She turned her hand over, laced her fingers with his. “Plus, I like the sex.”
“It can’t be overstated.”
“Okay then.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve got to get back. Get ready. Get started.”
“Let me get some shoes on. I’ll walk you home.”
MATT STOOD in the center of the master bath, hands on his hips, face grim. “I’m awful damn sorry about this, Cilla. I don’t know what gets into people, I swear I don’t. We’re going to fix that wall for you, don’t worry. And Stan’ll come back and do the tile. I can get one of my men to chip out what’s damaged in place, but it’d be better to leave the glass block for Stan. I’ll give him a call for you.”
“I’d appreciate that. I need to go pick up the replacement tile and block, some supplies. Arrange for a security system.”
“I hear that. People didn’t lock their doors half the time around here when I was a kid. Times change. Another damn shame when it comes to things like this. You said they busted out a pane in the back door? I’ll get somebody to replace that for you.”
“I’m going to order a new door, and a lock set for that and the front. The plywood’s okay for now. You’ll need to take down that drywall rather than try to repair it. There’s enough on site.”
“Sure there is. Anything else I can do, Cilla, you just let me know. Got the other bathroom up here, too?”
“Yeah. Got it good.”
“I guess we’d better take a look.”
They assessed damage, talked repairs. As she gathered her lists and checked on other areas of the project, crew offered sympathy, asked questions, expressed outrage and disgust. By the time she left, her ears were ringing from it, and with the more comforting sound of whirling drills and buzzing saws.
INEVITABLY, SHE HAD to explain to her usual consultant at the flooring center why she needed to buy considerable square footage of tile she’d already bought, as well as grout. It slowed the process, but Cilla supposed that, too, was inevitable. Even in L.A. she’d formed relationships with specific tile guys, lumber guys, appliance guys. It went with the trade, and good relationships paid off the time spent.
She ran into the same situation at the home supply store when she stopped in to buy the replacement sink and other items on her list. While she waited for the clerk to check stock, she cruised the faucets. Chrome, nickel, brass, copper. Brushed, satin, antiqued. Single handles, vessel style. Matching towel bars, robe hooks.
All the shapes, the textures, the tones, gave her the same rush of pleasure others might find browsing the glittery offerings in Tiffany’s.
Copper. Maybe she’d go with copper on her office bath. With a stone vessel-style sink and—
“Cilla?”
She broke off from her visualization to see Tom Morrow and Buddy coming down the aisle. “I thought that was you,” Tom said. “Buying or deciding?”
“Both, actually.”
“Same for me. I’m outfitting a spec out. Usually my bath and kitchen designer takes care of this, but she’s out on maternity leave. Plus, I like to get my hand in occasionally. You know how it is.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Got my consultant here,” he said with a wink. “Buddy’ll make sure I don’t go buying a center set when I need a wide, or vice versa.”
“You’ve done it before,” Buddy pointed out.
“And you never let me forget. I heard you ladies had a fine time on Saturday.”
“We did.”
“Cathy always says shopping’s her hobby. I’ve got golf, she’s got the mall and the outlets.”
“Don’t see the point in either.” Buddy shook his head. “Fishing’s got a point.”
“Excuse me.” The clerk strode up. “Everything’s in stock, Ms. McGowan. You got the last we have of the wall-hung sink.”
“What wall-hung?” Buddy wanted to know. “I’m plumbing for a pedestal in the third bath.”
“It’s a replacement. The sink you installed in the second-floor guest bath was damaged.”
If he’d been a rooster, Cilla thought, Buddy’s cockscomb would have quivered.
“How the hell did that happen? Nothing wrong with it when I put it in.”
Okay, Cilla thought, one more time. “I had a break-in Saturday. Some vandalism.”
“My God! Were you hurt?” Tom demanded.
“No, I wasn’t home. I was out with your wife and Patty and Angie.”
“They busted up a sink?” Buddy pulled off his cap to scratch his head. “What the hell for?”
“I couldn’t say. But both second-floor baths we’d finished took a hit. They used my sledge and pickax from the look of it, smashed a lot of tile, one of the walls, the sink, some glass block.”
