Nora Roberts - Tribute

“It’s a scraper, Ford, not a chain saw. You scrape ice off your windshield in the winter, don’t you?”

“When I must. I prefer staying home until it thaws.” But Ford picked up the spare scraper and tried to apply the process of scraping ice from glass to scraping peeling paint off the side of a house. “I’m going to have two mortgages, and I’m going to be forty.”

“Did we just time-travel? You can’t be more than thirty.”

“Thirty-one. I have less than a decade until I’m forty, and five minutes ago I was studying for the SATs.”

Gavin’s lips twitched as he continued to scrape. “It gets worse. Every year goes faster.”

“Thanks,” Ford said bitterly. “That’s just what I needed to hear. I was going to take my time, but how can you when there isn’t as much as you think there is?” Turning, he waved the scraper, and nearly put it through the window. “But if you’re ready, and she’s not, what the hell are you supposed to do about that?”

“Keep scraping.”

Ford scraped-the paint and his knuckles. “Crap. As a metaphor for life, that sucks.”

Cilla came out in time to see Ford sucking his sore knuckles and scowling. “What are you doing?”

“I’m scraping paint and a few layers of skin, and your father’s philosophizing. ”

“Let me see.” She took Ford’s hand, studied the knuckles. “You’ll live.”

“I have to. I’m about to have two mortgages. Ouch!” he said when Cilla gave his sore fingers a quick squeeze.

“Sorry. They accepted your offer?”

“Yeah. I have to go into the bank tomorrow and sign a bunch of papers. I’m going to hyperventilate,” he decided. “I need a bag to breathe into.”

“November settlement?”

“I followed the company line.”

She gave him a poke. “Scared?”

His answering scowl was both sour and weak. “I’m about to go into debt. The kind that has many zeros. I’m having a few moments. Do you know that the olfactory sense is the strongest of the five senses? I keep having flashes of how that place smells.”

“Put that down before you really hurt yourself.” She took the scraper out of his hand, set it on the window ledge. “And come with me a minute. ” She gave her father a quick wink, then drew Ford into the house.

“Do you remember what the kitchen looked like in here when you first saw it?”

“Yeah.”

“Ugly, dingy, damaged floors, cracked plaster, bare bulbs. Got that picture in your head?”

“I got it.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Cilla.”

“Seriously, close them, and keep that picture in there.”

He shook his head but obliged her, and let her lead him back. “Now I want you to tell me what you see when you open your eyes. No thinking it through, no qualifying. Just open your eyes and tell me what you see.”

He obeyed. “A big room, empty. A lot of light. Walls the color of lightly toasted bread. And floors, big squares of tile-a lot of honey tones on cream with pipes poking up through them. Big, unframed- untrimmed-windows that open it up to a patio with a blue umbrella, and gardens with roses blooming like maniacs, and green gone lush. And the mountains against the sky. I see Cilla’s vision.”

He started to step forward, but she tugged him back. “No, don’t walk on the tiles yet. Stan only finished the grout an hour ago.”

“We can do this.”

“We absolutely can. It takes planning, effort, a willingness to find a way around unexpected problems, and a real commitment to the end goal. We’ll turn that place around, Ford, and when we do, we’ll have something we can both be proud of.”

He turned to her, kissed her forehead. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got some scraping to do.”

She walked out with him, baffled when he signaled so long to her father and kept walking.

“Well, where’s he going? He said he was going to do more scraping.”

Gavin smiled to himself as Cilla shook her head and went back inside. It was good to know his daughter had found her place, her purpose, had found a man who loved her.

It was good to know she was out of reach of the man who’d wished her harm.

THE NEXT MORNING, Cilla walked over from Ford’s to find her tires slashed. On the ground by the left front tire, another doll lay facedown, a short-handled paring knife stabbed into its back.

“You should’ve come back for me. Damn it, Cilla.” Ford paced down the drive, then back to where she sat on the steps of the veranda. “What if he-she-whoever-had still been here?”

“They weren’t. The cops were here within fifteen minutes. They’re pretty used to the run by now. I didn’t see the point in-”

“Because I can’t run a skill saw or a damn drill I’m no use?”

“I didn’t mean that, and you know I didn’t mean that.”

“Simmer down, Ford.” Matt stepped between them.

“No way. It’s the second time somebody killed one of those damn dolls to scare her, and she sits over here alone waiting for the cops and lets me sleep. It’s goddamn stupid.”

“You’re right. Simmer down anyway. He’s right,” Matt said to Cilla. “It was goddamn stupid. You’re a hell of a job boss, Cilla, and one of the best carpenters I’ve worked with, but the fact is someone’s dogging you and threatening you, and standing around here alone after you come across something like this doesn’t show much sense.”

“It was a cowardly bully tactic, and nobody asked you to go running across the road dragging Ford out of bed so the pair of you can gang up on me. I’m not stupid. If I was afraid, I’d have run across the road and dragged Ford out of bed. I was mad, damn it.”

She shoved to her feet as sitting and looking up at two annoyed males made her feel weak and small. “I’m still mad. I’m pissed and I’m tired of being dogged and threatened, as you put it. Of being run off the road and having good work destroyed, and the whole rest of it. Believe me, if whoever did that had still been here, I’d have probably yanked that knife out of that idiot doll and stabbed him in the throat with it. And still been pissed.”

“If you’re so smart,” Ford said, very coolly, “then you know it was stupid.”

She opened her mouth, shut it and gave up. Then she sat back down. “I’ll give you rash. I won’t give you stupid.”

“Hardheaded and rash,” Ford countered. “That’s my final offer.”

“Have it your way. Now if you’d go back to bed, and you’d go get to work, I could sit here and wallow in my brood.”

Saying nothing, Matt walked up, patted Cilla on the head and continued inside. Ford came over, sat beside her.

“Like I care if you can run a skill saw.”

“Thank God you don’t.”

“I didn’t think about coming to get you. I was too mad. I don’t get it, I just don’t get it.” Shifting, she indulged herself-and him-by pressing her face to his shoulder a moment. “Hennessy’s in psych. If his wife’s doing this, why? I know he’s doing two years, but how is that my fault? Maybe she’s as crazy as he is.”

“And maybe Hennessy didn’t do it. Ran you off the road, no question. Is crazy, no argument. But maybe he didn’t do any of the rest. He wouldn’t admit to it.”

“That would be just great, meaning I have at least two people out there who’d like to make my life hell.” She leaned forward, propped her elbows on her thighs. “It could be about the letters. Someone else knows about them, knows I found them, that they still exist. If Andrew wrote them, someone might know about them, about the affair, the pregnancy… His name’s still prominent around here. To protect his reputation…”

“Who, Brian’s father? Brian? Besides, it doesn’t look like Andrew Morrow wrote them. I sent copies to a graphologist.”