Tribute (47 page)

“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 thinking furniture, 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.

Cilla laid the letter beside the card.

“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 upper-case 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.”