As Cilla let the screen door slam behind her, Dilly threw open her arms, keeping her body angled for the profile shots. “Baby!”
She came forward in rather spectacular Jimmy Choo sandals with three-inch heels. Trapped, Cilla walked down the steps in her work boots and into the maternal arms and clouds of Soir de Paris. Janet’s signature scent that had become her daughter’s.
“My baby, my baby.”
“You did this,” Cilla whispered in Dilly’s ear. “You leaked to the press you were coming.”
“Of course I did. All press is good press.” She leaned back, and through the amber lenses of Dilly’s sunglasses, Cilla saw the calculatedly misted eyes widen in genuine concern. “Oh, Cilla, your face. You said you weren’t hurt. Oh, Cilla.”
It was that, that moment of sincere shock and worry, Cilla supposed, that dulled the sharpest edge of resentment. “I got some bumps, that’s all.”
“What did the doctor say? Oh, that horrible man, that Hennessy. I remember him. Pinched-faced bastard. My God, Cilla, you’re hurt.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, why don’t you at least put on some makeup? No time for that now, and it’s probably better this way. Let’s go. I’ve worked it all out. You’ll just follow my lead.”
“You sicced them on me, Mom. You know this is exactly what I didn’t want.”
“It’s not all about you, and what you want.” Dilly looked past Cilla to the house, then turned away. And again, Cilla saw genuine feeling. Pain. “It never has been. I need the column inches, the airtime. I need the exposure, and I’m going to take it. What happened, happened. Now you can let them keep pushing on that, on you, or you can help spin some of it, maybe most of it, around to me.
“Jesus! What is that?”
Cilla glanced down and saw Spock sitting patiently, paw out, big, bulbous eyes latched onto Dilly.
“That’s my neighbor’s dog. He wants you to shake.”
“He wants… Does it bite?”
“No. Just shake his paw, Mom. He’s decided you’re friendly because you hugged me.”
“All right.” She leaned over carefully and, to her credit, in Cilla’s mind, gave Spock’s paw a firm shake. Then smiled a little. “He’s so ugly, but in a weirdly sweet way. Shoo now.”
Dilly turned, her arm firm around Cilla’s waist, and flung out a hand to her husband. “Mario!”
He trotted up, took her hand, kissed it.
“We’re ready,” she told him.
“You look beautiful. Only a few minutes this time, darling. You shouldn’t be out in the sun too long.”
“Stay close.”
“Always.”
Clutching Cilla, Dilly began to move toward the entrance, toward the cameras.
“Great shoes,” Cilla complimented. “Poor choice for grass and gravel.”
“I know what- Who’s this? We can’t have reporters breaking ranks.”
“He’s not a reporter.” Cilla watched Ford shove through the lines. “Keep going,” she told him when he reached them. “You don’t want any part of this.”
“This would be your mother? It’s unexpected to meet you here, Miss Hardy.”
“Where else would I be when my daughter’s been hurt? The new love interest?” She scoped him head to toe. “I’ve heard a little about you. Not from you,” she said with a glance at Cilla. “We’ll have to talk. But now, just wait with Mario.”
“No. He’s no Mario, and he won’t be hanging back at heel like a trained lapdog. Don’t give them that, Ford.”
“I’m going to go in and get some coffee,” he decided. “Want me to call the cops while I’m at it?”
“No. But thanks.”
“Isn’t he all southern-fried and yummy,” Dilly commented as Ford continued toward the house. “Your taste’s improved.”
“I’m so angry with you now.” Indeed, the anger vibrated and pulsed inside her chest. “Be careful, very careful, what buttons you push.”
“You think this is easy for me, coming to this place? I’m doing what I need to do.” Dilly lifted her chin, the brave mother, supporting her injured child. Questions hurled out, but Dilly walked through them, a soldier stoically braving the front line.
“Please. Please.” She held up a hand, lifting her voice. “I understand your interest, and even on some level appreciate it. I know your viewers and your readers care, and that touches me. But you must understand that our family is, once again, going through a difficult time. And this is… painful. My daughter has been through a terrible experience. I’m here for her, as any mother would be.”
“Dilly! Dilly! When did you hear about Cilla’s accident?”
“She called me as soon as she was able. No matter how grown up, a child still wants her mother when she’s hurt. Even though she told me not to come, not to break off rehearsals for my cabaret act, not to expose myself to the grief and the memories this place holds for me, of course I came to her.”
“You haven’t been back, by your own statements, to this house since shortly after Janet Hardy’s suicide. How does it feel, being here now?”
“I can’t think of it. Not yet. My daughter is my only concern. Later, when we’ve had time to be together, in private, I’ll explore those feelings. My mother…” Her voice cracked, on cue. “My mother would want me to give my daughter, her granddaughter, all my energies.”
“Cilla, what are your plans? Will you open the house to the public? There’s speculation you hope to house memorabilia here.”
“No. I plan to live here. I am living here,” she corrected, cold, clear-voiced, while the temper beat and beat. “The property has been in my family, on both the Hardy and the McGowan sides, for generations. I’m restoring and remodeling it, and it will be, as it’s always been, a private home.”
“Is it true that you’ve been plagued by break-ins, by vandalism during your restoration?”
“There have been incidents. I don’t consider them a plague.”
“What do you say to the claims that Janet Hardy’s spirit haunts the house?”
“My mother’s spirit is here,” Dilly said before Cilla could answer. “She loved her little farm, and I believe her spirit, her voice, her beauty and her grace remain. We’re proof of that.” Dilly drew Cilla closer. “Her spirit’s in us. In me, in my daughter. And now, in some way, three generations of Hardy women are here. Now please, I need to get my daughter inside, where she can rest. I ask you, as a mother, to respect our privacy. If you have any more questions, my husband will try to answer them.”
Tipping her head close to Cilla’s, Dilly turned and walked with her toward the house.
“A little heavy on the mother card,” Cilla told her.
“I don’t think so. What happened to the tree?”
“What tree?”
“That one, with the red leaves. It was bigger. A lot bigger.”
“It was damaged, dead and dying. I replaced it.”
“It looks different. There were more flowers.” Dilly’s voice shook, but Cilla knew it was uncalculated this time. “Mama loved flowers.”
“There will be more when it’s done.” Cilla felt the dynamic shift with every step until she supported Dilly. “You’ve trapped yourself. You have to go inside now.”
“I know it. The porch was white. Why isn’t it white?”
“I had to replace most of it. It’s not painted yet.”
“The door’s not right.” Her breath quickened, as if they were running instead of walking. “That’s not her door. Why is everything changed?”
“There was damage, there was mold and dry rot. My God, Mom, there’s only been the very minimum of maintenance in the last decade, and not much more than that for twenty years before. You can’t neglect without incurring damage.”
“I didn’t neglect it. I wanted to forget it. Now I can’t, can I?”