually jumped down to study and critique the arrangement.

“Okay, you’re right,” Shanna admitted. “We’ll switch that rhodo and that andromeda.”

“I’m always right.” Smugly, Brian poked himself in the chest with his thumb. “That’s why I’m the boss.”

“As boss, can you take a minute?” Ford asked. “There’s this thing.”

“Sure,” Brian replied as they walked away.

“Okay, this has to stay between you and me,” Ford began. “Cilla found some letters written by a guy her grandmother had an affair with.”

“So?”

“Big, secret affair, married guy, went sour right before she died.”

“I repeat: So?”

“Well, they weren’t signed, and Janet kept them and hid them away, so they became Mysterious Letters. In fact, we thought maybe, until Hennessy melted down, that the break-ins were an attempt by the mystery man to get the letters back.”

“Wouldn’t he be, like, a hundred years old?”

“Maybe, but not necessarily. And plenty of guys in their seventies once banged women not their wives.”

“That’s shocking,” Brian said drily. "Hey, maybe it was Hennessy, and he had this wild fling with the beautiful, sexy movie star. Except I think he was born a dried-up asshole.”

“It’s not beyond the realm. But, ah, a little closer into the circle of logical possibility… See, she knew your grandfather, and he was an important man around here, and came to her parties.”

Ford stood, scratching his head while Brian bent over double and laughed. “Jesus. Jesus!” Brian managed. “The late, great Andrew Morrow doing the nasty with Janet Hardy?”

“It’s close to the circle of logical possibility,” Ford insisted.

“Not in my world, Saw. I don’t remember him all that well, but I remember he was a hard-ass, and self-righteous.”

“In my world, the self-righteous are often the ones sneaking around getting blow jobs before they go home to the wives and kiddies.”

Brian sobered, considered. “Yeah, you got a point. And God knows my grandmother must’ve been hard to live with. Water was never quite wet enough for her. God, she ragged on my mom all the damn time. Right up till she died. It’d be kind of cool,” he decided, “if Big Drew Morrow had a few rounds with Janet Hardy.”

It wasn’t lying not to mention the claims of pregnancy, and the ugly tenor of the last letters. It was just… not mentioning. “Do you have anything he wrote? Birthday card, letter, anything?”

“No. My mother would, I guess. She keeps family papers and that kind of stuff.”

“Can you get a sample of his handwriting without letting her know what it’s for?”

“Probably. She’s got a box of my stuff out in the garage. School papers, cards, that kind of shit. There might be something in there. She’s been after me to take it to my place for years. I could get it out of her way, take a look through.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

“Hey!” Shanna shouted over. “Are you guys about finished or do I have to plant this whole terrace myself?”

“Nag, nag,” Brian shouted back.

Ford studied her. Built, bawdy, beautiful. “How come you never went there?”

“Window of opportunity passed, and she became my sister.” He shrugged. “But we’ve got a deal. If we’re both single when we hit forty, we’re going to Jamaica for a week and spend the whole time engaged in mad, jungle sex.”

“Well. Good luck with that.”

“Only nine years to go,” Brian called out as he strode back toward Shanna.

For a moment, Ford was simply struck dumb. Nine years? Was that it? He didn’t think about being forty. Forty was another decade. The grown-up decade.

How did it get to be only nine years off?

Jamming his hands in his pockets, he veered toward the house to find Cilla.

In the kitchen, where even the slices and chunks of counter had been torn out and hauled away, and odd-looking pipes poked out of a floor that might have been snacked on by drunken rodents, Buddy worked at a wide slice in the plaster wall.

He turned with some sort of large tool in his hand that made Ford think of a metal parrot head mated with a giraffe’s neck.

“Who the hell puts a goddamn faucet over the goddamn stove?” Buddy demanded.

“I don’t know. Ah, in case of fire?”

“That’s a load of crap.”

“It’s the best I’ve got. Is Cilla around?”

“Woman’s always around. Check up in the attic. Toilets in the attic,” Buddy muttered as he went back to work. “Faucets over the stove. Want a tub in the bedroom next.”

“Actually, I’ve seen… Nothing,” Ford said when Buddy turned slitted eyes on him. “I see nothing.”

He trooped his way through the house, noted that the trim was nearly finished in the hall, the entryway. On the second floor, he poked into rooms. He could still smell the paint in a room with walls of a subtle, smoky brown. In the master, he studied the three colors brushed on the wall. Apparently, she hadn’t yet decided between a silvery gray, a gray-blue and a muted gold.

He wandered down the hall, then up the widened, finished stairs. She stood with Matt, each holding a sample of wood up to the light streaming through the window.

“Yeah, I like the contrast of the oak against the walnut.” Matt nodded. “You know what we could do? We could trim it out in the walnut. You’ve got your… Hey, Ford.”

“Hey.”

“Summit meeting,” Cilla told him. “Built-ins.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Okay, like this.” With his pencil, Matt began to draw on the drywall, and Ford’s attention shifted to the swaths of paint brushed on the opposite wall. She had the same silvery gray here, and a warm cheery yellow competing with what he’d call apricot.

He took a look in the bathroom, at the tiles and tones.

He tuned back in to hear Matt and Cilla come to an agreement on material and design.

“I’ll get started on this in my shop,” Matt told her.

“How’s Josie feeling?”

“Hot and impatient, and wondering why the hell she didn’t do the math last winter and realize she’d be going through the summer pregnant.”

“Flowers,” Ford suggested. “Buy her flowers on the way home. She’ll still be hot, but she’ll be happy.”

“Maybe I’ll do that. I’ll check, make sure the flooring’s coming in on Tuesday. Barring another screwup, we’ll start hammering it out up here. Roses always work, right?” he asked Ford.

“They’re a classic for a reason.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know about the flooring, Cilla.”

As Matt went down, Ford stepped over, tapped Cilla’s chin up, kissed her. “The pale silver up here, the dull gold in the master.”

She cocked her head. “Maybe. Why?”

“Streams better with the bathrooms than your other choices. And while they’re both warm tones, the gray gives a sense of coolness. It’s an attic, however jazzed up you make it. And in the bedroom, that color’s restful but still strong. Now tell me why Buddy’s putting a faucet over your stove.”

“To fill pots.”

“Okay. I talked to Brian.”

“You often do.”

“About the letters. His grandfather.”

“You… you told him?” Her mouth dropped open. “You just told him I think his grandfather might have broken commandments with my grandmother?”

“I don’t think commandments were mentioned. You wanted a handwriting sample. Brian can probably get one.”

“Yes, but… Couldn’t you have been covert, a little sneaky? Couldn’t you have lied?”

“I suck at sneak. And even if I gold-medaled in the sneak competition, I can’t lie to a friend. He understands I told him in confidence, and he won’t break a confidence to a friend.”

She blew out a breath. “You people certainly grew up on a different planet than I did. Are you sure he won’t say anything to his father? It’s a stew pot of embarrassment.”

“I’m sure. He did have an interesting comment though. What if Hennessy wrote the letters?”

Cilla went back to gape. “Kill-you-with-my-truck Hennessy?”

“Well, think about it. How crazy would you get if you’d been having an affair with a woman, then the son of that woman is responsible-in your eyes-for putting your son in a wheelchair? It’s way-fetched, I agree. I’m going to reread the letters with this in mind. Just to see how it plays.”

“You know what? If it turns in that direction, within a mile of that direction, I don’t think I want to know. Imagining my grandmother with Hennessy just gives me the serious eeuuwws.”

She sighed, started downstairs with him. “I talked to the police today,” she told Ford. “There won’t be a trial. They did a deal, Hennessy took a plea, whatever. He’ll do a minimum of two years in the state facility, psychiatric.”

Ford reached for her hand. “How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t honestly know. So I guess I’ll put it aside, think about now.”

She moved into the master, studied the paint samples. “Yeah, you’re right about the color.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Cilla used Sunday morning to pore through home and design magazines, scout the Internet for ideas and vendors and tear out or bookmark possibilities and potentials. She could hardly believe she’d reached the stage where she could begin considering furniture.

Weeks away, of course, and she needed to add in trolling antique stores, even flea markets-and possibly yard sales-but she was approaching the time when ordering sofas and chairs, tables and lamps, wouldn’t be out of line.

Then there was bedding, she mused, a kitchen to outfit, an office, window treatments, rugs. All those fun, picky little details to fill in a house. To make a house a home. Her home.

Her first real home.

The closer it came to reality, the more she realized just how much she wanted home. All she had to do was step outside, look across the road and see it.

Sitting here now, at Ford’s counter, with her laptop, her magazines, her notebooks, she thought of just how far she’d come since March. No, well before March, she corrected. She’d started this journey on that long-ago trek through the Blue Ridge, one she’d taken specifically, deliberately to see, firsthand, her grandmother’s Little Farm, to see where her own father sprang from, and maybe to understand, a little, why he’d come back, and left her.

And she’d fallen in love, Cilla thought now, with the hills that bumped their way back to the mountains, the thick spread of trees, the little towns and the big ones, the houses and gardens, the winding roads and streams. Most of all, she’d fallen in love with the old farmhouse sagging behind a stone wall, closed in by its desolate, overgrown gardens.

Sleeping Beauty’s castle, maybe, she mused, but she’d seen home, even then.

Now, what she’d dreamed of, yearned for, was very nearly hers.

She sat at the counter, sipping coffee, and imagined waking in a room with walls the color of a glowing and hopeful dawn, and of living a life she’d chosen rather than one chosen for her.

Ford gave a sleepy grunt as he walked in.

Look at him, she thought. Barely awake, that long, long, lean, edging-toward-gawky body dressed in navy boxers and a tattered Yoda T-shirt. All that sun-streaked brown hair rumpled and messy, and those green eyes groggy and just a little cranky.

Wasn’t he just unbelievably adorable?

He dumped coffee into a mug, added sugar, milk. Said, “God, mornings suck through a straw,” and drank as if his life balanced within the contents of the mug.

Then he turned, to prop his elbow on the counter. “How come you look so lucid?”

“Maybe because I’ve been up for three hours. It’s after ten, Ford.”

“You have no respect for the Sunday.”

“It’s true. I’m ashamed.”

“No, you’re not. But real estate agents also have no respect for the Sunday. Vicky just called my cell and woke me from a very hot dream involving you, me and finger paints. It was really getting interesting when I was so rudely and annoyingly interrupted. Anyway, the sellers came down another five thousand.”

“Finger paints?”

“And as an artist I can say it was the beginning of a masterpiece.

We’re only ten thousand apart now, as Vicky the dream killer pointed out. So…”

“No.”

“Damn it.” He looked like a kid who’d just been told there were no cookies in the jar. “I knew you were going to say no, which you did not say when I was swirling cobalt blue around your belly button. Couldn’t we just-”

“No. You’ll thank me later when you have that ten k to put into improvements and repairs.”

“But I really want that ugly dump now. I want it for my own. I love it, Cilla, like a fat kid loves cake.” He tried a hopeful smile. “We could split the difference.”

“No. We hold firm. No one else has made an offer on the property. The seller isn’t interested in making any of those repairs and improvements. He’ll cave.”

“Maybe he won’t.” Those groggy eyes narrowed into a scowl. “Maybe he’s just as pigheaded as you are.”

“Okay, here’s this.” She leaned back, an expert at the negotiation table. “If he doesn’t cave, if he doesn’t accept your offer within two weeks, you can counter with the split. But you hold tight for fourteen more days.”

“Okay. Two weeks.” He tried the hopeful smile again. “Do you ever think about scrambling eggs?”

“Hardly ever. But I am thinking about something else. I’m thinking, looking at that big, soft sofa over there-as I’ve been in the sofa-hunting mode. And wondering, as I’m thinking, what would happen if I stretched out on that big, soft sofa.”

She slid off the stool, aiming a smile over her shoulder as she strolled to the sofa. “And I’m wondering will I have to lie here all by myself, all alone with my unquenched desires and lascivious thoughts.”

“Okay, lascivious did it.”

He skirted the counter, crossed, then pounced. “Hi.”

With a low laugh, she scissored her legs, reared and rolled until their positions reversed. “I think I’ll be high this time.” Dipping down, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, chewed lightly.

“This is how I respect the Sunday.”

“I was so wrong about you.” He ran his hands down her, over the loose, white tank. “Cilla.”

“You’re all rumpled and sexy and…” She peeled Yoda off, tossed him away. “Mostly naked.”

“All we’re missing are the finger paints.” He pushed up, locking his arms around her, fixing his mouth to hers. “I miss you. As soon as I’m awake and you’re not there.”

“I’m not far.” She wrapped around him, only separating to let him strip the white tank away. And, oh, those hands, those slow, steady hands. “Here. Here.” She cupped his head, guided it down until his mouth closed over her breast.

Everything coiled and curled inside her, and opened again.

She wanted, wanted, with those hands pressing, that mouth feasting. Wanted him inside her, hot and hard. She wiggled out of her shorts, gasping as he touched and teased, moaning as she rose up, eased down, and filled herself with him.

“This is what I want, on Sunday morning.”

She took him, riding up, riding down, her hands braced on the arm of the couch. Slim, hard muscles, burnt honey hair, iced blue eyes so clear they were a mirror into his heart.

No dream, no fantasy came close to the truth of her. No wish, no wonder compared.

“I love you, Cilla. I love you.”

Her breath caught; her heart skipped beats. Her body bowed, and the arrow it shot struck home.

She slid down to him, snuggled right in. He loved the way they fit, line to line, the way her hair felt against his skin.

“So… where exactly do you buy finger paints?”

He grinned, lazily walked his fingers up and down her spine. “I’ll find out, lay in a supply.”

“I’ll provide the drop cloth. Where did you get this couch?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere where they sell furniture.”

“It’s a good size, shape, nice fabric. Comfortable. I need to start thinkingfurniture, and I have that great big living room to deal with. Conversation areas and lighting and art. I’ve never done all that before. It’s a little intimidating.”

He glanced over when Spock wandered in, took one look at them twined together naked on the couch and walked away. Just jealous, Ford thought. “Never bought furniture before?”

“Sure, you’ve got to sit on something. But I’ve never chosen things with the idea of keeping them any length of time. It’s always been temporary. ” She brushed her lips over his collarbone, nuzzled at his shoulder. “And I’ve worked with stagers on flips. Staging a property can help it sell. So I know, or have opinions, about what works in a space. But this is different. Staging’s like a set. Load it in, break it down.”

“Didn’t you have a house, an apartment, something in L.A.?”

“Steve had a place. After our five-minute marriage I lived at the BHH awhile.”

“The BHH?”

“Beverly Hills Hotel. Then I traveled some, or stayed at Steve’s when I picked up some work. There was my very brief college stint, and I had an apartment off campus. When Steve bought the property in Brentwood to flip, I camped there. I got in the habit of staying in the flip houses. It gave me a sense of them.”

Place, house, property. Never home, he thought. She’d never had what he and everyone he knew took for granted. She’d never had home. He thought of how she’d sat in the big, empty living room with its beautiful walls and gorgeous trim, and imagined a long-ago holiday party.

She was reaching back to find her future.

“We can move the couch over there,” he said, suddenly desperate to give her something. “You could see how it looks in place and have something to sit on besides the ever-versatile bucket.”

“That’s a very nice offer.” She gave him an absent kiss before sitting up to hunt for her clothes. “But it’s more practical to wait for furniture until after the floors are done. Of course, now that I’ve gotten trapped into giving a party, I’d better find some suitable outdoor furniture.”

"Party?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” She pulled on her tank. “I made the mistake of mentioning to Cathy Morrow that I’d like-maybe-to give a party around Labor Day, but the house wouldn’t be finished or furnished. She jumped right on the first part, completely ignored the second. Now I’ve got Patty calling me with menu ideas, and your mother offering to make her pork barbecue.”

“It’s great stuff.”

“No doubt. The problem remains how I find time to squeeze in party planning while I’m installing kitchen cabinets, running trim, hanging doors, refinishing floors and hitting a very long punch-out list, not to mention exploring the world of sofas, couches, divans and settees.”

“You buy a grill, a bunch of meat and a whole lot of alcoholic beverages. ”

She shook her head at him. “You’re a man.”

“I am. A fact which I’ve just proven beyond any reasonable doubt.” And being Sunday, he should get a shot at proving it again. “A party’s a good thing, Cilla. People come, people you know and like, enjoy being with. You show off what you’ve done. You share it. That’s why you took down the gate.”

“I…” He was right. “What kind of grill?”

He smiled at her. “We’ll shop.”

In an exaggerated gesture, she crossed her hands over her heart. “Words most women only dream about hearing from a man. I need to go get dressed. I could pick up paint while we’re out, and hardware, take another look at kitchen lighting.”

“What have I wrought?”

She tossed a smile at him as she walked out of the room. “We’ll take my truck.”

He dragged on his boxers, but stayed where he was, thinking about her. She didn’t realize how much she’d told him. She’d never once mentioned the house, or houses, where she’d grown up.

He, on the other hand, could describe in perfect detail the house of his childhood, the way the sun slanted or burst through the windows of his room at any given time of the day, the green sink in the bathroom, the chip in the kitchen tile where he’d dropped a gallon jug of apple juice.

He remembered the pang when his parents had sold it, even though he’d been in New York, even though he’d moved out. Even though they’d only moved a couple miles away. Years later, he could still drive by that old brick house and feel that pang.

Lovingly restored trim, letters hidden in a book, an old barn painted red again. All of that, every step and detail, were links she forged herself to make a chain of connection.

He’d do whatever he could do to help her forge it, even if it came down to shopping for a grill.

“Hey, Ford.”

“Back here,” Ford called out when he heard Brian’s voice, and unfolded himself off the sofa as Brian walked in. “Weber or Viking?”

“Tough choice,” Brian said without any need for explanation. “I went with the Weber, as you know, but a man can’t go wrong with the Viking.”

“How about a woman?”

“Women have no place behind a grill. That’s my stand on it.” He bent down, picked up Ford’s discarded T-shirt. “This is a clue. It tells me that I’ve come too late to interrupt morning sex. Damn that second cup of coffee.” He tossed the shirt at Ford’s face, then leaned down to greet Spock.

“You’re just jealous because you didn’t have any morning sex.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re here. Why are you here?”

Brian gestured to the counter and Cilla’s research pile as he crossed over to open Ford’s refrigerator. “Where’s Cilla?”

“Upstairs, getting dressed so we can go out and debate between Weber and Viking.”

