Tribute

by Nora Roberts

  organize it, but I doubt you know everything that’s here, or exactly where you put it the last time you worked in here.”

  “Okay, no, I don’t.” She set her hands on her hips to study the piles and stacks, the arrangement. Had she stacked those boxes that way? Had she turned that broken rocker to the left?

  How the hell did she know?

  “I’ve got a lot to go through, but I haven’t found anything especially valuable yet. And okay,” she continued before Steve could speak, “a teaspoon Janet Hardy dipped into a sugar bowl would be worth a spot of breaking and entering for a lot of people.”

  “Who knows you’ve got stuff in here?”

  “Everyone.” Ford answered Steve’s question. “There’s a bunch of people working in the house, and that bunch of people saw Cilla hauling this stuff out here—even helped. So anyone any of them talked to knows, and anyone the anyones talked to and so on.”

  “I’ll get a padlock.”

  “Good idea. How about the letters?”

  “What letters?” Steve wanted to know.

  “Did you tell anyone besides me about the letters you found in the attic?”

  “My father, but I hardly think—”

  “You found letters in the attic?” Steve interrupted. “Like secret letters? Man, this is like one of those BBC mystery shows.”

  “You never watch BBC mysteries.”

  “I do if they have hot Brit chicks in them. What letters?”

  “Letters written to my grandmother by the man she had an affair with in the year before she died. And yeah, secret letters. She had them hidden. I’ve only told Ford and my father—who probably told my stepmother. But it wouldn’t go further than that.” She hoped. “Except . . .” She blew out a breath. “I realized when I was telling my father we were standing right beside an open window so I pulled him away to finish. But if one of the men was anywhere near the window, they would have heard enough.”

  She rubbed her eyes. “Stupid. Plus, I pushed my mother yesterday morning about whether Janet had a lover—and one from out here—before she died. She’d blab, if the mood struck. Added to that, she’s pissed at me.”

  Reaching over, Steve patted her shoulder. “Nothing new there, doll.”

  “I know. But in her current mood, she might have sent someone out here to poke around, looking for something of value.”

  “Give me the letters, and anything else you’re worried about. No one’s going to look at my place for them,” Ford added when she frowned at him.

  “Maybe. Let me think about it.”

  “Anyway,” Steve said, “we can cross off the wild-eyed mountain man with a meat cleaver. Right? Or we can as soon as Ford climbs up there and makes sure there aren’t any dead bodies or severed body parts.”

  “Oh, for Christ sake.” Cilla turned toward the ladder.

  Ford blocked her, nudged her back. “I’ll do it.”

  He tested his weight on each rung on the climb, as he pictured himself crashing through and breaking any variety of bones on the concrete floor. As he reached the top, he cursed roundly.

  “What is it?” Cilla called up.

  “Nothing. Splinter. There’s nothing up here. Not even the lonely severed head of an itinerant fieldworker.”

  When he’d climbed down again, Cilla took his hand, winced at the chunk of ladder in the meat of his palm. “That’s in there. Come on inside and I’ll dig it out for you.”

  “I can just—”

  “While you guys play doctor, I’ll go strap on my tool belt and do a man’s work.”

  Cilla glanced back at Steve. “About damn time.”

  “Had to make the doughnut run. Later,” he said to Ford and strolled out.

  “Did he bring you doughnuts?” Cilla asked.

  “Yeah. A bribe for use of the gym.”

  “Mmm. Come on in, and bring the chunk of my ladder. I assume he also woke you up.”

  “You assume correctly.” Ford shoved the barn door closed behind them. “And from a very interesting dream involving you, a red room and a brass headboard. But the jelly doughnuts almost made up for it.”

  “Steve believes in the power of the doughnut. So, just what was I doing in a red room with a brass headboard?”

  “Hard to describe. But I think I could demonstrate.”

  She looked into his eyes, bold green against gold rims. “I don’t have a red room. Neither do you.”

  “I’ll go buy the paint.”

  Laughing, she reached for the mudroom door, and quickly found herself with her back to the wall of the house. It came as a constant surprise just how potent, how dangerous that mouth could be. The same mouth, she thought dimly as it assaulted hers, that smiled so charmingly, that spoke in such an easy drawl about everyday things. Then it closed over hers and spiked through her system like a fever.

  He gave her bottom lip a light nip before he stepped back. “I thought it was Steve headed to the barn last night. To bunk down.”

  “Why would Steve sleep in the barn?” It took another minute for her brain to fire on all circuits again. “Oh. We’re all grown-ups, Ford. I’m not asking Steve to sleep in the barn.”

  “Yeah, I got that. But he’s going to borrow my old sleeping bag. I haven’t used it for about fifteen years, or since sleeping in a bag on the ground lost its thrill for me. He’ll like it. It’s Spider-Man.”

  “You have a Spider-Man sleeping bag?”

