Nora Roberts - Tribute

“It’s great stuff.”

“No doubt. The problem remains how I find time to squeeze in party planning while I’m installing kitchen cabinets, running trim, hanging doors, refinishing floors and hitting a very long punch-out list, not to mention exploring the world of sofas, couches, divans and settees.”

“You buy a grill, a bunch of meat and a whole lot of alcoholic beverages. ”

She shook her head at him. “You’re a man.”

“I am. A fact which I’ve just proven beyond any reasonable doubt.” And being Sunday, he should get a shot at proving it again. “A party’s a good thing, Cilla. People come, people you know and like, enjoy being with. You show off what you’ve done. You share it. That’s why you took down the gate.”

“I…” He was right. “What kind of grill?”

He smiled at her. “We’ll shop.”

In an exaggerated gesture, she crossed her hands over her heart. “Words most women only dream about hearing from a man. I need to go get dressed. I could pick up paint while we’re out, and hardware, take another look at kitchen lighting.”

“What have I wrought?”

She tossed a smile at him as she walked out of the room. “We’ll take my truck.”

He dragged on his boxers, but stayed where he was, thinking about her. She didn’t realize how much she’d told him. She’d never once mentioned the house, or houses, where she’d grown up.

He, on the other hand, could describe in perfect detail the house of his childhood, the way the sun slanted or burst through the windows of his room at any given time of the day, the green sink in the bathroom, the chip in the kitchen tile where he’d dropped a gallon jug of apple juice.

He remembered the pang when his parents had sold it, even though he’d been in New York, even though he’d moved out. Even though they’d only moved a couple miles away. Years later, he could still drive by that old brick house and feel that pang.

Lovingly restored trim, letters hidden in a book, an old barn painted red again. All of that, every step and detail, were links she forged herself to make a chain of connection.

He’d do whatever he could do to help her forge it, even if it came down to shopping for a grill.

“Hey, Ford.”

“Back here,” Ford called out when he heard Brian’s voice, and unfolded himself off the sofa as Brian walked in. “Weber or Viking?”

“Tough choice,” Brian said without any need for explanation. “I went with the Weber, as you know, but a man can’t go wrong with the Viking.”

“How about a woman?”

“Women have no place behind a grill. That’s my stand on it.” He bent down, picked up Ford’s discarded T-shirt. “This is a clue. It tells me that I’ve come too late to interrupt morning sex. Damn that second cup of coffee.” He tossed the shirt at Ford’s face, then leaned down to greet Spock.

“You’re just jealous because you didn’t have any morning sex.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re here. Why are you here?”

Brian gestured to the counter and Cilla’s research pile as he crossed over to open Ford’s refrigerator. “Where’s Cilla?”

“Upstairs, getting dressed so we can go out and debate between Weber and Viking.”

“You’ve got Diet Cokes in here,” Brian observed as he pulled out a can of the real thing. “A sure sign a guy is hooked. I went by my mom’s yesterday.” Brian popped the top, took a swig. “Hauled off, to her surprised joy, not one but two boxes of junk she’s saved for me. What am I supposed to do with a crayon drawing of a house, a big yellow sun and stick people?”

“I don’t know, but you can’t throw it out. According to my mother, dumping any childhood memorabilia they saved dares the gods.” Ford got his own Coke. “I have three boxes.”

“I won’t forget it’s your fault I took possession of that stuff.” He pulled an envelope out of his pocket, tossed it on the counter. “However, as I didn’t score female companionship last night, I went through some of it, came up with this. It’s a card my grandfather gave my mother on the occasion of my birth. He wrote some stuff in it.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Damn right. I am now housing every report card I got from first grade through high school. You’ll let me know if it matches. I’m kind of into it now.”

“One way or the other.” Ford picked up the card, studied the strong, bold lettering of Cathy’s name.

“I gotta go, pick up Shanna. I’m driving her to the airport.” He squatted down, rubbing Spock’s head, the wiggling body. “Tell Cilla I’ll have a couple guys there tomorrow to finish that mulching, and I should be able to swing by the new place she’s buying, take a look at the yard.”

“Okay. I’ll get this back to you.”

Brian smirked at the card. “Yeah, I’m worried about that.”

Ford went upstairs, into the bedroom where Cilla was pulling her hair back into a tail. “I’m set,” she told him. “I’m going to go over while you’re getting dressed, take another look at a couple things before we go.”

“Brian just came by.”

“Oh, did he look at the new property already?”

“No, next week, he said. He brought this.” Ford held up the card.

“Is that… Of course it is. I didn’t expect him to find something so fast. Wow.” She pressed a hand to her belly. “Big mystery could be solved. It makes me a little nervous.”

“Do you want me to go check it out, then just tell you?”

She dropped her hand. “What am I? A weenie?”

“No, you’re not.”

“Then let’s do it.”

“They’re in my office.”

She went in with him, watched him take the book off the shelf, then set it on the counter for her to open.

“I keep thinking how she chose Gatsby . The rich, shining life, the glitter and then ennui, romance, betrayal, ultimate tragedy. She was so unhappy. I dreamed of her again not long ago. I didn’t tell you. One of my Janet and Cilla dreams. Forest Lawn. They’re both buried there. Her and Johnnie. I only went there once. Her grave was literally covered with flowers. It made me sad to look at it. All those flowers, brought by strangers, fading in the sun.”

“You planted them for her here instead. And even when they fade, they come back new. Year after year.”

“I like to think that would matter to her. My personal tribute.” She opened the book, took the stack of letters out. “I’ll open this,” she said, choosing one. “You open that.”

Ford took out the card. He’d expected a happy picture of a baby, or a sentimental one of a mother and child. Instead he found Andrew Morrow’s initials on heavy, cream-colored stock. “Pretty formal,” he commented, and opened the card.

Congratulations to my lovely daughter-in-law on the birth of her son. I hope these roses bring you pleasure. They’re only a small token of my great pride. Another generation of Morrows is born with Brian Andrew.

Affectionately, Drew

Cilla laid the letter beside the card.

My Dear. My Darling.

There are no words to express my sorrow, my sympathy, my grief for you. I wish I could hold you, could comfort you now with more than words on a page. Know that I’m with you in my heart, that my thoughts are full of you. No mother should have to suffer the loss of her child, and then be forced to grieve in so public a manner.

I know you loved your Johnnie beyond measure. If there can be comfort now, take it in knowing he felt that love every day of his short life.

Only Yours

“Is that fitting, is that fate?” Cilla said quietly. “That I’d choose the loss of a son to compare to the birth of another? It’s a kind letter,” she continued. “They’re both kind notes, and both strangely distant, so carefully worded, I think. When each occasion should have filled the page with emotions and intimacies. The tone, the structure. They could be from the same person.”