“You’ve got Diet Cokes in here,” Brian observed as he pulled out a can of the real thing. “A sure sign a guy is hooked. I went by my mom’s yesterday.” Brian popped the top, took a swig. “Hauled off, to her surprised joy, not one but two boxes of junk she’s saved for me. What am I supposed to do with a crayon drawing of a house, a big yellow sun and stick people?”

“I don’t know, but you can’t throw it out. According to my mother, dumping any childhood memorabilia they saved dares the gods.” Ford got his own Coke. “I have three boxes.”

“I won’t forget it’s your fault I took possession of that stuff.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket, tossed it on the counter. “However, as I didn’t score female companionship last night, I went through some of it, came up with this. It’s a card my grandfather gave my mother on the occasion of my birth. He wrote some stuff in it.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Damn right. I am now housing every report card I got from first grade through high school. You’ll let me know if it matches. I’m kind of into it now.”

“One way or the other.” Ford picked up the card, studied the strong, bold lettering of Cathy’s name.

“I gotta go, pick up Shanna. I’m driving her to the airport.” He squatted down, rubbing Spock’s head, the wiggling body. “Tell Cilla I’ll have a couple guys there tomorrow to finish that mulching, and I should be able to swing by the new place she’s buying, take a look at the yard.”

“Okay. I’ll get this back to you.”

Brian smirked at the card. “Yeah, I’m worried about that.”

Ford went upstairs, into the bedroom where Cilla was pulling her hair back into a tail. “I’m set,” she told him. “I’m going to go over while you’re getting dressed, take another look at a couple things before we go.”

“Brian just came by.”

“Oh, did he look at the new property already?”

“No, next week, he said. He brought this.” Ford held up the card.

“Is that… Of course it is. I didn’t expect him to find something so fast. Wow.” She pressed a hand to her belly. “Big mystery could be solved. It makes me a little nervous.”

“Do you want me to go check it out, then just tell you?”

She dropped her hand. “What am I? A weenie?”

“No, you’re not.”

“Then let’s do it.”

“They’re in my office.”

She went in with him, watched him take the book off the shelf, then set it on the counter for her to open.

“I keep thinking how she chose Gatsby. The rich, shining life, the glitter and then ennui, romance, betrayal, ultimate tragedy. She was so unhappy. I dreamed of her again not long ago. I didn’t tell you. One of my Janet and Cilla dreams. Forest Lawn. They’re both buried there. Her and Johnnie. I only went there once. Her grave was literally covered with flowers. It made me sad to look at it. All those flowers, brought by strangers, fading in the sun.”

“You planted them for her here instead. And even when they fade, they come back new. Year after year.”

“I like to think that would matter to her. My personal tribute.” She opened the book, took the stack of letters out. “I’ll open this,” she said, choosing one. “You open that.”

Ford took out the card. He’d expected a happy picture of a baby, or a sentimental one of a mother and child. Instead he found Andrew Morrow’s initials on heavy, cream-colored stock. “Pretty formal,” he commented, and opened the card.

Congratulations to my lovely daughter-in-law on the birth of her son. I hope these roses bring you pleasure. They’re only a small token of my great pride. Another generation of Morrows is born with Brian Andrew.

Affectionately, Drew

Cilla laid the letter beside the card.

My Dear. My Darling.

There are no words to express my sorrow, my sympathy, my grief for you. I wish I could hold you, could comfort you now with more than words on a page. Know that I’m with you in my heart, that my thoughts are full of you. No mother should have to suffer the loss of her child, and then be forced to grieve in so public a manner.

I know you loved your Johnnie beyond measure. If there can be comfort now, take it in knowing he felt that love every day of his short life.

Only Yours

“Is that fitting, is that fate?” Cilla said quietly. “That I’d choose the loss of a son to compare to the birth of another? It’s a kind letter,” she continued. “They’re both kind notes, and both strangely distant, so carefully worded, I think. When each occasion should have filled the page with emotions and intimacies. The tone, the structure. They could be from the same person.”

“The writing’s similar. Not… well, not exactly exact. See the S’s in the card? When he starts a word-son, small-with an S, it’s in curvy print. In the letter-sorry, sympathy-traditional lowercase cursive.”

"But the uppercase T’s are written the same way, and the Y’s. The slant of the writing. It’s very close. And they were written years apart.”

“My and my in both really look like the same hand, and the uppercase I’s, but the uppercase D’s, not so much.” Ford knew he looked with an artist’s eye, and wasn’t sure if that was a plus or a minus. “Then again, in the card, that’s a signature. Some people write the first letter of their signature differently than they might a word. I don’t know, Cilla.”

“Results, inconclusive. I don’t suppose you know any handwriting experts.”

“We could find one.” He looked up, into her eyes. “Do you want to go that route?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know. Damn it. No easy answers.”

“Maybe we could get our hands on a sample closer to when the letters were written. I can ask Brian to try for that.”

“Let’s just put it away for now.” She folded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope. “We know one thing after this. It wasn’t Hennessy. I’d forgotten about the letter after Johnnie’s death. No way, even if he was crazy in love, would he have written that after the accident. Not when he was with his own son in the hospital.”

“You’re right.”

“So, if I had a list, I’d be able to cross a name off. That’s something. I guess it’s going to have to be enough for now. At least for now.”

Ford closed the book, put it back on the shelf. He turned to her, took her hand. “What do you say we go buy a grill?”

“I’d say that’s exactly what I want to do.”

But he left the monogrammed note on his desk when he went to dress. He could find a graphologist. Someone outside Virginia to whom the name Andrew Morrow meant nothing. And he could see where that led.

CILLA’S PLEASURE WHEN her walnut flooring finally arrived Tuesday morning hit a major roadblock before noon when her tile layer stormed over to her work area beside the barn.

“Hi, Stan. You’re not scheduled until Thursday. Are…”

She found herself backpedaling quickly as she caught the murderous look in his eye. "Hey, hey, what’s the problem?”

“You think you can treat people that way? You think you can talk to people that way?”

“What? What?” He backed her right up into the side of the barn. Too shocked at seeing the usually affable Stan with a vein throbbing in the center of his forehead, Cilla held up her hands as much in defense as a gesture of peace.

“You think ’cause you come from money and got yourself on TV you’re better than the rest of us?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where-”

“You got some nerve, goddamn it, calling my wife, talking to her like that.”

“I never-”

“You got a problem with my work, you talk to me. You got that? Don’t you go calling my house and yelling at my wife.”

“Stan, I’ve never spoken to your wife.”

“You calling her a liar now?” He shoved his face into hers, so close she could taste his rage.

“I’m not calling her anything.” Alarm lumped at the base of Cilla’s throat, so she spaced her words carefully. “I don’t know her, and I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I come home and she’s so upset she can barely talk. Started crying. The only reason I didn’t come straight over here last night is she begged me not to, and I didn’t want to leave her when she was in that state. She’s got hypertension, and you go setting her off ’cause you decide you don’t like my work.”

“And I’m telling you, I never called your house, I never spoke to your wife, and I’m not dissatisfied with your work. In fact, the opposite. Or why in God’s name did I contract you to lay the floor in my kitchen?”

“You tell me, goddamn it.”

“Well, I can’t!” she shouted back at him. “What time was I supposed to have made this call?”

“About ten o’clock last night, you know damn well. I get home about ten-thirty, and she’s lying down, flushed and shaking because you screamed at her like a crazy woman.”

“Have you ever heard me scream like a crazy woman? I was at Ford’s last night at ten o’clock. I nodded off in front of the TV. Ask him. Jesus, Stan, you’ve been working here off and on for months now. You should know I don’t handle things that way.”

“Said it was you. Cilla McGowan.” But puzzlement began to show through the temper. “You told Kay she was a stupid hick, just like most of the people around here. How I couldn’t lay tile for shit, and you were going to make sure word got out. When I lost work, I’d have nobody to blame but my own lazy ass. How maybe you’d sue me over the crap job I did for you.”

“If your wife’s a hick, I am, too. I live here now. I don’t contract with subs who do crap work. In fact, I recommended you to my stepmother just last week, if she ever talks my father into updating their master bath.” She realized she was breathless from reaction, but the alarm had dissolved. “Why the hell would I do that, Stan, if I thought your work was crap?”

“She didn’t just make it up.”

“Okay.” She had to draw in air. “Okay. Is she sure whoever called gave my name?”

"Cilla McGowan, and then Kay said you… they,” he corrected, obviously ready to give Cilla the benefit of the doubt, “said, ‘Do you know who I am?’ in that bitchy way people do when they think they’re important. Then just laid into her. It took me almost an hour to calm her down when I got home from the summer league. I had to make her take a Tylenol P.M. to help her sleep. She was that upset.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry somebody used my name to upset her. I don’t know why…” Pressure lowered onto her chest, pushed and pushed. “The flooring supplier said I called in and changed my order. Walnut to oak. But I didn’t. I thought there’d just been a mix-up. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe somebody’s screwing with me.”

Stan stood a moment, stuck his hands in his pockets, pulled them out again. “You never made that call.”

“No, I didn’t. Stan, I’m trying to build a reputation, and a business here. I’m trying to build relationships with subs and service people. When someone broke in and went at the bathrooms, you juggled me in for the repair and re-lay, and I know you cut me a break on the labor.”

“You had a problem. And the fact is, I was proud of that work and wanted to make it right.”

“I don’t know how to make this right with your wife. I could talk to her, try to explain.”

“Better let me do that.” He blew out a breath. “Sorry I came at you.”

“I’d have done the same in your place.”

“Who’d do something like this? Mess with you, get Kay all upset?”

“I don’t know.” Cilla thought of Mrs. Hennessy. Her husband was doing two years in a psych facility. “But I hope I can head it off before it happens again.”

“I guess I’d better swing by home, straighten this out with Kay.”

“Okay. You still on for Thursday?”

His smile was a little sheepish. “Yeah. Ah, you got any reason to call me at home, maybe you should come up with a code word or something. ”

“Maybe I should.”

She stood in the shadow of her barn, with trim propped against the wall and laid out to dry, stretched across her sawhorses. And wondered how many times she’d have to pay for the crimes, sins, mistakes of others.

TWENTY-SIX

Cilla stood in her bedroom, staring at the freshly painted walls while her father tapped the lid back on the open can of paint. She watched the way the strong midday light flooded the room, and sent those walls to glowing.

“The trim’s not even up, and the floors still have to be done, and still, standing here gives me an ecstatic tingle.”

He straightened from his crouch, took a long look himself. “It’s a damn fine job.”

“You could make a living.”

“It’s always good to have a fallback.”

“You’ve damn near painted the entire house.” She turned to him then. She still couldn’t quite think what to make of that, or what to say to him. “That’s saved me weeks of time. Thanks doesn’t cover it.”

“It does the job. I’ve enjoyed it, on a lot of levels. I’ve liked being part of this. This transformation. We missed a lot of summers, you and I. Spending some of this one with you, well, it’s made me happy.”

For a moment she could only stand, looking at him, her handsome father. Then she did something she’d never done before. She went to him first. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, then wrapped her arms around him. “Me too.”

He held on, hard and tight. She felt his sigh against her. “Do you remember the day we first saw each other here? I came to the back door, and you shared your lunch with me on the sagging front veranda?”

“I remember.”

“I didn’t see how we’d ever get here. Too much neglect, too much time passed. For the house, and for us.” He eased her back, and she saw with some surprise, some alarm, that his eyes were damp. “You gave it a chance. The house, and me. Now I’m standing here with my daughter. I’m so proud of you, Cilla.”

When her own eyes flooded, she pressed her face to his shoulder. “You said that to me, that you were proud, after the concert in D.C., and once, earlier, when you came to the set of Our Family and watched me shoot a scene. But this is the first time I believe it.”

She gave him a last squeeze, stepped back. “I guess we’re getting to know each other, through interior latex, eggshell finish.”

“Why stop there? How about we go take a look at the exterior.”

“You can’t paint the house. The rooms, that’s one thing.”

Lips pursed, he scanned the room. “I think I passed the audition.”

“Interiors. It’s a three-story building. A really big, three-story building. Painting it’ll require standing on scaffolding and really tall ladders.”

“I used to do my own stunts.” He laughed as she rolled her eyes in a way he could only describe as daughterly. “Maybe I didn’t, and maybe that was a long time ago, but I have excellent balance.”

She tried stern. “Standing on scaffolding and really tall ladders in the dog-day heat of August.”

“You don’t scare me.”

Then simple practicality. “It’s not a one-man job.”

“True. I’ll definitely need some help. What color did you have in mind?”

And felt herself being gently steamrolled. “Listen, the old paint needs to be scraped where it’s peeled, and-”

“Details, details. Let’s take a look. Do you want it painted by Labor Day, or what?”

“Labor Day? It’s not even on the schedule until mid-September. When it’s, hopefully, a little cooler. The crew who painted the barn-”

“Happy to work with them.”

Completely baffled, she set her hands on her hips. “I thought you were kind of-no offense-a pushover.”

His expression placid, he patted her cheek. “No offense taken. What about the trim, the verandas?”

She puffed out her cheeks, blew the breath out. She saw it now. Push-over, her ass. He just ignored the arguments and kept going. "Okay, we’ll take a look at the samples I’m thinking about. And once I decide, you can work on the verandas, the shutters. But you’re not hanging off scaffolding or climbing up extension ladders.”

He only smiled at her, then dropped his arm over her shoulders the way she’d seen him do with Angie, and walked her downstairs.

Though it wasn’t on her list-and she really wanted to get up to her office and check on the progress of her floors, see if Stan had finished the tile, start running the bedroom trim-she opened the three pints of exterior paint. “Could go deep, with this blue. The gray in it settles it down a few notches, and white trim would set it off.” She slapped some on the wood.

“Makes a statement.”

“Yeah. Or I could go quiet and traditional with this buff, use a white trim again, or a cream. Cream might be better. Softer.”

“Pretty and subdued.”

“Or I could go with this more subtle blue, again gray undertones keeping it warm, and probably go with a soft white for the trim.”

“Dignified but warm.”

She stepped back, cocked her head to one side, then the other. “I thought about yellows, too. Something cheerful, but soft enough it doesn’t pop out of the ground like a big daffodil. Maybe it should wait. Maybe it should just wait.” She gnawed on her lip. “Until…”

“I’ve seen you make decisions, over everything that has to do with this house, with the grounds. Why are you having such a hard time with this?”

“It’s what everyone will see. Every time they drive by on the road. A lot of them will slow down, point it out. ‘That’s Janet Hardy’s house.’” Setting down the brush, Cilla wiped her hands on her work shorts. “It’s just paint, it’s just color, but it matters what people see when they drive by on the road, and think of her.”

He laid a hand on her shoulder. “What do you want them to see when they drive by here?”

“That she was a real person, not just an image in an old movie, or a voice on a CD or old record. She was a real person, who felt and ate, who laughed and worked. Who lived a life. And she was happy here, at least for a while. Happy enough she didn’t let it go. She held on, so I could come here, and have a life here.”

She let out an embarrassed laugh. “And that’s a hell of a lot to expect from a couple coats of paint. Jesus, I should probably go back into therapy.”

“Stop.” He gave her shoulder a quick shake. “Of course it matters. People obsess over something as mundane as paint for a lot less important reasons. This house, this place, was hers. More, it was something she chose for herself, and something she valued. Something she needed. It’s been passed to you. It should matter.”

“It was yours, too, in a way. I don’t forget that. That matters more now than it did when I started. You pick.”

He dropped his hand, actually stepped back. “Cilla.”

“Please. I’d really like this to be your choice. The McGowan choice. People will think of her when they pass on the road. But when I walk the grounds or drive in after a long day, I’ll think of her, and of you. I’ll think of how you came here as a little boy, and chased chickens. You pick, Dad.”

“The second blue. The warm and dignified blue.”

She hooked her arm with his, studied the fresh color over the old, peeling paint. “I think it’s going to be perfect.”

WHEN FORD WALKED over late in the day, he saw Gavin on the veranda, scraping the paint on the front of the house.

“How’re you doing, Mr. McGowan?”

“Slow but sure. Cilla’s inside somewhere.”

“I just bought a house.”

“Is that so?” Gavin stopped, frowned. “You’re moving?”

“No. No. I bought this, well, this toxic dump that Cilla says she can fix up. To flip. The seller just accepted my offer. I feel a little sick, and can’t decide if it’s because I’m excited, or because I can see this big, yawning money pit opening up under my feet. I’m going to have two mortgages. I think I should probably sit down.”

“Pick up that scraper, give me a hand with this. It’ll calm you down.”

Ford eyed the scraper dubiously. “Tools and I have a long-standing agreement. We stay away from each other, for the good of mankind.”

“It’s a scraper, Ford, not a chain saw. You scrape ice off your windshield in the winter, don’t you?”

“When I must. I prefer staying home until it thaws.” But Ford picked up the spare scraper and tried to apply the process of scraping ice from glass to scraping peeling paint off the side of a house. “I’m going to have two mortgages, and I’m going to be forty.”

“Did we just time-travel? You can’t be more than thirty.”

“Thirty-one. I have less than a decade until I’m forty, and five minutes ago I was studying for the SATs.”

Gavin’s lips twitched as he continued to scrape. “It gets worse. Every year goes faster.”

“Thanks,” Ford said bitterly. “That’s just what I needed to hear. I was going to take my time, but how can you when there isn’t as much as you think there is?” Turning, he waved the scraper, and nearly put it through the window. “But if you’re ready, and she’s not, what the hell are you supposed to do about that?”

“Keep scraping.”

Ford scraped-the paint and his knuckles. “Crap. As a metaphor for life, that sucks.”

Cilla came out in time to see Ford sucking his sore knuckles and scowling. “What are you doing?”

“I’m scraping paint and a few layers of skin, and your father’s philosophizing. ”

“Let me see.” She took Ford’s hand, studied the knuckles. “You’ll live.”

“I have to. I’m about to have two mortgages. Ouch!” he said when Cilla gave his sore fingers a quick squeeze.

“Sorry. They accepted your offer?”

“Yeah. I have to go into the bank tomorrow and sign a bunch of papers. I’m going to hyperventilate,” he decided. “I need a bag to breathe into.”

“November settlement?”

“I followed the company line.”

She gave him a poke. “Scared?”

His answering scowl was both sour and weak. “I’m about to go into debt. The kind that has many zeros. I’m having a few moments. Do you know that the olfactory sense is the strongest of the five senses? I keep having flashes of how that place smells.”

“Put that down before you really hurt yourself.” She took the scraper out of his hand, set it on the window ledge. “And come with me a minute. ” She gave her father a quick wink, then drew Ford into the house.

