someone who starred for eight seasons on a half-hour sitcom. It wasn’t Ibsen, but it sure as hell was legitimate. People will recognize me from your art. I’m not on the radar so much anymore, but I look enough like my grandmother, and she is. She always will be. People will make the connection.”
“Is that a problem for you?”
“I wish I knew.”
“You’ve got a couple days to think about it. Or . . .” He shifted, opened a drawer, drew out papers.
“You wrote up a release,” Cilla said after a glance at the papers.
“I figured you’d either come around or you wouldn’t. If you did, we’d get this out of the way.”
She stepped away, walked to the windows. The lights sparkled again, she thought. Little diamond glints in the dark. She watched them, and the dog currently chasing shadows in Ford’s backyard. She sipped her wine. Then she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “I’m not posing in a breastplate.”
Humor hit his eyes an instant before he grinned. “I can work around that.”
“No nudity.”
“Only for my personal collection.”
She let out a short laugh. “Got a pen?”
“A few hundred of them.” He chose a standard roller ball as she crossed the room.
“Here’s another condition. A personal, and petty, requirement. I want her to kick a lot more ass than Batgirl.”
“Guaranteed.”
After she’d signed the three copies, he handed her one. “For your files. How about we pour another glass of this wine, order a pizza and celebrate the deal?”
She eased back. He hadn’t stepped into her space; she’d stepped into his. But the tingle in her blood warned her to mark the distance. “No, thanks. You’ve got work and so do I.”
“Night’s young.” He walked out of the room with her. “Tomorrow’s long.”
“Not as young as it was, and tomorrow’s never long enough. Plus I need extra time to fantasize about putting in a Jacuzzi.”
“I’ve got one.”
She slid her eyes toward him as they came down the stairs. “I don’t suppose you have a massage therapist on tap, too.”
“No, but I’ve got really good hands.”
“I bet you do. Well, if you were Orlando Bloom, I’d consider this a sign from God and be sleeping with you in about ninety minutes. But since you’re not”—she opened the front door herself—“I’ll say good night.”
He stood, frowning after her, then stepped onto the veranda as she hiked toward the road. “Orlando Bloom?”
She simply lifted a hand in a kind of brushing-off wave, and kept walking.
FOUR
S he had a couple of good, productive days. She’d lined up her plumber, her electrician, her head carpenter, and had the first of three projected estimates on replacement windows. But her luckiest find, to her way of thinking, had been connecting with an ancient little man named Dobby and his energetic grandson Jack, who would save and restore the original plaster walls.
“Old man McGowan hired my daddy to do these walls back around 1922,” Dobby told Cilla as he stood on his short, bowed legs in the living room of the little farm. “I was about six, came around to help him mix the plaster. Never saw such a big house before.”
“It’s good work.”
“He took pride in it, taught me the same. Miz Hardy, she hired me on to do some pointing up, and replastering where she made some changes. That’d be back around, ’sixty-five, I guess.”
Dobby’s face reminded Cilla of a piece of thin brown paper that had been balled tight, then carelessly smoothed out. The creases deepened like valleys when he smiled. “Never seen the like of her, either. Looked like an angel. Had a sweet way about her, and didn’t put on airs like you’d reckon a movie star would. Signed one of her record albums for me, too, when I got up the gumption to ask her. My wife wouldn’t let me play it after that. Had to frame it up for the wall, and buy a new one to listen to. It’s still hanging in the parlor.”
“I’m glad I found
“Is that a problem for you?”
“I wish I knew.”
“You’ve got a couple days to think about it. Or . . .” He shifted, opened a drawer, drew out papers.
“You wrote up a release,” Cilla said after a glance at the papers.
“I figured you’d either come around or you wouldn’t. If you did, we’d get this out of the way.”
She stepped away, walked to the windows. The lights sparkled again, she thought. Little diamond glints in the dark. She watched them, and the dog currently chasing shadows in Ford’s backyard. She sipped her wine. Then she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. “I’m not posing in a breastplate.”
Humor hit his eyes an instant before he grinned. “I can work around that.”
“No nudity.”
“Only for my personal collection.”
She let out a short laugh. “Got a pen?”
“A few hundred of them.” He chose a standard roller ball as she crossed the room.
“Here’s another condition. A personal, and petty, requirement. I want her to kick a lot more ass than Batgirl.”
“Guaranteed.”
After she’d signed the three copies, he handed her one. “For your files. How about we pour another glass of this wine, order a pizza and celebrate the deal?”
She eased back. He hadn’t stepped into her space; she’d stepped into his. But the tingle in her blood warned her to mark the distance. “No, thanks. You’ve got work and so do I.”
“Night’s young.” He walked out of the room with her. “Tomorrow’s long.”
“Not as young as it was, and tomorrow’s never long enough. Plus I need extra time to fantasize about putting in a Jacuzzi.”
“I’ve got one.”
She slid her eyes toward him as they came down the stairs. “I don’t suppose you have a massage therapist on tap, too.”
“No, but I’ve got really good hands.”
“I bet you do. Well, if you were Orlando Bloom, I’d consider this a sign from God and be sleeping with you in about ninety minutes. But since you’re not”—she opened the front door herself—“I’ll say good night.”
He stood, frowning after her, then stepped onto the veranda as she hiked toward the road. “Orlando Bloom?”
She simply lifted a hand in a kind of brushing-off wave, and kept walking.
FOUR
S he had a couple of good, productive days. She’d lined up her plumber, her electrician, her head carpenter, and had the first of three projected estimates on replacement windows. But her luckiest find, to her way of thinking, had been connecting with an ancient little man named Dobby and his energetic grandson Jack, who would save and restore the original plaster walls.
“Old man McGowan hired my daddy to do these walls back around 1922,” Dobby told Cilla as he stood on his short, bowed legs in the living room of the little farm. “I was about six, came around to help him mix the plaster. Never saw such a big house before.”
“It’s good work.”
“He took pride in it, taught me the same. Miz Hardy, she hired me on to do some pointing up, and replastering where she made some changes. That’d be back around, ’sixty-five, I guess.”
Dobby’s face reminded Cilla of a piece of thin brown paper that had been balled tight, then carelessly smoothed out. The creases deepened like valleys when he smiled. “Never seen the like of her, either. Looked like an angel. Had a sweet way about her, and didn’t put on airs like you’d reckon a movie star would. Signed one of her record albums for me, too, when I got up the gumption to ask her. My wife wouldn’t let me play it after that. Had to frame it up for the wall, and buy a new one to listen to. It’s still hanging in the parlor.”
“I’m glad I found
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