Tribute Part 33

She stood in work boots, a tool belt slung from her hips like a holster. As if she'd drawn them from it, she held a nail gun in one hand, a measuring tape in the other. Around her were stacks of lumber, coils of wire, piles of brick. Safety goggles dangled from a strap around her neck, and work gloves peeked out of the pocket of her carpenter pants. Her face carried a determined, almost arrogant expression.

Below her feet, the caption read: THE AMAZING, THE INCREDIBLE CONTRACTOR GIRL "You don't miss a trick, do you?" she said aloud.

She looked across the road, blew a kiss to where she imagined he lay sleeping. When she climbed into the truck and turned on the engine, all the knots had unraveled.

With the sketch riding on the seat beside her, Cilla turned on the music and drove toward her future, singing.

FORD SETTLED on his front veranda with his laptop, his sketchbook, a pitcher of iced tea and a bag of Doritos to share with Spock. He couldn't be sure when Cilla might make it back. The drive to and from Richmond was a b.i.t.c.h even without rush hour factored in. Added to it, he couldn't be sure how long the exam ran, or what she might do after to wind down.

So around two in the afternoon, he stationed himself where he couldn't miss her return and kept himself busy. He sent and answered e-mail, checked in with the blogs and boards he usually frequented. He did a little updating on his own website.

He'd neglected his Internet community for the last week or two, being preoccupied with a certain lanky blonde. Hooking back in entertained him for a solid two hours before he noticed at least some of the crew across the road were knocking off for the day.

Matt pulled out, swung to Ford's side of the road, then leaned out the window. "Checking the p.o.r.n sites?"

"Day and night. How's it going over there?"

"It's going. Finished insulating the attic today. f.u.c.king miserable job. Yeah, hey, Spock, how's it going," he added when the dog gave a single, deep-throated, how-about-me bark. "I'm going home and diving into a cold beer. You coming by for burgers and dogs on the Fourth?"

"Wouldn't miss it. I'll be bringing your boss."

"I thought that's how it was. Nice work, dog. Not you," he added, pointing at Spock. "Don't know what she sees in you, but I guess she settled since she knows I'm married."

"Yeah, that was it. She had to channel her s.e.xual frustration somewhere. "

"You can thank me later." With a grin and a toot of the horn, Matt pulled out.

Ford poured another gla.s.s of tea and traded his laptop for his sketch pad. He wasn't yet satisfied with his image of his villain. He'd based Devon/ Devino predominantly on his tenth-grade algebra teacher, but turns in his original story line made him think he wanted something slightly more ... elegant. Cold, dignified evil played better. He played around with various face types hoping one jumped out and said: Pick me!

When none did, he considered a cold beer. Then forgot the work and the beer when Cilla's truck pulled into his drive.

He knew before she got out of the truck. It didn't matter that her eyes were s.h.i.+elded by sungla.s.ses. The grin said it all. He headed down, several paces behind a happy Spock, as she got out of the truck, then braced himself as she took a running leap into his arms.

"I'm going to take a wild guess. You pa.s.sed."

"I killed! " Laughing, she bowed back recklessly so he had to s.h.i.+ft, brace his legs, or drop her on her head. "For the first time in my life, I kicked exam a.s.s. I kicked its a.s.s down the street, across county lines and out of the G.o.dd.a.m.n state. Woo!"

She threw her arms into the air, then around his neck. "I am Contractor Girl! Thank you." She kissed him hard enough to vibrate his teeth. "Thank you. Thank you. I was a nervous, quivering mess until I saw that sketch. It just gave me such a high. It really did." She kissed him again. "I'm going to have it framed. It's the first thing I'm going to hang in my office. My licensed-contractor's office."

"Congratulations." He thought he'd known just how much the license meant to her. And realized he hadn't even been close. "We have to celebrate."

"I've got that covered. I bought stuff." She jumped down, then scooped a thrilled Spock into her arms and covered his big head with kisses. Setting him down, she ran back to her truck. "French bread, caviar, a roasted chicken with tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, stuff, stuff, stuff, complete with little strawberry shortcakes and champagne. It's all on ice."