“This is terrible. It’s not the sort of thing that happens around here. The police—”
“Are doing what they can,” she said to Tom. “So they tell me, anyway.” Since she wanted the word spread, she kept going. “I’ll be installing a security system.”
“Can’t blame you. I’m so sorry to hear this, Cilla.”
“Wouldn’t want my daughter living out that far on her own.” Buddy shrugged. “Just saying. Especially after what happened to Steve.”
“Bad things happen everywhere. I’ve got to get my supplies and finish my run. Good luck with the spec.”
“Cilla, if there’s anything we can do, Cathy or I, you just give a call. We’re a growing area, but that doesn’t mean we don’t take care of our own.”
“Thank you.”
It warmed her, and stayed warm inside her, even as her supplies were loaded, even as she drove away.
Our own.
EIGHTEEN
C
illa gave herself the pleasure of removing the old, battered doors with their worn or missing weather stripping, and installing their replacements. She salvaged the old, stored them in the barn.
You just never knew, to her mind, when you might need an old door.
She’d opted for mahogany—damn the budget—in an elegantly simple Craftman style. The three-over-three seeded glass panes on the entrance door would let in the light, and still afford some privacy.
Sucker fit, she thought with pleasure after one of the laborers helped her haul it into position. Fit like a fricking dream. She waited until she was alone to stroke her hands over the wood and purr, “Hello, gorgeous. You’re all mine now.” Humming under her breath, she went to work on the lock set.
She’d gone with the oil-rubbed bronze she’d chosen for other areas of the house and, as she began the install on the lock set, decided she’d made the perfect choice. The dark tones of the bronze showed off well against the subtle red hues in the mahogany.
“That’s a nice-looking door.”
She looked over her shoulder to see her father stepping out of his car. Cilla was so used to seeing him in what she thought of as his teacher clothes, it took her a minute to adjust her brain to the jeans, T-shirt and ball cap he wore.
“Curb appeal,” she called back.
“You’re certainly getting that.” He paused to look over the front lawns. The grass had been neatly mowed, with its bare patches resowed and the tender new shoots protected by a thin layer of straw. The plantings had begun there, too, with young azaleas and rhododendrons, a clutch of hydrangeas already heading up, a slim red maple with its leaves glowing in the sunlight.
“Still got some work, and I won’t put in the flower beds until next spring, unless I manage to put in some fall stuff. But it’s coming along.”
“You’ve done an amazing job so far.” He joined her on the veranda, close enough she caught a whiff of what she thought might be Irish Spring. He studied the door, the lock set. “That looks sturdy. I’m glad to see it. What about the security system? Word gets around,” he added when she raised her eyebrows.
“I was hoping that word would. It might be as much of a deterrent as the system itself. Which went in yesterday.”
His hazel eyes tracked to hers, solemnly. “I wish you’d called me, Cilla, about the vandalism.”
“Nothing you could’ve done about it. Give me a second here, I’m nearly done.” She whirled the last screws in place, then set aside the cordless screwdriver before admiring the result. “Yeah, it looks good. I almost went with a plate style, but thought it would look too heavy. This is better.” She opened and closed the door a couple of times. “Good. I’m using the same style on the back entry, but decided to go with an atrium on . . . sorry. You couldn’t possibly be interested.”
“I am. I’m interested in what you’re doing.”
A little surprised by the hurt in his tone, she turned to give him her full attention. “I just meant the odd details—knob or lever style, sliding, swinging, luminary. Do you want to come in?” She opened the door again. “It’s noisy, but it’s cooler.”
“Cilla, what can I do?”
“I . . . Look, I’m sorry.” God, she was lousy at this father-daughter thing. How could she be otherwise? “I didn’t mean to imply you don’t care what I’m doing.”
“Cilla.” Gavin closed the door again to block off the noise from inside. “What can I do to help you?”
She felt guilty, and a little panicked, as her mind went blank. “Help me with what?”
He let out a sigh, shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m not a do-it-yourselfer, but I can hammer a nail or put in a screw. I can fetch and carry. I can make iced tea or go pick up sandwiches. I can use a broom.”
