by Nora Roberts
quote. Be sure they do, next time.”
“You’re up early,” Cilla said by way of evading.
“I have rehearsals, costume fittings. I’m exhausted before I begin.”
“You’re a trouper. I wanted to ask you something. The last year or so, before Janet died, do you know who she was involved with?”
“Romantically? She could barely get out of bed by herself half the time in the first weeks after Johnnie. Or she’d bounce off the walls and demand people and parties. She’d cling to me one minute, and push me away the next. It scarred me, Cilla. I lost my brother and my mother so close together. And really, I lost them both the night Johnnie died.”
Because she believed that, if nothing else, that was deeply and painfully true, Cilla’s tone softened. “I know. I can’t imagine how terrible it was.”
“No one can. I was alone. Barely sixteen, and I had no one. She left me, Cilla. She chose to leave me. In that house you’re so determined to turn into a shrine.”
“That’s not what I’m doing. Who was she involved with, Mom? A secret affair, a married man. An affair that went south.”
“She had affairs. Why wouldn’t she? She was beautiful and vital, and she needed love.”
“A specific affair, during this specific period.”
“I don’t know.” Dilly’s voice clipped on the words now. “I try not to think about that time. It was hell for me. Why do you care? Why dredge that kind of thing up again? I hate the theories and the speculations.”
Tread carefully, Cilla reminded herself. “I’m just curious. You hear talk, and she did spend a lot of time here in that last year, year and a half. She wasn’t really involved with anyone back in L.A., that I’ve heard about. It wasn’t like her to be without a man, a lover, for very long.”
“Men couldn’t resist her. Why should she resist them? Then they’d let her down. They always do. They make promises they don’t keep. They cheat, they steal, and God knows they can’t stand for the woman to be more successful.”
“So how are things with you and Num—with Mario?”
“He’s the exception to the rule. I’ve finally found the kind of man I need. Mama never did. She never found a man worthy of her.”
“And never stopped looking,” Cilla prompted. “She would have wanted the comfort, the love and support, especially after Johnnie died. Maybe she looked here, in Virginia.”
“I don’t know. She never took me with her back to the farm after Johnnie. She said she had to be alone. I didn’t want to go back anyway. It was too painful. That’s why I haven’t been back in all these years. It’s still a fresh wound in my heart.”
And we come full circle, Cilla thought. “Like I said, I’m just curious. So if something or someone occurs to you, let me know. I’d better let you get to rehearsal.”
“Oh, let them wait! Mario had the best idea. It’s phenomenal, and such a good opportunity for you. We’ll work a duet for you and me into the show, in the second act. A medley of Mama’s songs with clips and stills from her movies on screen behind us. We’ll finish with ‘I’ll Get By,’ making it a trio, putting her onstage with us, the way they did with Elvis and Céline Dion. He’s talking to HBO, Cilla, about broadcasting.”
“Mom—”
“We’ll need you back here next week for rehearsals, and costume design, choreography. We’re still working out the composition, but the number would run about four minutes. Four spectacular minutes, Cilla. We want to give you a real chance for a comeback.”
Cilla closed her eyes, debated sawing off her tongue, letting it fly—and settled on somewhere in the middle. “I appreciate that, I really do. But I don’t want to come back, geographically or professionally. I don’t want to perform. I want to build.”
“You’d be building.” Enthusiasm bubbled across the continent. “Your career, and helping me. The three Hardy women, Cilla. It’s landmark.”
My name’s McGowan, Cilla thought. “I think you’d be better spotlighted alone. And the duet with Janet? That could be lovely, heart-wrenching.”
“It’s four minutes, Cilla. You can spare me four fucking minutes a night for a few weeks. And it will turn your life around. Mario says—”
“I’ve just finished turning my life around, and I like where it’s standing. I’ve got to go. I’ve got work.”
“Don’t you—”
Cilla closed the phone, deliberately shoved it back into her pocket. She heard the throat clear behind her and, turning, saw Matt in the doorway. “They just got the grouting done on the tile in the bathroom upstairs. Thought you’d want to take a look.”
“Yeah. We’ll be installing the fixtures tomorrow then.”
“That’d be right.”
“Let me get my sledgehammer. We can start taking down that wall up there. I’m in the mood for demo.”
THERE WAS LITTLE, Cilla decided, more satisfying than beating the hell out of something. It relieved frustration, brought a quick and wild rise of glee, and fulfilled all manner of dark fantasies. The fact was, it was—on several levels—every bit as therapeutic as good sex.