She started to muscle out a cooler, before he nudged her aside.

"G.o.d, the traffic was a b.i.t.c.h. I thought I'd never get here. Let's have a picnic. Let's have a celebration picnic out back and dance naked on the gra.s.s."

The stuff she'd bought had to weigh a good fifty pounds, he thought, but looking at the way she just shone made it seem weightless. "It's like you read my mind."

HE DUG UP a blanket and lit a trio of bamboo torcheres to add atmosphere, and discourage bugs. By the time Cilla spread out the feast, half the blanket was covered.

Spock and his bear contented themselves with a ratty towel and a bowl of dog food.

"Caviar, goat cheese, champagne." Ford sat on the blanket. "My usual picnic involves a bucket of chicken, a tub of potato salad and beer."

"You can take the girl out of Hollywood." She began to gather a selection for a plate.

"What is that?"

"It's a blini, for the caviar. A dollop of creme fraiche, a layer of beluga, and ... You've never had this before?" she said when she read his expression.

"Can't say I have."

"You fear it."

"Fear is a strong word. I have concerns. Doesn't caviar come from-"

"Don't think about it, just eat." She held the loaded blini to his lips. "Open up, you coward."

He winced a little but bit in. The combination of flavors-salty, smooth, mildly sweet-hit his taste buds. "Okay, better than I expected. Where's yours?"

She laughed and fixed another.

"How do you plan to set up?" he asked as they ate. "Your business."

"Mmm." She washed down caviar with champagne. "The Little Farm's a springboard. It gets attention, just because of what it is. The better job I do there, the more chance people see I know what I'm doing. And the subs I've hired talk about it, and about me. I need to build on word of mouth. I'll have to advertise, make it known I'm in business. Use connections. Brian to Brian's father, for instance. G.o.d, this chicken is great. There are two houses within twelve miles up for sale. Serious fixer-uppers that I think are a little overpriced for the area and their conditions. I'm keeping my eye on them. I may make a lowball offer on one of them, see where it goes."

"Before you finish here?"

"Yeah. Figure, even if I came to terms with the seller straight off, there'd be thirty to ninety days for settlement. I'd push for the ninety. That'd put me into the fall before I have to start outlaying any cash. And that's seven, eight months into the Little Farm. I juggle the jobs, and the subs, work out a realistic time frame and budget. Flip the house in, we'll say, twelve weeks, keeping the price realistic."

She loaded another blini for both of them. "Greed and not knowing your market's what can kill a flip just as quick as finding out too late the foundation's cracked or the house is sitting in a sinkhole."

"How much would you look to make?"

"On the house I'm looking at? With the price I'd be willing to pay, the budget I'd project, the resale projection in this market?" She bit into the blini while she calculated. "After expenses, I'd look for about forty thousand."

His eyebrows shot up. "Forty thousand, in three months?"

"I'd hope for forty-five, but thirty-five would do it."

"Nice." She was right about the chicken, too. "What if I bought the other one? Hired you?"

"Well, Jesus, Ford, you haven't even seen it."

"You have. And you know what you're doing-about houses and picnics. I could use an investment, and this has the advantage of a fun factor. Plus, I could be your first client."

"You need to at least look at the property, calculate how much you're willing to invest, how long you can let that investment ride." She lifted her champagne gla.s.s, gestured with it like a warning. "And how much you can afford to lose, because real estate and flipping are risks."

"So's the stock market. Can you handle both houses?"

She took a drink. "Yeah, I could, but-"

"Let's try this. Figure out a time when you can go through it with me, and we'll talk about the potential, the possibilities, your fee and other practical matters."

"Okay. Okay. As long as we both understand that once you've seen the property and we've gone over those projections, and you tell me you'd rather buy a fistful of lottery tickets than that dump, no harm, no foul."

"Understood and agreed. Now, with the business portion of tonight's program out of the way." He leaned over to kiss her. "Do you have any plans for the Fourth?"

"The fourth what? Blini?"

"No, Cilla. Of July. You know, hot dogs, apple pie, fireworks."

