The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “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 wed gies.”

  “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 i
s 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.”