“Do you remember what the kitchen looked like in here when you first saw it?”

“Yeah.”

“Ugly, dingy, damaged floors, cracked plaster, bare bulbs. Got that picture in your head?”

“I got it.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Cilla.”

“Seriously, close them, and keep that picture in there.”

He shook his head but obliged her, and let her lead him back. “Now I want you to tell me what you see when you open your eyes. No thinking it through, no qualifying. Just open your eyes and tell me what you see.”

He obeyed. “A big room, empty. A lot of light. Walls the color of lightly toasted bread. And floors, big squares of tile-a lot of honey tones on cream with pipes poking up through them. Big, unframed- untrimmed-windows that open it up to a patio with a blue umbrella, and gardens with roses blooming like maniacs, and green gone lush. And the mountains against the sky. I see Cilla’s vision.”

He started to step forward, but she tugged him back. “No, don’t walk on the tiles yet. Stan only finished the grout an hour ago.”

“We can do this.”

“We absolutely can. It takes planning, effort, a willingness to find a way around unexpected problems, and a real commitment to the end goal. We’ll turn that place around, Ford, and when we do, we’ll have something we can both be proud of.”

He turned to her, kissed her forehead. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got some scraping to do.”

She walked out with him, baffled when he signaled so long to her father and kept walking.

“Well, where’s he going? He said he was going to do more scraping.”

Gavin smiled to himself as Cilla shook her head and went back inside. It was good to know his daughter had found her place, her purpose, had found a man who loved her.

It was good to know she was out of reach of the man who’d wished her harm.

THE NEXT MORNING, Cilla walked over from Ford’s to find her tires slashed. On the ground by the left front tire, another doll lay facedown, a short-handled paring knife stabbed into its back.

“You should’ve come back for me. Damn it, Cilla.” Ford paced down the drive, then back to where she sat on the steps of the veranda. “What if he-she-whoever-had still been here?”

“They weren’t. The cops were here within fifteen minutes. They’re pretty used to the run by now. I didn’t see the point in-”

“Because I can’t run a skill saw or a damn drill I’m no use?”

“I didn’t mean that, and you know I didn’t mean that.”

“Simmer down, Ford.” Matt stepped between them.

“No way. It’s the second time somebody killed one of those damn dolls to scare her, and she sits over here alone waiting for the cops and lets me sleep. It’s goddamn stupid.”

“You’re right. Simmer down anyway. He’s right,” Matt said to Cilla. “It was goddamn stupid. You’re a hell of a job boss, Cilla, and one of the best carpenters I’ve worked with, but the fact is someone’s dogging you and threatening you, and standing around here alone after you come across something like this doesn’t show much sense.”

“It was a cowardly bully tactic, and nobody asked you to go running across the road dragging Ford out of bed so the pair of you can gang up on me. I’m not stupid. If I was afraid, I’d have run across the road and dragged Ford out of bed. I was mad, damn it.”

She shoved to her feet as sitting and looking up at two annoyed males made her feel weak and small. “I’m still mad. I’m pissed and I’m tired of being dogged and threatened, as you put it. Of being run off the road and having good work destroyed, and the whole rest of it. Believe me, if whoever did that had still been here, I’d have probably yanked that knife out of that idiot doll and stabbed him in the throat with it. And still been pissed.”

“If you’re so smart,” Ford said, very coolly, “then you know it was stupid.”

She opened her mouth, shut it and gave up. Then she sat back down. “I’ll give you rash. I won’t give you stupid.”

“Hardheaded and rash,” Ford countered. “That’s my final offer.”

“Have it your way. Now if you’d go back to bed, and you’d go get to work, I could sit here and wallow in my brood.”

Saying nothing, Matt walked up, patted Cilla on the head and continued inside. Ford came over, sat beside her.

“Like I care if you can run a skill saw.”

“Thank God you don’t.”

“I didn’t think about coming to get you. I was too mad. I don’t get it, I just don’t get it.” Shifting, she indulged herself-and him-by pressing her face to his shoulder a moment. “Hennessy’s in psych. If his wife’s doing this, why? I know he’s doing two years, but how is that my fault? Maybe she’s as crazy as he is.”

“And maybe Hennessy didn’t do it. Ran you off the road, no question. Is crazy, no argument. But maybe he didn’t do any of the rest. He wouldn’t admit to it.”

“That would be just great, meaning I have at least two people out there who’d like to make my life hell.” She leaned forward, propped her elbows on her thighs. “It could be about the letters. Someone else knows about them, knows I found them, that they still exist. If Andrew wrote them, someone might know about them, about the affair, the pregnancy… His name’s still prominent around here. To protect his reputation…”

“Who, Brian’s father? Brian? Besides, it doesn’t look like Andrew Morrow wrote them. I sent copies to a graphologist.”

“What?” She jerked straight again. “When?”

“A couple days after Brian brought the card over. Yes, taking that on myself without telling or consulting you was… rash. We’ll call it even.”

“God, Ford, if the press gets ahold of this-”

“They won’t. Why would they? I found a guy in New York, one who doesn’t know Andrew Morrow from Bruce Wayne. And the copy of the page of one of the letters I sent him had nothing in it that referred to Janet or the location, even the time frame. I was careful.”

“Okay. Okay.” He would have been, she admitted.

“The conclusion was, not the same hand. Guy wouldn’t stake his reputation on it because they were copies, and because I told him they were written about four years apart. But he wouldn’t document them as the same hand. He did say they were of similar style, and both might have been taught to write by the same person.”

“Like a teacher?”

“Possibly.”

A whole new avenue, Cilla realized. “So it might have been someone who went to school with Andrew. A friend. A close friend. Or someone who went to the same school, with the same teacher later. And that really narrows the field.”

“I could look into that, or try. Talk to my grandfather. He and Andrew would be about the same age. He might remember something.”

Cilla studied her four flat tires. “I think that’s a good idea. If you want answers, you have to ask questions. I have to go to work. And you have to go to the bank.” She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Have we made up?”

“Not until we have sex.”

“I’ll put it on my list.”

FORD PULLED UP in front of the little suburban house. He heard the purr of a lawn mower as he stepped out of the car, so with Spock he walked around to the side of the house and through the gate of the chain-link fence.

His grandfather, dressed in a polo shirt, Bermuda shorts and Hush Puppies, pushed the power mower across the short square of lawn between and around the hydrangeas, the rosebushes and the maple tree.

From the gate, Ford could see the sweat trickling down his grandfather’s temples under his Washington Redskins cap. Ford shouted, made wide arm signals as he started over, and saw the smile spread on his grandfather’s sweaty face when Ford caught his eye.

Charlie shut off the lawn mower. “Well, hi there. Hi there, Spock,” he added, patting his thigh in invitation for the dog to plant his hind legs for a head rub. “What’re you doing out this way today?”

“Mowing the rest of your lawn. Granddad, it’s too hot out here for you to be doing this.”

“Meant to get to it earlier.”

“I thought you hired a neighborhood kid to do this. That’s what you told me when I said I’d come by and do it.”

“I was going to.” Charlie’s face moved into what Ford thought of as Quint stubborn. “I like cutting my own grass. Not on my last legs yet.”

“You’ve got plenty of legs left, but you don’t have to use them working out here when it’s already ninety and humid enough to drown in your own breath. I’ll finish it up. Maybe you could get us a couple of cold drinks. And Spock could use some water,” Ford added, knowing that would do the trick.

“All right then, all right. But you be sure you put the mower back in the shed when you’re done. And don’t bump into those rosebushes. Come on, Spock.”

It took less than twenty minutes to finish it off-with his grandfather watching him like a hawk through the back screen door. Which meant, Ford thought, they didn’t have the AC turned on inside.

By the time Ford stowed the mower, crossed over the tiny cement patio and walked through the screen door, he was dripping. “It’s August, Granddad.”

“I know what month it is. Think I’m senile?”

“No, just crazy. Let me assure you, air-conditioning is not a tool of Satan.”

“Not hot enough for air-conditioning.”

“It’s hot enough to boil internal organs.”

“We got a nice cross breeze coming through.”

“Yeah, from hell.” Ford dropped down at the kitchen table and gulped the iced tea Charlie set out while Spock lay snoring. Probably in a heat-induced coma, Ford thought. “Where’s Grandma?”

“Your aunt Ceecee picked her up, for the book club gab session at your mother’s bookstore.”

“Oh. If she was here, she’d give me cookies. I know damn well you gave Spock some before he passed out.”

Charlie snorted out a laugh, but rose to get a box of thin lemon snaps off the counter where he’d left them after treating Spock. He shook some onto a plate, set it in front of Ford.

“Thanks. I bought a house.”

“You’ve got a house already.”

“Yeah, but this one’s an investment. Cilla’s going to fix it up, perform major miracles, then I’ll sell it and be a rich man. Or I’ll lose my shirt and have to move in with you and Grandma, and suffer from heat prostration. I’m banking on the miracle after seeing what she’s done with her place.”

“I hear she’s done some fancy work over there. Changed a lot.”

“For the better, I think.”

“Guess I’ll see for myself at the Labor Day shindig she’s having. Your grandmother’s already been out shopping for a new outfit. It’ll be strange going to a party there, after all these years.”

“I guess a lot of people who’ll go would have been to parties there when Janet Hardy was alive.” Perfect opening, Ford thought. “Mom and Dad, Brian’s parents. You knew Bri’s grandfather, right?”

“Everybody around here knew Andrew Morrow.”

“Were you friendly?”

“With Drew Morrow?” Charlie shook his head. “Wasn’t unfriendly, but I can’t say we ran in the same circles. He was older, maybe six, eight years.”

“So you didn’t go to school with him?”

“We went to the same school. Back then, there was only the one. Andrew Morrow, he had the golden touch. Golden tongue, too,” Charlie said and wet his throat. “He sure could talk anybody into fronting him money, but by God, he lined the pockets of the ones who did. Buying up land, putting up houses, buying up more, putting up the stores, the office buildings. Built the whole damn village, served as mayor. Talk was he’d be governor of Virginia. Never did run though. Talk was maybe he had some dealings that weren’t up-and-up.”

“Who did he hang with, when you were boys?”

“Oh, let’s see.” Charlie rattled off some names that meant nothing to Ford. “Some of them didn’t come back from the war. He ran some with Hennessy, the one’s in the loony bin now.”

“Really?”

“Went around with Hennessy’s sister Margie for a time, then broke it off when he met Jane Drake, the one he married. She came from money.” With a smirk, Charlie rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Old money. Man needs money to buy up land and build houses. She was a looker, too. Snooty with it.”

“I remember her. She always looked pissed off. I guess money can’t buy happiness if you shop in the wrong places. Maybe Morrow looked for more pleasant companionship.”

“Might could’ve done.”

“And that might be why he didn’t run for governor,” Ford speculated. “Sticky affair, threat of exposure, bad press. Wouldn’t be the first or last time a woman killed a political career.”

Charlie flicked the back of his fingers up the side of his neck. “Politicians, ” he said in a tone that expressed contempt for the entire breed. “Still, he was a popular man around here, with most. He gave Buddy’s daddy a leg up in the plumbing business. Brought a lot of work to the valley. Buddy’s doing the work over there at the farm, isn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

“He did some back in Janet’s day, he and his daddy. Buddy had more hair and less gut in those days, and about ran the business by then, I guess. Been about your age, a little more, maybe.”

Ford filed that away, tried to wend his way back. “I guess back when there was only one school, all of you shared a lot of teachers. Like Brian, Matt, Shanna and I did. Mr. McGowan taught us all, and Matt’s little brother, Brian’s older sister. Back in elementary school, Mrs. Yates taught us to write. She always crabbed by my penmanship. I bet she’d be surprised by what I do today. Who taught you to write, Granddad?”

“God, that takes me back.” He smiled now, eyes going blurry with memory. “My mama started me off. We’d sit at the table and she’d have me trace over letters she made. I was right proud when I could write my own name. We all had Mrs. Macey for penmanship, and she’d mark me down for writing the way my mama taught me. Made me stay after school to write the alphabet on the board.”

“How long did she teach there?”

“Years before, years after. I thought she was old as the hills when I was six. I guess she wasn’t more than forty. Sure was a hard case.”

“Did you ever write her way?”

“Never did.” Charlie smiled, bit into a cookie. “My mama taught me just fine.”

Ford reported to Cilla under the blue umbrella, over a cold beer. “It’s not much. Shared teacher in the person of the persnickety Mrs. Macey. A lot of Morrow’s generation, and those coming up behind him, would’ve been taught to write by her. He was friendly with Hennessy, at least until he threw over Hennessy’s sister for the rich and snooty Jane. He put Keystone Plumbing on the map, along with other businesses. He may or may not have had some shady dealings and/or extramarital affairs that prevented him from running for governor. He had friends in high places and you could say boosted friends into high places. Through the connection to him, some of them could have met your grandmother, and an affair could have followed.”

“The who you know and how you connect doesn’t run that different here than it does in Hollywood.” Or probably anywhere else, Cilla mused. “Buddy worked here when he was in his thirties? It’s a little hard to see Janet tumbling madly in love with a plumber, especially Buddy. Still, he’d have only been a few years younger than she was.”

“Can you picture Buddy writing phrases like ‘I place my heart, my soul, in your lovely hands’?”

“Really can’t. There are more connections between the then and the now than I realized, or appreciated. I may never know if there’s more to then than just the continuity of the place. The way it’s going, I may never know how, even if, what’s been happening here connects.”

“The Hennessy house is up for sale.” Ford laid a hand over hers. “I drove by after I saw my grandfather. Curtains are drawn, no car in the drive. Spanking-new Century 21 sign in the front yard.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know, Cilla.”

“Maybe if she’s responsible for this morning, it was a final fuck-you.”

It didn’t play that way for Ford. The panels didn’t fit, and the images in them didn’t form true. He’d keep shifting them, he thought, changing, resizing, until he had not only the picture, but the whole story.

TWENTY-SEVEN

With a great deal of pleasure, Cilla hung her first kitchen cabinet. "Looking good.” Thumbs hooked in his front pockets, Matt nodded approval. "The natural cherry’s going to work with the walnut trim.”

“Wait until we get the doors on. Things of beauty. So worth the wait. Guy’s an artist.”

She laid her level on the top, adjusted.

“It’s beautiful work, and a lot of it.” He scanned the space. “But we’ll get them in today. How long before the appliances are back?”

“Three weeks, maybe four. Maybe six. You know how it goes.”

“The old-timey stuff’s going to be great in here.” He winked at her as she stepped down off the ladder. “Don’t let Buddy tell you different.”

“It’ll give him something to complain about instead of my pot filler.” She ran her hand, lovingly, over the next cabinet. “Let’s get her up.”

“One second,” Matt said as his phone rang. He glanced at the display. “Hey, baby. What? When?”

The tone, the merging of the two words into one stream had Cilla looking over.

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I’m on my way. Josie’s water broke,” he said, snappinghis phone off. “I gotta go.” He lifted Cilla off her feet, a happy boost into the air.

“So this is what goes on around here all day,” Angie said as she came into the room.

Matt just grinned like an idiot. “Josie’s having the baby.”

“Oh! Oh! What’re you doing here?”

“Leaving.” He dropped Cilla back on her feet. “Call Ford, okay? He’ll pass the word. I’m sorry about-” He gestured toward the cabinets.

“Don’t worry about it.” Cilla gave him a two-handed shove. “Go! Go have a baby.”

“We’re having a girl. I’m getting me a daughter today.” He grabbed Angie on the way out, dipped her, kissed her, then swung her back up as he ran out of the room.

“Boy, talk about excellent timing.” With a laugh, Angie tapped her lips. “He gives good kiss. Wow, big, huge day. I need to call Suzanna, Josie’s younger sister. We’re friends. And another wow, look at all this!”

“Coming along. Look around if you want. I need to call Ford.”

While Cilla made the call, Angie poked around the kitchen, in the utility room and back out.

“Men are odd,” Cilla stated, hooking her phone back on her belt. “He said, ‘Cool. Got it. See ya.’”

“A man of few words.”

“Not usually.”

“Well, I’ll use some to say, Cilla, this all looks amazing.” Angie spread her arms. “Totally amazing. And how the hell do you know where to put all these cabinets?”

“Diagram.”

“Yeah, but you had to make the diagram. I have a hard time figuring out if I can move my bed from one place to the other in my room, and where the dresser could go if I did.”

“I had a hard time getting through a class, much less imagining teaching one the way you’re going to do. We all know what we know.”

“I guess we do. Well.” Angie gave a snappy salute. “Private McGowan reporting for duty.”

“Sorry?”

“I’m here to paint. I could try to help you put these up now that Matt’s otherwise occupied. But I think you’ll be a lot happier with my painting skills than my cabinet-hanging ones. How do you hang them, anyway?” she wondered. “I mean, what holds them up? And never mind, I’d rather use a paintbrush.”

“Angie, you don’t have to-”

“I want to. Dad said they’ve finished scraping the old paint on the front and one of the sides, and they’ll be working on the back today. And if there was more help, we could get some of the primer on what’s been done. It’s my day off. I’m the more help.”

She tugged at the leg of her baggy white painter’s pants. “Look. I have the outfit.”

“As fetching as it is, I don’t want you to feel obligated.”

Angie’s face turned from teasing to solemn. “Are you ever going to think of me as a sister?”

“I do.” Fumbling, Cilla picked up her level. “Of course I do. I mean… we are sisters.”

“If that’s true, then let me say: Shut up, and show me the paint.” Her smile went sly. “Or I’ll tell Dad you’re being mean to me.”

Amusement came and went, but the quiet glow remained. “You’re a lot like him. The, ah, one who made us sisters.”

“I have only his good qualities. You, on the other hand-”

“The paint’s out in the barn. We can go out this way.” Cilla opened the back door. “Maybe I don’t like having a sister who’s younger than I am and has a cute little cheerleader body.”

“Maybe I don’t like having a sister who has a yard of leg and miles of perfect hair. But I’ve got a better ass.”

“You do not. My ass is famous.”

“Yeah, you showed enough of it in Terror at Deep Lake.”

“I did no ass work in that picture. I wore a bikini.” Holding back laughter, she stopped to pull out her keys, glanced over at the house. “Oh, damn it!”

Turning to look, Angie gaped at the sight of her father, three stories up, standing on scaffolding, scraping away.

“Dad! Get down from there!” They shouted it in unison. Gavin looked around, and down, then sent them a cheerful wave.

“I told him not to go up there. No scaffolding, no extension ladders.”

