Nora Roberts - Tribute

He’d come to her now and then, Cilla remembered. And taken her to the zoo or to Disneyland. But at least during the heyday of her series, there’d always been paparazzi, or kids swarming her, and their parents snapping photos. Work trumps Fantasyland, Cilla thought, whether you wanted it to or not.

Then, of course, her father and Patty had their own daughter, Angie, their own home, their own lives on the other side of the country. Which, Cilla mused, equated to the other side of the world.

She’d never fit into that world.

Isn’t that what her father had tried to tell her? A long way, and not just the miles.

“It’s nice out here,” Cilla said, groping.

“Our favorite sitting spot,” Patty answered with a smile that tried too hard. “It’s a little chilly yet, I know.”

“It feels good.” Cilla racked her brain. What did she say to this sweet, motherly woman with her pleasant face, dark bob of hair and nervous eyes? “I, ah, bet the gardens will be great in a week or two, when everything starts to pop.”

She scanned the bed, the shrubs and vines, the trim swath of lawn that would fill with pockets of shade when the red maple and weeping cherry leafed out. “You’ve put a lot of work into it.”

“Oh, I putter.” Patty flicked her fingers over her short, dark bob, twisted the little silver hoop in her ear. “It’s Gavin who’s the gardener in the house.”

“Oh.” Cilla shifted her gaze to her father. “Really?”

“I like playing in the dirt. Guess I never grew out of it.”

“His grandfather was a farmer.” Patty sent Gavin a quick beam. “So it came down through the blood.”

Had she known that? Why hadn’t she known that? “Here, in Virginia?”

Patty’s eyes widened in surprise, then slid toward Gavin. “Ummm.”

“I thought you knew-your grandmother bought my grandfather’s farm.”

“I- What? The Little Farm? That was yours?”

“It was never mine, sweetie. My grandfather sold it when I was just a boy. I do remember chasing chickens there, and getting scolded for it. My father didn’t want to farm, and his brothers and sisters-those living at the time-had mostly scattered off. So, well, he sold it. Janet was here, filming on location. Barn Dance .”

“I know that part of the story. She fell in love with the farm they used and bought it on the spot.”

“More or less on the spot,” Gavin said with a smile. “And Grandpa bought himself a Winnebago-I swear-and he and Grandma hit the road. Traveled all over hell and back again for the next six, seven years, till she had a stroke.”

“It was McGowan land.”

“Still is.” Still smiling, Gavin sipped his tea. “Isn’t it?”

“I think it’s a lovely kind of circle.” Patty reached out, patted her hand over Cilla’s. “I remember how the lights would shine in that house when Janet Hardy was there. And how in the summer, if you drove by with the windows open, you could hear music, and maybe see women in beautiful clothes, and the most handsome men. Now and then, she’d come into town, or just drive around in her convertible. A picture she made.”

Patty picked up the pitcher again, as if she had to keep her hands busy. “She stopped by our house once, when we had a litter of puppies for sale. Five dollars. Our collie had herself a liaison with a traveling salesman of indeterminate origin. She bought a puppy from us. Sat right down on the ground and let those pups jump and crawl all over her. And laughed and laughed. She had such a wonderful laugh.

“I’m sorry. I’m going on, aren’t I?”

“No. I didn’t know any of this. I don’t know nearly enough. Was that the dog that…”

“It was. She called him Hero. Old Fred Bates found him wandering the road and loaded him in his pickup, took him back. He was the one who found her that morning. It was a sad day. But now you’re here.” Again, Patty laid a hand over Cilla’s. “There’ll be lights and music again.”

“She bought the dog from you,” Cilla murmured, “and the farm from your grandfather.” She looked at Gavin. “I guess it’s another circle. Maybe you could help me with the gardens.”

“I’d like that.”

“I hired a landscaper today, but I have to decide what I want put in. I’ve got a book on gardening in this zone, but I could use some direction.”

“It’s a deal. And I’ve got a couple of gardening books that might give you more ideas.”

“A couple?”

Gavin grinned at his wife’s rolling eyes. “A few more than a couple. Who’d you hire?”

“Morrow? Brian Morrow?”

“Good choice. He does good work, and he’s reliable. Was a football star back in high school, and never pushed himself to be more than a dead average student. But he’s built up a good business and reputation for himself.”

“So I hear. I met another of your former students today. Ford Sawyer.”

“Of course,” Patty put in. “He lives right across the road.”

“Clever boy, always was.” Gavin nodded over his tea. “Tended to day-dream, but if you engaged his mind, he’d use it. He’s done well for himself, too.”

“Has he? How?”

“He writes graphic novels. Illustrates them, too, which isn’t usual, I’m told. The Seeker ? That’s his. It’s interesting work.”

“ The Seeker . Super-crime-fighter sort of thing?”

“Along those lines. A down-on-his-luck private investigator stumbles across a madman’s plot to destroy the world’s great art through the use of a molecular scrambler that renders them invisible. His hopes to stop them-and secure his own fame and fortune-result in the murder of his devoted girlfriend. He himself is left for dead, but he’s also exposed to the scrambler.”

“And is imbued with the power of invisibility,” Cilla finished. “I’ve heard of this. A couple of the guys who worked on my flips were into graphic novels. God knows Steve was,” she said, referring to her ex-husband. “They’d argue the Seeker versus the Dark Knight or X-Men as compared to the Fantastic Four half the day. When I said something about grown men and comic books, I got the fish eye.”

“Gavin enjoys them. Well, Ford’s in particular.”

“Do you really?” The image of the quiet-natured high school teacher poring over superhero comics amused her. “Because he’s a former student?”

“That’s certainly a factor. And the boy tells a good, meaty story centered on a complicated character who seeks redemption by seeking out evil. He attempted to do the right thing, but for all the wrong reasons. To stop a madman but for his own personal gain. And that single act cost the life of the woman who loved him, and whom he’d treated carelessly. His power of invisibility becomes a metaphor-he becomes a hero but will never be seen. Interesting work.”

“He’s single,” Patty added, and made Gavin laugh. “Well, I’m only mentioning it because he lives right across the road, and Cilla’s going to be alone at the farm. She might want some company now and again.”

Head that one off at the pass, Cilla thought. "Actually, I’m going to be spending my days on the rehab, and my evenings plotting out the phases of the job. I’ll be too busy for much company for a while. In fact, I should get back to it. I’ve got a full day scheduled tomorrow.”

“Oh, but can’t you stay for dinner?” Patty protested. “Let’s get a nice home-cooked meal into you before you go. I’ve got lasagna all made up and ready to pop into the oven. It won’t take long.”

“That sounds great.” Cilla realized it did just that. “I’d love to stay for dinner.”

“You sit right here, have another glass of tea with your father.”

Cilla watched while Patty popped up, then bustled across the patio and into the house. “Should I go help her?”