“Keep the door locked anyway.”
“I’ll keep the door locked anyway.” She gave him a last kiss, then a shove out the door. “Don’t bet on an inside straight.” Then shut it, locked it at his back.
She turned around, let out a long sigh, then grinned at Spock. “I thought they’d never leave.”
Content, she walked upstairs for the box of photos.
THIRTY
It gave her such pleasure to look through them. It occurred to Cilla that Ford might like to choose some of the photos they’d frame and display. The group shot, for instance. Her father, his mother, her uncle, Janet, and… that had to be a young and handsome Tom Morrow. Brian certainly took after him.
She began to sort them by type, then the types in a loose chronological order.
She watched her own mother grow, from child to girl to young woman. Amazing, Cilla mused, how much better they got along with distance. Not so amazing, she added with a dash of cynicism, how much better they got along when her mother collected strong reviews.
No sour notes, Cilla warned herself, topping her to-be-framed pile with the photo of Janet in the farmhouse doorway.
Had someone in one of these group shots been her lover? she wondered. Had they been careful not to be photographed together? Or had they played it cool and casual on the surface, with all that passion simmering beneath?
No sour notes, she reminded herself. But she couldn’t resist speculating, studying. Would it show? It seemed to Cilla that every man photographed with Janet looked half in love with her. She’d had that power.
God, even Buddy looked spellbound-and skinny-in the shot of them on the veranda, and Janet mugging by pretending to brain him with his own pipe wrench.
She’d been irresistible, in baggy jeans or couture. Spectacular, she mused, in a red dress against the white piano. Christmas, she thought, lifting the shot, scanning it. Red candles and holly on the glossy piano, the sparkle of lights in the window.
That last Christmas before Johnnie’s death. Her last party. Too painful, she decided, to frame that one. Or any from that night. It twisted her heart a little to see one of her parents, framed together in front of the tree. And the doomed Johnnie grinning as he held mistletoe over his head.
And all the young people-Gavin, Johnnie, Dilly, Ford’s mother, and what she knew had to be Jimmy Hennessy and the boy who died with Johnnie that night, crowded together on the sofa in their party best. Smiling forever.
No, she could never frame that one, either.
She set it aside and picked up one of Tom. It took her a moment to recognize the woman beside him as Cathy. Her hair had been mouse brown then, and awkwardly styled in a kind of poofy ball. She looked so shy, so nervous and self-conscious. Baby weight, Cilla remembered, which the dress and the hairstyle only accentuated. Good pearls, the flash of diamonds said money, but she had certainly not yet come out of her cocoon.
Still, she might enjoy having a copy of the shot.
She continued sorting, pausing again when she came to one of Janet perched on the arm of the couch, Cathy sitting, and both women laughing. Cathy looked prettier in the candid, Cilla decided. More at ease, and with the hint of the woman she’d become in that natural smile.
She started to set it on the pile, then frowned as she studied it again. Something nagged at the edge of her mind. As she began to spread out what she thought of as Last Christmas shots, the doorbell rang.
Spock’s terrified barking joined the bell.
FORD PUNCHED the button for a Coke on Brian’s Sky Box. He was pitiful enough at poker without adding alcohol to the mix. In the pre-game hang-out portion of the evening, men who would soon take his money gathered around the bar Matt had built in what Brian called his Real Man room.
Bar, pool table, poker table, big-ass flat screen-virtually always tuned to ESPN-leather recliners, sofa. A lot of sports decor. And, of course, the secondary TV earmarked for video games.
He needed one of those in his new studio, he decided. A guy had to have his space. He could tell Cilla he wanted it sort of sectioned off from the work area.
Maybe he should call her. He dug in his pocket for his cell, and as he pulled it out the paper he’d stuffed in the same pocket fluttered to the floor.
“No women.” Brian shook his head. “Which includes calling one. Hand it over.”
“I’m not giving you my phone.” Ford stooped, picked up the note.
“Pussy-whipped. Hey, Matt, Ford’s already calling home to check in with Cilla.”
“Jesus, even I’m not that bad.”
“Phones, both of you. In fact, everybody,” Brian announced. “No phones at the table. House rules. Lay ’em on the bar. Hand it over,” he told Ford.
“Christ, you’re a pain in the ass. Remind me why I like you?”
“You can still beat me at Grand Theft Auto.”
“Oh yeah, that’s the reason.” He passed over his phone, immediately felt naked and bereft. Phoneless, he thought, poker and, with a glance at the note, soon to be traumatized by a return to high school.
What a man did for love and friendship.
He started to stuff the note back into his pocket, then stopped, took a closer look.
His heart took a hard slam in his chest, dropped to his belly.
The handwriting was a little shaky, a little sloppy. After all, Tom had been standing up, using a stubby pen when he’d written out the information.
The urge to deny pushed at him. He couldn’t be sure. It wasn’t possible to be sure. At least not until he’d compared the note with the letters, side by side. Or sent them to the graphologist. It didn’t make any sense anyway.
It was Brian’s father. It just couldn’t be.
And it made all the sense in the world.
He stared across the room at Tom standing with his own father, with Cilla’s, grinning at Brian as they tapped bottles of Rolling Rock. He thought of how Tom had once helped him fly a kite on a vacation they’d all taken together at Virginia Beach. Pitched a tent for them to camp in overnight in the Morrows’ big backyard.
And he thought of Steve in the hospital. Of Cilla staring at broken tiles. And a doll in a pink party dress hanging from a red maple tree Brian had planted.
Walking over, Ford tapped Tom on the shoulder. “I need to talk to you a minute.”
“Sure. Looking for poker tips?”
“Maybe we could walk outside.”
Tom’s eyebrows raised. “Sure. A little fresh air before your father starts lighting those cigars. Ford and I are stepping outside so I can give him a few pointers.”
“Lots of luck,” Brian called out. “Make it quick. We’ll be anteing up shortly.”
No point in wasting time, Ford thought. No point in putting it off. And no way he could sit at a poker table with this tightness in his chest.
“Nights are cooling off again,” Tom commented as they stepped out onto Brian’s deck. “Another summer at our backs.”
“You had an affair with Janet Hardy.”
“What?” Tom’s head jerked around. “For God’s sake, Ford.”
“She kept your letters. But you knew that. One of the guys on Cilla’s job heard her telling Gavin. Most of them work for you, too. It’s good juice. Too good not to spread around.”
“I barely knew Janet Hardy. This is a ridiculous thing to-”
"Don’t. The handwriting matches.” He drew out the note. "I’ve got a good eye for that kind of thing. Shapes, style, form. I bet your father taught you to write. He’d have wanted you to get a leg up.”
Tom’s face hardened, the lines around his mouth digging deep. “Not only is this an insulting accusation, but frankly, none of your business.”
There was a coldness inside Ford he hadn’t known he possessed. A hard and icy rage. “Cilla’s my business. What happened to her grandmother, and what’s been happening to her, that’s my business.”
“Her grandmother killed herself. And Hennessy is responsible for what happened at the farm. I’m surprised at you, Ford. And disappointed. Now I’m going back inside. I don’t want to hear any more about this.”