“He doesn’t listen, not when he’s decided to do something. He pretends to listen, then does what he was going to do anyway. Is it safe?” Angie asked, gripping Cilla’s arm. “I mean, it’s not going to fall over or collapse, is it?”

“No. But…”

“Then we’re not going to look. We’re going to get the paint. I’m going around to the front of the house, you’re going inside. Where we can’t see him up there. And we’re never, never going to tell my mother.”

“Okay.” Cilla deliberately turned away, then stuck the key in the padlock on the barn.

OLIVIA ROSE BREWSTER came into the world at 2:25 P.M.

“Matt’s floating,” Ford told Cilla as they drove to the hospital. “Passing out bubble-gum cigars with this dopey smile on his face. The kid’s pretty cute, got all this black hair. Ethan was bald as my uncle Edgar, but the girl, she’s already got a headful.”

“Uncle Ford seems pretty pleased, too.”

“It’s a kick. It’s a pretty big kick. Josie looked pretty whipped when I saw her, right after.”

“There’s a surprise. She should have looked camera ready after pushing eight pounds, five ounces out of her-”

“Okay, okay. No need for details.” He hunted up a parking space in the hospital’s lot. “I talked with Matt while you were cleaning up. He said they’re both doing great.”

“It’s nice to come back here for something happy.” She skimmed her gaze up to the Intensive Care floor.

“Have you talked to Shanna since she got back?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“She had a great time.” Ford took Cilla’s hand as they crossed the lot. “She said Steve’s looking good. Put some of the weight back on he lost, got what she called a Roman gladiator ’do going on. He’s only using the cane when he gets tired.”

Ford pulled open the heavy glass door.

“I’ve been e-mailing him pictures of the house. I need to take some of the kitchen cabinets. Gift shop. Presents for Mommy and baby.”

"I took her flowers already,” Ford objected, “and a big pink teddy bear.”

“Eight pounds, five ounces out of her-”

“Gift shop.”

Loaded down with flowers, Mylar balloons, a plush musical lamb and a stack of coloring books for the new big brother, they walked into the birthing suite.

Josie sat up in bed, in her arms the swaddled baby, a bright pink cap over her dark hair. Josie’s younger sister stood nearby, cooing over a tiny, frothy white dress, while Brian unwrapped a bubble-gum cigar and Matt snapped a picture of his wife and daughter.

“More visitors!” Josie beamed. “Cilla, you just missed your dad and Patty.”

“I came to see someone else.” She leaned over the bed. “Hello, Olivia. She’s beautiful, Josie. You do wonderful work.”

“Hey, she’s got my chin, and nose,” Matt claimed.

“And your big mouth. Do you want to hold her, Cilla?”

“I thought you’d never ask. Trade.” She put the lamb on the bed, took the baby. “Look at you. Look how pretty you are. How are you feeling, Josie?”

“Good. Really good. Only seven and a half hours of blood, sweat and tears with this one. Ethan took twice that.”

“Got some stuff here for big bro.” Ford set the coloring books on the foot of the bed.

“Oh, that’s so sweet! My parents just took him home for dinner. He looks so big, so sturdy. I can hardly… Oh, hormones still working,” she managed when her eyes filled.

“It’s a full house!” Cathy announced as she and Tom came in with a bouquet of pink roses and baby’s breath. “Let me see that beautiful baby.”

Cilla turned obligingly.

“Oh, look at all that hair. Tom, just look at this sweet thing.”

“Pretty as a picture.” Tom set the flowers down among the garden of others, then poked Brian in the shoulder. “When are you going to get busy making us one? Matt’s got two up on you now. You, too, Ford.”

“Slackers,” Josie agreed, and held out her arms for Olivia.

“I have such high standards,” Brian said. “I can’t settle for any woman who isn’t as perfect as Mom.”

“That’s a clever way out of it,” Cathy commented, but she beamed with pleasure as she stepped over to kiss Brian’s cheek. She turned and kissed Matt. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. We figured we had another week. When Josie called this morning, I figured it was to remind me to bring her home a caramel coconut sundae. She’s been eating mountains of them.”

“I have, too!” Josie said with a laugh.

“It was peanut brittle for me. Acres of peanut brittle. I’m lucky I have a tooth left in my head.”

“Never touched it again after Brian was born,” Tom commented.

“It’ll probably be a good long while before I can look at coconut.” Josie stroked Olivia’s cheek. “Thank God I didn’t go another week.”

“And now you’ll be able to show off the baby at Cilla’s party. We’re all looking forward to that,” Cathy added. “I guess you could say the house is your baby.”

“Without the pink teddy bear and pretty white dresses,” Cilla agreed.

Matt passed out more cigars. “I had to bail out today. We’d just started installing the kitchen cabinets. How’s it going?”

“We just have to set the island, put on the doors, the hardware. We’ll be ready for the counters, on schedule.”

“I’m going to have a powwow with Patty and Ford’s mother. And if you sweet-talk him,” Cathy told Cilla, “Tom might make his special ribs.”

Cilla smiled. “What makes them special?”

“It’s all in the rub,” Tom claimed. “Family secret.”

“He won’t even give me the recipe.”

“It passes down only through the bloodline. Many have tried to unlock the secret. None have succeeded. We’ve got to be on our way, Cathy.”

“Meeting friends for dinner. You get some rest, Josie. I’ll pop in to see you and that precious baby tomorrow when I’m here.”

It took several more minutes for the leave-taking, especially when other people came in. By the time Cilla and Ford walked out, she had a bubble-gum cigar in her pocket.

“It’s nice that your parents-yours, Brian’s, Matt’s-take such an interest in all of you. It’s almost tribal.”

“We grew up practically joined at the hip, along with Shanna. Her parents split about ten years ago. They both remarried and moved out of the area.”

“Still, three out of four sticking with it. Well above national average. They looked so happy. Matt and Josie. Little beams of happiness shooting out of their eyes. How long have they been married?”

“About six years, I guess. But they’ve had a thing a lot longer. Listen, if you want to stop and have dinner, that’s okay.” His fingers tapped on the steering wheel. “But I’d kind of like to get home.”

“No, I’m fine. Is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong.” Except a rampant case of nerves, he realized. And the sudden and inescapable understanding that he needed to take the next step, make the next move.

Ready or not, he thought. Here it comes.

HE POURED two glasses of wine, brought them out to the veranda where she sat rubbing Spock with her foot and studying the house across the road.

“The coat of primer on the front of the first story, on the veranda, doesn’t add style. But it’s clean. And it shows care and intent. It was the oddest thing, Ford, the oddest thing. To be working with one of Matt’s crew on the cabinets, knowing my father was out back scraping old paint, and Angie was out front priming for new. Then Patty shows up at lunchtime with a bunch of subs and sides. Before they were fully devoured, she has a paintbrush in her hand.

“I didn’t know what to think of it, what to make of it.”

“Family pitches in.”

“That’s just it. For basically the first half of my life, family was an illusion. A stage set. I used to dream about my mother when I was a kid. Those lucid, conversational dreams I get. But she was on that set, part of that illusion, a combination of her and Lydia-the actress who played Katie’s mother.”

“Seems pretty much normal to me, given the circumstances.”

“My therapist said my subconscious merged them because I was unhappy with the reality. Big duh, and it was more complicated than that. I wanted pieces of both those worlds. But I was me in them, not Katie. I was Cilla. Katie had her family, for eight seasons anyway.”

“And Cilla didn’t.”

“It was a different kind of structure.” A shaky one, she thought now. “Later, I stepped away from it. I had to. And coming here, I stepped out again. It’s strange trying to figure out how to blend in, or catch up, or sign on with family at this stage.”

“Be mine.”

“What?”

“Be my family.” He set the ring box on the table between them. “Marry me.”

For an instant she wasn’t capable of thought or speech, as if she’d taken a sudden, shocking blow to the head. “Oh my God, Ford.”

“It’s not a poisonous insect,” he said when she snatched her hands away. “Open it.”

“Ford.”

“Open it, Cilla. You’re not supposed to piss a guy off when he’s proposing. Thrill or crush, but not piss off.”

When she hesitated, Spock grumbled at her, and bumped his head into her shin.

“Just open it.”

She did, and in the soft dusk the ring gleamed like dreams. Lucid, lovely dreams.

“You don’t wear jewelry much, and when you do, you don’t go for the flash. You go more subtle, more classy.” He felt that thing in his chest again, the hot rock of pressure he’d experienced with her father in the kitchen. “So I figure, you’re not going to impress the girl with a big, fat rock. Plus you work with your hands, and that has to be considered. So having the diamonds set in instead of sticking up made sense. My mother helped me pick it out a few days ago.”

Yet another layer of panic coated her throat. “Your mother.”

“She’s a woman. It’s the first ring I’ve bought for a woman, so I wanted some input. I liked the idea of the three stones. The past, the right now, the future. We’ve got our yesterdays, we’ve got our right now. I want a future with you. I love you.”

“It’s beautiful, Ford. It’s absolutely beautiful. And the thought behind it makes it more so. I’m such a bad bet.” She reached over, took his hands. “Even the idea of marriage freezes me up. I don’t have the foundation for it. Look at what we were just talking about. You have two parents, with one marriage between them. You believe. I have two parents, with seven. Seven marriages between them. How can I believe?”

Strange, he thought, that her nerves, her fears and doubts dissolved the thing in his chest. “That’s bogus, Cilla. That’s not you and me. Do you love me?”

“Ford-”

“It’s not that hard a question. It’s pretty much yes or no.”

“It’s simple for you. You can say yes, and it’s simple. I can say yes. Yes, I love you, and it’s incredibly scary. People love, and it falls apart.”

“Yeah. And people love and it stays whole. It’s just another step, Cilla. The next step.”

“And this is meandering? Isn’t that what you called it?”

“I picked up the pace. That doesn’t mean I can’t wait.” Ford closed the box, nudged it toward her. “Take it. Keep it. Think about it.”

She stared at the box. “You think I won’t be able to resist opening it, looking at it. That I’ll fall under its spell.”

He smiled. No wonder he loved her. “Dare you.”

She closed her hands over the box and, breathing slowly, pushed it into her pocket. “I’m a has-been actress with a history of alcohol, drug abuse and suicide in my family. I don’t know why in hell you’d want me.”

“I must be crazy.” He lifted her hand, kissed it. In the spirit of the moment, Spock kissed her ankle. “Every few days, I’m going to just say, ‘Well?’ When I do, you can give me your current position on my proposal.”

“The key word is ‘well’?”

“That’s right. Otherwise, I won’t bring it up. You just carry the ring around, and you think about it. Deal?”

“All right,” she said after a moment. “All right.”

He picked up his glass, tapped it to hers. “Why don’t we call out for Chinese?”

At their feet Spock did a happy dance.

SHE DIDN’T KNOW how he did it, she honestly didn’t know. The man had proposed to her. He’d presented her with a ring so utterly perfect for her, so completely right, because he’d thought of her. Of who and what she was when he’d chosen it. Her reaction, her reluctance- be honest, Cilla, she added, while screwing the copper knobs on her cabinets-her stuttering horror at his proposal had to have hurt him.

And yet, after he’d said his piece, after he’d made his deal, he’d ordered butterfly shrimp and kung pao chicken. He’d eaten as if his stomach hadn’t been in knots-as hers had been-then had suggested unwinding with the first season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (short season, summer replacement).

And sometime during episode three, just as she’d begun to relax enough to think about something other than the ring in her pocket, he’d taken her under with slow, shimmering kisses, with lazy, lingering caresses. By the time she’d come out of the sexual haze, the ring was all she could think about.

Nearly twelve hours later, and she still couldn’t get the damn thing off her mind.

She didn’t believe in marriage. Simple as that. Even living together was fraught with pitfalls. For God’s sake, she’d barely gotten used to him telling her he loved her, to believing it. She hadn’t finished her house, or opened her business. She’d gotten as far as she had while being harassed for months.

Didn’t she have enough on her mind? Didn’t she have enough to do without having an engagement ring weighing down her pocket, and the worry of not knowing when Ford might say, “Well?” preying on her mind?

“Hello?”

“Cilla?”

At the voices, Cilla simply banged her head repeatedly on the cabinet door. Perfect, she thought, just perfect. Patty and Ford’s mother. Icing on her crumbling cake.

“Here you are,” Patty said. “Hard at work.”

Cilla watched as two pairs of eyes zoomed straight in on the third finger of her left hand. And watched two pairs of eyes cloud with disappointment. Great, now she was responsible for bringing sorrow into the lives of two middle-aged women.

“We were hoping you’d have a few minutes to talk about the menu for the party,” Patty began. “We thought we could do at least some of the shopping for you, store the supplies since you don’t have a place for them yet.”

You were hoping for more than that, Cilla thought. “Let’s get this out of the way. Yes, he asked me. Yes, the ring is absolutely beautiful. No, I’m not wearing it. I can’t.”

“It doesn’t fit?” Penny asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t think about it. I can’t not think about it. It was damn sneaky of him,” she added with some heat. “I appreciate- No, I don’t just appreciate the two of you coming here like this, but I’m trying to understand why you would. I’ve got enough on my mind already, enough on my head, and he adds this. I don’t even know if he listened to what I said, if he’s getting the reasons why…” She trailed off.

He doesn’t listen, Angie had said of their father, not when he’s decided to do something. He pretends to listen, then does what he was going to do anyway.

“Oh, God. God, isn’t that perfect? He’s Dad. He’s Dad with a layer of nerd. Solid, steady, chipping away so patiently, you don’t even know you’ve had your shields hacked down until you’re defenseless. It’s the type.”

“You’re not in love with a type, you’re in love with a man,” Penny corrected. “Or you’re not.”

Ford’s mother, Cilla reminded herself. Be careful there. “I love him enough to give him time to consider all the reasons this won’t work. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Of course you’ll hurt him. He’ll hurt you. It’s all part of being connected to someone. I wouldn’t want a man I couldn’t hurt. I sure as hell wouldn’t marry one who couldn’t hurt me.”

Baffled, Cilla stared at Penny. “That makes absolutely no sense to me.” “If and when it does, I think you’ll be ready to see if the ring fits. I think your cabinets are beautiful, and they’re giving me cabinet lust. Why don’t we find somewhere to sit down, go over this menu for a few minutes. Then we’ll get out of your way.”

Cilla sighed. “Maybe he’s not so much my father’s type. Maybe he’s you.”

“No, indeed. I’ve always been so much meaner than Ford. Let’s sit out there.” Penny pointed out the window. “Under that blue umbrella.”

When Penny sailed out, Patty stepped closer to slip an arm around Cilla’s waist. “She loves her boy. She wants him happy.”

“I know. So do I.”

MAYBE SHE SHOULD make a list, Cilla considered. Reasons for and reasons against taking the ring out of the box. She depended on lists, diagrams, drawings in every other area of her life. Surely it made sense to utilize one before making such a huge decision.

The against list would be the easy part, she thought as she scooped up some post-workout, pre-workday Special K. She could probably fill pages with those items. She could, in fact, write a freaking book, as many others had, on the Hardy women.

To be fair, there were a number for the pro side. But weren’t they primarily, even exclusively, emotion-driven? And weren’t her emotions twisted up with nerves because she was waiting-as he damn well knew- for him to stroll up to her at any point in any day and say, "Well?”

Which he hadn’t, not once, in days.

So she jumped, nearly bobbled her bowl of cereal, when he strolled in. “Too much coffee?” he suggested, and poured himself a bowl of Frosted Flakes. Spock dashed straight in to attack his dog feeder. “How do you eat that stuff? It looks like little twigs.”

“As opposed to your choice, the vehicle for sugar?”

“Exactly.”

Not only up at six in the morning, she thought, but cheerful and bright-eyed. And she knew he’d worked late. But he was up, dressed and eating Frosted Flakes because he insisted on walking her across the road, hanging out until some of the crew arrived.

Would that sort of thing go on the for or against list?

“You know I’m not going to be attacked crossing the road at six-thirty in the morning.”

“Odds are against it.” He smiled, ate.

“And I know you worked late last night, and find it unnatural to be up at this hour of the morning.”

“Had a good run, too. You know, I’m finding that I can get a lot done by round-about noon most days with this routine. A habit which I intend to shed like a bad suit in what I hope is the near future. But right now?”

He paused to shovel in more Tony the Tiger. “It’s working. I should have ten chapters fully inked by the end of today and have time to put a couple of new teaser panels up on my website.”

“Happy to help, but-”

“You’re looking for the negative. I like that about you because it pushes me to look on the brighter side of things-sides I might’ve missed or taken for granted otherwise. You remind me I love what I do. And loving what I do, it’s interesting to do more of it than usual for a space of time. And to pay us both back for all this industry, I’ll be taking us to the Caymans-a favorite place of mine-right about the middle of January, where we’ll soak up sea and sand while our neighbors are shoveling snow.”

“I’ll be finishing up two flips. I-”

“You’ll have to make time in your schedule. We can always bump sun and sea to February. I’m easy.”

“Not nearly as much as you pretend to be.” She opened the dishwasher to load in her bowl, spoon, mug. “You’re a slow leak, Ford.”

His eyes continued to smile as he scooped up cereal. “Is that what I am?”

“A slow leak, unchecked, eventually eats through just about anything. Stone, metal, wood. It doesn’t make much noise, and it’s a long way from the big gushing flood. But it gets the job done.”

He shook his spoon at her. “I’m going to take that as a compliment. Kitchen counter’s coming in today, right?”

“This morning. Then Buddy’s on for the finish plumbing this afternoon. ”

He tucked his breakfast dishes in with hers. “Big day. Let’s get started. Walk!” he said, lifting his voice, and Spock raced in to run in circles.

She walked out with them, then stopped just to look at the Little Farm. Summer thrived over the grounds, lushly green. The big red barn stood, its practical lines softened by the curve of the stone wall, the textures of the plantings. She could see a hint of the pond, with the last vapors of dawn still rising, with the graceful bow of a young willow dipping. Back to the fields, wild with thistle and goldenrod, back to the mountains stretched across the morning sky.

And the house, the centerpiece, rambling and sturdy, with its white veranda, and its front wall half painted in warm and dignified blue.

“I’m glad my father talked me into painting the exterior ahead of schedule. I had no idea how much satisfaction it would give me to see it. When the painting’s finished, it’ll be like a strong old character actress after a really good face-lift.”

She laughed, the mood lightened, and she took his hand as they walked. “One that allows her to maintain her dignity and personal style.”

“I guess that’s apt enough, considering all the cutting and stitching that went into it so far. But I don’t get the whole face-lift thing.”

“It’s just another kind of maintenance.”

