by Nora Roberts
“Walking around some’ll help you not stiffen up too much, I imagine.”
“It’s cooled off some. It feels good to be outside. Smells like rain’s coming.”
“Aren’t you turning into the country girl.”
Smiling, she lifted her face to the sky. “That, and like any contractor, I checked the weather channel this morning. Evening thunderstorms, sixty percent chance. And speaking of weather, you weathered the emotional storm earlier very well.”
“Barely, if you want to know the truth. My mother’s giving Patty the there-theres, and Angie gets going, and that gets my mother started. So I’ve got three women crying in the kitchen while they’re heating up soup and arranging flowers.” Looking pained, he dragged a hand through his mass of disordered hair. “I nearly bolted. Spock slunk out through his dog door like a coward. I thought about doing the same.”
“Sterner stuff is Ford made of.”
“Maybe, but it was touch and go when I looked in the living room to see if that coast was clear and you’re mopping at your eyes.”
“Thanks for sticking it out.”
“It’s what we men in love do.” He unlocked the door, pushed it open.
She paused in the doorway, as Spock made himself at home and walked straight in. “Were you ever, before?”
“Ever what?”
“In love?”
“I was in love with Ivy Lattimer when I was eight, but she treated me with derision and mockery. I was in love with Stephanie Provost at thirteen, who returned my affection for six glorious days before tossing me for Don Erbe and his i n-ground swimming pool.”
She pressed her finger into his chest. “I’m serious.”
“Those were very serious love affairs to me, at the time. There were others, too. But if you mean has it ever been real, have I ever looked at a woman and known and felt and wanted and needed all at the same time? No. You’re the first.”
He lifted her hand, brushed his lips lightly over her knuckles and made her think of her father making the same gesture with Patty. “Looks the same in here to me. What do these guys do all day?”
She wandered into the living room. “Because you don’t know where to look. Switch plates and outlet covers I special-ordered—hammered antique bronze—installed. That was a nice, unnecessary thing to do. Matt left the trim in here because he knows I have an emotional attachment to it and want to hang it myself.”
She moved off, let out a happy sound at the doorway to the powder room. “Tile’s laid.” She crouched, studied. “Nice, very nice, the warm pallet in this mosaic ties in well with the color of the entrance foyer, the living area. I wonder if they got to the bathroom on the third floor, or finished the drywall?”
And she’s up and running, Ford thought, following her through the house.
By the time she’d checked everything to her satisfaction, the first rumble of thunder sounded. Spock let out a pip of distress and clung to Ford’s side like a burr.
She set the alarm, locked up.
“Wind’s starting to kick. I love that. I really love when it waits to rain until night, and doesn’t screw up time on the job. Brian’s crew is scheduled for tomorrow, and we’re finally going to work on the pond. Plus, we’re . . . Oh damn, I completely forgot. I put an offer in on the house this morning. Just had the impulse hit, and hit strong enough, it said do it now. I should hear if they’re going to counter tomorrow. Which is when I made an appointment for us to go through the other house. I figured if that didn’t work for you, I’d just reschedule. And I forgot about it.”
“Gee, wonder why? What time tomorrow?”
“Five. I’ve got a full slate, so five worked out.”
“It’s fine. We’ll go right after your doctor’s appointment. That’s at four.”
“But—”
“Four,” he said in that tone she heard rarely. Which, she imagined, spoke to its success.
“Okay. All right.”
“Now, what do you say we sit outside with some wine, and watch this storm roll in.”
“I say that sounds like a nice way to end a seriously crappy day.”
CILLA THOUGHT SHE was pulling it together pretty well. She’d gotten a decent night’s sleep—maybe aided by two glasses of wine, two Motrin and another bowl of Penny’s famous chicken soup. She’d managed to creak her way out of bed at seven without waking Ford. Another spin in the whirlpool, some very light and gentle yoga stretches followed by more Motrin and a breathlessly hot shower had her feeling almost normal.
Over a quiet cup of coffee she wondered why she needed a doctor’s appointment. It didn’t require a doctor to tell her she’d been banged around and would be a little stiff and sore, a little achy for a couple of days.
But she doubted Ford would see it that way.
And wasn’t that nice, when you got right down to it? There was someone who cared enough to get pushy and bossy about her welfare. It didn’t hurt to be flexible, to bend enough to accommodate.
Besides, the worst was over. Hennessy was in jail, and couldn’t touch her or her property. She’d be able to live, and finish her rehab in peace. And move on to the next.
She’d be able to sit down and really think about what it meant to have a man like Ford in love with her. And, yes, to worry and obsess about what it meant for her to be in love—if she really understood the state of being—with a man like Ford.