"Oh. No." My G.o.d, she thought. It was nearly July. "Where do people go to watch fireworks around here?"

"There are a few options. But this is the great state of Virginia. We set off our own."

"Yeah, I've seen the signs. You all are crazy."

"Be that as it may, Matt's having a cookout. It's a short walk from his place to the park where the Roritan band plays Sousa marches, there's the world-famous pie-eating contest, won four years running by Big John Porter, and other various slices of Americana before the fireworks display. Wanna be my date?"

"Yes, I would." She leaned over the picnic debris, linked her arms around his neck. "Ford?"

"Yeah."

"If I eat another bite of anything, I'm going to be sick. So ..." She leaped up, grabbed his hands. "Let's dance."

"About that. My plans were to lie here like a dissipated Roman soldier and watch you dance."

"No, you don't. Up, up, up!"

"There's just one problem. I don't dance."

"Everybody dances. Even Spock."

"Not really. Well, yes, he does," Ford admitted as Spock got up to demonstrate. "I don't. Did you ever catch Seinfeld ? The TV deal."

"Of course."

"Did you see the one where Elaine's at this office party, and to get people up to dance, she starts it off?"

"Oh yeah." The scene popped straight into her mind, made her laugh. "That was bad."

"I make Elaine look like Jennifer Lopez."

"You can't be that bad. I refuse to believe it. Come on, show me."

Those gold-rimmed eyes showed actual pain. "If I show you, you'll never have s.e.x with me again."

"Absolutely false. Show me your moves, Sawyer."

"I have no moves in this arena." But with a heavy sigh, he rose.

"Just a little boogie," she suggested. She moved her hips, her shoulders, her feet. Obviously, to Ford's mind, to some well-oiled internal engine. Clutching the bear between his paws, Spock gurgled his approval.

"You asked for it," he muttered.

He moved, and could swear he heard rusty gears with mismatched teeth grind and shriek. He looked like the Tin Man of Oz, before the oil can.

"Well, that's not ... Okay, that's really bad." She struggled to swallow a snort of laughter, but didn't quite succeed. The disgusted look he shot her had her holding up her hands and stepping quickly to him. "Wait, wait. Sorry. I can teach you."

This time, Spock snorted.

"Others have tried; all have failed. I have no rhythm. I am rhythmically impaired. I've learned to live with it."

"Bull. Anyone who has your kind of moves horizontally can have them vertically. Here." She took his hands, set them on her hips, then put hers on his. "It starts here. This isn't a structured sort of thing, like a waltz or quickstep. It's just moving. A little hip action. No, unlock your knees, it's not a goose step, either. Just left, right, left. s.h.i.+ft your weight to the left, not just your hip."

"I look and feel like a spastic robot."

"You don't." She shot Spock a warning glance, and the dog turned his head away. "Relax. Now, keep the hips going, but put your hands on my shoulders. That's it. Feel my shoulders, just a little up and down. Feel that, let that go up your arms, into your shoulders. Just up and down. Don't stiffen up, keep those knees loose. There you go, there you are. You're dancing."

"This isn't dancing."

"It is." She put her hands on his shoulders, then slid them down his arms until they held hands. "And now you're dancing with me."

"I'm standing like an idiot in one spot."

"We'll worry about the feet later. We're starting slow, and smooth. It would even be s.e.xy if you took that pained expression off your face. Don't stop!"

She did a quick inward spin so her back pressed into him, and lifted an arm to stroke it down his cheek.

"Oh, well, if this is dancing."

Laughing, she spun back again so they were front to front. "Sway. A little more." She wrapped her arms around his neck, lifted her lips to a breath from his. "Nice."

He closed the distance, sliding slowly into the kiss while his hands ran down her back to her hips.

"Feels like dancing to me," she whispered.

He surfaced to see he was facing in the opposite direction, and several feet away from where they'd started. "How'd that happen?"

"You let it happen. You stopped thinking about it."

"So, I can dance, as long as it's with you."

"Just one more thing." She danced back with a provocative rock of hips, and began unb.u.t.toning her s.h.i.+rt.

"Whoa."