“You . . . want to work on the house?”
“School’s out for the summer, and I didn’t take on any summer classes. I have some time to help, and I’d like to help.”
“Well . . . why?”
“I’m aware you have plenty of people, people who know what they’re doing, that you’re paying to do it. But, I’ve never done anything for you. I sent child support. I was legally obligated to. I hope you know, or can believe, I’d have sent it without that obligation. I didn’t teach you to ride a bike, or to drive a car. I never put toys together for you on Christmas Eve or your birthday—or the few times I did you were too young to possibly remember. I never helped you with your homework or lay in bed waiting for you to come home from a date so I could sleep. I never did any of those things for you, or hundreds more. So I’d like to do something for you now. Something tangible. If you’ll let me.”
Her heart fluttered, the oddest combination of pleasure and distress. It seemed vital she think of something, the right something, and her mind went on a desperate scavenger hunt. “Ah. Ever done any painting?”
She watched the tension in his face melt into a delighted smile. “As a matter of fact, I’m an excellent painter. Do you want references?”
She smiled back at him. “I’ll give you a trial run. Follow me.”
She led him in and through to the living room. She hadn’t scheduled painting this area quite yet, but there was no reason against it. “The plasterwork’s done, and I’ve removed the trim. Had to. Some of it needed to be stripped, and that’s done. I’m still working on making what I need to replicate and replace damaged areas, then I’ll stain and seal. Anyway, you won’t have to tape or cut in around trim. Oh, and don’t worry about the brick on the fireplace, either. I’m going to cover that with granite. Or marble. There’s no work going on in this area right now, so you won’t be in anyone’s way, and they shouldn’t be in yours. We can drop-cloth the floors and the supplies stored here.”
She set her fists on her hips. “Got your stepladder, your pans, rollers, brushes right over there. Primer’s in those ten-gallon cans, and marked. Finish paint’s labeled with the L.R. for living room. I hit a sale on Duron, so I bought it in advance. You won’t get past starting the primer anyway.”
She ran through her mental checklist. “So . . . do you want me to help you set up?”
“I can handle it.”
“Okay. Listen, it’s a big job, so knock off anytime you get tired of it. I’m going to be working on the back door if you need anything meanwhile.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Ah . . . I’ll check in after I’m done with the kitchen door.”
She pulled away twice during the process of replacing the door—once for the sheer pleasure of walking up and down her newly completed outside stairs. They required staining, sealing, and the doorway cut into what would be her office suite would be blocked with plywood until she installed
that
door. But the stairs themselves delighted her so much she executed an impromptu dance number on the way down, to the applause and whistles of the crew.
Her father and the painting slipped her mind for over three hours. With twin pangs of guilt and concern, she hurried into the living room, fully expecting to see a weekend DIYer’s amateurish mess. Instead, she saw a competently dropped area, a primed ceiling and two primed walls.
And her father, whistling a cheery tune, as he rolled primer on the next wall.
“You’re hired,” she said from behind him.
He lowered the roller, chuckled, turned. “Will work for lemonade.” He picked up a tall glass. “I got some out of the kitchen. And caught your act.”
“Sorry?”
“Your Ginger Rogers down the stairs. Outside. You looked so happy.”
“I am. The pitch, the landings, the switchbacks. An engineering feat, brought to you by Cilla McGowan and Matt Brewster.”
“I forgot you could dance like that. I haven’t seen you dance since . . . You were still a teenager when I came to your concert in D.C. I remember coming backstage before curtain. You were white as a sheet.”
“Stage fright. I hated that concert series. I hated performing.”
“You just did.”
“Perform? No, there’s performing and there’s playing around. That was playing around. Which you’re obviously not, here. This is a really good job. And you?” She walked over for a closer inspection—and damn if she couldn’t still smell the soap on him. “You barely have a dot of paint on you.”
“Years of experience, between painting sets at school and Patty’s redecorating habit. It looks so different in here,” he added. “With the doorway there widened, the way it changes the shape of the room and opens it.”