Nora Roberts - Tribute

“You have to go with the classic green. I told you, the gold can strip Kryptonians’ powers permanently, but-”

“ Ford .”

“Sorry. We’ll skip that and go back to Vegas.”

“We’re not going to Vegas. God, you make my head spin. You’re not thinking of a single practicality, of the reality.”

“Test the theory. Give me one.”

“Fine. Fine. Where would we live? Do we flip a coin, ask your Magic 8-Ball. Or maybe we’d-”

“Well, for God’s sake, Cilla, we’d live here. Here,” he repeated, knocking his knuckles against the wall of the house.

His instant answer tipped her off balance. “What about your house? You love your house. It’s a great house. It’s tailor-made for you.”

“Yeah, for me. Not for us. Sure, I love my house, and it’s got a lot of me in it. But it’s just a house for me, and Spock.” He glanced around in time to see Spock catch and destroy the hated invisible cat. “He’s happy anywhere. I haven’t poured myself into my place the way you have this one. This is home for you, Cilla. I’ve watched you make it.” Now he picked up her screwdriver. “With more than this. A lot more than tools and nails and gallons of paint. It’s your place. I want it to be ours.”

“But…” But, but, her mind was full of buts . “What about your studio?”

“Yeah, it’s a great space. You’ll think of something.” He handed her back the screwdriver. “Make all the lists you want, Cilla. Love? It’s green kryptonite. It powers out all the rest. I’ll go out back and start the grill.”

She stood, stunned, a power tool in her hand, as the screen door slapped shut behind him. And thought: What? Love is kryptonite? She’d think of something?

How could she understand, much less marry, a man whose mind worked that way? One who could make statements like that, then stroll off to start the grill? Where were his anger, his angst, his annoyance? And to suggest he could give up his place and move into hers without any real thought to where he’d work? It didn’t make any sense. It made no sense at all.

Of course if she added the home gym off the south side of the house the way she’d been toying with, she could put on a second story, tying that into the existing house. Angle it for a little interest. Tight-winder stairs would work, and be fun to do. It would keep the work spaces entirely separate, give them both privacy. Plus the southern exposure would give a studio excellent light. Then she could…

Well, God, she realized. She’d thought of something. A damn good something, too, she added and put down her tool to pace the veranda. Having destroyed his quota, Spock trotted up to pace with her.

The sort of something that would not only work, not only blend in with the existing structure, Cilla realized, but enhance it. Break up the roof line, finish it off with a sweet little balcony. Jib windows for access.

Damn it, damn it, damn it! Now she could see it. Now she wanted it. She stalked down the steps, around to the south side of the house with Spock bounding happily behind her. Oh yeah, yeah, not only doable, she thought, but it now seemed the house begged for it.

She jammed her hands into her pockets, and her fingers hit the ring box she carried there. Kryptonite, she thought, pulling it out. That was the trouble, the big trouble. She did understand him. And more terrifying, more wonderful, he understood her.

Trusted her. Loved her. Believed in her.

WHEN SHE WALKED to the patio, Ford had the grill smoking. The corn, husks in place, were submerged in a big bowl of water for reasons that eluded her. He’d brought out the wine. The scents of roses, sweet peas, jasmine tangled in the air as he poured her a glass. Sun streamed through the trees, glinted off the pond where Spock wandered to drink.

For a moment, she thought of the glamour that had once lived there, the colored lights, the beautiful people wafting like perfume over the lawns. Then she thought of him, just him, standing on stones she’d helped place with her own hands, offering her a glass of wine, and a life she’d never believed she could have.

She stood with him, one hand in her pocket, and took the first sip. “I have some questions. First, just to get it off my mind, why are you drowning the corn?”

“My mother said to.”

“Okay. If I thought of something, how do you know it’s something you’d want?”

“If I didn’t,” he said, picking up the conversation as if there had been no break, “I know how to say I don’t want that. I learned how to do that at an early age, with mixed results. But the odds are, if we’re talking about construction and design, whatever you thought of would work.”

“Next. Could I hurt you?”

“Cilla, you could rip my heart out in bloody pieces.”

She understood that, understood he could do the same to her. And wasn’t that a hell of a thing? Wasn’t that a miracle? “I couldn’t have done that to Steve, or him to me. As much as we loved each other. As much as we still do.”

“Cilla-”

“Wait. One more question. Did you ask me to carry the ring around with me because you hoped it would act as kryptonite, and weaken me over time until I agreed to marry you?”

He shifted his feet, took another drink of wine. “It might have been a factor.”

With a nod, she drew her hand out of her pocket, studied the ring sparkling on it. "Apparently, it works.”

His grin flashed, quicksilver delight. But when he moved to her, she slapped a hand on his chest. “Just hold on.”

“That was my plan.”

“Wait. Wait,” she said again, softly. “Everything I said before, it’s true. I’d made up my mind never to get married again. Why go through the process when the odds are so stacked for failure? I failed a lot. Some was my fault, some was just the way it was. Marriage seemed so unnecessary, so hard, so full of tangles that can never really be fully unknotted. It was easy with Steve. We were friends, and we’d always be friends. As much as I love him, it was never hard or scary. There wasn’t any risk, for either of us.”

Her throat filled, so much emotion rising up. But she wanted- needed-to get the rest out. “It’s not like that with you because we’re going to hurt each other along the way. If this screws up, we won’t be friends. If this screws up, I’ll hate you every day for the rest of my life.”

“I’ll hate you more.”

“Why is that absolutely the best thing you could’ve said? We’re not going to Vegas.”

“Okay, but I think we’re missing a real opportunity. How do you feel about backyard weddings?”

“I feel that’s what you had in mind all along.”

“You’re what I had in mind all along.”

She shook her head, then laid her hands on his cheeks. “I’d love a backyard wedding. I’d love to share this house with you. I don’t know how anything that scares me this much can make me so happy.”

He took her lips with his, soft, soft, spinning the kiss out in the perfumed air, with the sun streaming through the trees. “I believe in us.” He kissed her again, swayed with her. “You’re the one I can dance with.”

She laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes.

THE LITTLE FARM

1973

“I believed in love,” Janet said as she sat back on the white silk pillows on the lipstick-pink couch. “Why else would I have thrown myself into it so often? It never lasted, and my heart would break, or close. But I never stopped opening it again. Again and again. You know that. You’ve read all the books, heard all the stories, and the letters. You have the letters so you know I loved, right to the end.”

“It never made you happy. Not the kind that lasted.” Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Cilla sorted through photographs. “Here’s one taken the day you married Frankie Bennett. You’re so young, so happy. And it fell apart.”