Alarm literally vibrated out of him. “You wouldn’t ever…”

“Who knows?” She shrugged. “I’m vain enough to want things to stay put, or have them shored up when they sag. My mother’s had two already, in addition to other work.” Amused by the stunned horror in his eyes, she gave him a nudge. “A lot of men have work done, too.”

“You can put that one away. Deeply buried in a remote location. Are you mailing something out?” He nodded toward her mailbox and the raised red flag.

“No. That’s funny. I didn’t stick anything in there after yesterday’s delivery. Maybe one of the guys did.”

“Or someone put something in it for you. Not supposed to. Mail carrier doesn’t like it.” He veered over, reached for the lid.

“Wait! Don’t!” She grabbed his hand while her heart leaped up to pound in her throat. Beside them, Spock quivered and growled at the alarm in her tone. “Rattlesnake in the mailbox. It’s shorthand for the unexpected-an unpleasant, dangerous surprise.”

“I know what it is. Code name for the season-three finale of Lost. Well… keep back some.”

“Wait until I-”

But he didn’t wait. Instead, he shifted his body, putting it between Cilla and the box, then yanked the lid down.

No snake coiled and hissed inside. None struck out and slithered down the pole. The doll sat, her arms lifted as if in defense. The bright blue eyes were open, and the smile frozen on Cilla’s young face. The bullet left a small, scorched hole in the center of the forehead.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Enough was enough, Ford decided. The cops had the doll; the cops would investigate. And so far, the cops hadn’t been able to do dick-all about stopping the threats against Cilla.

They weren’t pranks, they weren’t harassment. They were threats. Dusting the damn doll and the mailbox, asking questions, even determining-if they could-what caliber of bullet had been used wasn’t going to solve the problem. None of those things would prevent that look of shocked horror from covering Cilla’s face the next time.

Everyone knew there’d be a next time. And the next time, at any time, it could be Cilla instead of a doll.

Yeah, enough was more than enough.

He pulled up in front of the Hennessy place. It was somewhere to start, he thought. Maybe it was somewhere to finish. He walked up, banged on the door.

“Wasting your time.” A woman under an enormous straw gardening hat walked over to stand at the picket fence that formed the boundary between houses. “Nobody’s in there.”

“Do you know where they are?”

“Everybody knows where he is. Locked up.” She tapped her temple under the brim of the hat, then circled it. “Tried to kill a woman over on Meadowbrook Road a couple months back. Janet Hardy’s granddaughter-theone who was the little girl in that TV show? You want to talk to him, you’ll have to try Central State Hospital, down in Petersburg. ”

“What about Mrs. Hennessy?”

“Haven’t seen a sign of her the last couple weeks. Selling the place, as you can see there.” She pointed to the Century 21 sign, then slipped a small pair of clippers into a pocket of her gardening belt. Settling in, Ford knew, for a little over-the-fence chat.

“She’s had a hard life. Her boy was crippled back when he was a teenager. Died a year or so ago. That husband of hers never had a good word to say to anybody around here. Shouting or shaking his fist at kids for playing too loud, or telling people to mind their own if they offered a helping hand. Me, I’d’ve left him after the boy died, but she stuck. Could be she’s taken off now he’s locked up, but more likely, she’s gone down to Petersburg. Don’t know if anybody’s looked at the house yet. I’m going to hope somebody buys it who knows how to be neighborly.”

It was a haul to Petersburg and back, Ford considered. “I guess you’d have noticed if she moved out. I mean, furniture, luggage.”

“Might have, if I was home.” She gave Ford a harder measure from under the wide brim of her hat. “You’re not kin to them, are you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, I can tell you I haven’t seen her or heard a peep out of the house for days now. In fact, I’ve taken to watering what flowers she put in. I can’t stand to watch something die of neglect.”

CILLA TRIED to take a page out of Ford’s book and look at the bright side. The bright side could be that a defaced doll in the mailbox did no damage to her property. It cost her nothing but time and stress.

A bright side could be the police took the whole ugly business very seriously. True, they’d had no luck tracing any of the dolls so far, not when they were sold regularly on eBay or in secondhand and specialty shops, or could have been taken out of someone’s personal collection. But it brought her a measure of comfort to know the police were doing whatever the hell the police did.

And her crew was pissed off on her behalf. Having people in your corner, even if it was only to express outrage and support, was always a bright side.

Plus her new countertops and backsplash kicked serious ass. That knocked her level of stress down several notches. The streaks and specks of warm gold, flecks of black and white against rich chocolate brown set off her cabinets. And, Jesus, her copper hardware would just pop. She’d been right, so absolutely right, to go for the waterfall edging. She couldn’t believe how long and hard she’d stressed over that. It gave the counters such presence, such authority.

Cilla ran her hand over the island as she might a lover’s warm, naked flesh, and all but purred.

“Pretty dark, especially with this half acre of the stuff you’ve got in here.”

Cilla merely looked over, tipped her head and spoke in the tone she’d use to a naughty little boy. “Buddy.”

His lips twisted, but the attempt to defeat the smile failed. “I guess it looks all right. Cabinets are nice, anyway. Got a forest of them in here, but having the glass fronts on some breaks it up a little. I’ll get your sinks mounted. Be back tomorrow after they’ve cured to hook up the plumbing, the dishwasher and the faucets. Don’t know why anybody’d want copper for faucets.”

“I’m just crazy that way.”

“Crazy some way. Are you going to help me mount these sinks, or just stand around looking like the canary-eating cat?”

While they worked on the first undermount, Buddy whistled through his teeth. A few bars in, Cilla caught herself humming with him.

“‘I’ll Get By,’” Cilla said. “My grandmother’s signature song.”

“Guess the mind wanders to her in here. Got that clamp on there?”

“It’s on.”

“Let’s test the fit then. Second time I put a sink in this place.”

“Really?”

“Put in the one you’re replacing for your grandmother. That’s been going on forty, forty-five years, I expect. Probably time for a new. That’s right, that’s right,” he murmured. “That’s a good fit. That’s a good one.” He marked the location for the mounting clips.

“Let’s lift her out.”

Cilla gripped the two-by-four clamped to the sink. “You and your father did a lot of the work around here back then.”

“Still got plenty.”

“You did a lot for Andrew Morrow.”

“That’s a fact. We did all the plumbing for Skyline Development. Thirty-three houses,” he said, taking out his drill. “That job made it so I could buy one of those houses. Lived there thirty-seven years come October. A lot of people got their homes because of Drew Morrow. I’ve fixed the johns in most of them.”

AFTER THE TWO sinks were mounted, Cilla went outside to hunt up her father. She’d kept him off the scaffolding that morning, conning him into “doing her a favor” and painting her shutters.

It looked as if he was having as much fun running the paint sprayer as he had hanging up three stories. “Take a break?” she asked and offered a bottle of water.

“Sure can.” He gave her arm a quick rub. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better since I got to work. Better yet when I stand staring at my counters with a big, sloppy smile on my face. Something occurred to me when I was working with Buddy. How he and his father did some work here. Dobby did, too. I’m wondering who else who’s working here now, or who I didn’t hire, or who’s retired, might’ve worked on the place when Janet had it. Maybe they’re pissed off because I’m changing it. It’s no crazier than Hennessy trying to run me down for something that happened before I was born.”

“I’d have to think about it. I was a teenager, Cilla. I can’t say I’d have paid much attention.”

He took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair. “There were gardeners, of course. The grounds were a showplace. I’ll ask Charlie if he remembers who she had for that. I do remember she had what you’d call caretakers. A couple who’d look after things when she wasn’t here, which was more than not. They’d open the house up when she was expected, that sort of thing. Mr. and Mrs. Jorganson. They’ve both been gone for years.”

“What about carpentry, electrical, painting?”

“Maybe Carl Kroger. He did a lot of handyman work back then. I’ll ask about that, but I know he retired some years ago. Florida maybe. I only remember that because I went to school with his daughter, and I ended up teaching her daughter. I can’t see Mary Beth Kroger-that’s Marks, now-giving you this kind of trouble.”

“It’s probably a stupid idea. Just another straw grasped at.”

“Cilla, I don’t mean to make it worse, or give you more to worry about, but have you considered that whoever’s doing this has a grudge directed at you? You, not Janet Hardy’s granddaughter?”

“For what? I’m a former child star, a failed adult actress who recorded a couple of moderately successful CDs. My only ties to this area were to her, and you. You, Patty and Angie were literally the only people I knew when I came here. And let’s be honest, I didn’t know any of you that well. I’ve dumped a few hundred thousand into the local economy. I can’t see how that would piss anyone off.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s the dolls. It’s such a direct strike at you. More than the vandalism, Cilla. Mutilating those dolls, the child you were, seems so much more personal than the rest.”

She studied him. “Are you here to paint, or to keep an eye on me?”

“I can do both. At least until school starts up. The summer’s flown by,” he said, looking past her. “I’ll miss being around here, the way I’ve been able to. We’ve made a lot of progress since June.”

You and I. She understood the words he didn’t say. “We have. Despite everything, it’s been the best summer of my life.”

FORD WATCHED WHILE Cilla hung shutters her father had painted on the front windows. The scent of the paint hung in the air, along with grass, heat and the dianthus in a big blue pot on the veranda.

“I just want to finish this off. You don’t have to hover.”

“I’m not hovering. I’m observing. There’s something satisfying about sitting on a summer day and watching somebody else work.”

She spared him a glance as he sat, at ease. “You know, I could teach you how to set a few screws.”

“Why would I need to do that when I’ve got you?”

“I’ll ignore that since you bought me that very pretty planter. And the steaks you’ve promised to grill-on the grill I assembled.”

“Corn on the cob, too, and tomatoes fresh from the roadside stand. We’ll have ourselves a feast.”

She tested the shutter, checked it with her level, then moved to the next.

“Before we move to feasting,” he continued, “let’s get less pleasant business out of the way. I went by the Hennessy place this morning. She’s not there,” he added when Cilla glanced back. “Hasn’t been there, according to her neighbor, for a couple of weeks. One supposition is she went down to Petersburg, to be close to the state hospital where they have him. That’s proved out.”

“How do you know?”

“I called the most likely hotels and motels in the area. She’s registered at the Holiday Inn Express.”

“Aren’t you the clever detective?” she replied.

“Taught the Seeker everything he knows. Or vice versa. Anyway, I considered driving down, but it struck me as a waste of time. It’s better than a hundred miles one way, Cilla. It’s hard to believe she’d drive more than two hundred miles, in what had to be the middle of the night, to pose a doll she’d shot in the damn head in your mailbox. If she wanted to get at you, why move herself so far off when she’s got a house twenty minutes away?”

He knew how to put things together, Cilla thought. Into panels that followed a logical line. “I hate that that’s realistic, that it rings true for me. Because it would be easier, simpler, if it was her. If I can’t believe that, I have to know it’s someone else. That someone else hates me.”

She tipped back her cap, idly watched Spock stalking one of his cats in the front yard. “I’m looking at Buddy today because he’s whistling one of my grandmother’s songs, and I’m thinking, Hey, Buddy, did you happen to start a mad, passionate affair with my grandmother one night when you came by to fix a leak? Or, did she maybe reject your advances in a way that causes you to want to hurt me? I went through that same process with Dobby, who is, yes, entirely too old. But he had a son, and his son has a son. And I was just twisted up enough today to wonder if the very affable Jack was spending time shooting my plastic image because of something-anything-that went on with Janet three and a half decades ago. Or maybe my father had a point, and someone took a vicious and pathological dislike to Katie, and seeks to take revenge on me.”

“Your father thinks you’re being threatened by somebody who hates a TV character?”

“No. Not exactly. He suggested whoever’s doing this has some grudge against me, personally. But that doesn’t make any sense, either.” She sighed, lowered the screwdriver. “And because it doesn’t make any sense, none of it, I keep going around in circles, which leaves me dizzy and annoyed. Added to that, I’m going to have dozens of people here in a few days. And I know I’m going to be wondering, even as I pass the potato salad, if that person’s the one. If the person looking at me and smiling, thanking me kindly for the potato salad, would like to shoot me in the head.”

He pushed up, walked to her. “I may have gotten my ass kicked with some regularity as a boy, but that-as my mother liked to say-builds character. The kind of character that means I can say to you, and you can believe me when I say it, nobody, Cilla, nobody is going to hurt you while I’m around.”

“Keeping me from being hurt hasn’t been anyone’s priority up till now. Because of that, I do believe you. I feel safer with you, Ford, than I ever have with anyone.”

He kissed her very gently, eased back and said, “Well?”

“Oh, damn it! I walked right into it. I gave you a damn cue.” She pulled away, picked up her screwdriver. “Look, it’s been a really long day. I just don’t want to get into this now.”

He simply put a hand under her chin, lifted it until their eyes met.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I haven’t made the lists yet.”

He rubbed his thumb over her jawline. “What lists would that be?”

“My lists, for and against. And if you’re going to push at this point, I’ll warn you that I can rattle off a ten-minute monologue of the againsts. The ones I’ve already given you and more.”

“Give me one of the fors.” He tightened his grip when she shook her head. “Just one.”

“You love me. I know that you do, I know that you mean it. But they call it ‘falling into’ for a reason. It’s the floundering around after you surface, the wondering what the hell you’re doing there and looking for the escape that make the falling-out-of part so horrible. And it’s not a practical for,” she insisted, when he just smiled and rubbed her jawline. “One of us has to be practical. What if I said yes, yes, let’s run off to Vegas-as both my grandmother and mother have done before me-and hit The Chapel of Love? What-”

“I’d say you pack, I’ll book the flight.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” She tried to be annoyed, but nerves kept jumping in the way. “You don’t want some tacky Vegas fly-by. You’re serious. You’re serious about friendships, about your work, your family. You’re serious about Star Wars, and your active dislike of Jar Jar Binks-”

“Well, God. Come on, anyone who-”

“You’re serious,” she continued before he went on a Jar Jar rant, “about living your life on your terms, and being easygoing doesn’t negate that one bit. You’re serious about what kind of kryptonite is more lethal to Superman.”

“You have to go with the classic green. I told you, the gold can strip Kryptonians’ powers permanently, but-”

“Ford.”

“Sorry. We’ll skip that and go back to Vegas.”

“We’re not going to Vegas. God, you make my head spin. You’re not thinking of a single practicality, of the reality.”

“Test the theory. Give me one.”

“Fine. Fine. Where would we live? Do we flip a coin, ask your Magic 8-Ball. Or maybe we’d-”

“Well, for God’s sake, Cilla, we’d live here. Here,” he repeated, knocking his knuckles against the wall of the house.

His instant answer tipped her off balance. “What about your house? You love your house. It’s a great house. It’s tailor-made for you.”

“Yeah, for me. Not for us. Sure, I love my house, and it’s got a lot of me in it. But it’s just a house for me, and Spock.” He glanced around in time to see Spock catch and destroy the hated invisible cat. “He’s happy anywhere. I haven’t poured myself into my place the way you have this one. This is home for you, Cilla. I’ve watched you make it.” Now he picked up her screwdriver. “With more than this. A lot more than tools and nails and gallons of paint. It’s your place. I want it to be ours.”

“But…” But, but, her mind was full of buts. “What about your studio?”

“Yeah, it’s a great space. You’ll think of something.” He handed her back the screwdriver. “Make all the lists you want, Cilla. Love? It’s green kryptonite. It powers out all the rest. I’ll go out back and start the grill.”

She stood, stunned, a power tool in her hand, as the screen door slapped shut behind him. And thought: What? Love is kryptonite? She’d think of something?

How could she understand, much less marry, a man whose mind worked that way? One who could make statements like that, then stroll off to start the grill? Where were his anger, his angst, his annoyance? And to suggest he could give up his place and move into hers without any real thought to where he’d work? It didn’t make any sense. It made no sense at all.

Of course if she added the home gym off the south side of the house the way she’d been toying with, she could put on a second story, tying that into the existing house. Angle it for a little interest. Tight-winder stairs would work, and be fun to do. It would keep the work spaces entirely separate, give them both privacy. Plus the southern exposure would give a studio excellent light. Then she could…

Well, God, she realized. She’d thought of something. A damn good something, too, she added and put down her tool to pace the veranda. Having destroyed his quota, Spock trotted up to pace with her.

The sort of something that would not only work, not only blend in with the existing structure, Cilla realized, but enhance it. Break up the roof line, finish it off with a sweet little balcony. Jib windows for access.

Damn it, damn it, damn it! Now she could see it. Now she wanted it. She stalked down the steps, around to the south side of the house with Spock bounding happily behind her. Oh yeah, yeah, not only doable, she thought, but it now seemed the house begged for it.

She jammed her hands into her pockets, and her fingers hit the ring box she carried there. Kryptonite, she thought, pulling it out. That was the trouble, the big trouble. She did understand him. And more terrifying, more wonderful, he understood her.

Trusted her. Loved her. Believed in her.

WHEN SHE WALKED to the patio, Ford had the grill smoking. The corn, husks in place, were submerged in a big bowl of water for reasons that eluded her. He’d brought out the wine. The scents of roses, sweet peas, jasmine tangled in the air as he poured her a glass. Sun streamed through the trees, glinted off the pond where Spock wandered to drink.

For a moment, she thought of the glamour that had once lived there, the colored lights, the beautiful people wafting like perfume over the lawns. Then she thought of him, just him, standing on stones she’d helped place with her own hands, offering her a glass of wine, and a life she’d never believed she could have.

She stood with him, one hand in her pocket, and took the first sip. “I have some questions. First, just to get it off my mind, why are you drowning the corn?”

“My mother said to.”

“Okay. If I thought of something, how do you know it’s something you’d want?”

“If I didn’t,” he said, picking up the conversation as if there had been no break, “I know how to say I don’t want that. I learned how to do that at an early age, with mixed results. But the odds are, if we’re talking about construction and design, whatever you thought of would work.”

“Next. Could I hurt you?”

“Cilla, you could rip my heart out in bloody pieces.”

She understood that, understood he could do the same to her. And wasn’t that a hell of a thing? Wasn’t that a miracle? “I couldn’t have done that to Steve, or him to me. As much as we loved each other. As much as we still do.”

“Cilla-”

“Wait. One more question. Did you ask me to carry the ring around with me because you hoped it would act as kryptonite, and weaken me over time until I agreed to marry you?”

He shifted his feet, took another drink of wine. “It might have been a factor.”

With a nod, she drew her hand out of her pocket, studied the ring sparkling on it. "Apparently, it works.”

His grin flashed, quicksilver delight. But when he moved to her, she slapped a hand on his chest. “Just hold on.”

