Tribute (18 page)

“Want a beer, some wine?”

“No, no. Nothing.” Alcohol wasn’t the best idea after a meltdown.

“Where’s Steve? I thought I heard his bike a while back.”

“He went out. He said he wanted some action, maybe he’d play a little pool with some of the guys on the crew. I think he’s hoping to get lucky with one of the landscapers. Her name’s Shanna.”

“Shanna and I go back. Not that way,” he said quickly. “Been friends since we were kids. Me, her, Bri, Matt.”

“Nice. Nice to have friends you go back with. Oh. Wow.”

He had two boards loaded with sketches. Action poses, she thought. Mid-leap, mid-stride, mid-spin. In all she looked—there was no mistaking her face—she looked strong, fierce, bold and brilliant.

Everything, she realized, everything she didn’t
feel
at that moment.

“I’m thinking tattoo. I got hung up on that. Now I’m figuring out what and where.” He tucked his hands in his back pockets as he gave the sketches a critical study. “Small of the back, shoulder blade, biceps. I’m thinking small and symbolic, and somewhere people wouldn’t notice it on Cass. Or better, it’s not
on
Cass, but forms when she changes to Brid. That way, it’s not just a symbol but part of the power source.”

He narrowed his eyes as he scanned the sketches. “I need to figure it out before I start on the panels. The story’s outlined, and I like it. It holds up, but . . .”

Because Spock had begun to whine, Ford glanced over. And his trend of thought snapped into tiny pieces. Tears streamed down Cilla’s face.

“Oh man. Crap. What? Why?”

“Sorry. Sorry. I thought it was finished. I thought I was done.” Backing up, she swiped at her cheeks. “I have to go.”

“No. Uh-uh.” There might have been a hole spreading in the pit of his stomach, but he took her arm, and his grip was firm. “What’s the matter? What did I do?”

“Everything. Nothing.”

“Which?”

“Everything’s the matter. You did nothing. It’s not you. It’s me. It’s me, me, me. That’s not me.” She gestured wildly toward the sketches. The tone, the gesture had Spock slinking over to his bed. “I’m nothing like that. I can’t even gear myself up to have sex with you. Do you want to know why?”

“I’m pretty interested.”

“Because I’ll end up messing it up, ruining it, then I won’t have anyone to talk to. I don’t make things work. I screw up everything, fail at everything.”

“Not from where I’m standing.” Baffled, he shook his head. “Where’s this coming from?”

“From reality. From
history
. You don’t know anything about it.”

“So tell me.”

“For God’s sake, I was washed up at
twelve
. I had the tools, I had the platform, and I screwed it up. I failed.”

“That’s bullshit.” His tone was matter-of-fact, and so much more comforting than soft sympathy. “You’re too smart to believe that.”

“It doesn’t matter that I
know
it’s not true—exactly. But when you’re told you’re a failure over and over, you start believing it. That goddamn show was my family, then bam! Gone. I couldn’t get it back, not the family, not the work. Then it’s do concerts, live shows, and I
can’t
. Stage fright, panic attacks. I wasn’t going to take pills.”

“What pills?”

“God.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, grateful the tears had stopped. Spock slunk back over, dropped a half-chewed stuffed bear at her feet. “My manager, my mother, people. You just need something to smooth the edges, to get you out there. So you can keep bringing in the money, keep your name in the public consciousness. But I wouldn’t, I didn’t, and that was that. So there’s bad movies, horrible press—then worse from some viewpoints, no press. And Steve.”

Wound up, she tossed out her arms, paced the room. “I jumped into marriage two seconds after I turned eighteen because finally, finally, here was someone who loved me, who cared, who understood. But I couldn’t make that work.

“I tried college, and I hated it. I was miserable and I felt stupid. I wasn’t prepared, and I didn’t expect so many people to actually want me to fail. So I did. I matched their low expectations of me. One semester and I was out. Then there were voice-overs and humiliating bit parts. I’d write a screenplay, no, couldn’t do that, either. Photography, maybe? No, I sucked. I had income, thanks to Katie—and the fact, which I found out years later, that my father went to the wall to make sure my income was legally protected until I was of age.

