Tribute Part 32

"How the h.e.l.l did that happen? Nothing wrong with it when I put it in."

Okay, Cilla thought, one more time. "I had a break-in Sat.u.r.day. Some vandalism."

"My G.o.d! 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 h.e.l.l 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 gla.s.s 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.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Cilla 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-d.a.m.n the budget-in an elegantly simple Craftman style. The three-over-three seeded gla.s.s 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, "h.e.l.lo, 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 gra.s.s 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 st.u.r.dy. 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-k.n.o.b 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." G.o.d, 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 cla.s.ses. 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 gla.s.s. "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 d.a.m.n 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."

"Too different?"

"No, honey. Homes are meant to change, to reflect the people who live in them. And I think you'll understand what I mean when I say she's still here. Janet's still here." He touched her shoulder, then just left his hand there, connecting them. "So are my grandparents, my father. Even me, a little. What I see here is a revival."

"Want to see where the stairs lead? My garret?"

"I'd like that."

She got a kick out of showing him around, seeing his interest in her design and plans for her office. It surprised her to realize his approval brought her such satisfaction. In the way, she supposed, it was satisfying to show off to someone ready to be impressed.

"So you'll keep working on houses," he said as they started down the unfinished attic steps.

"That's the plan. Rehabbing either for myself to flip, or for clients. Remodeling. Possibly doing some consulting. It hinges on getting my contractor's license. I can do a lot without it, but with it, I can do more."

"How do you go about getting a license?"

"I take the test for it tomorrow." She held up both hands, fingers crossed.

"Tomorrow? Why aren't you studying? says the teacher."

"Believe me, I have. Studied my brains out, took the sample test on-line. Twice." She paused by the guest bath. "This room's finished-for the second time."

"This is one that was vandalized?"

"Yeah. You'd never know it," she said, crouching down to run her fingers over the newly laid tile. "I guess that's what counts."

"What counts is you weren't hurt. When I think about what happened to Steve ..."

"He's doing good. I talked to him yesterday. His physical therapy's going well, which may in part be due to the fact that the therapist is a babe. Do you think Hennessy could have done it?" she asked on impulse. "Is he capable, physically, character-wise?"

"I don't like to think so, when it comes to his character. But the fact is, he's never stopped hating."After a pause, Gavin let out a sigh. "I'd have to say he hates more now than he did when it happened. Physically? Well, he's a tough old bird."

"I want to talk to him, get a sense. I just haven't decided how to approach it. On the other hand, if it was him, I'm not sure that wouldn't get him even more riled up. I haven't had any problems for nearly two weeks now. I'd like to keep it that way."

"He's been out of town for a few days. He and his wife are visiting her sister. Up in Vermont, I think it is. My neighbor's boy mows their lawn," Gavin explained.

Convenient, she thought as her father went back to painting.

And since the living area was getting painted, she decided to set up her tools outside and get to work on the trim.

IN THE MORNING, Cilla decided she'd been foolish and shortsighted to bar Ford from the house the night before. She hadn't wanted any distractions while she reviewed her test manual, and had planned on an early night and a solid eight hours' sleep.

Instead she'd obsessed about the test, pacing the house, second-guessing herself. When she slept, she tossed and turned with anxiety dreams.

As a result she woke tense, edgy and half sick with nerves. She forced herself to eat half a bagel, then wished she hadn't as even that churned uneasily in her stomach.

She checked the contents of her bag three times to make absolutely certain it held everything she could possibly need, then left the house a full thirty minutes early, just in case she ran into traffic or got lost. Couldn't find a parking place, she added as she locked the front door. Was abducted by aliens.

"Knock it off, knock it off," she mumbled as she strode to her pickup. It wasn't as if the fate of the d.a.m.n world rested on her test score.

Just hers, she thought. Just her entire future.

She could wait. She could take the test down the road, wait just a little longer. After she'd finished the house. After she'd settled in. After ...

Stage fright, she thought with a sigh. Performance anxiety and fear of failure all wrapped up in a slippery ribbon. With her stomach knotted, she opened the truck door.

She made a sound that was part laugh, part awww.

The sketch lay on the seat, where, she supposed, Ford had put it sometime the night before.