Free Tribute by Nora Roberts Page A

impossible stardom.
    It mattered. Somehow she had to find the answers.
    Even if her mother had been a reliable source of information—which Cilla thought not—it was hours too early to call Dilly. In any case, within thirty minutes, subcontractors would begin to arrive. So she’d mull all this, let it turn around in her head while she worked.
    Cilla picked up the stack of letters she’d read, retied the faded ribbon. Once again she tucked them inside Fitzgerald. Then she laid the book on the folding table currently standing as a work area, along with her stacks of files and home magazines—and Ford’s graphic novel.
    Until she figured out what to do about them, the letters were her secret. Just as they’d been Janet’s.

FIVE
    A s nervous as a parent sending her firstborn off to school, Cilla supervised the loading of her vintage kitchen appliances onto the truck. Once restored, they’d be the jewels in her completed kitchen. Or that was the plan.
    For the foreseeable future, she’d make do with the under-the-counter fridge, hot plate and microwave oven, all more suited to a college dorm than an actual home.
    “Get yourself brand-new appliances down at Sears,” Buddy told her.
    "Call me crazy,” Cilla said, as she suspected he already did. “Now let’s talk about putting a john in the attic.”
    She spent the next hour with him, the electrician and one of the carpenters in the musty attic outlining her vision, then adjusting it when their suggestions made sense to her.
    With the music of hammers, drills, saws jangling, she began the laborious task of sorting and hauling the attic contents out to the old barn. There, where the ghostly scents of hay and horses haunted the air, she stored both trash and treasure. While spring popped around her, Cilla watched old windows replaced by new, and old ceramic tiles hauled to the Dumpster. She breathed in the scents of sawdust and plaster, of wood glue and sweat.
    At night she nursed her blisters and nicks, and often read over the letters written to her grandmother.
    One evening, too restless to settle after the various crews had cleared out, she hiked down to study and consider her iron gates. Or she used them as an excuse, Cilla admitted, as she’d seen Ford sitting out on his veranda. His casual wave as she stood on her side of the road, and Spock’s wagging stunted whip of a tail, made it easy, even natural to cross.
    “I saw you rebuilding your veranda,” he commented. “Where’d you learn to use power tools?”
    “Along the way.” After greeting the dog, she turned, looked back at the farm. “My veranda doesn’t look too bad from yours, considering mine’s not finished or painted. The new windows look good, too. I’m putting bigger ones in the attic, and adding skylights.”
    “Skylights in an attic.”
    “It won’t be an attic when I’m done. It’ll be my office. That’s your fault.”
    He smiled lazily. “Is it?”
    “You inspired me.”
    “I guess that’s tit for tat, so to speak.” He lifted his Corona. “Want a beer?”
    “I really do.”
    “Have a seat.”
    She slid into one of his wide Adirondacks, scratched Spock’s big head between his tiny pointed ears while Ford went inside for the beer. It was a good perspective of her place from here, she thought. She could see where she needed new trees, shrubs, where it might be a nice touch to add a trellis to the south side of the house, how the old barn wanted to be connected to the house by a stone path. Or brick, she thought. Maybe slate.
    “I imagine the sound carries over here,” she said when Ford came back out. “All that noise must be annoying.”
    “I don’t hear much when I’m working.” He handed her the beer, sat. “Unless I want to.”
    “Superior powers of concentration?”
    “That would be a lofty way of saying I just tune things out. How’s it going over there?”
    “Pretty well. Fits and starts like any project.” She took a pull of her beer, closed her eyes.