Nora Roberts - Tribute

“It’s so open and warm. I love the light. Are those shamrocks on the collar, or whatever you call it?”

“Medallion, and yes. Dobby did an amazing job. And the fixture’s true to the architecture of the house. I don’t know what was there originally. I couldn’t find any pictures showing it, and my father couldn’t remember. But I think the straightforward Arts and Crafts lines and the design, with the diamond shapes of amber and deep blue, work.”

“It’s just lovely. But, oh my God, the fireplace.”

“Focal point.” Walking over, Cilla stroked her hand down the deep blue of the granite. “I wanted it to pop against the walls, the way the sky pops against the mountains. And a strong color like this needed a strong mantel.”

“Wasn’t it… Yes, it was brick before.”

“Smoke-stained and pocked, and the hearth didn’t meet code, which you can see by the burn marks from stray embers in the floor.”

“It’s funny, all I remember about this room, or the house, really, was so up-to-the-minute. The long sofa in lipstick pink with white satin pillows. I was so impressed. And the way Janet looked sitting on it in a blue dress. She was so beautiful. Well, everyone was,” Cathy added with a laugh. “The celebrities, the rich and famous and important. I couldn’t believe I was here. We were only invited because Tom’s father was a very important local figure, but I didn’t care why. We were invited here three times, and every time was almost painfully exciting.

“Lord, I was younger than you the last time I was here-in that era, I mean. So much time between,” she said with a wistful sigh. “The last time was a Christmas party. All the decorations, the lights. Champagne, endless glasses of champagne, music. That amazing couch. People begged her to sing until she gave in. There was a white baby grand over by the window, and… Oh! Who was it, who was it everyone thought she was having a blistering affair with… the composer? And it turned out he was gay. He died of AIDS.”

"Lenny Eisner.”

"Yes, yes. God, gorgeous man. Anyway, he played, and she sang. Magic. It would’ve been the Christmas before your uncle was killed.

“I’m sorry,” Cathy said suddenly. “I’m daydreaming out loud.”

“No, I like hearing about the way it was. The way she was.”

Cathy tucked back her swing of glossy hair. “I can tell you no one shone brighter than Janet. I think, yes, Marianna was just a few weeks old, and it was the first time we’d gotten a sitter. I was so nervous about leaving her, and so self-conscious because I still had all that baby weight on me. But Janet asked me about the baby, and told me how pretty I looked. It was kind of her, as I’d blown up like a whale with Marianna, and was barely down to hippo. And I remember because my mother-in-law nagged me about eating so many canapés. How would I lose the weight if I ate so much? Irritating woman. Oh, but Tom’s father, I remember, too, how handsome he looked that night. So robust and dashing, and how Janet flirted with him, which irritated my mother-in-law and pleased me to no end.”

She let out a laugh now, tickled by the memory. “We never did take, Tom’s mother and I. Yes, he did look handsome that night. You’d never have believed cancer would take him so horribly just twelve years later. They stood right in here, Janet and Drew-Andrew, Tom’s daddy. And then they were both gone.

“Now, I am sorry. How did I take such a morbid turn?”

“Old houses. They’re full of life and death.”

“I suppose you’re right. It’s about life now, isn’t it, and what you’re doing here. Oh, I completely forgot. I brought you two mimosas.”

“You brought me drinks?”

Cathy laughed until she had to hold her stomach. “No. Trees. Well, they will be trees in a few years, if you want them. I started a couple dozen of them from seed, to give as gifts. I have a pair of lovely old mimosas. You may not want to bother with them, and I won’t be offended if you don’t. They’re barely ten inches high at this point, and you won’t see blooms for several years.”

“I’d love to have them.”

“They’re out on your veranda in some old plastic pots. Why don’t we take them around to Brian, see where he thinks they’d do best for you?”

“They’re my first housewarming gift.” Cilla led the way out, and picked up one of the black plastic pots holding the delicate, fanning seedling. “I love the idea of planting them so young, and being able to watch them grow, year after year. It’s funny, you coming by, talking about the parties. I was thinking about having one, maybe for Labor Day.”

“Oh, you should! What fun.”

“Problem being, the house won’t be completely finished, and I won’t have it furnished or decorated, or-”

“Who cares about that!” Obviously already in the swing, Cathy gave Cilla an elbow bump. “You can have another when you’re all done. It’d be like… a prelude. I’d be happy to help, and you know Patty would. Ford’s mother, too. In fact, we’d take over if you didn’t whip us back.”

“Maybe. Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

AFTER THE CREWS HAD GONE, and the house fell silent, after two fragile seedlings with their pink, powder-puff blossoms still years from bloom had been planted in a sunny spot bordering the yard and fallow field, Cilla sat on an overturned bucket in the living room of the house that had once been her grandmother’s. The house now hers.

She imagined it crowded with people, beautifully dressed, beautifully coiffed. The colored lights of Christmas, the elegance of candle and firelight glowing, glittering, glimmering.

A lipstick-pink couch with white satin pillows.

And Janet, a light brighter than all the rest, gliding from guest to guest in elegant blue, a crystal glass bubbling with champagne in her hand.

The granddaughter sat on the overturned bucket, hearing the dream voices and drawing in the ghost scents of Christmas pine.

Ford found her, alone in the center of the room, in light going dim with the late summer evening.

Too alone, he thought. Not just solitary, not this time. Not quietly contemplative, and not basking, but absolutely alone, and very, very away.

Because he wanted her back, he walked over, crouched in front of her. Those spectacular eyes stared for another instant, two more, at what was away, then came back, came back to him.

“There was a Christmas party,” she said. “It must have been the last Christmas party she gave, because it was the Christmas before Johnnie was killed. There were lights and music, crowds of people. Beautiful people. Canapés and champagne. She sang for them, with Lenny Eisner on the piano. She had a pink couch. A long, bright pink couch with white satin pillows. Cathy told me about it. It sounds so Doris Day, doesn’t it? Bright pink, lipstick pink. It would never go in here now, that bright pink with these foggy green walls.”

“It’s just paint, Cilla; it’s just fabric.”

“It’s statements. Fashions change, go in and out, but there are statements. I’d never be a pink couch with white satin pillows. I changed it, and I’m not sorry about that. It’ll never be as elegant or bold and bright as it was, with her. I’m okay with that, too. But sometimes, when it’s me in here, I need-and I know this sounds completely insane-but I need to ask her if she’s okay with it, too.”

“Is she?”

She smiled, laid her brow against his. “She’s thinking about it.” She sat back, sighed. “Well, since I’m making crazy statements, I might as well lead up to asking you a crazy question.”

“Let’s sit outside on the crazy-question section of the veranda. There’s too damn much of me to squat down this way for long.” He pulled her to her feet.