“I grew up hearing about her, because she had the place here. Died here. My mother would play her records a lot. She went to a couple of parties at the farm,” he added. “My mother.”
“Did she?”
“Her claim to fame is kissing Janet Hardy’s son, that would be your uncle. A little odd, isn’t it, you and me sitting out here like this, and back years, my mother and your uncle made out in the shadows across the road. Might be odder still when I tell you my mama did some of the same with your daddy.”
“Oh God.” On a burst of laughter, Cilla picked up her wine, took a quick drink. “You’re not making that up?”
“Pure truth. This would be, of course, before she settled on my father, and your father went out to Hollywood after your mother. Complicated business, now that I think about it.”
“I’ll say.”
“And mortifying for me, when she told me. Which was with some glee, when I ended up in your father’s class in high school. The thought that my mother had locked lips with Mr. McGowan was damn near traumatizing at the time.” His eyes lit with humor. “Now, I like the synchronicity that my mother’s son has locked lips with Mr. McGowan’s daughter.”
Circles, Cilla thought. She’d thought of circles when she’d come to rebuild her grandmother’s farm. Now here was another circle linked to that. “They must’ve been so young,” she said softly. “Johnnie was only eighteen when he died. It must’ve been horrible for Janet, for the parents of the other two boys-one dead, one paralyzed. She never got over it. You can see in every clip, every photo of her taken after that night, she was never the same.”
“My mother used to use that accident as a kind of bogeyman when I got old enough to drive. You’d see Jimmy Hennessy around town from time to time in his wheelchair, and she never missed the opportunity to remind me of what could happen if I was careless enough to drink or get high, then get behind the wheel or into a car with someone who’d been using.”
He shook his head, polished off his steak. “I still can’t go to a bar and guiltlessly enjoy a single beer if I’ve got to drive myself home. Mothers sure can screw things up for you.”
“Does he still live here? The boy-well, not a boy now-the one who survived the wreck?”
“He died last year. Or the year before. I’m not sure.”
“I didn’t hear about it.”
“He lived at home his whole life. His parents looked after him. Rough.”
“Yes. His father blamed Janet. Blamed her for bringing her Hollywood immorality here, for letting her son run wild, for buying him the fast car.”
“There were two other boys in that car. Nobody forced them into it,” Ford pointed out. “Nobody poured beer forcibly down their throats or pumped pot into their systems. They were young and stupid, all three of them. And they paid a terrible price for it.”
“And she paid them. According to my mother-and her bitterness over it tells me it’s true-Janet paid each of the families of those boys a considerable sum of money. Undisclosed amount, even to my mother. And again, according to the gospel of Dilly, Janet only kept the farm as a kind of monument to Johnnie, and tied it up in trusts for decades after her own death for the same reason. But I don’t believe that.”
“What do you believe?”
“I believe Janet kept it because she was happy here. Because she could hear her own thoughts here, even when those thoughts were dark and dreadful.” She sighed, sat back. “Give me another glass of wine, will you, Ford? That’ll make three, which is my absolute personal high-end limit.”
“What happens after three?”
“I haven’t gone over three in years, but if history holds, I go from relaxed, perhaps mildly and pleasantly buzzed, to drunk enough to have yet one or maybe two more. Then I’d be very drunk, jump you, and wake up tomorrow with a hangover and only blurred memories of our encounter.”
“In that case, you’re cut off after this.” He poured the wine. “When we encounter, your memory’s going to be crystal.”
“I haven’t decided on that yet, you know.”
“That’s okay, I have.” He propped his chin on his fist, stared at her. “I can’t get myself out of your eyes, Cilla. They keep pulling me in.”
“Janet Hardy’s eyes.”
“No. Cilla McGowan’s eyes.”
She smiled, sipped her last glass of wine. “I was going to make up an excuse-or not even bother to make one up-about not coming tonight.”
“Is that so?”
“That is so. Because you got bossy about my living arrangements.”
“Defining ‘bossy’ as ‘sensible.’ Why did you come?”
“Buying the toilets put me in a really good mood. Seriously,” she said when he choked out a laugh. “I’ve found my thing, Ford. After a long time looking.”
“You found your thing in toilets.”
It was her turn to laugh. “I found my thing in taking something broken down or neglected, or just a little tired, and making it shine again. Making it better. And doing that’s made me better. So because I was in a good mood, I walked across the road. I’m really glad I did.”
“So am I.”
SHE DIDN’T SEE him or Spock when she let herself in his home gym the next morning. Cilla plugged in her iPod and got down to business. She gave herself a solid hour, and at some point during it the dog strolled out into the backyard and lifted his leg a number of times. But there was still no sign or sound from Ford when she let herself out again, with one wistful glance at his hot tub.
No time for jets and indulgence, she told herself. But as Spock raced over, so obviously thrilled to see her, she spent a good ten minutes rubbing him while he gurgled and grunted in what seemed to be some form of communication. The workout, the silly dog, just the day itself put her in a fine mood as she jogged back across the road. She showered off the workout sweat, downed coffee and a blueberry yogurt. By the time she strapped on her tool belt, her crews and subs began to arrive.
It took time, every morning, but Cilla was happy to spend it. Talking, evaluating, brainstorming away problems.
“I’m going to expand the bathroom, Buddy,” she told him, and, as she expected, he let out a windy sigh.
“The one I’m using now, not the one you’ve roughed in.”
“That’s something anyway.”
“I’ve already talked to Matt,” she said. “Come on up, and I’ll show you what we’re going to do.”
He hemmed and he hawed, but that was expected, too. In fact, she’d come to look forward to it. “Now that we’re putting my office upstairs instead of in this bedroom, I’m going to use this space to make it a master suite. We’ll be taking out this wall,” she began.
He listened, he scratched, he shook his head. “Gonna cost you.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll draw it up in more detail later, but for now, here’s the idea.” She opened her notebook to the sketch she’d drawn with Matt. “We’ll keep the old claw-foot tub, have it refurbished and set here. Floor pipes and drains. Double sinks here, and I’m thinking undermount.”
“Guess you’ll be putting a slab of granite or whatnot.”
“No, zinc.”
“Say, what?”
“Zinc countertop. And over here, I’m putting in a steam shower. Yes,” she said before he could speak. “Hollywood ideas. Glass block here, to form the water closet. In the end, it’s going to reflect and respect the architecture, pay homage to retro, and, Buddy, it will rock.”
“You’re the boss.”
She grinned. “Damn straight.”
The boss moved outside, to build her rail and pickets in the April sunshine.
When her father pulled in, Cilla had her sides run, and had worked up a fresh sweat.
“Doesn’t that look nice,” he commented.
“It’s coming along.”
He nodded toward the house, and the cacophony of construction noise. “Sounds like more’s coming along inside.”
“First-stage demo’s done. I’ve changed some things, so we’ll have more demo on the second floor later. But the inspector’s coming tomorrow. ” She lifted her hand, crossed her fingers. “To approve the rough plumbing and electric. Then we’ll boogie.”