“That was my plan.”

“Wait. Wait,” she said again, softly. “Everything I said before, it’s true. I’d made up my mind never to get married again. Why go through the process when the odds are so stacked for failure? I failed a lot. Some was my fault, some was just the way it was. Marriage seemed so unnecessary, so hard, so full of tangles that can never really be fully unknotted. It was easy with Steve. We were friends, and we’d always be friends. As much as I love him, it was never hard or scary. There wasn’t any risk, for either of us.”

Her throat filled, so much emotion rising up. But she wanted- needed-to get the rest out. “It’s not like that with you because we’re going to hurt each other along the way. If this screws up, we won’t be friends. If this screws up, I’ll hate you every day for the rest of my life.”

“I’ll hate you more.”

“Why is that absolutely the best thing you could’ve said? We’re not going to Vegas.”

“Okay, but I think we’re missing a real opportunity. How do you feel about backyard weddings?”

“I feel that’s what you had in mind all along.”

“You’re what I had in mind all along.”

She shook her head, then laid her hands on his cheeks. “I’d love a backyard wedding. I’d love to share this house with you. I don’t know how anything that scares me this much can make me so happy.”

He took her lips with his, soft, soft, spinning the kiss out in the perfumed air, with the sun streaming through the trees. “I believe in us.” He kissed her again, swayed with her. “You’re the one I can dance with.”

She laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes.

THE LITTLE FARM

1973

“I believed in love,” Janet said as she sat back on the white silk pillows on the lipstick-pink couch. “Why else would I have thrown myself into it so often? It never lasted, and my heart would break, or close. But I never stopped opening it again. Again and again. You know that. You’ve read all the books, heard all the stories, and the letters. You have the letters so you know I loved, right to the end.”

“It never made you happy. Not the kind that lasted.” Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Cilla sorted through photographs. “Here’s one taken the day you married Frankie Bennett. You’re so young, so happy. And it fell apart.”

“He wanted the star more than the woman. That was a lesson I had to learn. But he gave me Johnnie. My beautiful boy. Johnnie’s gone now. I lost my beautiful boy. It’s been a year, and still I wait for him to come home. Maybe this one will be a boy.”

She laid a hand on her belly, picked up a short glass, rattled the ice chilling the vodka.

“You shouldn’t drink while you’re pregnant.”

Janet jerked a shoulder, sipped. “They didn’t make such a to-do about it when I was. Besides, I’ll be dead soon anyway. What will you do with all those pictures?”

“I don’t know. I think I’ll pick the ones I like best, have them framed. I want pictures of you in the house. Especially pictures of you at the farm. You were happy here.”

“Some of my happiest moments, some of my most desolate. I gave Carlos-Chavez, my third husband-his walking papers right in this room. We had a vicious fight, almost passionate enough to have me consider taking him back. But I’d had enough. How he hated it here. ‘Janet,’ he’d say in that Spanish toreador’s voice that seduced me in the first place, ‘why must we camp out in the middle of nowhere? There isn’t a decent restaurant for miles.’ Carlos,” she added and lifted her glass, “he could make love like a king. But outside of bed, he bored me brainless. The problem there was we didn’t spend enough time outside of bed before I married him. Sex is no reason to get married.”

“Ford never bores me. He made me a goddess, and still when he looks at me, he sees me. Too many of them didn’t see you.”

“I stopped seeing me.”

“But in the letters, the letters you kept, he called you Trudy.”

“The last love, the last chance. I couldn’t know. Yet maybe some part of me did. Maybe I wanted to love and be loved by what I’d lost, or given up. For a little while, I could be Trudy again.” She stroked her fingers over one of the white pillows. “But that was a lie, too. I could never get her back, and he never saw her.”

“The last chance,” Cilla repeated with photos spread before her, and Janet on the bright pink couch. “Why was it the last? You lost your son, and that was horrible and tragic. But you had a daughter who needed you. You had a child inside you. You left your daughter, and that’s haunted her all her life-and I guess it’s haunted me too. You left her, and you ended the child when you ended yourself. Why?”

Janet sipped her drink. “If there’s one thing you can do for me, it would be to answer that question.”

“How?”

"You’ve got everything you need. It’s your dream, for God’s sake. Pay attention.”

TWENTY-NINE

Crazy. She had to be crazy hosting a party. She didn’t have any furniture, or dishes. She didn’t own a serving spoon. She was at least three weeks out from delivery on her stove and refrigerator. She didn’t own a goddamn rug. Her seating consisted of a single patio set, a couple of cheap plastic chairs and a collection of empty compound buckets. Her cooking tools were limited to a Weber grill, a hot plate and a microwave oven.

She had supplies, God knew. A million festive paper plates, napkins, plastic cups and forks and spoons, and enough food-which she didn’t know how to prepare-stuffed into Ford’s refrigerator to feed most of the county. But where were people supposed to eat?

“On the picnic tables my father, your father and Matt are bringing over,” Ford told her. “Come back to bed.”

“What if it rains?”

“Not calling for rain. There is a thirty-percent chance of hail and locusts, and a ten-percent chance of earthquakes. Cilla, it’s six in the morning.”

“I’m supposed to marinate the chicken.”

“Now?”

“No. I don’t know. I have to check my list. I wrote everything down. I said I’d make crab dip. I don’t know why I said that. I’ve never made crab dip. Why didn’t I just buy it? What am I trying to prove? And there’s the pasta salad.” She heard the lunacy in the rant, couldn’t stop. “I took that, too. Eating pasta salad through the years doesn’t mean you can make pasta salad. I’ve been to the doctor through the years. What’s next? Am I going to start doing elective surgery?”

Though it was tempting, he didn’t put the pillow over his head. “Are you going to lose your mind like this every time you give a party?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Good to know. Come back to bed.”

“I’m not coming back to bed. Can’t you see I’m dressed? Dressed, pacing, obsessing and postponing the moment when I go downstairs and face that chicken.”

“All right. All right.” He pushed himself up in bed, scooped back his hair. “Did you agree to marry me last night?”

“Apparently I did.”

“Then we will go down and face the chicken together.”

“Really? You’d do that?”

“I’ll also face the crab dip and the pasta salad with you. Such is the depth of my love, even at six o’clock in the morning.” Spock rose, yawned, stretched. “And apparently his. If we poison people, Cilla, we’ll do it together.”

“I feel better. I know when I’m being a maniac.” She walked to him, leaned down and kissed his sleepy mouth. “And I know when I’m lucky to have someone who’ll stick with me through it, right down to the crab dip.”

“I don’t even like crab dip. Why do people eat stuff like that?” He gave her a tug, pulling her onto the bed. And rolled on top of her. “People are always making dips out of odd things. Spinach dip, artichoke dip. Have you ever asked yourself why?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“Why can’t they be satisfied with some Cheez Whiz on a cracker? It’s simple. It’s classic.”

"You can’t distract me with Cheez Whiz.” She shoved him off. "I’m going down.” She tugged her shirt back into place. “I’m ready.”

IT WASN’T ALTOGETHER horrible or intimidating, Cilla discovered. Not with a partner. Especially when the partner was as clueless as she. It was almost fun. She thought, with some repetition, and a bit more skill, boiling pasta or mincing garlic might slip past the almost and become actual fun.

“I had a Janet dream last night,” she told him.

“How can the simple tomato come in so many sizes?” He held up a beefsteak and a handful of grape tomatoes. “Is it science? Is it nature? I’ll have to do a study on it. What was the dream about?”

“I guess it was about love, at least on one level. And my subconscious poking around about what it means. Or what it meant to her. We were in the living room of the farm. The walls were my walls-I mean the space was mine, the color of the paint, but she was on that bright pink couch. And I had photographs spread on this glossy white coffee table. Photos I’ve managed to get my hands on, the photos your grandfather took, photos I think I might have just seen in books. Hundreds of them. She was drinking vodka in a short glass. She said it had been a year since Johnnie died, and how she hoped this baby was a boy. She said it was her last chance. Her last love, her last chance.

“It’s so odd. She knew she was going to die soon. Because I knew. I asked her why, why did she do it? Why did she turn away from that last chance and end it all?”

“What did she say?”

“That if I could do anything for her, it would be to find that answer. That I had it all in front of me, but I wasn’t paying attention. So I woke up frustrated because, as she said, it’s my dream. If I know something, why don’t I know it?”

Ford took up his assignment of slicing the beefsteak. “Is it too much to accept she might’ve been too sad, too deep in the dark, and saw it as the only way to end the pain?”

“No. But I can’t quite make myself believe it. I never fully could, or never fully wanted to. And since I came here, started on the house, I believe it less-and want to believe it less,” Cilla admitted. “She found something here. Look at all she took and let go of again. Men, marriages, houses, possessions. She was famous for acquiring and disposing of. But she kept this place, and more, made arrangements so it would remain in the family long after she died. She found something she needed here, something that contented her.”

She looked out the window and watched Spock on his morning rounds. “She kept the dog,” Cilla murmured. “And an old jeep. A stove and refrigerator that were out of date. I think, in a way, this place was real to her. The rest, it’s not. For the smart ones, it’s a job. It’s good work. Fame can be a by-product, but it’s fleeting and fickle and so much of it’s an illusion. She didn’t need the illusion here.”

“And falling in love here made it more real?”

She looked over, grateful he followed the thread of her thoughts. “It follows, doesn’t it? The worst thing in her life happened here when Johnnie was killed. An inescapable reality. But she kept coming back, facing it. She didn’t close the place up, or sell it. He called her Trudy, and that’s who she wanted to believe he loved. I think she wanted that last chance, desperately. I think she wanted the baby, Ford. She’d lost one child. How could she, why would she kill herself and end the chance for another?”

“And if she realized it wasn’t Trudy this guy loved, that that was another illusion?”

“Men come and go. They always did for her. And I guess I remembered that, resolved that through the dream last night. Her one true love was Johnnie. Her work, too. She passionately loved the work. But Johnnie was hers. My mother always knew that, always knew she didn’t quite hit the same spot. The last love, the last chance? I think it was the child for her. I can’t believe, just can’t, that she’d have killed herself over a love affair that went south.”

“You said she was drinking in the dream. Vodka.”

“Her standard.” When the timer dinged, Cilla hefted the pot of pasta, carried it to the sink to drain into the waiting colander. “But there weren’t any pills in the dream.”

She stood, watching the steam rise. “Where were the pills, Ford? I keep circling back to those letters, to the anger in the last few. He didn’t want her in this house. She was a threat to him, an unpredictable woman, a desperate one, pregnant with his child. But she wouldn’t give it up. Not this place, not the child, not the chance. So he took it from her. I keep circling back to that.”

“If you’re right, proving it would be the next step. We’ve already tried to find out who wrote those letters. I don’t know how many more avenues there might be to take.”

“I feel like… I feel like we’ve already been down the right one, or close to it. And missed something that was right there. Right there. That I didn’t pay attention, and it slipped by.”

She turned. “This is my reality now, Ford. You, you and the farm, this life. I found that, I can take that because of her. I owe her. And I owe her more than planting roses and painting and hammering wood. More than bringing this place back as tribute. I owe her the truth.”

“What you’ve found, and what you take may have started with her. And if you need the truth, I’ll do whatever I can to help you find that. But the farm, what you’ve done here, it’s more than a tribute to Janet Hardy. It’s a tribute to you, Cilla. What you can do, what you’ll work for, what you’ll give. The walls were yours in the dream.”

“And I haven’t put anything inside it. I talk about it, but I don’t take the step. Not a chair, not a table, beyond what I needed for Steve. I guess I have to fix that.”

He’d been waiting for that. Waiting for that step. "I’ve got a house full of stuff here. It’s a good start for picking and choosing.”

She walked to him, linked her arms around his neck. “I pick you. I pick the guy who’ll slice tomatoes with me at seven in the morning because I’m a lunatic. The guy who not only promises to help me, but does. The one who makes me understand I’m the first Hardy woman in three generations lucky enough to be in love with a man who sees me. Let’s pick something, and take it across the road. We’ll put it inside the house so it’s not hers, it’s not mine. So it’s ours.”

“I vote for the bed.”

She grinned. “Sold.”

IT WAS RIDICULOUS, of course, for two people who were preparing for a party to leave the work to break down a bed, to haul frame, headboard, footboard, mattress, box spring, bedding downstairs, out to the truck, drive it across the road with a dog in tow. Then reverse the procedure.

But Cilla found it not only symbolic, she found it therapeutic.

Still, Ford’s suggestion that they try it out in its new place was going too far.

Tonight, she told him. Definitely.

Their room now, she thought, giving the pillows an extra fluff. Their room, their bed, their house. Their life.

Yes, she’d put pictures of Janet in the house, as she’d said in the dream. But there would be other pictures. Pictures of her and Ford, of friends and family. She’d ask her father if he had any of his parents, his grandparents she could copy. She’d repair and refinish the old rocker she’d found in the attic, and she’d buy cheerful, happy dishes, and put Ford’s wonderful roomy couch in their living room.

She’d remember what had been, and build toward what could be. Really, hadn’t that always been the purpose? And she’d keep looking for that truth. For Janet, for her mother, for herself.

At Ford’s she deserted the field, ducking outside to call Dilly in New York.

“Mom.”

“Cilla, it’s barely nine in the morning. Don’t you know I need my sleep? I have a show tonight.”

“I know. I read the reviews. ‘Mature and polished, Bedelia Hardy comes triumphantly into her own.’ Congratulations.”

“Well, I could’ve done without the mature.”

“I’m awfully proud of you, and looking forward to seeing you triumphant in D.C. in a couple of weeks.”

After a brief pause, Dilly said, “Thank you, Cilla. I don’t know what to say.”

And when her mother went on a long riff about the hard work, the three encores, the curtain calls, the acres of flowers in her dressing room, Cilla just smiled and listened. Dilly was never at a loss for words for long.

“Of course, I’m completely exhausted. But somehow, the energy’s there when I need it most. And Mario’s taking very good care of me.”

“I’m glad. Mom, Ford and I are getting married.”

“Who?”

“Ford, Mom. You met him when you came here.”

“I can hardly be expected to remember everyone I meet. The tall one? The neighbor?”

“He’s tall, and he lives across the road.”

“When did all this happen?” Dilly demanded, with the first notes of petulance in her voice. “Why are you marrying him? When you come back to L.A.-”

“Mom, just listen. Just listen and don’t say anything until I’m done. I’m not going back to L.A. I’m not coming back to the business.”

“You-”

“Just listen. This is my home now, and I’m building a life here. I’m in love with an amazing man who loves me back. I’m happy. I’m as happy at this moment as you are when you step out into the lights. I want you to do one thing for me. Just this one thing, just this one time. I want you to say, whether you mean it or not, just say, ’I’m happy for you, Cilla.’”

“I’m happy for you, Cilla.”

“Thanks.”

“I am happy for you. I just don’t understand why-”

“It’s enough, Mom. Just be happy. You don’t have to understand. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

It’s enough, Cilla thought again. Maybe one day there would be more, maybe there wouldn’t. So it was enough.

She went back into the house, and to Ford.

REINFORCEMENT ARRIVED with platters and bowls, with tables and pounds of ice. Penny dispatched Ford to help unload at the farm before she bustled into the kitchen with Patty, where Cilla agonized over the pasta salad.

“Someone needs to taste it. Ford and I are too emotionally involved with the pasta. We have no objectivity.”

“It’s so pretty!” Patty exclaimed. “Isn’t that a pretty salad, Pen?”

But Penny, whose eagle eyes spotted Cilla’s ring in under three seconds, latched on to Cilla’s hand. “When?”

“Last night.”

“What? What am I missing? Oh God, oh God! Is that what I think it is? Is that it? Oh, let me see!” Patty crowded in, peered down at the ring. “It’s just beautiful. It’s just so beautiful. I’m so happy. I’m so happy for both of you.”

No prompting needed from the wings here, Cilla thought as Patty threw her arms around Cilla and dipped them both side to side.

“Didn’t take you long to come to your senses. Let go, Patty, she’s going to be my daughter-in-law.” Nudging Patty aside, Penny moved in for a hug. “He’s a very, very good man.”

“Only the best.”

“I’m pretty sure you almost deserve him.” Penny leaned back, all smiles and damp eyes. “Aren’t they going to make us beautiful grand-babies, Patty?”

“Oh, well…”

“We won’t start nagging you about that yet. Much,” Patty put in. “First we get to nag you about the wedding. Did you set the date?”

“No, not really. We just-”

“It’s too late to take advantage of the fall season. The foliage will peak in about six weeks. And there’s so much to do.”

“We thought an outdoor wedding, at the farm. Simple,” Cilla began.

“Perfect.” Patty counted off on her fingers. “May, early May, don’t you think? May’s so pretty, and that gives us a comfortable time for all the details. The dress comes first. Everything builds around the dress. We have to go shopping. I can’t wait!” Patty threw her arms around Cilla again.

“Captain Morrow reporting to the staging area,” Cathy said as she came in, loaded with bags. “What’s all this? Has everyone been slicing onions?”

“No.” Patty dashed at tears. “Cilla and Ford. They’re getting married.”

“Oh!” Cathy jumbled bags onto the counter, righted one before its contents spilled. She turned, beaming smiles. “Congratulations! What happy news. When’s the big day?”

“May, we think,” Patty told her. “Don’t we think May? Oh my God, isn’t she going to be the most beautiful bride? An outdoor wedding at the farm. Isn’t that perfect? Imagine the gardens next May.”

“It’s going to be the event of the year. Simple,” Penny added with a light in her eyes that told Cilla they might have different definitions of the word. “We’ll say simply the event of the year.”

“You two are scaring the girl.” With a laugh, Cathy put an arm around Cilla’s shoulder. “She’ll be running for the hills any minute.”

“No. I’m staying right here. It’s nice,” Cilla decided. “We’ll make it the event of the year. In a simple way.”

“There you go.” Cathy gave Cilla’s shoulder a squeeze. “Now, ladies, if we don’t get this particular show on the road, we’re going to have a lot of hungry people, and the disaster of this year on our hands.”

IT WAS so much easier than she’d imagined, and amazingly satisfying. Under the afternoon sun dozens and dozens of people spread around the grounds. They crowded at borrowed picnic tables, perched on the steps, sat at folding card tables on the veranda. They ate and drank, admired the house, the gardens. No one seemed concerned about the lack of furniture and formality.

She watched Dobby sitting in a lawn chair he’d brought himself, eating her pasta salad, and felt a ridiculous surge of pride. Her home, she thought, might not be finished, but it was more than ready to welcome people.