“I was in therapy when I was fourteen. I thought about suicide at sixteen. Hot bath, pink candles, music, razor blade. Except after I got in the tub, I thought, this is just
stupid
. I don’t want to die. So I just took a bath. I tried things. Maybe I could manage someone else, or do choreography. Name it. Tried it. Bombed. I don’t get things done. I don’t stick.”

“Take a breather,” Ford ordered, in such stern, authoritative tones she could only blink at him. “You were a cute kid, a cute, talented kid on TV.”

“Oh hell.”

“Just shut up a minute. I don’t know how these things work, exactly, but I’d have to guess the show had run its course.”

“And then some.”

“But nobody took into account there was a kid involved, one who’d grown up on that show and who had to feel as if she’d been ripped away from her family. Orphaned. Who might feel it was her fault.”

“I did. I really did. I know better, but—”

“Anybody who offers much less pushes tranquilizers on a fourteen-year-old girl to get her to perform ought to be shot. There’s no gray area there, not to me. You’re not going to be able to claim those events as your failure. Sorry, they’re off the list. Actually, it’s a clean sweep,” he continued as she stared at him. “College didn’t work, writing, photography, whatever. It’s not failing, Cilla, it’s trying. It’s exploring. You had a marriage that didn’t work, and you’ve managed to remain friends—real friends—with the ex? That’s a failure? See, that comes up strong in the plus column for me. And how about the houses back in California that you fixed up and sold? If you’ve hit a snag across the road, you’ll just have to unsnag it.”

“I haven’t.” She pushed at her hair, managed to take a clear, easy breath. “Things are actually going really well. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I can’t believe I dumped all this on you. I had a meltdown earlier, and I thought I’d finished it off. For some reason the sketches opened the floodgates again.”

She bent down, stroked Spock as he continued to look at her with great concern. She picked up the tattered little bear. “This is disgusting.”

“Yeah. He’s had it awhile. He only gives it to people he loves.”

“Well.” She leaned forward, kissed Spock on the nose. “Thanks, baby. Here, you better have it back.”

His tail wagged as if to say, Crisis over, and he took the bear back to his bed.

“What brought on the meltdown in the first place?”

“Oh boy.”

She walked away from Ford, from the sketches, to the window. The sun had dipped down behind the mountains so its light haloed their dignified peaks. The sight of them—distant, a bit aloof—was comforting.

“My half sister stopped by today. Angie, who I often think of internally as my father’s daughter. I don’t often think of myself that way, or didn’t. It was easier not to. She’s so
there
. Happy, smart, pretty. A nice girl, but not so nice you can’t stand being around her. I haven’t made any particular effort there, or with my stepmother. Cards and an appropriate gift at Christmas and on birthdays. I didn’t recognize her for a minute, she’s cut her hair, but that wasn’t why. Not really. I just blanked at first. I felt stiff and awkward, and she didn’t. So I have to feel guilty about that, which makes me feel more stiff, more awkward, and she’s just bubbling over, happy to see me. No pretense, no agenda.”

She sighed now, irritated with herself. Big whiny baby, she thought. Just can’t stand that everything’s going well. “I’d been congratulating myself on having the gates taken down—the symbol of it—and planting trees. Opening things up, putting in roots, looking to the future, and she made me realize I keep skimming over people and relationships, like a stone skipped over a river. Don’t want to sink in.”

“Maybe you’re more treading water awhile now.”

She glanced back. He looked so damn good, she thought, in the ancient sweatshirt, torn jeans, ragged hair. “Maybe I am. Anyway, while we’re standing there talking, and I’m trying to figure it out, Mr. Hennessy pulls up across the road. I’ve seen his van out there before, just sitting there. Angie recognized it.”

She turned around. “Did you know he’s slapped out at my father and his family?”

“No. Maybe. He’s a hard man, Cilla.”

“So I found out when I went over to talk to him. He pretty much blames me and all my kin, as he put it, for what happened to his son. The house is cursed, I’m a whore like my grandmother, and so on. He actually spat at me.”

“Bastard.”

“I’ll say. Then he pulls out so fast, I lost my balance, and Angie’s all mother hen.”

“You should call the cops. They’ll talk to him.”

