Tribute Part 47

His smile was a little sheepish. "Yeah. Ah, you got any reason to call me at home, maybe you should come up with a code word or something. "

"Maybe I should."

She stood in the shadow of her barn, with trim propped against the wall and laid out to dry, stretched across her sawhorses. And wondered how many times she'd have to pay for the crimes, sins, mistakes of others.

TWENTY-SIX Cilla stood in her bedroom, staring at the freshly painted walls while her father tapped the lid back on the open can of paint. She watched the way the strong midday light flooded the room, and sent those walls to glowing.

"The trim's not even up, and the floors still have to be done, and still, standing here gives me an ecstatic tingle."

He straightened from his crouch, took a long look himself. "It's a d.a.m.n fine job."

"You could make a living."

"It's always good to have a fallback."

"You've d.a.m.n near painted the entire house." She turned to him then. She still couldn't quite think what to make of that, or what to say to him. "That's saved me weeks of time. Thanks doesn't cover it."

"It does the job. I've enjoyed it, on a lot of levels. I've liked being part of this. This transformation. We missed a lot of summers, you and I. Spending some of this one with you, well, it's made me happy."

For a moment she could only stand, looking at him, her handsome father. Then she did something she'd never done before. She went to him first. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, then wrapped her arms around him. "Me too."

He held on, hard and tight. She felt his sigh against her. "Do you remember the day we first saw each other here? I came to the back door, and you shared your lunch with me on the sagging front veranda?"

"I remember."

"I didn't see how we'd ever get here. Too much neglect, too much time pa.s.sed. For the house, and for us." He eased her back, and she saw with some surprise, some alarm, that his eyes were damp. "You gave it a chance. The house, and me. Now I'm standing here with my daughter. I'm so proud of you, Cilla."

When her own eyes flooded, she pressed her face to his shoulder. "You said that to me, that you were proud, after the concert in D.C., and once, earlier, when you came to the set of Our Family and watched me shoot a scene. But this is the first time I believe it."

She gave him a last squeeze, stepped back. "I guess we're getting to know each other, through interior latex, eggsh.e.l.l finish."

"Why stop there? How about we go take a look at the exterior."

"You can't paint the house. The rooms, that's one thing."

Lips pursed, he scanned the room. "I think I pa.s.sed the audition."

"Interiors. It's a three-story building. A really big, three-story building. Painting it'll require standing on scaffolding and really tall ladders."

"I used to do my own stunts." He laughed as she rolled her eyes in a way he could only describe as daughterly. "Maybe I didn't, and maybe that was a long time ago, but I have excellent balance."

She tried stern. "Standing on scaffolding and really tall ladders in the dog-day heat of August."

"You don't scare me."

Then simple practicality. "It's not a one-man job."

"True. I'll definitely need some help. What color did you have in mind?"

And felt herself being gently steamrolled. "Listen, the old paint needs to be sc.r.a.ped where it's peeled, and-"

"Details, details. Let's take a look. Do you want it painted by Labor Day, or what?"

"Labor Day? It's not even on the schedule until mid-September. When it's, hopefully, a little cooler. The crew who painted the barn-"

"Happy to work with them."

Completely baffled, she set her hands on her hips. "I thought you were kind of-no offense-a pushover."

His expression placid, he patted her cheek. "No offense taken. What about the trim, the verandas?"

She puffed out her cheeks, blew the breath out. She saw it now. Push-over, her a.s.s. He just ignored the arguments and kept going. "Okay, we'll take a look at the samples I'm thinking about. And once I decide, you can work on the verandas, the shutters. But you're not hanging off scaffolding or climbing up extension ladders."

He only smiled at her, then dropped his arm over her shoulders the way she'd seen him do with Angie, and walked her downstairs.

Though it wasn't on her list-and she really wanted to get up to her office and check on the progress of her floors, see if Stan had finished the tile, start running the bedroom trim-she opened the three pints of exterior paint. "Could go deep, with this blue. The gray in it settles it down a few notches, and white trim would set it off." She slapped some on the wood.

"Makes a statement."

"Yeah. Or I could go quiet and traditional with this buff, use a white trim again, or a cream. Cream might be better. Softer."

"Pretty and subdued."

"Or I could go with this more subtle blue, again gray undertones keeping it warm, and probably go with a soft white for the trim."

"Dignified but warm."

She stepped back, c.o.c.ked her head to one side, then the other. "I thought about yellows, too. Something cheerful, but soft enough it doesn't pop out of the ground like a big daffodil. Maybe it should wait. Maybe it should just wait." She gnawed on her lip. "Until ..."

"I've seen you make decisions, over everything that has to do with this house, with the grounds. Why are you having such a hard time with this?"

"It's what everyone will see. Every time they drive by on the road. A lot of them will slow down, point it out. 'That's Janet Hardy's house.'" Setting down the brush, Cilla wiped her hands on her work shorts. "It's just paint, it's just color, but it matters what people see when they drive by on the road, and think of her."

He laid a hand on her shoulder. "What do you want them to see when they drive by here?"

"That she was a real person, not just an image in an old movie, or a voice on a CD or old record. She was a real person, who felt and ate, who laughed and worked. Who lived a life. And she was happy here, at least for a while. Happy enough she didn't let it go. She held on, so I could come here, and have a life here."

She let out an embarra.s.sed laugh. "And that's a h.e.l.l of a lot to expect from a couple coats of paint. Jesus, I should probably go back into therapy."