And since she wasn’t having any sex—good or otherwise—at the moment, knocking down walls did the job. She could be having sex, she thought as she strode out of the house trailing plaster dust. Ford and his magic mouth had made that fairly clear.
But she was on a kind of moratorium there—as part of the turn-the-life-around program, she supposed. New world, new life, new style. And in there, she’d found the real Cilla McGowan.
She liked her.
She had the house to rehab, her contractor’s license to study for, a business to establish. And a family mystery to unravel. Scheduling in sex with her hot neighbor wouldn’t be the smartest move.
Of course, he just had to be standing out on his veranda when she walked out, thinking of sex. And the low-down tingle had her asking herself if it was really, completely, absolutely necessary to abstain. They were both adults, unattached, interested, so why couldn’t she walk on over there and suggest they spend the evening together? Doing something more energetic than sharing a beer?
Just straight out. No dance, no pretenses, no illusions. Isn’t that what the real Cilla wanted? She angled her head as she considered. And plaster dust rained down from the bill of her cap.
Maybe she should shower first.
“You’re weak and pitiful,” Cilla muttered and, amused at herself, started to circle around to the back of the house and the landscaping crew.
She heard the deep-throated roar of a prime engine, glanced back. The sleek black bullet of a Harley shot down the road and seemed to ricochet through her open gates. Even as it spit gravel, she ran toward it, laughing.
Its occupant jumped off the bike, landed on scarred combat boots and caught Cilla on the fly.
“Hello, doll.” He swung her in one quick circle, then kissed her enthusiastically.
EIGHT
Who the hell was that? And why in the hell was she kissing him?
Ford stood holding his after-coffee-before-beer Coke and stared at the man Cilla was currently attached to—like, like sumac on an oak.
What was with the ponytail anyway? And the army boots? And why were the hands—the guy wore a bunch of rings, for Christ’s sake—rubbing Cilla’s ass?
“Turn around, buddy. Turn around so I can get a better look at your Wayfarer-wearing face.”
At Ford’s tone, Spock gave a low, supportive growl.
“Jesus, his whole arm’s tattooed right up to the sleeve of his black T-shirt. See that? You see that?” he demanded, and Spock muttered darkly.
And that glint? Oh yeah, that was an earring.
“Move the hands, pal. You’re going to want to move those hands, otherwise . . .” Ford looked down at his own, surprised to see he’d crushed the can of Coke, and the contents were foaming over his own fingers.
Interesting, he thought. Jealousy? He wasn’t the jealous type. Was he? Okay, maybe he’d had a couple of bouts wit
h it in high school, and that one time in college. But that was just part of growing up. He sure as hell wouldn’t get worked up about some over-tattooed earring guy kissing a woman he’d known for a month.
Okay, maybe she’d gotten under his skin. And Spock’s, he conceded as his dog stood at full alert, snarling and grumbling. But a good part of that could be attributed to the work, and her starring role in it. If he felt territorial, it was just a by-product of the work, nothing more or less.
Maybe a little more, but a man didn’t like to stand around and watch a woman slap her lips to some strange guy’s when they’d been slapped to his a couple of days before. The least she could do was stop flaunting it in his face and take it inside where . . .
“Shit. Shit. They’re going inside.”
“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE HERE.”
“I told you I’d swing down if I had time.”
“I didn’t think you’d have time, or remember to swing down.”
Steve tipped down his Wayfarers and looked at Cilla over them with his deep and dreamy brown eyes. “When have I ever forgotten you?”
“Do you want a list?”
He laughed, gave her a hip bump as they crossed the veranda. “When it counted. Whoa.” He stopped just inside the doorway, scanned the living area, its pockets of drying plaster, the patchwork of scarred floors and splattered drop cloths. “Excellent.”
“It is, isn’t it? And it will be.”
“Nice space. Floors’ll clean up. Walnut?”
“They are.”
“Sweet.” He wandered through, passing casual how’s-it-goings to the workers still on-site cleaning up for the day.
He walked lightly, and looked slight. Looks, Cilla knew, were deceiving. Under the T-shirt and jeans, he was ripped. Steve Chensky honed his body with the devotion of an evangelist.
Cilla thought if he’d worked half as hard on his music, he’d have made it from struggling artist to serious rock star. Or so she’d told him, countless times. Then again, if he’d listened to her, their lives might have turned out very differently.
He stopped in the kitchen, took his measure of the place with his sunglasses hooked in his T-shirt. “What’s the plan here?”