“And tell him not to spit on my shoes? Better if I just make sure he doesn’t have the chance to do it again. I’m done feeling sorry for what happened to him before I was born. I thought I was just pissed off, went back to work and sweated it out. But later, I guess it just all hit, resulting in the massive pity event I’ve just shared with you.”

“I’d call it a more medium-sized event, and that it illustrates you’re way too hard on yourself. I don’t know anything about building houses, but I do know the person in charge of what’s going on across the road. She’s no screwup. She’s smart and bold and she works for what she wants. She may not have the mystical powers of the goddess but . . .” He tapped one of the sketches. “That’s her. That’s you, Cilla. Just the way I see you.” He took down one of Brid, gripping a two-headed hammer in both hands, her face alive with power and purpose.

“Take this one, put it up somewhere. You feel one of the events coming on again, take a look at it. It’s who you are.”

“I have to say, you’re the first person to see me as a warrior goddess.”

“That’s not all she is.”

Cilla looked from the sketch up into his eyes. There was tightness in her chest again, but not the sort that presaged tears. It was the flexing, she thought, of something starting to open again. “Thanks for this, and for the rest. As payback . . .”

She turned, had his pulse bounding when she lifted the back of her shirt, bent just a little at the waist so her jeans gapped at the spine. And there, at the base, in deep blue, the three lines of the triple spiral curved.

He felt the punch in his libido even as it hit the intellect. “Celtic symbol of female power. Maid, mother, crone.”

She glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows cocked. “Aren’t you smart?”

“I’ve been researching.” He stepped closer to study the tattoo. “And that particular symbol was top of my list for Brid. That’s freaking kismet.”

“It should be on her biceps.”

“What? Sorry. Very distracted.”

“Biceps.” Cilla turned, flexed hers. “It’s stronger there. Not as sexy, maybe, but stronger, I think. And if you go with the idea of having it form when she transforms, it’s a bigger statement.”

“You were listening.”

“So were you.” She lifted a hand, touched his cheek. “You’re good at it.”

“Okay. We need to get out of the house now.”

“We do?”

“Yeah. Because I could talk you into bed now, and I really want to. Then we’d both wonder if it was because you had a bad day and I was just here. Angst and awkwardness ensue. So . . . let’s go get ice cream.”

Another key word had Spock deserting bear and bed and leaping up.

Smiling, she stroked her fingers down to Ford’s jawline. “I want you to talk me into bed now.”

“Yeah. Shut up. Ice cream. Let’s go.”

He grabbed her hand, pulled her along. The dog passed them at a run in a race for the front door.

“You’re a confusing man, Ford.”

“Half the time I don’t understand myself.”

TEN

T
o Steve’s mind very little topped the sensation of roaring along a country road, hugging the curves with the warm night wind streaming. Scoring with the hot brunette, Shanna the landscaper, would’ve edged that out, but he’d come close there.

And there was always next time.

He’d gotten a taste, anyway, and had the feeling the full dish would live up to the promise of the sample. Yeah. He grinned into the wind. Next time.

But for now, cruising along the deserted road after a little beer, a little pool, a few laughs and the prelude with Shanna hit all the chords. Swinging down, taking a couple of weeks to hook up with Cilla, yeah, that was working for him.

She’d taken on a big one, he mused. A big, complicated project, and a wicked personal one. But it was working for her, too. He could see it in the way she looked, the way she talked. And she’d make herself something—something big, complicated and personal. Just like she’d always needed to.

He could give her another week, maybe ten days on it. Because damn if the rehab didn’t grab him, and tight enough he wanted to see it through a little longer. He wanted to hang with Cilla a little longer, too, watch her build the framework of her new life.

And hopefully close the deal with Shanna while he was at it.

A week ought to do it, he thought as he swung around the turn and onto Cilla’s road. By then, the rural charm of the Shenandoah Valley would start to fade for him. He needed the action of the city, and though New York appealed to him for short stints, L.A.’s gloss and sparkle was home, sweet home.

Not for Cilla. Steve glanced idly at a car parked on the shoulder near a long, rising lane. No, for Cilla L.A. had always been just a place. Probably another reason getting married had been such a whacked idea. Even back then she’d been looking for a way out, and he’d been looking for a way in.