“Okay. I talked to Brian.”
“You often do.”
“About the letters. His grandfather.”
“You… you told him?” Her mouth dropped open. “You just told him I think his grandfather might have broken commandments with my grandmother?”
“I don’t think commandments were mentioned. You wanted a handwriting sample. Brian can probably get one.”
“Yes, but… Couldn’t you have been covert, a little sneaky? Couldn’t you have lied?”
“I suck at sneak. And even if I gold-medaled in the sneak competition, I can’t lie to a friend. He understands I told him in confidence, and he won’t break a confidence to a friend.”
She blew out a breath. “You people certainly grew up on a different planet than I did. Are you sure he won’t say anything to his father? It’s a stew pot of embarrassment.”
“I’m sure. He did have an interesting comment though. What if Hennessy wrote the letters?”
Cilla went back to gape. “Kill-you-with-my-truck Hennessy?”
“Well, think about it. How crazy would you get if you’d been having an affair with a woman, then the son of that woman is responsible-in your eyes-for putting your son in a wheelchair? It’s way-fetched, I agree. I’m going to reread the letters with this in mind. Just to see how it plays.”
“You know what? If it turns in that direction, within a mile of that direction, I don’t think I want to know. Imagining my grandmother with Hennessy just gives me the serious eeuuwws.”
She sighed, started downstairs with him. “I talked to the police today,” she told Ford. “There won’t be a trial. They did a deal, Hennessy took a plea, whatever. He’ll do a minimum of two years in the state facility, psychiatric.”
Ford reached for her hand. “How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t honestly know. So I guess I’ll put it aside, think about now.”
She moved into the master, studied the paint samples. “Yeah, you’re right about the color.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Cilla used Sunday morning to pore through home and design magazines, scout the Internet for ideas and vendors and tear out or bookmark possibilities and potentials. She could hardly believe she’d reached the stage where she could begin considering furniture.
Weeks away, of course, and she needed to add in trolling antique stores, even flea markets-and possibly yard sales-but she was approaching the time when ordering sofas and chairs, tables and lamps, wouldn’t be out of line.
Then there was bedding, she mused, a kitchen to outfit, an office, window treatments, rugs. All those fun, picky little details to fill in a house. To make a house a home. Her home.
Her first real home.
The closer it came to reality, the more she realized just how much she wanted home. All she had to do was step outside, look across the road and see it.
Sitting here now, at Ford’s counter, with her laptop, her magazines, her notebooks, she thought of just how far she’d come since March. No, well before March, she corrected. She’d started this journey on that long-ago trek through the Blue Ridge, one she’d taken specifically, deliberately to see, firsthand, her grandmother’s Little Farm, to see where her own father sprang from, and maybe to understand, a little, why he’d come back, and left her.
And she’d fallen in love, Cilla thought now, with the hills that bumped their way back to the mountains, the thick spread of trees, the little towns and the big ones, the houses and gardens, the winding roads and streams. Most of all, she’d fallen in love with the old farmhouse sagging behind a stone wall, closed in by its desolate, overgrown gardens.
Sleeping Beauty’s castle, maybe, she mused, but she’d seen home, even then.
Now, what she’d dreamed of, yearned for, was very nearly hers.
She sat at the counter, sipping coffee, and imagined waking in a room with walls the color of a glowing and hopeful dawn, and of living a life she’d chosen rather than one chosen for her.
Ford gave a sleepy grunt as he walked in.
Look at him, she thought. Barely awake, that long, long, lean, edging-toward-gawky body dressed in navy boxers and a tattered Yoda T-shirt. All that sun-streaked brown hair rumpled and messy, and those green eyes groggy and just a little cranky.
Wasn’t he just unbelievably adorable?
He dumped coffee into a mug, added sugar, milk. Said, “God, mornings suck through a straw,” and drank as if his life balanced within the contents of the mug.
Then he turned, to prop his elbow on the counter. “How come you look so lucid?”
“Maybe because I’ve been up for three hours. It’s after ten, Ford.”
“You have no respect for the Sunday.”
“It’s true. I’m ashamed.”
“No, you’re not. But real estate agents also have no respect for the Sunday. Vicky just called my cell and woke me from a very hot dream involving you, me and finger paints. It was really getting interesting when I was so rudely and annoyingly interrupted. Anyway, the sellers came down another five thousand.”
“Finger paints?”
“And as an artist I can say it was the beginning of a masterpiece.
We’re only ten thousand apart now, as Vicky the dream killer pointed out. So…”
“No.”
“Damn it.” He looked like a kid who’d just been told there were no cookies in the jar. “I knew you were going to say no, which you did not say when I was swirling cobalt blue around your belly button. Couldn’t we just-”
“No. You’ll thank me later when you have that ten k to put into improvements and repairs.”
“But I really want that ugly dump now. I want it for my own. I love it, Cilla, like a fat kid loves cake.” He tried a hopeful smile. “We could split the difference.”
“No. We hold firm. No one else has made an offer on the property. The seller isn’t interested in making any of those repairs and improvements. He’ll cave.”
“Maybe he won’t.” Those groggy eyes narrowed into a scowl. “Maybe he’s just as pigheaded as you are.”
“Okay, here’s this.” She leaned back, an expert at the negotiation table. “If he doesn’t cave, if he doesn’t accept your offer within two weeks, you can counter with the split. But you hold tight for fourteen more days.”
“Okay. Two weeks.” He tried the hopeful smile again. “Do you ever think about scrambling eggs?”
“Hardly ever. But I am thinking about something else. I’m thinking, looking at that big, soft sofa over there-as I’ve been in the sofa-hunting mode. And wondering, as I’m thinking, what would happen if I stretched out on that big, soft sofa.”
She slid off the stool, aiming a smile over her shoulder as she strolled to the sofa. “And I’m wondering will I have to lie here all by myself, all alone with my unquenched desires and lascivious thoughts.”
“Okay, lascivious did it.”
He skirted the counter, crossed, then pounced. “Hi.”
With a low laugh, she scissored her legs, reared and rolled until their positions reversed. “I think I’ll be high this time.” Dipping down, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, chewed lightly.
“This is how I respect the Sunday.”
“I was so wrong about you.” He ran his hands down her, over the loose, white tank. “Cilla.”
“You’re all rumpled and sexy and…” She peeled Yoda off, tossed him away. “Mostly naked.”
“All we’re missing are the finger paints.” He pushed up, locking his arms around her, fixing his mouth to hers. “I miss you. As soon as I’m awake and you’re not there.”
“I’m not far.” She wrapped around him, only separating to let him strip the white tank away. And, oh, those hands, those slow, steady hands. “Here. Here.” She cupped his head, guided it down until his mouth closed over her breast.
Everything coiled and curled inside her, and opened again.
She wanted, wanted, with those hands pressing, that mouth feasting. Wanted him inside her, hot and hard. She wiggled out of her shorts, gasping as he touched and teased, moaning as she rose up, eased down, and filled herself with him.