She joined Gavin while he flipped burgers on the grill. “How’d you earn the KP?”

“I gave Ford a break.” He smiled down at Cilla. “Practicing being a father-in-law. It’s a good party, Cilla. It’s good to have one here again.”

“I’m thinking of it as the first annual Labor Day at the farm. Next year, even better.”

“I like hearing you say that. Next year.”

“I’m exactly where I want to be. There’s still a lot to do. Still a lot I need to know.” She drew a breath. “I talked to Mom this morning.”

“How is she?”

“Mature, polished and triumphant, according to the reviews. It’s going to be difficult for her to come here, to the farm, for the wedding. She will, but it’ll be difficult for her. Will it for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Having her here, going through that ritual, the wedding, with her here?”

“Absolutely not.” The surprise in his voice brought her comfort. “It wasn’t all bad times between us, Cilla. It had to end for me to be exactly where I want to be, and, I suspect, for your mother to be mature, polished and triumphant.”

“Then that’s something to cross off my should-I-worry-about-this list. I want to get married here. It’s our place now, Ford’s and mine. And I like knowing my parents had their first kiss over there. And that my grandmother walked the gardens. That your grandfather plowed those fields. It all trickles down. I’ve wanted that all my life. Look at the house,” she murmured.

“It’s never looked more right, more real than it does now.”

“That’s what I want, too. The right, and the real. Did you come here after Johnnie died?”

“A few times. She seemed to like seeing me. The last was a couple of months before she died. I was doing some summer stock in Richmond. My father was ill, so I came to see him. When I learned she was here, I came by. She seemed better, or she was trying very hard to be. We talked about him, of course. I don’t think he was ever out of her mind. She hadn’t brought anyone with her, not like before when the house always seemed full of people. It was just the two of us for about an hour, in the living room.”

“On the pink couch with the white satin pillows,” Cilla added.

“Yes.” He laughed a little. “How did you know about that?”

“I heard about it. Very Doris Day.”

“I suppose it was. I must have commented on it, because I remember her saying she wanted bright in the house again. It was time for the new and the bright, so she’d had it shipped all the way from L.A.”

He poked at the grilling chicken, flipped a burger. “She went back the next day, and I went back to Richmond for the rest of the summer. So that would’ve been the last time I saw her. It’s a good image, really. Janet sitting on that pink, Hollywood couch with her dog snoring under the coffee table.”

“I wonder if I have a picture of her on it. Ford’s grandfather gave me so many pictures. I need to go through them again. If I can find one, I’ll give you a copy. Here, let me have that platter.” She took the dish Gavin had loaded with burgers, hot dogs, grilled chicken. “I’ll deliver this to Station Meat, then go find Ford.”

She wended her way through the backyard crowd, around the veranda dwellers and into the kitchen. She saw that Patty or Penny had been through by the stack of empty and freshly washed plates and bowls. Since that brought on some mild guilt, she prepared to wash the pair of serving plates she’d brought in with her instead of just putting them in the sink.

It felt good, watching through the kitchen window while she washed up, having this quick moment alone. She saw her father still at the grill, with Ford’s father now, and Brian. Buddy and his wife at a picnic table with Tom and Cathy, and Patty stopping by to chat. There was Matt tossing a ball to his little boy while Josie looked on, the baby tucked in her arm.

Penny was right, Cilla realized with a quick laugh. She and Ford would make gorgeous babies. Something to think about.

When the phone she had charging on the counter rang, she picked it up with the smile still curving her lips. “This is Cilla. Why aren’t you here?”

“Ms. McGowan?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“It’s Detective Wilson. I have some information.”

WHEN FORD CAME IN through the front he saw her standing at the sink, looking out. “Look at us, being hosts. You washing up, me taking out the trash. I loaded a couple of bags in your truck. One of us needs to hit the dump tomorrow.”

He slipped his arms around her, started to draw her back against him, and felt it immediately. “What is it?” He turned her, scanned her face. “What happened?”

“Hennessy’s dead. He killed himself. He made a noose out of his own shirt, and-”

He drew her against him now, hard. She trembled first, then held on. “Oh God, Ford. Oh God.”

“Some people can’t be saved, Cilla. Can’t be helped.”

“He never got over it, got past it. What happened to his son. All these years, he had a purpose, and he had his bitterness. But when his son died, all he had was the bitterness.”

“And it killed him.” He pulled her back, looking into her eyes to be sure she understood just that. “It’s the hate that ended him, Cilla.”

“I’m not blaming myself. I have to keep saying it, keep thinking it, so I won’t. And I’m not. But there’s no denying I was part of it. He made me part of it. I guess that’s another kind of revenge. His poor wife, Ford. She’s lost everything. And horribly, there’s a part of me that’s relieved.”

“He hurt you, and he tried to do worse. Do you want some time? I can go out, try to wrap things up.”

“No. No. He did enough.” She looked back out the window, at the people on her lawn. “He’s not going to ruin this.”

“FORD, JUST THE MAN I wanted to see.” Gavin handed over the spatula and tongs, then picked up the platter. “Your turn.” With his free hand, he hefted a beer. “And mine.”

“You sure this younger generation knows how to handle the grill?” Tom asked.

“We can put you guys down,” Brian responded. “Anytime, anywhere.”

“I feel a grill-off coming on. But before we get to that, I need to exploit my future son-in-law. I’d like you to come in and talk to my creative writing students.”

“Oh. Well. Um.”

“Actually, we’d like to do a three-part, possibly five-part, program on storytelling through words and art. Our art teacher is very excited by the idea.”

“Oh,” Ford repeated, and had Brian laughing.

“He’s getting a flashback of high school, where he was president of the Nerd Club.”

“Three years of being pantsed and recovering from wedgies.”

“Matt, Shanna and I saved you when we could.”

“Not often enough.”

“I give you my word, your ass will not be exposed or abused on my watch.”

Ford gave Gavin a sour look. “Can I have an armed escort?”

“We’ll need to work out the details, the dates, and anything you might want or need. I can talk to you about my end of it. You should contact Sharon, the art teacher. She loves your work, by the way. Let me give you her contact information. Ah…” He looked at his full hands. “Got anything to write on, with?”

“No. Gee, I guess we’ll have to forget the whole thing.”

“I happen to have something.” Grinning, Tom pulled a small leather-bound notebook and short pen out of his pocket. “Sharon, you said?”

Gavin relayed the information, cocked an eye at Ford when he passed him the sheet. “You do want to marry my daughter, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Trapped, Ford stuffed the paper in his pocket.

“I’m going to deliver this, then I’ll come back and give you the basic overview of what I have in mind.”

“I should’ve known there’d be strings,” Ford muttered when Gavin strolled away.

“Get used to it.” Tom clamped a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “And now that you’re engaged, and there’s Matt with his lovely family, how long before the last of the Musketeers settles down?”

“Your turn,” Ford said gleefully.

Brian shook his head. “You bastard. Under the circumstances, I don’t know why I’m telling you we’re continuing this holiday with poker- guys only-at my place tonight. We’re tapping you for leftover beer and food, Rembrandt.”

“I suck at poker.”

“Which is why, even under the circumstances.”

“I don’t know if-”

“See?” Brian pointed at his father. “She’s already got him by the balls. And you ask me why I’m single.”

“She doesn’t have me-”

“Still getting pantsed. Only now by a woman.”

“Jesus. Remind me why I’m friends with you.”

“Nine o’clock. Bring beer.”

WITH CONSIDERABLE HELP from friends, cleanup went quickly. Trash was bagged, leftovers tubbed, recyclables binned. A small convoy of the faithful hauled what needed to be hauled back to Ford’s.

“Two households,” Angie commented, “and still not quite enough room. What should I do with this pie?”

“Ford can take it to Brian’s.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

Cilla cut him off with a look. “Go, be a man. Get out of my two households for a few hours. I’m fine.”

“Of course she’s fine.” Patty sealed a small bowl of leftover three-bean salad. “Why wouldn’t she be fine? Has something else happened?” she said when she saw the way Ford glanced at Cilla. “Is something wrong?”

“Hennessy killed himself last night. Ford’s worried I’ve taken it too much to heart.”

“Oh, honey!”

“It’s that, plus I don’t like leaving you alone.”

“We’ll stay,” Patty said immediately.

“We’ll all stay,” Penny put in. “We’ll have our own-all women- party.”

“You will not stay. I don’t need babysitters. I’m going to work on the photos your father gave me,” she said as she handed a bowl to Ford’s mother. “A couple of hours of quiet is just what I need. No offense.”

“But-”

“And I want to draw up some ideas for the gym and studio addition without you hanging over my shoulder. Go away. I’ll stay here until you get back,” she added when she saw more arguments in his eyes. “Brid, Warrior Goddess, requires no bodyguards. Now leave.”

“Fine. It won’t take me more than a couple hours to lose anyway.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“All right, girls, let’s claim our dishes and load it up. I’ll give everyone a ride home since the men have deserted us.” Penny put her hands on Cilla’s shoulders. “I’m going to call you tomorrow, and we’re going to set the time and place for you, Patty and me to hold our first Wedding of the Year strategy session.”

“Should I be afraid?”

“Very.” Penny kissed her cheek. “You’re a good girl.”

Watching the way Penny herded everyone out the door told Cilla she would have a very interesting, and very compatible, mother-in-law.

“Now you,” she told Ford.

“I can probably lose in an hour.”

“Stop. I’m tucked in here. No one’s going to bother me. No one has bothered me for some time now. The fact is, Hennessy’s dead, and the media is going to pick up on that. Some of it will start again. I could use a quiet, normal evening before the circus comes to town. And I’m not going to have either of us live worrying about me spending a quiet, normal evening alone. Besides…” She bent down to scratch Spock. “I have a bodyguard.”

“Keep the door locked anyway.”

“I’ll keep the door locked anyway.” She gave him a last kiss, then a shove out the door. “Don’t bet on an inside straight.” Then shut it, locked it at his back.

She turned around, let out a long sigh, then grinned at Spock. “I thought they’d never leave.”

Content, she walked upstairs for the box of photos.

THIRTY

It gave her such pleasure to look through them. It occurred to Cilla that Ford might like to choose some of the photos they’d frame and display. The group shot, for instance. Her father, his mother, her uncle, Janet, and… that had to be a young and handsome Tom Morrow. Brian certainly took after him.

She began to sort them by type, then the types in a loose chronological order.

She watched her own mother grow, from child to girl to young woman. Amazing, Cilla mused, how much better they got along with distance. Not so amazing, she added with a dash of cynicism, how much better they got along when her mother collected strong reviews.

No sour notes, Cilla warned herself, topping her to-be-framed pile with the photo of Janet in the farmhouse doorway.

Had someone in one of these group shots been her lover? she wondered. Had they been careful not to be photographed together? Or had they played it cool and casual on the surface, with all that passion simmering beneath?

No sour notes, she reminded herself. But she couldn’t resist speculating, studying. Would it show? It seemed to Cilla that every man photographed with Janet looked half in love with her. She’d had that power.

God, even Buddy looked spellbound-and skinny-in the shot of them on the veranda, and Janet mugging by pretending to brain him with his own pipe wrench.

She’d been irresistible, in baggy jeans or couture. Spectacular, she mused, in a red dress against the white piano. Christmas, she thought, lifting the shot, scanning it. Red candles and holly on the glossy piano, the sparkle of lights in the window.

That last Christmas before Johnnie’s death. Her last party. Too painful, she decided, to frame that one. Or any from that night. It twisted her heart a little to see one of her parents, framed together in front of the tree. And the doomed Johnnie grinning as he held mistletoe over his head.

And all the young people-Gavin, Johnnie, Dilly, Ford’s mother, and what she knew had to be Jimmy Hennessy and the boy who died with Johnnie that night, crowded together on the sofa in their party best. Smiling forever.

No, she could never frame that one, either.

She set it aside and picked up one of Tom. It took her a moment to recognize the woman beside him as Cathy. Her hair had been mouse brown then, and awkwardly styled in a kind of poofy ball. She looked so shy, so nervous and self-conscious. Baby weight, Cilla remembered, which the dress and the hairstyle only accentuated. Good pearls, the flash of diamonds said money, but she had certainly not yet come out of her cocoon.

Still, she might enjoy having a copy of the shot.

She continued sorting, pausing again when she came to one of Janet perched on the arm of the couch, Cathy sitting, and both women laughing. Cathy looked prettier in the candid, Cilla decided. More at ease, and with the hint of the woman she’d become in that natural smile.

She started to set it on the pile, then frowned as she studied it again. Something nagged at the edge of her mind. As she began to spread out what she thought of as Last Christmas shots, the doorbell rang.

Spock’s terrified barking joined the bell.

FORD PUNCHED the button for a Coke on Brian’s Sky Box. He was pitiful enough at poker without adding alcohol to the mix. In the pre-game hang-out portion of the evening, men who would soon take his money gathered around the bar Matt had built in what Brian called his Real Man room.

Bar, pool table, poker table, big-ass flat screen-virtually always tuned to ESPN-leather recliners, sofa. A lot of sports decor. And, of course, the secondary TV earmarked for video games.

He needed one of those in his new studio, he decided. A guy had to have his space. He could tell Cilla he wanted it sort of sectioned off from the work area.

Maybe he should call her. He dug in his pocket for his cell, and as he pulled it out the paper he’d stuffed in the same pocket fluttered to the floor.

“No women.” Brian shook his head. “Which includes calling one. Hand it over.”

“I’m not giving you my phone.” Ford stooped, picked up the note.

“Pussy-whipped. Hey, Matt, Ford’s already calling home to check in with Cilla.”

“Jesus, even I’m not that bad.”

“Phones, both of you. In fact, everybody,” Brian announced. “No phones at the table. House rules. Lay ’em on the bar. Hand it over,” he told Ford.

“Christ, you’re a pain in the ass. Remind me why I like you?”

“You can still beat me at Grand Theft Auto.”

“Oh yeah, that’s the reason.” He passed over his phone, immediately felt naked and bereft. Phoneless, he thought, poker and, with a glance at the note, soon to be traumatized by a return to high school.

What a man did for love and friendship.

He started to stuff the note back into his pocket, then stopped, took a closer look.

His heart took a hard slam in his chest, dropped to his belly.

The handwriting was a little shaky, a little sloppy. After all, Tom had been standing up, using a stubby pen when he’d written out the information.

The urge to deny pushed at him. He couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t possible to be sure. At least not until he’d compared the note with the letters, side by side. Or sent them to the graphologist. It didn’t make any sense anyway.

It was Brian’s father. It just couldn’t be.

And it made all the sense in the world.

He stared across the room at Tom standing with his own father, with Cilla’s, grinning at Brian as they tapped bottles of Rolling Rock. He thought of how Tom had once helped him fly a kite on a vacation they’d all taken together at Virginia Beach. Pitched a tent for them to camp in overnight in the Morrows’ big backyard.

And he thought of Steve in the hospital. Of Cilla staring at broken tiles. And a doll in a pink party dress hanging from a red maple tree Brian had planted.

Walking over, Ford tapped Tom on the shoulder. “I need to talk to you a minute.”

“Sure. Looking for poker tips?”

“Maybe we could walk outside.”

Tom’s eyebrows raised. “Sure. A little fresh air before your father starts lighting those cigars. Ford and I are stepping outside so I can give him a few pointers.”

“Lots of luck,” Brian called out. “Make it quick. We’ll be anteing up shortly.”

No point in wasting time, Ford thought. No point in putting it off. And no way he could sit at a poker table with this tightness in his chest.

“Nights are cooling off again,” Tom commented as they stepped out onto Brian’s deck. “Another summer at our backs.”

“You had an affair with Janet Hardy.”

“What?” Tom’s head jerked around. “For God’s sake, Ford.”

“She kept your letters. But you knew that. One of the guys on Cilla’s job heard her telling Gavin. Most of them work for you, too. It’s good juice. Too good not to spread around.”

“I barely knew Janet Hardy. This is a ridiculous thing to-”

"Don’t. The handwriting matches.” He drew out the note. "I’ve got a good eye for that kind of thing. Shapes, style, form. I bet your father taught you to write. He’d have wanted you to get a leg up.”

Tom’s face hardened, the lines around his mouth digging deep. “Not only is this an insulting accusation, but frankly, none of your business.”

There was a coldness inside Ford he hadn’t known he possessed. A hard and icy rage. “Cilla’s my business. What happened to her grandmother, and what’s been happening to her, that’s my business.”

“Her grandmother killed herself. And Hennessy is responsible for what happened at the farm. I’m surprised at you, Ford. And disappointed. Now I’m going back inside. I don’t want to hear any more about this.”

“I always respected you, and I love Brian.” It might have been the tone, very cool, very quiet, that had Tom stopping. “That’s why I’m standing here with you. That’s why I’m talking to you before I go to the police with this.”

“With what? With a stack of unsigned letters written more than thirty years ago and a note I scribbled this afternoon?”

“I didn’t say they were unsigned.” Ford turned away.

“Wait. Now wait.” With the first hint of panic, Tom gripped his shoulder. “This isn’t a matter for the police, Ford. It won’t do anyone any good for this to come out. Do you need me to admit the affair? All right, all right. I was mesmerized by her, and I betrayed my wife. I’m not the first man to slip. I’m not proud of it. And I ended it; I ended it before you were born, for God’s sake. When I came to my senses, when I realized what I was doing, I ended it. Why would you punish me, hurt and embarrass Brian and Cathy, over a mistake I made when I was younger than you are now?”

“You tried to get them back, and put a man in the hospital.”

“I panicked.” He held up his hands. “I only wanted to find the letters and destroy them. I panicked when I heard him coming in. There was no way for me to get out. I never meant to hit him that hard. It was instinct, just instinct. My God, I thought I’d killed him.”

“So you shoved the bike on top of him, what, to be sure of it?”

“I tell you, I was in shock. I thought he was dead, what else could I do? I could only think it had to look like an accident. He’s fine now. He’s all right now,” Tom insisted in a tone of quiet reason. “What point is there in making an issue out of any of it?”

Ford could only stare. This man he’d respected, even loved, one he’d thought of all his life as a kind of second father, was shifting in front of his eyes. “He nearly died, Tom. He could have died. And you did that for what, to save your reputation over a slip? To cover up something you thought was already buried?”

“I did it to spare my family.”

“Really? What else have you done to ‘spare your family’? Let’s go back. Let’s go all the way back. Did you kill Janet Hardy?”

MILDLY IRRITATED by the interruption, Cilla went to the door, peeked through the sidelight. Irritation turned to puzzlement as she opened it for Cathy.

