Nora Roberts - Tribute

Beauty restrained, just like her hair.

But Brid, for Brid, the beauty would be bold, luminous. Not simply released but wild with it.

Time to get started.

Inside, he packed up his satchel again, hung his camera around his neck by its strap. He considered another token, and shoved an apple into the bag.

The sound of her nail gun peppered the air like muffled gunshots. And made Ford think of battles. Brid would never use a gun-much too crass, too ordinary. But how would she defend herself against them? With sword and hammer, deflecting bullets like Wonder Woman’s magic bracelets? Maybe.

As he walked closer, the echoey music from one of the workers’ radio jangled out country. Why was it always country? he wondered. Was it some sort of construction law?

Country music (including selected crossover artists) must be played on portable radios on all sites.

He caught the buzz of a saw, the whine of what might’ve been a drill, and assorted bangs from inside. Adding them together, along with the decor of Dumpster, Porta Potti and pickups, he found himself grateful he’d bought his own place move-in ready.

Plus, he sincerely doubted any of the workers he might have hired otherwise would have owned an ass like the one currently snugged into dusty Levi’s and happily facing his way.

He could’ve resisted, but why? So he lifted the camera, framed her in and took the shot as he walked.

“You know why they have those calendars of scantily clad women holding power drills and such in mechanics’ shops?” he called out.

Cilla looked over her shoulder, sized Ford up through her safety goggles. “So men can imagine their dicks as a power drill?”

“No, so we can imagine women imagine it.”

“I stand corrected.” She shot in the last two nails, then swiveled around to sit. “Where’s your faithful companion?”

“Spock? He’s busy, but sends his best. Where’d you learn to shoot that gun?”

“On-the-job training. I’ve got more boards to cut and nail, if you want a turn.”

“Tragic and terrible things happen when I pick up tools. So I don’t, and save lives.” He reached in his bag. “Brought you a present.”

“You brought me an apple?”

“It’ll help keep your strength up.” He tossed it to her, cocking a brow when she caught it neatly, and one-handed. “I had a feeling.”

She studied the apple, then bit in. “About what?”

“That you’d field what comes at you. Mind if I take some pictures while you’re working? I want to start some more detailed sketches.”

“So you’re going forward with the warrior goddess idea.”

“Brid. Yeah, I am. I can wait until you take a break if the camera bothers you while you work.”

“I spent more than half my life in front of cameras.” She pushed to her feet. “They don’t bother me.”

She tossed the apple core into the Dumpster before stepping over to her lumber pile. Ford snapped away while she selected, measured, set the piece on the power saw. He watched her eyes as the blade whined, as it cut through wood. He doubted the camera could capture the focus in them.

But it captured the cut of her biceps, the ripple of toned muscle when she hefted the planks and carried them to the finished decking.

“Living in California, I expect you’re a woman who spends regular time at a gym.”

Cilla set the plank on her marks, braced the distance with spacers. “I like a good gym.”

“Let me say working out’s worked out for you.”

“I tend toward skinny otherwise. Rehab work helps the tone,” she continued, driving in the first nail. “But I miss the discipline of a good gym. Do you know any around here?”

“As it happens, I do. Tell you what, you come on over when you’re finished up for the day. I’ll take you to see the gym, then we’ll have dinner.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re not the coy type. ‘Maybe’ means…?”

“It depends on when I finish up.”

“Gym’s open twenty-four/seven.”

“Seriously?” She flicked him a glance, then worked her way down the board with her nail gun. “That’s handy. I’ll adjust the maybe to probably.”

“Fair enough. On the dinner end, are you vegetarian or fruititarian or some other ’tarian that requires restrictions on the menu?”

Laughing, she sat back on her heels. “I’m an eatitarian. I’ll eat pretty much what you put in front of me.”

“Good to know. Mind if I take a look inside, see what all the banging and sawing’s about? It’ll also give me the chance to rag on Matt about whatever comes to mind.”

“Go ahead. I’d give you the tour, but my boss is a bitch about unscheduled breaks.”

“Mine’s a pushover.” He stepped up, then bent down, sniffed at her. “First time I ever realized the smell of sawdust was sexy.”

He stepped inside and said, “Holy shit.”

He’d expected a certain amount of chaos, activity and mess. He hadn’t expected what struck him as a kind of maniacal destruction. There had to be a purpose behind it all, he thought, as Cilla struck him as firmly sane, but he couldn’t see it.

Tools scattered over the floor in what hit his organized soul with dismay. How did anyone find anything? Cords snaked and coiled. Bare bulbs dangled. Sections of wall gaped where for reasons that escaped him someone had cut or hacked them out. The wide planks of the floor were patchworked with stained cloths and cardboard.

Baffled, and slightly horrified, he wandered through, observing the same sort of mad bombarding in every room.

He found Matt in one of them, curling blond hair under a red ball cap, tool belt slung, measuring tape at the ready. He gave Ford an easy smile, said, “Hey.”

“You make this mess?”

“Pieces of it. Boss lady’s got ideas. Good ones. That’s a woman who knows what she’s doing.”

“If you say so. How’s Josie?”

“Doing good. We got a picture of the Beast.”

Ford knew the Beast was the baby Josie was currently carrying. Their two-year-old son had been the Belly.

He took the sonogram shot Matt pulled out of his pocket, studied it, turned it and finally found the form. Legs, arms, body, head. “He looks like the other one did. Midget alien from Planet Womb.”

“She. We just found out. It’s a girl.”

“Yeah?” Ford glanced up at his friend’s huge grin, found his own spreading. “One of each species. Nice going.”

“She’s not dating till she’s thirty.” Matt took the picture back, looked at it with love, then slipped it back into his pocket. “So, you up for poker night at Bri’s?”

Ford thought he’d rather face a root canal than poker night. But he, Matt and Brian had been friends just about all their lives. “If there’s absolutely no escape.”

“Good. I need the money. Hold that end of the tape a minute.”

“You know better than that.”

“Right.” Matt set the tape himself. “If you touch it, it’s likely to explode in my hand. I could lose a finger. Have you been through the place yet?”

“I just started.”

“Take a look around. It’s going to be a hell of a thing.”

“It already looks like hell.”

Unable to resist, he backtracked, went upstairs. It didn’t get any better. What had been a bathroom was now a bare box with stripped walls and skeletal pipes, with raw holes in the floor and ceiling. Two bedrooms stood doorless, their windows still bearing the stickers of the manufacturer, their floors covered with ratty carpet.

But when he opened the door to the next bedroom, astonishment clicked up to temper. What the hell was she thinking? An air mattress and sleeping bag, cardboard boxes and an old card table?

“I take back the sane,” he muttered, and headed back down.