  “I got it for my eighth birthday. It was a highlight, and has never lost its luster.” He leaned down, brushed her lips with his and opened the door behind her. “I’m more than happy to get it out of storage so Steve can use it while he’s here.”

  “Neighborly of you.”

  “Not especially.”

  She opened the first aid kit, checked the contents. “I’ve got what I need here. Let’s do this outside. In the light.” When they stepped out onto the veranda, she gestured for him to sit. She doused a cotton ball with peroxide and cleaned the wound.

  “It’s not neighborly,” Ford continued, “because the motives are entirely self-serving. I don’t want him sleeping with you.”

  She shifted her gaze up to his even as she began to clean a needle and tweezers with alcohol. “Is that so?”

  “If you wanted to sleep with him, then I’d be out of luck.”

  “How do you know I don’t? That I didn’t?”

  “Because you want to sleep with me. Ow!” He looked down at his hand and the hole she’d made at the top of the splinter with the needle. “Jesus.”

  “It’s too deep to milk out, and needs a route. Suck it up. If I want to sleep with you, why haven’t I?”

  He eyed the needle in her hand warily. “Because you’re not ready. I can wait until you are. But—and don’t jab me with that again—I’m goddamned if I want you sleeping with someone else, old time’s sake or not, while I’m waiting. I want my hands on you, all over you. And I want you thinking about that.”

  “So you’ll lend Steve your treasured Spider-Man sleeping bag so I can think about it without caving in to my needs and sleeping with him because he’s handy.”

  “Close enough.”

  “Look at that.”

  He turned his head to look in the direction she indicated. The sharp, quick sting had him jolting. When he cursed, Cilla held the hefty splinter in the teeth of her tweezers. “Souvenir?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You’re done.” She packed up the kit, then grabbed him by the hair, crushed her mouth greedily to his. Just as quickly, she broke the kiss, rose. “And you can think about that while you’re waiting.”

  With a cool smile, she walked back into the house, let the screen door slap shut behind her.

  NINE

  Cilla grew so accustomed to the cars that slowed or stopped at the end of her driveway she barely registered them. The lookie-loos, gawkers, even the ones she imagined took photos, didn’t have to be a problem. Sooner or later, she thought, they’d grow accustomed to her, so
the best solution to her way of thinking was to ignore them, or to toss out the occasional and casual wave.

  To become part of the community, she determined, she had to demonstrate her intent and desire. So she shopped at the local supermarket, hired local labor, bought the majority of her materials from local sources. And chatted up the sales-clerks, the subcontractors, and signed autographs for those who still thought of her as TV Katie.

  She considered it symbolic, a statement of that intent, when she took Ford’s advice and followed her first instincts and had the gates removed. To follow up, she planted weeping cherry trees to flank the drive. A statement, Cilla thought, as she stood on the shoulder of the road and studied the results. New life. And next spring, when they burst into bloom again, she’d be here to see it. From her vantage point, she looked down at the house. There would be gardens and young trees as well as the grand old magnolia. Her grand old magnolia, she thought, with its waxy white blooms sweetening the air. The paint on the house would be fresh and clean instead of dingy and peeling. Chairs on the veranda, and pots of mixed flowers. And when she could squeeze a little more out of the budget, pavers in earthy tones on the drive cutting through lush green lawns.

  Eventually, when people slowed down to look, it would be because they admired a pretty house in a pretty setting, and not because they wondered what the hell the Hollywood woman was doing with the house where Janet Hardy had swallowed too many pills and chased them with vodka.

  She stepped back toward the wall at the sound of an approaching car, then turned at the quick beep-beep as the little red Honda pulled to the shoulder.

  It took her a moment—and brought on a twist of guilt—to recognize the pretty blonde in cropped pants and a crocheted cami who hopped out of the car.

  “Hi!” On a bubble of laughter, Angela McGowan, Cilla’s half sister, rushed forward to catch Cilla in a squeeze.

  “Angie.” The fresh, sassy scent enveloped her as completely as the arms. “You cut your hair. Let me look at you. No! Don’t hug me again. I’m filthy.”

  “You really are.” On another bubble of laughter, Angie pulled back, met Cilla’s eyes with her own enormous hazel ones. Their father’s eyes, Cilla thought. Their father’s daughter. “And you smell a little, too.” Beaming, just beaming, Angie gripped Cilla’s hands. “You shouldn’t still be so beautiful, considering.”

  “You look amazing.” Cilla brushed her fingertips over the very abbreviated ends of Angie’s hair. “It’s so short.”

  “Takes two seconds to deal with in the morning.” Angie gave her head a quick shake so the sunny cap lifted, ruffled, settled. “I had to practically have a blindfold and a cigarette to get it done.”

  “It’s fabulous. What are you doing here? I thought you were at college?”

