Spock and his bear contented themselves with a ratty towel and a bowl of dog food.
“Caviar, goat cheese, champagne.” Ford sat on the blanket. “My usual picnic involves a bucket of chicken, a tub of potato salad and beer.”
“You can take the girl out of Hollywood.” She began to gather a selection for a plate.
“What is that?”
“It’s a blini, for the caviar. A dollop of crème fraîche, a layer of beluga, and… You’ve never had this before?” she said when she read his expression.
“Can’t say I have.”
“You fear it.”
“Fear is a strong word. I have concerns. Doesn’t caviar come from-”
“Don’t think about it, just eat.” She held the loaded blini to his lips. “Open up, you coward.”
He winced a little but bit in. The combination of flavors-salty, smooth, mildly sweet-hit his taste buds. "Okay, better than I expected. Where’s yours?”
She laughed and fixed another.
“How do you plan to set up?” he asked as they ate. “Your business.”
“Mmm.” She washed down caviar with champagne. “The Little Farm’s a springboard. It gets attention, just because of what it is. The better job I do there, the more chance people see I know what I’m doing. And the subs I’ve hired talk about it, and about me. I need to build on word of mouth. I’ll have to advertise, make it known I’m in business. Use connections. Brian to Brian’s father, for instance. God, this chicken is great. There are two houses within twelve miles up for sale. Serious fixer-uppers that I think are a little overpriced for the area and their conditions. I’m keeping my eye on them. I may make a lowball offer on one of them, see where it goes.”
“Before you finish here?”
“Yeah. Figure, even if I came to terms with the seller straight off, there’d be thirty to ninety days for settlement. I’d push for the ninety. That’d put me into the fall before I have to start outlaying any cash. And that’s seven, eight months into the Little Farm. I juggle the jobs, and the subs, work out a realistic time frame and budget. Flip the house in, we’ll say, twelve weeks, keeping the price realistic.”
She loaded another blini for both of them. “Greed and not knowing your market’s what can kill a flip just as quick as finding out too late the foundation’s cracked or the house is sitting in a sinkhole.”
“How much would you look to make?”
“On the house I’m looking at? With the price I’d be willing to pay, the budget I’d project, the resale projection in this market?” She bit into the blini while she calculated. “After expenses, I’d look for about forty thousand.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Forty thousand, in three months?”
“I’d hope for forty-five, but thirty-five would do it.”
“Nice.” She was right about the chicken, too. “What if I bought the other one? Hired you?”
“Well, Jesus, Ford, you haven’t even seen it.”
“You have. And you know what you’re doing-about houses and picnics. I could use an investment, and this has the advantage of a fun factor. Plus, I could be your first client.”
“You need to at least look at the property, calculate how much you’re willing to invest, how long you can let that investment ride.” She lifted her champagne glass, gestured with it like a warning. “And how much you can afford to lose, because real estate and flipping are risks.”
“So’s the stock market. Can you handle both houses?”
She took a drink. “Yeah, I could, but-”
“Let’s try this. Figure out a time when you can go through it with me, and we’ll talk about the potential, the possibilities, your fee and other practical matters.”
“Okay. Okay. As long as we both understand that once you’ve seen the property and we’ve gone over those projections, and you tell me you’d rather buy a fistful of lottery tickets than that dump, no harm, no foul.”
“Understood and agreed. Now, with the business portion of tonight’s program out of the way.” He leaned over to kiss her. “Do you have any plans for the Fourth?”
“The fourth what? Blini?”
“No, Cilla. Of July. You know, hot dogs, apple pie, fireworks.”
"Oh. No.” My God, she thought. It was nearly July. "Where do people go to watch fireworks around here?”
“There are a few options. But this is the great state of Virginia. We set off our own.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the signs. You all are crazy.”
“Be that as it may, Matt’s having a cookout. It’s a short walk from his place to the park where the Roritan band plays Sousa marches, there’s the world-famous pie-eating contest, won four years running by Big John Porter, and other various slices of Americana before the fireworks display. Wanna be my date?”
“Yes, I would.” She leaned over the picnic debris, linked her arms around his neck. “Ford?”
“Yeah.”
“If I eat another bite of anything, I’m going to be sick. So…” She leaped up, grabbed his hands. “Let’s dance.”
“About that. My plans were to lie here like a dissipated Roman soldier and watch you dance.”
“No, you don’t. Up, up, up!”
“There’s just one problem. I don’t dance.”
“Everybody dances. Even Spock.”
“Not really. Well, yes, he does,” Ford admitted as Spock got up to demonstrate. “I don’t. Did you ever catch Seinfeld? The TV deal.”
“Of course.”
“Did you see the one where Elaine’s at this office party, and to get people up to dance, she starts it off?”
“Oh yeah.” The scene popped straight into her mind, made her laugh. “That was bad.”
“I make Elaine look like Jennifer Lopez.”
“You can’t be that bad. I refuse to believe it. Come on, show me.”
Those gold-rimmed eyes showed actual pain. “If I show you, you’ll never have sex with me again.”
“Absolutely false. Show me your moves, Sawyer.”
“I have no moves in this arena.” But with a heavy sigh, he rose.
“Just a little boogie,” she suggested. She moved her hips, her shoulders, her feet. Obviously, to Ford’s mind, to some well-oiled internal engine. Clutching the bear between his paws, Spock gurgled his approval.
“You asked for it,” he muttered.
He moved, and could swear he heard rusty gears with mismatched teeth grind and shriek. He looked like the Tin Man of Oz, before the oil can.
“Well, that’s not… Okay, that’s really bad.” She struggled to swallow a snort of laughter, but didn’t quite succeed. The disgusted look he shot her had her holding up her hands and stepping quickly to him. “Wait, wait. Sorry. I can teach you.”
This time, Spock snorted.
“Others have tried; all have failed. I have no rhythm. I am rhythmically impaired. I’ve learned to live with it.”
“Bull. Anyone who has your kind of moves horizontally can have them vertically. Here.” She took his hands, set them on her hips, then put hers on his. “It starts here. This isn’t a structured sort of thing, like a waltz or quickstep. It’s just moving. A little hip action. No, unlock your knees, it’s not a goose step, either. Just left, right, left. Shift your weight to the left, not just your hip.”
“I look and feel like a spastic robot.”
“You don’t.” She shot Spock a warning glance, and the dog turned his head away. “Relax. Now, keep the hips going, but put your hands on my shoulders. That’s it. Feel my shoulders, just a little up and down. Feel that, let that go up your arms, into your shoulders. Just up and down. Don’t stiffen up, keep those knees loose. There you go, there you are. You’re dancing.”
“This isn’t dancing.”
“It is.” She put her hands on his shoulders, then slid them down his arms until they held hands. “And now you’re dancing with me.”
“I’m standing like an idiot in one spot.”
“We’ll worry about the feet later. We’re starting slow, and smooth. It would even be sexy if you took that pained expression off your face. Don’t stop!”