They could take some time, couldn’t they, to build on that? To restructure, to decide on tones and trim? They could take a good look at the foundation, evaluate. Because hers was so uneven. Lots of cracks there, she mused, but maybe they could be shored up, supported and repaired.
Since his were so solid, so sturdy, there had to be a chance to make the whole thing stand. To make it last.
She so badly wanted to make things last.
She wrote him a note to prop against the coffeemaker.
Feeling good. Gone to work.
Cilla
The truth would be closer to “less crappy,” but “good” worked well enough.
She filled her insulated mug with coffee and headed for the door only two hours later than her usual start time.
She jolted back a step. Mrs. Hennessy stood on the other side of the door, her hand lifted as if to knock.
“Mrs. Hennessy.”
“Miss McGowan, I hoped you’d be here. I need to talk to you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, under the circumstances.”
“Please. Please.” Mrs. Hennessy opened the screen door herself, crowded in so that Cilla was forced to step back. “I know you must be upset. I know you have every reason to be, but—”
“Upset? Yeah, I’d say I have every reason. Your husband tried to kill me.”
“No. No. He lost his temper, and that’s partly my fault. He was wrong. He was wrong to do what he did, but you have to understand, he wasn’t thinking straight.”
“When wasn’t he thinking? When he drove out here in the first place, or when he rammed into my truck, repeatedly, until he ran me off the road? Or would it be when he shoved me? Or when he raised his fist to me?”
Mrs. Hennessy’s eyes shone—fear, distress, apology. “There’s no excuse for what he did. I know that. I’ve come here to beg you to have some pity, some compassion. To open your heart and understand his pain.”
“You suffered a tragedy, over thirty years ago. And he blames me. How can I understand?”
“Thirty years ago, thirty minutes ago. For him, there’s no difference. Our son, our only child, lost his future that night. We could only have the one child. I had problems, and Jim, he said to me, it doesn’t matter, Edie. We have everything. We have our Jimmy. He loved that boy more than anything in this world. Maybe he loved too much. Is that a sin? Is that wrong? Look, look.”
She pulled a framed photo out of her handbag, pushed it at Cilla. “That’s Jimmy. That’s our boy. Look at him.”
“Mrs. Hennessy—”
“The spitting image o
f his daddy,” she said quickly, urgently. “Everyone said so, from the time he was born. He was such a good boy. So bright, so sweet, so funny. He was going to college, he was going on to college and to medical school. He was going to be a doctor. Jim and me, neither of us went to college. But we saved, we put money by so Jimmy could go. We were so proud.”
“He was a handsome young man,” Cilla managed, and handed the photo back. “I’m sorry about what happened. I’m sincerely sorry. But I’m not to blame.”
“Of course you’re not. Of course you’re not.” Tears trembling on the brink, she pressed the photo to her heart. “I grieved, Miss McGowan, every day of my life, for what happened to my boy. Jimmy was never the same after that night. It was more than never walking again, or using his arms. He lost his light, his spark. He just never found himself again. I lost him, and I lost my husband that same night. He spent years tending to Jimmy. Most of the time he wouldn’t let me do. It was for him to do. To feed him, to change him, to lift him. It took his heart. It just took his heart.”
She drew herself back up. “When Jimmy died, I’m not ashamed to tell you I felt some relief. As if my boy was finally free again, to be again, and walk and laugh. But what was left in my Jim just shriveled. Jimmy was his reason for being, even if the being was bitter. He snapped, that’s all. The weight of it all, it just broke him. I’m begging you, don’t send him away to prison. He needs help. And time to heal. Don’t take him, too. I don’t know what I’ll do.”
She covered her face, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Out of the corner of her eye, Cilla saw a movement. As Ford came down the stairs, Cilla held up a hand to stop him.
“Mrs. Hennessy, do you know what he did yesterday? Do you understand what he’s done?”
“I know what they’re saying, and I know he hurt you yesterday. I shouldn’t have told him you came. I was upset, and I started on him, how he had to let it go, leave it, and you. How I couldn’t take you coming to the house that way. And he went storming off. If I hadn’t riled him up—”
“What about the other times?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know about other times. Can’t you see he needs help? Can’t you see he’s sick in his heart, his mind, in his soul? I love my husband. I want him back. If he goes to prison, he’ll die. He’ll die there. You’re young. You have everything ahead of you. We’ve already lost the most important thing in our lives. Can’t you find enough pity to let us try to find our peace?”
“What do you think I can do?”
“You could tell them you don’t want him to go to jail.” She reached out to grip Cilla’s hands. “The lawyer says he could ask for a psychiatric evaluation and time in a hospital. That they could send Jim to a place where they’d help him. He’d have to go, isn’t that punishment? He’d have to, but they’d help him.”