"Stop." He gave her shoulder a quick shake. "Of course it matters. People obsess over something as mundane as paint for a lot less important reasons. This house, this place, was hers. More, it was something she chose for herself, and something she valued. Something she needed. It's been pa.s.sed to you. It should matter."

"It was yours, too, in a way. I don't forget that. That matters more now than it did when I started. You pick."

He dropped his hand, actually stepped back. "Cilla."

"Please. I'd really like this to be your choice. The McGowan choice. People will think of her when they pa.s.s on the road. But when I walk the grounds or drive in after a long day, I'll think of her, and of you. I'll think of how you came here as a little boy, and chased chickens. You pick, Dad."

"The second blue. The warm and dignified blue."

She hooked her arm with his, studied the fresh color over the old, peeling paint. "I think it's going to be perfect."

WHEN FORD WALKED over late in the day, he saw Gavin on the veranda, sc.r.a.ping the paint on the front of the house.

"How're you doing, Mr. McGowan?"

"Slow but sure. Cilla's inside somewhere."

"I just bought a house."

"Is that so?" Gavin stopped, frowned. "You're moving?"

"No. No. I bought this, well, this toxic dump that Cilla says she can fix up. To flip. The seller just accepted my offer. I feel a little sick, and can't decide if it's because I'm excited, or because I can see this big, yawning money pit opening up under my feet. I'm going to have two mortgages. I think I should probably sit down."

"Pick up that sc.r.a.per, give me a hand with this. It'll calm you down."

Ford eyed the sc.r.a.per dubiously. "Tools and I have a long- standing agreement. We stay away from each other, for the good of mankind."

"It's a sc.r.a.per, Ford, not a chain saw. You sc.r.a.pe ice off your winds.h.i.+eld in the winter, don't you?"

"When I must. I prefer staying home until it thaws." But Ford picked up the spare sc.r.a.per and tried to apply the process of sc.r.a.ping ice from gla.s.s to sc.r.a.ping peeling paint off the side of a house. "I'm going to have two mortgages, and I'm going to be forty."

"Did we just time-travel? You can't be more than thirty."

"Thirty-one. I have less than a decade until I'm forty, and five minutes ago I was studying for the SATs."

Gavin's lips twitched as he continued to sc.r.a.pe. "It gets worse. Every year goes faster."

"Thanks," Ford said bitterly. "That's just what I needed to hear. I was going to take my time, but how can you when there isn't as much as you think there is?" Turning, he waved the sc.r.a.per, and nearly put it through the window. "But if you're ready, and she's not, what the h.e.l.l are you supposed to do about that?"

"Keep sc.r.a.ping."

Ford sc.r.a.ped-the paint and his knuckles. "c.r.a.p. As a metaphor for life, that sucks."

Cilla came out in time to see Ford sucking his sore knuckles and scowling. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sc.r.a.ping paint and a few layers of skin, and your father's philosophizing. "

"Let me see." She took Ford's hand, studied the knuckles. "You'll live."

"I have to. I'm about to have two mortgages. Ouch!" he said when Cilla gave his sore fingers a quick squeeze.

"Sorry. They accepted your offer?"

"Yeah. I have to go into the bank tomorrow and sign a bunch of papers. I'm going to hyperventilate," he decided. "I need a bag to breathe into."

"November settlement?"

"I followed the company line."

She gave him a poke. "Scared?"

His answering scowl was both sour and weak. "I'm about to go into debt. The kind that has many zeros. I'm having a few moments. Do you know that the olfactory sense is the strongest of the five senses? I keep having flashes of how that place smells."

"Put that down before you really hurt yourself." She took the sc.r.a.per out of his hand, set it on the window ledge. "And come with me a minute. " She gave her father a quick wink, then drew Ford into the house.

"Do you remember what the kitchen looked like in here when you first saw it?"

"Yeah."

"Ugly, dingy, damaged floors, cracked plaster, bare bulbs. Got that picture in your head?"

"I got it."

"Close your eyes."

"Cilla."

"Seriously, close them, and keep that picture in there."

He shook his head but obliged her, and let her lead him back. "Now I want you to tell me what you see when you open your eyes. No thinking it through, no qualifying. Just open your eyes and tell me what you see."

He obeyed. "A big room, empty. A lot of light. Walls the color of lightly toasted bread. And floors, big squares of tile-a lot of honey tones on cream with pipes poking up through them. Big, unframed- untrimmed-windows that open it up to a patio with a blue umbrella, and gardens with roses blooming like maniacs, and green gone lush. And the mountains against the sky. I see Cilla's vision."

He started to step forward, but she tugged him back. "No, don't walk on the tiles yet. Stan only finished the grout an hour ago."

"We can do this."

"We absolutely can. It takes planning, effort, a willingness to find a way around unexpected problems, and a real commitment to the end goal. We'll turn that place around, Ford, and when we do, we'll have something we can both be proud of."

He turned to her, kissed her forehead. "Okay. Okay. I've got some sc.r.a.ping to do."

She walked out with him, baffled when he signaled so long to her father and kept walking.

"Well, where's he going? He said he was going to do more sc.r.a.ping."

Gavin smiled to himself as Cilla shook her head and went back inside. It was good to know his daughter had found her place, her purpose, had found a man who loved her.

It was good to know she was out of reach of the man who'd wished her harm.

THE NEXT MORNING, Cilla walked over from Ford's to find her tires slashed. On the ground by the left front tire, another doll lay facedown, a short-handled paring knife stabbed into its back.