  “Semester’s done for me, so I’m home for a while. I can’t believe you’re here. And this.” She gestured toward the house. “You’re actually living here, and fixing it up and . . . all.”

  “There’s a lot of All.”

  “These are so pretty. So much prettier than that old gate.” Angie touched one of the curved branches with its blossoms of soft, spring pink. “Everyone’s talking about what’s going on here. I’ve only been home for a day, and already I’ve had my ears burned by all the talk.”

  “Good talk or bad talk?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be good?” Angie cocked her head. “This place was an eyesore. So yeah, it’s not so pretty right now, either, but you’re doing something. Nobody else has. Is it hard? I don’t mean the work, because obviously . . . I mean is it hard being here, living here?”

  “No.” But Angie would ask, Cilla knew. Angie would care. “In fact, it’s easy. It feels right, more than anything or anywhere else. It’s strange.”

  “I don’t think so. I think everyone’s supposed to be somewhere, and the lucky ones find out where it is. So you’re lucky.”

  “I guess I am.” The bright side of optimism, Cilla remembered, was where Angie lived. Her father’s daughter. Their father’s daughter, Cilla corrected. “Do you want to come in, take a look? It’s in serious flux right now, but we’re making progress.”

  “I would, and I will another time. I’m on my way to meet some friends, but I detoured, hoping to see you for a minute. Didn’t expect to see you on the side of the road, so I guess I’m lucky, too. So if . . . uh-oh.”

  Cilla followed the direction of Angie’s glance, noted the white van that slowed and pulled to the shoulder across the road.

  “Do you know who that is?” Cilla asked. “I’ve seen that van pull up out here before, several times before.”

  “Yeah, that’s Mr. Hennessy’s van. His son was—”

  “I know. One of the boys with Janet’s son, in the accident. Okay. Stay here.”

  “Oh God, Cilla, don’t go over there.” Angie grabbed at Cilla’s arm. “He’s just awful. Mean son of a bitch. I mean, sure, what happened was terrible, but he hates us.”

  “Us?”

  “All of us. It’s a by-association kind of thing, Dad says. You should stay out of his way.”

  “He’s in mine, Angie.”

  Cilla crossed over, met the bitter eyes in the thin, pinched-mouth face through the windshield as she crossed to the driver’s-side door. A lift van, she saw now. One designed to handle his son’s wheelchair.

  The slope of the shoulder put her at a disadvantage—slightly off-balance and several inches lower than the man who glared out at her.

  “Mr. Hennessy, I’m Cilla McGowan.”

  “I know who you are. Look just like her, don’t you?”

  “I was sorry to hear you lost your son last year.”

  “Lost him in 1972 when your worthless kin crushed his spine. Drunk and high and not giving a damn about anything but himself, because that’s how he was raised. Not to give a damn.”

  “That may be. I know those three boys paid a terrible price that night. I can’t—”

  “You’re no better than she was, thinking you’re better’n anybody else ’cause you’ve got money to spend, and expecting people to kowtow.”

  The well of Cilla’s sympathy began to dry up. “You don’t know me.”

  “Hell I don’t. I know you, your kind, your blood. You think you can come here where that woman whored around, let her kids run like wolves, where she cost my boy his arms and legs, his life?” His anger slapped out, bony fingers, in short, brittle blows. “You think you can buy some wood, some paint and use it to cover up the stink of that place? Shoulda burned it down years back. Burned it to the godforsaken ground.”

  “It’s a house, Mr. Hennessy. It’s wood and glass.” And you, she thought with no sympathy at all, are a lunatic.

  “It’s as cursed as she was. As you are.” He spat out the window, barely missed the toe of Cilla’s boot. “Go back where you came from. We don’t want you or your kind here.”

  He pulled out so fast, fishtailing, that Cilla had to scramble back. She slid on the slope, lost her balance and went down on her knees as Angie ran across the road.

  “Are you okay? Jesus, Jesus, he didn’t hit you, did he?”

  “No. No.” But her eyes were narrowed, iced blue, on the speeding van. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m calling the police.” Quivering with indignation, Angie pulled a hot pink cell phone out of her pocket. “He spat at you! I saw him, and he nearly ran you over, and—”

  “Don’t.” Cilla put a hand to the phone as Angie flipped it open. “Let it go.” She sighed, rubbed at her knee. “Just let it go.”

  “Are you hurt? You went down hard. We need to look at your knee.”

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “Seriously. I’ll drive you down to the house, and we’ll see if you need to have it checked out. That old bastard.”

  “The knee’s fine. I’m not hurt, I’m pissed off.”

  As if to stabilize, Angie took a couple of whooshing breaths while she studied Cilla. “You don’t look pissed off.”

  �
�Believe me. Whoring around, wolves, cursed, your kin. Asshole.”

  Angie laughed. “That’s more like it. I’m driving you down to the house, now don’t argue.”