“His grandfather was a farmer.” Patty sent Gavin a quick beam. “So it came down through the blood.”
Had she known that? Why hadn’t she known that? “Here, in Virginia?”
Patty’s eyes widened in surprise, then slid toward Gavin. “Ummm.”
“I thought you knew-your grandmother bought my grandfather’s farm.”
“I- What? The Little Farm? That was yours?”
“It was never mine, sweetie. My grandfather sold it when I was just a boy. I do remember chasing chickens there, and getting scolded for it. My father didn’t want to farm, and his brothers and sisters-those living at the time-had mostly scattered off. So, well, he sold it. Janet was here, filming on location. Barn Dance.”
“I know that part of the story. She fell in love with the farm they used and bought it on the spot.”
“More or less on the spot,” Gavin said with a smile. “And Grandpa bought himself a Winnebago-I swear-and he and Grandma hit the road. Traveled all over hell and back again for the next six, seven years, till she had a stroke.”
“It was McGowan land.”
“Still is.” Still smiling, Gavin sipped his tea. “Isn’t it?”
“I think it’s a lovely kind of circle.” Patty reached out, patted her hand over Cilla’s. “I remember how the lights would shine in that house when Janet Hardy was there. And how in the summer, if you drove by with the windows open, you could hear music, and maybe see women in beautiful clothes, and the most handsome men. Now and then, she’d come into town, or just drive around in her convertible. A picture she made.”
Patty picked up the pitcher again, as if she had to keep her hands busy. “She stopped by our house once, when we had a litter of puppies for sale. Five dollars. Our collie had herself a liaison with a traveling salesman of indeterminate origin. She bought a puppy from us. Sat right down on the ground and let those pups jump and crawl all over her. And laughed and laughed. She had such a wonderful laugh.
“I’m sorry. I’m going on, aren’t I?”
“No. I didn’t know any of this. I don’t know nearly enough. Was that the dog that…”
“It was. She called him Hero. Old Fred Bates found him wandering the road and loaded him in his pickup, took him back. He was the one who found her that morning. It was a sad day. But now you’re here.” Again, Patty laid a hand over Cilla’s. “There’ll be lights and music again.”
“She bought the dog from you,” Cilla murmured, “and the farm from your grandfather.” She looked at Gavin. “I guess it’s another circle. Maybe you could help me with the gardens.”
“I’d like that.”
“I hired a landscaper today, but I have to decide what I want put in. I’ve got a book on gardening in this zone, but I could use some direction.”
“It’s a deal. And I’ve got a couple of gardening books that might give you more ideas.”
“A couple?”
Gavin grinned at his wife’s rolling eyes. “A few more than a couple. Who’d you hire?”
“Morrow? Brian Morrow?”
“Good choice. He does good work, and he’s reliable. Was a football star back in high school, and never pushed himself to be more than a dead average student. But he’s built up a good business and reputation for himself.”
“So I hear. I met another of your former students today. Ford Sawyer.”
“Of course,” Patty put in. “He lives right across the road.”
“Clever boy, always was.” Gavin nodded over his tea. “Tended to day-dream, but if you engaged his mind, he’d use it. He’s done well for himself, too.”
“Has he? How?”
“He writes graphic novels. Illustrates them, too, which isn’t usual, I’m told. The Seeker? That’s his. It’s interesting work.”
“The Seeker. Super-crime-fighter sort of thing?”
“Along those lines. A down-on-his-luck private investigator stumbles across a madman’s plot to destroy the world’s great art through the use of a molecular scrambler that renders them invisible. His hopes to stop them-and secure his own fame and fortune-result in the murder of his devoted girlfriend. He himself is left for dead, but he’s also exposed to the scrambler.”
“And is imbued with the power of invisibility,” Cilla finished. “I’ve heard of this. A couple of the guys who worked on my flips were into graphic novels. God knows Steve was,” she said, referring to her ex-husband. “They’d argue the Seeker versus the Dark Knight or X-Men as compared to the Fantastic Four half the day. When I said something about grown men and comic books, I got the fish eye.”
“Gavin enjoys them. Well, Ford’s in particular.”
“Do you really?” The image of the quiet-natured high school teacher poring over superhero comics amused her. “Because he’s a former student?”
“That’s certainly a factor. And the boy tells a good, meaty story centered on a complicated character who seeks redemption by seeking out evil. He attempted to do the right thing, but for all the wrong reasons. To stop a madman but for his own personal gain. And that single act cost the life of the woman who loved him, and whom he’d treated carelessly. His power of invisibility becomes a metaphor-he becomes a hero but will never be seen. Interesting work.”
“He’s single,” Patty added, and made Gavin laugh. “Well, I’m only mentioning it because he lives right across the road, and Cilla’s going to be alone at the farm. She might want some company now and again.”
Head that one off at the pass, Cilla thought. "Actually, I’m going to be spending my days on the rehab, and my evenings plotting out the phases of the job. I’ll be too busy for much company for a while. In fact, I should get back to it. I’ve got a full day scheduled tomorrow.”
“Oh, but can’t you stay for dinner?” Patty protested. “Let’s get a nice home-cooked meal into you before you go. I’ve got lasagna all made up and ready to pop into the oven. It won’t take long.”
“That sounds great.” Cilla realized it did just that. “I’d love to stay for dinner.”
“You sit right here, have another glass of tea with your father.”
Cilla watched while Patty popped up, then bustled across the patio and into the house. “Should I go help her?”
“She likes to fuss with meals. It relaxes her, the way gardening does me. She’ll like it better if you sit out here and let her.”
“I make her nervous.”
“A little. It’ll pass. I can tell you she’d have been disappointed if you’d said no to dinner. Lasagna’s Patty’s specialty. She makes the sauce from my tomato harvest every summer and cans it.”
“You’re kidding.”
His lips quirked at her quick and absolute surprise. “It’s a different world, sweetie.”
“I’ll say.”
In this world, Cilla discovered, people ate homemade lasagna and apple cobbler, and treated a meal as food rather than a performance. And a guest or family-she thought she fell somewhere in the middle-was given a plate of each covered in tinfoil to take home for leftovers. If the guest/family was driving, she was offered a single glass of wine with dinner, then plied with coffee afterward.
Cilla glanced at her watch, smiled. And could be walking in her own door by eight.
After stowing the two plates in her trusty cooler, Cilla planted her hands on her hips and looked around. The bare bulbs cast harsh light and hard shadows, spotlighted cracked plaster and scarred floorboards. Poor old girl, she thought. You’re in desperate need of a face-lift.
She picked up her flashlight, switched it on before turning off the overhead bulbs and, using it to guide her way, started toward the steps.
A glance out the front window showed her the lights sparkling from homes scattered across the hills and fields. Other people had finished their home-cooked meals, she supposed, and were settled down to watch ’TV or finish up a little paperwork. Maybe kids were being tucked into bed, or being told to settle down and finish their homework.
She doubted any of them sat reading changes in the script for tomorrow’s shoot, or yawned through another running of her lines. Foolish to envy them, Cilla thought, for having what she never had.