“What do you mean?”

“Having her here, going through that ritual, the wedding, with her here?”

“Absolutely not.” The surprise in his voice brought her comfort. “It wasn’t all bad times between us, Cilla. It had to end for me to be exactly where I want to be, and, I suspect, for your mother to be mature, polished and triumphant.”

“Then that’s something to cross off my should-I-worry-about-this list. I want to get married here. It’s our place now, Ford’s and mine. And I like knowing my parents had their first kiss over there. And that my grandmother walked the gardens. That your grandfather plowed those fields. It all trickles down. I’ve wanted that all my life. Look at the house,” she murmured.

“It’s never looked more right, more real than it does now.”

“That’s what I want, too. The right, and the real. Did you come here after Johnnie died?”

“A few times. She seemed to like seeing me. The last was a couple of months before she died. I was doing some summer stock in Richmond. My father was ill, so I came to see him. When I learned she was here, I came by. She seemed better, or she was trying very hard to be. We talked about him, of course. I don’t think he was ever out of her mind. She hadn’t brought anyone with her, not like before when the house always seemed full of people. It was just the two of us for about an hour, in the living room.”

“On the pink couch with the white satin pillows,” Cilla added.

“Yes.” He laughed a little. “How did you know about that?”

“I heard about it. Very Doris Day.”

“I suppose it was. I must have commented on it, because I remember her saying she wanted bright in the house again. It was time for the new and the bright, so she’d had it shipped all the way from L.A.”

He poked at the grilling chicken, flipped a burger. “She went back the next day, and I went back to Richmond for the rest of the summer. So that would’ve been the last time I saw her. It’s a good image, really. Janet sitting on that pink, Hollywood couch with her dog snoring under the coffee table.”

“I wonder if I have a picture of her on it. Ford’s grandfather gave me so many pictures. I need to go through them again. If I can find one, I’ll give you a copy. Here, let me have that platter.” She took the dish Gavin had loaded with burgers, hot dogs, grilled chicken. “I’ll deliver this to Station Meat, then go find Ford.”

She wended her way through the backyard crowd, around the veranda dwellers and into the kitchen. She saw that Patty or Penny had been through by the stack of empty and freshly washed plates and bowls. Since that brought on some mild guilt, she prepared to wash the pair of serving plates she’d brought in with her instead of just putting them in the sink.

It felt good, watching through the kitchen window while she washed up, having this quick moment alone. She saw her father still at the grill, with Ford’s father now, and Brian. Buddy and his wife at a picnic table with Tom and Cathy, and Patty stopping by to chat. There was Matt tossing a ball to his little boy while Josie looked on, the baby tucked in her arm.

Penny was right, Cilla realized with a quick laugh. She and Ford would make gorgeous babies. Something to think about.

When the phone she had charging on the counter rang, she picked it up with the smile still curving her lips. “This is Cilla. Why aren’t you here?”

“Ms. McGowan?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“It’s Detective Wilson. I have some information.”

WHEN FORD CAME IN through the front he saw her standing at the sink, looking out. “Look at us, being hosts. You washing up, me taking out the trash. I loaded a couple of bags in your truck. One of us needs to hit the dump tomorrow.”

He slipped his arms around her, started to draw her back against him, and felt it immediately. “What is it?” He turned her, scanned her face. “What happened?”

“Hennessy’s dead. He killed himself. He made a noose out of his own shirt, and-”

He drew her against him now, hard. She trembled first, then held on. “Oh God, Ford. Oh God.”

“Some people can’t be saved, Cilla. Can’t be helped.”

“He never got over it, got past it. What happened to his son. All these years, he had a purpose, and he had his bitterness. But when his son died, all he had was the bitterness.”

“And it killed him.” He pulled her back, looking into her eyes to be sure she understood just that. “It’s the hate that ended him, Cilla.”

“I’m not blaming myself. I have to keep saying it, keep thinking it, so I won’t. And I’m not. But there’s no denying I was part of it. He made me part of it. I guess that’s another kind of revenge. His poor wife, Ford. She’s lost everything. And horribly, there’s a part of me that’s relieved.”

“He hurt you, and he tried to do worse. Do you want some time? I can go out, try to wrap things up.”

“No. No. He did enough.” She looked back out the window, at the people on her lawn. “He’s not going to ruin this.”

“FORD, JUST THE MAN I wanted to see.” Gavin handed over the spatula and tongs, then picked up the platter. “Your turn.” With his free hand, he hefted a beer. “And mine.”

“You sure this younger generation knows how to handle the grill?” Tom asked.

“We can put you guys down,” Brian responded. “Anytime, anywhere.”

“I feel a grill-off coming on. But before we get to that, I need to exploit my future son-in-law. I’d like you to come in and talk to my creative writing students.”

“Oh. Well. Um.”

“Actually, we’d like to do a three-part, possibly five-part, program on storytelling through words and art. Our art teacher is very excited by the idea.”

“Oh,” Ford repeated, and had Brian laughing.

“He’s getting a flashback of high school, where he was president of the Nerd Club.”

“Three years of being pantsed and recovering from wedgies.”

“Matt, Shanna and I saved you when we could.”

“Not often enough.”

“I give you my word, your ass will not be exposed or abused on my watch.”

Ford gave Gavin a sour look. “Can I have an armed escort?”

“We’ll need to work out the details, the dates, and anything you might want or need. I can talk to you about my end of it. You should contact Sharon, the art teacher. She loves your work, by the way. Let me give you her contact information. Ah…” He looked at his full hands. “Got anything to write on, with?”

“No. Gee, I guess we’ll have to forget the whole thing.”

“I happen to have something.” Grinning, Tom pulled a small leather-bound notebook and short pen out of his pocket. “Sharon, you said?”

Gavin relayed the information, cocked an eye at Ford when he passed him the sheet. “You do want to marry my daughter, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Trapped, Ford stuffed the paper in his pocket.

“I’m going to deliver this, then I’ll come back and give you the basic overview of what I have in mind.”

“I should’ve known there’d be strings,” Ford muttered when Gavin strolled away.

“Get used to it.” Tom clamped a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “And now that you’re engaged, and there’s Matt with his lovely family, how long before the last of the Musketeers settles down?”

“Your turn,” Ford said gleefully.

Brian shook his head. “You bastard. Under the circumstances, I don’t know why I’m telling you we’re continuing this holiday with poker- guys only-at my place tonight. We’re tapping you for leftover beer and food, Rembrandt.”

“I suck at poker.”

“Which is why, even under the circumstances.”

“I don’t know if-”

“See?” Brian pointed at his father. “She’s already got him by the balls. And you ask me why I’m single.”

“She doesn’t have me-”

“Still getting pantsed. Only now by a woman.”

“Jesus. Remind me why I’m friends with you.”

“Nine o’clock. Bring beer.”

WITH CONSIDERABLE HELP from friends, cleanup went quickly. Trash was bagged, leftovers tubbed, recyclables binned. A small convoy of the faithful hauled what needed to be hauled back to Ford’s.