“It’s okay, Spock. See?”

He stopped quivering to prance forward and bump Cathy’s legs in greeting.

“I’m so sorry. Not five minutes after Penny dropped me off, I realized I’d left my rings at your place.” Cathy pressed her ringless hand to her breast. “I always take them off at the kitchen sink. At least I hope I did. God, if I lost them… No they’re there. I’m just a little frantic.”

“I’d be, too. I’m sure they’re there. We’ll go get them right now.”

“Thank you. Cilla, I feel so stupid. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost them.”

“Just let me grab my keys.” She snagged them off the little table by the door. “Come on, Spock, let’s take a walk.”

The walk word had him shooting through the door to dance on the veranda.

“They’ll be there,” Cathy reassured herself. “I’m sure they’ll be right there. I lost my wedding and engagement rings down the drain years ago. I’d lost weight, hadn’t had them resized. I was terrified until Buddy-whom I called in hysterics-took the pipes apart and found them. So I always take them off before I shower or do dishes, or… I’m babbling.”

They crossed the road in the moonlight. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’re right where you left them.”

“Of course they are.” But the strain in her voice had Spock making concerned whines. “I put them in a little glass-I remember-at your sink. If someone didn’t see them in there, and-”

“We’ll find them.” Cilla put a hand on Cathy’s trembling arm.

“You must think I’m an idiot.”

“I don’t. I’ve only had my ring for a day, and I’d be a basket case if I thought I’d lost it.” She unlocked the door.

“I’m just going to-” Cathy made a dash for the kitchen, and, hopeful, Spock raced behind her.

Cilla closed the door, plugged in the security code to offset the alarm, then followed.

Cathy stood in the kitchen, tears streaming down her cheeks with Spock rubbing against her legs in comfort. “Right where I left them. Right by the sink. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. It’s okay.” Moving fast, Cilla got an old stool out of the utility room. “Just sit down a minute.”

“God, thank you. Now I do feel like an idiot. They’re insured, I know, but-”

“It’s not about insurance.”

“No, it’s not. Look at me. I’m a mess.” She pulled a tissue out of her purse to dry her cheeks. “Cilla, could I have a glass of that?” She gestured to the bottle of wine on the counter. “And an aspirin.”

“Sure. Aspirin’s upstairs. I’ll be right back.”

When she came back, Cathy sat at the counter, her head propped in her hand, and two glasses of wine poured. “I know I’m taking up some of that quiet time you were after, but I just need a few minutes to calm down.”

“It’s no problem, Cathy.” Cilla set down the aspirin.

“To wedding rings-engagement rings-and all they represent.” Cathy lifted her glass, held it expectantly, then tapped it to Cilla’s when Cilla picked hers up.

“And I hope that’s the last time you find me knocking hysterically on your door.”

“I thought you held it together pretty well. They’re beautiful. I’ve admired them before.”

“Tom wanted to buy me a new wedding ring for our twenty-fifth. I wouldn’t have it.” Her eyes sparkled as she sipped. “So he gave me a diamond bracelet instead. I’ve got a weakness for diamonds. I’m surprised I haven’t seen you wear any, other than your spanking-new ring. Your grandmother had some fabulous jewelry.”

“My mother has it. And the kind of work I do?” Cilla shrugged, drank a little more wine. “Doesn’t lend to glitters.”

“You don’t need them with your looks. Neither did she. It’s us lesser mortals who require the enhancements. Of course, beauty fades if you live long enough. Hers didn’t. She didn’t.”

“I was just looking through some old photographs and thinking…” Cilla pressed a hand to her temple. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was so tired. The wine must’ve topped it off.”

“You’ll need to drink the rest of that. And one more, I think, to finish the job.”

“I’d better not. I’m sorry, Cathy, but I feel a little off. I need to-”

“Finish your wine.” Cathy opened her purse, drew out a small revolver. “I insist,” she said as Spock began to grumble.

“JANET COMMITTED SUICIDE. I’ve regretted whatever part I might have played in that for more than thirty years.”

“She was pregnant.”

“She claimed…” Something in Ford’s eyes had Tom pausing, nodding. “Yes. I didn’t believe her, not until we spoke face-to-face. After, after she died, the day she died, in fact, I went to my father. Confessed everything. He was furious with me. He had no tolerance for mistakes, not when they affected the family name. He handled it. We never spoke of it again. I assume he paid off the medical examiner to omit the pregnancy.”

And his political career, Ford thought, had gone down the toilet.

“It was the only thing to do, Ford. Imagine what the public would’ve done to her if it had come out? Imagine what might have become of my family if I was named the father?”

“You spoke, face-to-face.”

“I went to the farm. I wanted her to leave it alone, to move on, but she persisted. So I went to see her, as she demanded. She’d been drinking. Not drunk, not yet, but she’d been drinking. She had the results of the pregnancy test.”

“She had them with her?” Ford prompted. “The paperwork.”

“Yes. She’d used her real name, went to a doctor who didn’t know her. Personally, that is. She said she’d worn a wig and used makeup. She often did when we’d meet somewhere. She knew how to hide when she wanted to. I believed her then, and I believed her when she told me she intended to have the baby. But she was done with me. I didn’t deserve her, or the child.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed. “She dumped you?”

“I’d already ended it. I suppose she wanted the last word on that. We argued; I won’t deny it. But she was alive when I left.”

“What happened to the doctor’s report?”

“I have no idea. I’m telling you, she was alive when I went home, and looked in on my daughter. I thought of all I’d risked, all I might have destroyed. I thought of Cathy, and the child she carried. How I’d nearly asked her for a divorce only months before so I could be, openly, with a woman who didn’t really exist. I might have done that. I nearly did that.”

He leaned heavily on the deck rail, closed his eyes. “It was Cathy telling me she was pregnant that helped me begin to break the spell. I lay down on the cot in the nursery with my daughter, thought of the baby Cathy would have in the fall. Thought of Cathy and our life together. I never saw Janet again. I never risked my family again. Thirty-five years, Ford. What would it accomplish to bring it out now?”

“You terrorized Cilla. You nearly killed a man, and when that wasn’t enough, you terrorized her. Breaking into her house, writing obscenities on her truck, her wall, threatening her.”

“I broke in. I admit that, too. To look for the letters. And I lost control when I couldn’t find them. It was the anger, the impulse that had me smashing the tiles. But the rest? I had nothing to do with it. It was Hennessy. I realized the letters didn’t matter. They didn’t matter. No one would connect me.”

“Hennessy couldn’t have done all the rest. He was locked up.”

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me. Why would I lie about a stone wall, the dolls?” Tom demanded. “You know the worst of it.”

“Your wife knew. Janet called her. You said so in the letter, the last letter.”

“Janet was drunk, and raving. I convinced Cathy that it wasn’t true. That it was alcohol, pills and grief. She was upset, of course, but she believed me. She…”

“If you could live a lie this long, why couldn’t she? You claim you slept in the nursery the night Janet died.”

“Yes, I… I fell asleep. I woke when Cathy came in to get the baby. She looked so tired. I asked if she was all right. She said she was fine. We were all fine now.” In the moonlight, the flush of shame died to shock white. “My God.”

Ford didn’t wait for more reasons, more excuses. He ran. Cilla was alone. And Cathy Morrow knew it.

“YOU PUT SOMETHING IN THE WINE.”

“Seconal. Just like your whore of a grandmother. But it was vodka for her.”

Queasiness rose up to her throat. Fear, knowledge, the mix of drugs and wine. “The couch wasn’t pink; the dress wasn’t blue.”

“Drink some more wine, Cilla. You’re babbling now.”

“You saw the couch, the dress the night… the night you killed her. That’s what you remember-that night, not the Christmas party. Tom wrote the letters, is that it? Tom was her lover, the father of the child she carried.”

“He was my husband, and the father of my child, and the child I carried. Did she care about that?” Fury blasted across her face. Not madness, Cilla thought, not like Hennessy. Sheer burning fury.

“Did she give one thought to what marriage and family meant before she tried to take what was mine? She had everything. Everything. But it wasn’t enough. It never is for women like her. She was nearly ten years older than he was. She made a fool of me, and even that wasn’t enough. He went to her, left me to go to her that night while I rocked our daughter to sleep, while our baby kicked in my womb. He went to her, and to the bastard she made with him. Drink the wine, Cilla.”

“Did you hold a gun on her, too?”

“I didn’t have to. She’d been drinking already. I slipped the pills into her glass. My pills,” she added. “Ones I thought I needed when I first learned she had her hooks in him.”

“How long? How long did you know?”

“Months. He came home and I smelled her perfume. Soir de Paris. Her scent. I saw her in his eyes. I knew he went to her, again and again. And only touched me when I begged. But it changed, it started to change when I got pregnant. When I made sure I did. He was coming back to me. She wouldn’t allow it. Kept luring him back. I would not be pitied. I would not see myself compared to her and laughed at.

“I’ll shoot you if you don’t drink. They’ll call it another break-in. A tragic one this time.” She reached back into her purse, pulled out the large plastic bag, and the doll trapped inside it. “In case you’d rather go with the bullet, I’ll leave this behind. I bought several of them years ago. I couldn’t resist. I never knew why until you came here.”

Struggling against the dizziness, Cilla lifted the glass, wet her lips. “You staged her suicide.”

“She made it easy. She invited me in, like an old friend. Apologized for what she’d done. She was sorry she’d hurt me, or caused me any pain. She couldn’t undo it, wouldn’t if she could. Because that would undo the baby. All she wanted now was the baby and a chance to make up for past mistakes. Of course, she’d never reveal the name of the father. Lying bitch.”

“You drugged her.”

“When she started to slide, I helped her upstairs. I felt so strong then. I nearly had to carry her, but I was strong. I undressed her. I wanted her naked, exposed. And I gave her more pills, gave her more vodka. And I sat and I watched her die. I sat and I watched until she stopped breathing. Then I left.

“I’d drive by here. After they’d taken her away to where she never belonged, I’d drive by. I liked watching it decay while I… emerged. I starved myself. I exercised until every muscle trembled. Beauty salons, spas, liposuction, face-lifts. He would never look at me and want her. No one would ever look at me with pity.”

An image, Cilla thought. An illusion. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

“You came here.” With her free hand, Cathy added more pills to Cilla’s glass, topped it off with wine. “Cheers!”

“I was wrong,” Cilla mumbled. “You’re as crazy as Hennessy after all.”

“No, just a lot more focused. This house deserved to die its slow, miserable death. She only went to sleep. That was my mistake. You brought her back by coming here, shoved it all in my face again. You had my own son plant roses for her. You seduced Ford, who deserves so much better. I’d have let you live if you’d gone away. If you’d let this house die. But you kept throwing it in my face. I won’t have that, Cilla. I see what you are. Hennessy and I are the only ones.”

“I’m not Janet. They’ll never believe I killed myself.”

“She did. Your mother attempted it-or pretended to-twice. You’re fruit from the tree.” Casually, Cathy tucked back her swing of hair with her free hand. “Pressured into becoming engaged, distraught over causing the death of a man whose life your grandmother ruined. I’ll be able to testify how anxious you were for everyone to leave you alone. If only we’d known.”

“I’m not Janet,” she stated, and tossed the remaining contents in her glass into Cathy’s face.

The action had Spock leaping up, the grumbling going to a snarl. As his head rammed against Cathy, Cilla grabbed for the bottle, saw herself smash it against Cathy’s head. But, impaired by the pills, she swung wide and barely grazed her temple.

It was enough to have Cathy tipping in the stool. Cilla lurched forward, shoved while the dog jumped against the teetering stool. The gun went off, plowing a bullet into the ceiling as the stool toppled.

Fight or flight. She feared she had little of either in her. As her knees buckled, she let herself fall on Cathy, raked her nails down Cathy’s face. The scream was satisfying, but more was the certainty that even if she died, they’d know. She had Cathy Morrow under her nails. She grabbed Cathy’s hair, yanked, twisted for good measure. Plenty of DNA, she thought vaguely as her vision dimmed at the edges. And Spock’s snarling barks went tinny in her ears.

She swung out blindly. She heard shouting, another scream. Another shot. And simply slid away.

FORD’S HEART SKIDDED when he saw Cathy’s car in his drive. He wouldn’t be too late. He couldn’t be. He slammed to a stop behind the Volvo and ran halfway to his door before his instincts stopped him.

Not here. The farm. He spun around, began to run. It had to be at the farm. He cursed, as he’d cursed for miles, the fact that his phone sat on Brian’s bar.

When he heard the shot, the fear he thought he knew, the fear he thought he tasted, paled against a wild and mindless terror.

He threw himself against the door, shouting for Cilla as he heard Spock’s manic barks. Someone screamed like an animal. He flew into the kitchen. It flashed in front of him, etched itself forever in his memory.

Cilla sprawled over Cathy, fists flailing as if they were almost too heavy to lift. Cathy with blood running down her face, her eyes mad with pain and hate as Spock snapped and growled. The gun in her hand. Turning, turning toward Cilla.

He leaped, grabbing Cathy’s wrist with one hand, shoving Cilla clear with the other. He felt something, a quick bee sting at his biceps, before he wrenched the gun from Cathy’s hand.

“Ford! Thank God!” Cathy reached for him. “She went crazy. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what she’s on. She had the gun, and I tried-”

“Shut up,” he said coldly, clearly. “If you move, I swear to God, for the first time in my life, I’ll hit a woman. Spock, knock it off! And I’ll make it count,” he told Cathy. “So shut the fuck up.” He aimed the gun at her as he edged toward Cilla. “Or I may do worse than knock you out. Cilla. Cilla.”

He checked for wounds, then lifted her eyelid as Spock bathed her face frantically with his tongue. “Wake up!” He slapped her, lightly at first. “Move one more inch,” he warned Cathy in a voice he barely recognized himself. “Just one more. Cilla!” He slapped her again, harder, and watched her lids flutter. “Sit up. Wake up.” One-handed, he pulled her up to sit. “I’m calling for an ambulance, and the cops. You’re all right. Do you hear me?”

“Seconal,” she managed, then braced herself with one hand. And shoved her fingers ruthlessly down her throat.

LATER, A LONG TIME LATER, Cilla sat under the blue umbrella. Spring had gone, and summer nearly, she thought. She’d be here when the leaves changed and burned across the mountains. And when the first snow of the season fell, and the last. She’d be here, she thought, in all the springs to come, and the seasons to follow.

She’d be home. With Ford. And with Spock. Her heroes.

“You’re still pale,” he said. “Lying down might be a better idea than fresh air.”

“You’re still pale,” she countered. “You were shot.”

He glanced down at his bandaged arm. “Grazed” was the more accurate word. “Yeah. Eventually, that’ll be cool. I got shot once, I’ll say, rushing in-just a little too late again-to save the love of my life before she saved herself.”

“You did save me. I’d lost it. I CSI’d her,” she added, wiggling her fingers. “But I was done. You and Spock-fierce doggie,” she murmured as she bent down to nuzzle him. “You saved my life. Now you have to keep it.”

He reached over, took her hand. “That’s the plan. I nearly went in the wrong house. That’s it, Cilla. No more two households for us. I nearly went to the wrong one. Then I would’ve been too late.”

“You figured it out, and you came for me. You can draw all the heroes you want. You’re mine.”

“Hero, goddess and superdog. We’re pretty lucky, you and me.”

“I guess we are. Ford, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for Brian.”

“We’ll help him get through it.” No question there, Ford thought, no choice. “We’ll find a way to help him get through it.”

“She carried that betrayal with her all these years. And couldn’t stand what I came here to do. In a way, this house was a symbol for both of us.” She studied it-her pretty home, the fresh paint, the windows glinting in the early morning sun.

“I needed to bring it back; she needed to watch it die. Every fresh board, every coat of paint, a slap in the face to her. The party? Can you imagine how that must have gnawed at her? Music and laughter, food and drink. And wedding talk. How could she stand it?”

“I knew them both all my life and never saw through it. So much for the writer’s power of observation.”

“They put it away. Locked it in a closet. She watched Janet die.” That still twisted in her heart. “She had it in her to watch. And she had it in her to put it away, to remake herself. To raise her family, to shop with her friends, to bake cookies and make the beds. And to drive by here, every once in a while, so she could let it out.”

“Like a pressure valve.”

“I’d say so. And I locked down the valve. My grandmother didn’t commit suicide. That’s going to be major news. Cameras, print, movie of the week-perhaps a major motion picture. More books, talk shows. Much.”

“I think I’ve got the picture by now. No warning necessary. Your grandmother didn’t commit suicide,” he repeated.

“No, she didn’t.” When her eyes filled, the tears felt like redemption. “She didn’t leave my mother, not in the way Mom always thought. She bought a lipstick-pink couch with white satin cushions. She grieved for a lost child and prepared for another.

“Not a saint,” Cilla continued. “She slept with another woman’s husband, and would have broken up his family without a qualm. Or much of one.”

“Cheating’s a two-way street. Tom betrayed his wife, his family. And even when he claimed he’d broken it off, he slept with Janet again. He had a pregnant wife and a child at home, and slept with the image-and refused to take responsibility for the consequences.”

“I wonder if it was the brutality of that last letter that snapped Janet’s feeling for him, had her come back, face him down with the facts. ’I’m pregnant, the baby’s yours, but we don’t want or need you.’”

She let out a breath. “I like to think so.”

“Plays, doesn’t it? Sure jibes with what Tom told me. Cathy took and destroyed the pregnancy results, but she didn’t know about the letters. She didn’t know about Gatsby.”

“Janet kept the letters, I think, to remind her that the child was conceived in at least the illusion of love. And to remind herself why it would belong to only her. I think, too, she made certain the farm couldn’t be sold because she wanted the child to have it one day. Johnnie was gone, and she knew my mother had no real ties to it. But she had another chance.

“And maybe there will always be questions, but I have the answers I needed. I wonder if I’ll still dream of her, the way I always have.”

“Do you want to?”

“Maybe. Sometimes. But I think I’d like to start dreaming about what might happen, about what I hope for, rather than what used to be.” She smiled when he brushed his lips over her fingers.

“Take a walk with me.” He got to his feet, drew her to hers. “Just you. Just me.” He looked down at Spock as the dog did his happy dance. “Just us.”

She walked with him across the stones, over the grass still damp with dew, with roses madly blooming and the last of the summer’s flowers unfolded like jewels. Walked with him while the sweet, ugly dog chased his invisible cats around the pond strung with lily pads.

With her hand in his, she thought this was dream enough for her. Right now. With the three of them happy and safe and together.

And home.