Nora Roberts - Tribute

“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 in-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 of his daddy,” she said quickly, urgently. “Every-onesaid 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.”