Tribute

realistic time frame and budget. Flip the house in, we’ll say, twelve weeks, keeping the price realistic.”
    She loaded another blini for both of them. “Greed and not knowing your market’s what can kill a flip just as quick as finding out too late the foundation’s cracked or the house is sitting in a sinkhole.”
    “How much would you look to make?”
    “On the house I’m looking at? With the price I’d be willing to pay, the budget I’d project, the resale projection in this market?” She bit into the blini while she calculated. “After expenses, I’d look for about forty thousand.”
    His eyebrows shot up. “Forty thousand, in three months?”
    “I’d hope for forty-five, but thirty-five would do it.”
    “Nice.” She was right about the chicken, too. “What if I bought the other one? Hired you?”
    “Well, Jesus, Ford, you haven’t even seen it.”
    “You have. And you know what you’re doing—about houses and picnics. I could use an investment, and this has the advantage of a fun factor. Plus, I could be your first client.”
    “You need to at least look at the property, calculate how much you’re willing to invest, how long you can let that investment ride.” She lifted her champagne glass, gestured with it like a warning. “And how much you can afford to lose, because real estate and flipping are risks.”
    “So’s the stock market. Can you handle both houses?”
    She took a drink. “Yeah, I could, but—”
    “Let’s try this. Figure out a time when you can go through it with me, and we’ll talk about the potential, the possibilities, your fee and other practical matters.”
    “Okay. Okay. As long as we both understand that once you’ve seen the property and we’ve gone over those projections, and you tell me you’d rather buy a fistful of lottery tickets than that dump, no harm, no foul.”
    “Understood and agreed. Now, with the business portion of tonight’s program out of the way.” He leaned over to kiss her. “Do you have any plans for the Fourth?”
    “The fourth what? Blini?”
    “No, Cilla. Of July. You know, hot dogs, apple pie, fireworks.”
    "Oh. No.” My God, she thought. It was nearly July. "Where do people go to watch fireworks around here?”
    “There are a few options. But this is the great state of Virginia. We set off our own.”
    “Yeah, I’ve seen the signs. You all are crazy.”
    “Be that as it may, Matt’s having a cookout. It’s a short walk from his place to the park where the Roritan band plays Sousa marches, there’s the world-famous pie-eating contest, won four years running by Big John Porter, and other various slices of Americana before the fireworks display. Wanna be my date?”
    “Yes, I would.” She leaned over the picnic debris, linked her arms around his neck. “Ford?”
    “Yeah.”
    “If I eat another bite of anything, I’m going to be sick. So . . .” She leaped up, grabbed his hands. “Let’s dance.”
    “About that. My plans were to lie here like a dissipated Roman soldier and watch you dance.”
    “No, you don’t. Up, up, up!”
    “There’s just one problem. I don’t dance.”
    “Everybody dances. Even Spock.”
    “Not really. Well, yes, he does,” Ford admitted as Spock got up to demonstrate. “I don’t. Did you ever catch Seinfeld ? The TV deal.”
    “Of course.”
    “Did you see the one where Elaine’s at this office party, and to get people up to dance, she starts it off?”
    “Oh yeah.” The scene popped straight into her mind, made her laugh. “That was bad.”
    “I make Elaine look like Jennifer Lopez.”
    “You can’t be that bad. I refuse to believe it. Come on, show me.”
    Those gold-rimmed eyes showed actual pain. “If I show you, you’ll never have sex with me again.”
    “Absolutely false. Show me your moves, Sawyer.”
    “I have no moves in this arena.” But with a heavy sigh, he rose.
    “Just a little boogie,” she suggested. She moved her hips, her shoulders, her feet. Obviously, to Ford’s mind, to some well-oiled internal engine. Clutching the bear between his paws, Spock gurgled his approval.
    “You asked for it,” he muttered.
    He moved, and could swear he heard rusty gears with mismatched teeth grind and shriek. He looked like the Tin Man of Oz, before the oil can.
    “Well, that’s not . . . Okay, that’s really bad.” She struggled to swallow a snort of laughter, but didn’t quite succeed. The disgusted look he shot her had her holding up her hands