“I don’t—”
“And I’d sell the house.” Her hands squeezed Cilla’s harder, and her desperation passed from skin to skin. “I’d swear it to you, on the Bible. I’d sell the house and we’d move away from here. When he’s well enough, we’d move to Florida. My sister and her husband, they’re moving to Florida next fall. I’ll find a place down there, and we’ll move away. He’ll never bother you again. You could tell them you want him to go to the psychiatric hospital until he’s better. You’re the one he hurt, so they’d listen to you.
“I knew your grandmother. I know she loved her boy, too. I know she grieved for him. I know that in my heart. It’s that Jim never believed it, and he blamed her, blamed her every time he looked at our boy in that wheelchair. He couldn’t forgive, and it made him sick. Can’t you forgive? Can’t you?”
How could she hold against such need? Cilla thought. Such terrible need. “I’ll talk to the police. I can’t promise anything. I’ll talk to them. That’s all I can do.”
“God bless you. God bless you for that. I won’t trouble you again. Jim won’t, either. I swear it to you.”
Cilla closed her eyes, then closed the door. With a tired sigh, she walked over to sit on Ford’s steps. She leaned her head on his shoulder when he stepped down to sit beside her.
“There are all kinds of assaults,” he said quietly. “On the body, the mind, and on the heart.”
She only nodded. He understood she felt battered by the visit, by the pleas, by the tears.
“It’s about redemption, isn’t it?” she said. “Or some part of it. Me coming here, bringing her house back. Myself back. Looking for her in it, for the answers, the reasons. She never recovered from Johnnie’s death. Was never the same. And most people say she took her life because of it. Couldn’t you say Hennessy didn’t have that luxury? His child was still alive, but so damaged, so broken, so needy. He couldn’t turn away from it, and had to live with it every day. And that broke him.”
“I’m not saying he doesn’t need help,” Ford said slowly. “That mandatory time in a psychiatric facility isn’t the answer. But, Cilla, it’s not him who’s asking for pity or forgiveness. It’s not Hennessy who’s looking for redemption.”
“No, it’s not.” And there, too, she knew he was right. “I’m not doing it for him. For whatever good it does, I’m doing it for that desperate and terrified woman. And more, I’m doing it for Janet.”
IN CILLA’S EXPERIENCE working with a good crew in construction meant no coddling because you happened to be female. She got questions, concern, anger and disgust on her behalf, but no more than she’d have been afforded as a man.
And she got plenty of jokes and comments about being a ballbuster.
It helped put her back on track so she could spend the morning hanging trim.
“Hey, Cill.” One of the laborers stuck his head in the living room as she stood on the stepladder nailing crown molding. “There’s a lady out here, says she knows you. Name’s Lori. Want me to send her in or what?”
“Yeah, tell her to come in.” Cilla shot in the last nails, started down the ladder.
“If I’d been through what you went through yesterday, I’d be lying in bed, not climbing up ladders.”
“It’s just another kind of therapy.” Cilla set the gun aside and turned to her Good Samaritan. “I was going to come by later today or tomorrow, thank you again.”
“You thanked me yesterday.”
“Not to diminish what you did, but I’m always going to have this image of you running down the road with a portable phone in one hand, and a garden stake in the other.”
With a laugh, Lori shook her head. “My husband and I took this week off, short holiday week, to putter around the house and yard. He was off with our two boys buying peat moss and deer repellant while I restaked the tomatoes. I can tell you, if he’d been home, he’d likely’ve beat that idiot over the head with the stake, even as he went down.”
With a sympathetic smile, she studied the bruise on Cilla’s temple. “That looks painful yet. How are you doing?”
“Not too bad. I think it looks worse than it feels now.”
“I hope so.” She looked around the room. “I confess, while I did want to see you, I’ve always wanted a look inside this place.”
“It’s in major transition, but I’ll give you a tour if you want.”
“I’d love a rain check on that. This room’s very nice. I love the color. Well, let me just wind my way around to the point. Of course I know who you are, and who your grandmother was. We moved here about twelve years ago, but Janet Hardy’s legend looms large, so we knew this had been hers. It’s good to see somebody finally tending to it, which is not the point I’m winding to.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know, because while I know who you are, and feel a particular interest in you now, I don’t know you. I’ve had two reporters call me this morning, wanting quotes and information and my account of what happened yesterday.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“I told them I gave my account to the police. In both cases, they got pretty insistent, and that put my back up.�
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“I’m sorry you’re being bothered by this.”
Lori tossed up a hand, waved that aside. “I stopped by to let you know that someone’s been talking to reporters. For all I know you might’ve talked to them yourself, though I can see now that’s not the case.”
“No, but I’ll have to. I appreciate you letting me know.”
“We’re neighbors. I’m going to let you get back to work.” She glanced around. “I think it’s time to go nag my husband about painting the living room.”