“Take a look.” She flipped through the notebook sitting on the one remaining counter, found her best sketch of the concept.
“Nice, Cill. This is nice. Good flow, good work space. Stainless steel?”
“No. I’m having the fifties appliances retrofitted. Jesus, Steve, they rock. I’m looking at faucets. I’m thinking of going copper there. Kind of old-timey.”
“Cost ya.”
“Yeah, but it’s a good investment.”
“Granite countertops?”
“I toyed around with doing polished concrete, but for this? You’ve got to go with granite. I haven’t picked it out yet, but the cabinets are in the works. Glass fronts, see, copper leading. I nearly went white there, but I want the warmth, so they’re cherry.”
“Gonna have something.” He gave her an elbow bump this time. “You always had an eye.”
“You opened the door so I could use it.”
“I opened it. You knocked it down. I drove by the Brentwood house before I headed to New York. Old time’s sake. It still looks fine. So, gotta beer?”
She opened the mini fridge, pulled out a beer for each of them. “When do you have to head back to L.A.?”
“I got a couple of weeks. I’ll trade labor for digs.”
“Seriously? You’re hired.”
“Like old times,” he said, and tapped his beer to hers. “Show me the rest.”
Ford bided his time. He waited a full hour after the crews headed out for the day. No harm in wandering over, he told himself. Paying a friendly visit. He scowled at the Harley, and after Spock peed copiously on its front tire, crouched down to exchange a quick high five with his loyal best friend.
It wasn’t as if he’d never driven a motorcycle. He’d taken a few spins in his day. Okay, one spin. He just didn’t like bugs in his teeth.
But he could drive one if he wanted to.
He jammed his hands in his pockets and resisted giving the Harley a testing kick. He heard the music—ass-kicking rock this time—and instead of going to the front, followed the sound around back.
They sprawled on the steps of the veranda with a couple of bottles of beer and a bag of Doritos. His flavor of Doritos, Ford noted. With her head tipped back against the post, Cilla laughed so the sound of it poured right over the music. And straight into Ford’s gut.
Tattoo Guy grinned at her, in a way that spoke of love, intimacy and history.
“You never change. What if you’d . . . Hey, Ford.”
“Hey.”
Spock stiff-walked over to Tattoo Guy. “Steve, this is Ford, my neighbor across the road. And that would be Spock. Steve detoured down from New York on his way back to L.A.”
“How you doing? Hey, guy, hey, pal.” He ruffled Spock’s big head with his ringed hand. Ford’s lips curled in disgust when his dog—his loyal best friend—dropped his head lovingly on Steve’s knee.
“Want a beer?” Steve offered, giving Spock a full-body rub.
“Sure. Are you driving the Harley cross-country?”
“The only way to travel.” Steve opened a beer, passed it to Ford. “My girl out there, she’s my one true love. Except for Cill here.”
Cilla snorted. “I notice you still put the bike first.”
“She’ll never leave me, like you did.” Steve clamped a hand on Cilla’s knee. “We used to be married.”
“You and the bike?”
The cool remark had Steve tossing back his head and laughing. “We’re still married. Cill and I only were.”
“Yeah, for about five minutes.”
“Come on. It was at least fifteen. Pull up a step,” Steve invited.
The polite thing to do, the sensible thing to do, would be to back off, back away. But Ford was damned if he’d be polite or sensible. He sat. And the brief sour look he sent Spock had the dog hanging his head. “So you live in L.A.”
“That’s my town.”
“Steve got me into flipping. Houses,” Cilla added. “He needed some slave labor on a flip one day, drafted me. I liked it. So he let me go into the next one with him.”
“When you were married.”
“God no, years after that.”
“You were writing a script when we were married.”
“No, I was doing voice-overs and recording. I started the script after.”
“Right, right. I worked on a session with Cilla, picking up some change and contacts while I was trying to get my band off the ground.”
“You’re a musician.” It just figured.
“Right now I’m a licensed contractor who plays guitar on the side, and does the HGTV thing.”
“Rock the House,” Cilla supplied. “Home-improvement type show that takes the viewer through stages of a rehab, remodel, a flip. Named after Steve’s construction company.”
TV guy, Ford thought. That just figured.
“Construction was my day job, back in rock-star-hopeful days,” Steve continued. “And I talked Cill into bankrolling my first flip when I saw how the real estate market was heading and when the band flushed away. Hit that mother in the sweet spot. Is that your Victorian across the street?”
“Yeah.”
