“And too obvious for the character. It kept bogging me down. Today I hit on it. I’m not looking for dissipation, cut cheekbones and intensity. I’m looking for a thin coat of polish and sophistication over a whole lotta smarm. Not the lean and bony Carradine, but something slighter, edging toward effete. The contrast between looks and intent,” he explained. “Between image and purpose. It’s a lot more evil when a guy coldly destroys while wearing an Armani suit.”
“So you based him on a Hollywood agent?”
“Pretty much. He’s Number Five.”
She managed to swallow the beer, barely avoiding a spit take. “Mario? Are you serious?”
“Completely. One look at him out front today, and the scales fell from my eyes. He’s got it all-the build, the posture, the five-hundred-dollar haircut and that sheer, shiny layer of oil. I don’t know why I didn’t see it when I met him before. Too locked into Mr. Eckley, I guess.”
“Mario.” She jumped up to grab Ford by the hair and crush her lips to his in a hard, smacking kiss that sent Spock into his happy dance. “This actually makes that clusterfuck this morning worthwhile. Thank you.”
“I didn’t actually do it for you. Any enjoyment you get from it’s just a side benefit.”
“I’ll take it.” She dropped back in her seat. “This has, indeed, turned out to be a better-than-average day.”
CILLA TACKLED the next batch of trim in the shady shadow of the barn. She liked the work, and the quiet. There might have been miles of trim to strip, replicate, stain and seal through the farmhouse, but she wanted to keep the project her own. One day, she thought as she peeled away layers of white and, unfathomably, baby-blue paint from walnut, she’d walk through her house and admire every inch of restored trim. Best, she’d be able to say: I did that. Every inch.
She stripped down herself, to a tank and army-green cargo shorts as a concession to the heat that had snuck in, even in the shade. When she stopped to guzzle some water, she watched the pond crew removing and dividing water lilies, digging out over-propagated cattails.
Once it was done, she mused, ecologically balanced, she saw no reason she couldn’t maintain the pond herself. She’d need some help with the grounds, she admitted, even once she bought a riding mower. She thought she’d enjoy puttering around, cutting the grass, pulling weeds, blowing and raking leaves in the fall, shoveling snow in the winter, planting new flowers in the spring.
But it wasn’t realistic to believe she could handle it all-house, grounds, pond, gardens-and run a business.
Cleaning service, she thought, reholstering her water bottle and picking up her sandpaper block. That was a weekly definite. Maybe she’d talk to Brian about a once-a-month service, say March through October, at least until she got a better sense of what needed to be done, and just how much she could handle.
Plus, she needed advice on that kitchen garden she hoped to start, especially since she just hadn’t been able to work it in this year as she’d hoped. And she needed to know if the fields should be plowed and planted-and with what. And who the hell would do that? More advice if she gave in to that nagging longing and got a horse. Which would require exercise, housing, feeding, grooming, and was probably a crazy idea.
But… wouldn’t a couple of horses be gorgeous romping and grazing in one of the fields? Wouldn’t they be worth the work, the time, the expense?
Next year, she told herself. Maybe.
She couldn’t get cocky and complacent just because she’d had a couple of days of smooth sailing, because she was so damn happy. Reality included leaky faucets, and aphids and crabgrass, clogged gutters and fractious appliances. She’d be dealing with that, and a whole lot more, for the rest of her life.
And wasn’t that just fabulous?
She sang as she sanded the old walnut trim.
“I’d forgotten how much you sound like her.”
She looked up, squinted, then smiled as Gavin stepped from sun to shade. “Without her range, depth or natural vibrato.”
“It sounded wonderful to me, and interesting that a girl of your age would sing ‘Blue Skies.’”
“The place sort of calls for old standards. Or maybe she does. And, well”-she pointed up-“we’ve sure got them today.”
“I came in through the front and saw the finished product.” He tapped a finger on the trim. “That’s another thing I’d forgotten, or never noticed when I came here all those years ago. It’s beautiful. Truly beautiful.”
“It makes me happy. Hence the singing. I was wondering when you might drop by again, so I could talk you into picking up another paintbrush.”
“Show me the walls and the paint.”
“I’ve got a bedroom just waiting for a couple coats of Spiced Cognac.” She gestured to the newspapers he carried. “We provide drops. You don’t have to bring your own.” When he didn’t smile, she felt a little warning dip in her belly. “Uh-oh.”
“I heard about the media invasion, and your mother’s visit the other day. There’s been some coverage-TV, newspapers.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen some of it. Look, I know they brought your name up, and-”
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “That’s not important. Cilla, I debated doing this, and decided someone would tell you or show you before much longer. It might be better if it was me. Patty was in the supermarket this morning. They’d just stocked these at checkout.”
“The tabloids.” She nodded, pulled off her work gloves. “I knew they’d be hitting any day. Don’t worry. I’m used to it.” She held out a hand for the papers.
The headlines screamed. They always did in the tabs, she knew, but the screams seemed only more strident when her name was involved.
JANET HARDY’S GHOST HAUNTS HER GRANDDAUGHTER!
FORMER HOLLYWOOD PRINCESS IN NEAR FATAL CRASH! BEDELIA HARDY RUSHES TO HER DAUGHTER’S SIDE
AFTER ATTACK BY MADMAN!
IS LITTLE KATIE THE REINCARNATION OF JANET HARDY?
The pictures were worse, grainy, exploitative. Splashed on one front page was a photo of Cilla, angled to spotlight her injured face, with Dilly holding her close, a single tear sliding down her cheek. Behind them floated the ghostly image of Janet with the caption: “‘My mother’s spirit remains trapped here,’ Bedelia Hardy claims. Photographic PROOF corroborates her mournful statement.”
An insert shot showed Cilla carrying the very trim she now worked on out of the house. Cilla struggles to exorcise Janet’s ghost from her Virginia farm.
Ford hadn’t escaped, she noted. They’d slapped his photograph, his name, their ridiculous captions inside.
“Okay, worse. A lot worse than I expected it to be.” She pushed the papers back at her father. “Front page, multiple stories in each. Mom will be thrilled. I don’t care how that sounds,” she snapped before her father could speak. “She amped it up. Everyone I work with, do business with, will see this crap. And Ford’s sucked into the shit pile because he had the poor judgment to fall in love with me. Now he’ll-”
“He’s in love with you?” Gavin interrupted. Even as she started to shrug, Gavin set a hand on Cilla’s shoulder. “He’s in love with you? You’re in love with him?”
“The L word’s been spoken by both parties-or alluded to by me. Or, according to that rag there, spoken by Janet through me as they’re speculating whether Cilla’s outraged lover has been seduced by my grandmother’s spirit. Don’t say I shouldn’t let it upset me. Don’t say everyone knows this stuff is a load of crap. These papers sell because people love reading loads of crap.”
“I was going to say I’ve always been fond of Ford. If he makes you happy, I’m even more fond of him.”
“He’s not going to be happy with me when he sees all this, and has to explain to his family, his friends, his publisher, for God’s sake, why his name and his face have been smeared all over the place.” Helpless, she pressed a hand to her nervous belly. “I knew they’d pull him in, and I warned him, but I didn’t know it would be this bad.”