Tribute

statements, to this house since shortly after Janet Hardy’s suicide. How does it feel, being here now?”
    “I can’t think of it. Not yet. My daughter is my only concern. Later, when we’ve had time to be together, in private, I’ll explore those feelings. My mother . . .” Her voice cracked, on cue. “My mother would want me to give my daughter, her granddaughter, all my energies.”
    “Cilla, what are your plans? Will you open the house to the public? There’s speculation you hope to house memorabilia here.”
    “No. I plan to live here. I am living here,” she corrected, cold, clear-voiced, while the temper beat and beat. “The property has been in my family, on both the Hardy and the McGowan sides, for generations. I’m restoring and remodeling it, and it will be, as it’s always been, a private home.”
    “Is it true that you’ve been plagued by break-ins, by vandalism during your restoration?”
    “There have been incidents. I don’t consider them a plague.”
    “What do you say to the claims that Janet Hardy’s spirit haunts the house?”
    “My mother’s spirit is here,” Dilly said before Cilla could answer. “She loved her little farm, and I believe her spirit, her voice, her beauty and her grace remain. We’re proof of that.” Dilly drew Cilla closer. “Her spirit’s in us. In me, in my daughter. And now, in some way, three generations of Hardy women are here. Now please, I need to get my daughter inside, where she can rest. I ask you, as a mother, to respect our privacy. If you have any more questions, my husband will try to answer them.”
    Tipping her head close to Cilla’s, Dilly turned and walked with her toward the house.
    “A little heavy on the mother card,” Cilla told her.
    “I don’t think so. What happened to the tree?”
    “What tree?”
    “That one, with the red leaves. It was bigger. A lot bigger.”
    “It was damaged, dead and dying. I replaced it.”
    “It looks different. There were more flowers.” Dilly’s voice shook, but Cilla knew it was uncalculated this time. “Mama loved flowers.”
    “There will be more when it’s done.” Cilla felt the dynamic shift with every step until she supported Dilly. “You’ve trapped yourself. You have to go inside now.”
    “I know it. The porch was white. Why isn’t it white?”
    “I had to replace most of it. It’s not painted yet.”
    “The door’s not right.” Her breath quickened, as if they were running instead of walking. “That’s not her door. Why is everything changed?”
    “There was damage, there was mold and dry rot. My God, Mom, there’s only been the very minimum of maintenance in the last decade, and not much more than that for twenty years before. You can’t neglect without incurring damage.”
    “I didn’t neglect it. I wanted to forget it. Now I can’t, can I?”
    Cilla felt her mother quiver, and would have soothed, but Dilly nudged her away as they walked inside.
    “This is wrong. It’s all wrong. Where are the walls? The little parlor? The paint’s the wrong color.”
    “I made changes.”
    Eyes hot and gleaming, she whirled toward Cilla on her fabulous shoes. “You said you were restoring it.”
    “I said I was rehabbing it, and I am. I’m making it mine, and respecting what it was.”
    “I’d never have sold it to you if I’d known you’d tear it apart.”
    “Yes, you would,” Cilla said coolly. “You wanted the money, and I want to live here. If you’d wanted it caught in amber, Mom, you had decades to do it. You don’t love this house, it’s a jagged edge for you. But I do love it.”
    “You don’t know what I feel! I had more of her here than anywhere else. Second to Johnnie, of course, always second to her beloved son.” Tears ripped through the words. “But I had more of her when we were here than anywhere. And now it’s all changed.”
    “No, not all. I had the plaster repaired, and the floor will be refinished. The floors she walked on. I’m having the stove and refrigerator she used retrofitted, and I’ll use them.”
    “That big old stove?”
    “Yeah.”
    Dilly pressed her fingers to her lips. “She’d try to bake cookies sometimes. She was terrible at it. She’d always burn them, and laugh. We’d eat them anyway. Damn it, Cilla. Damn it. I loved her so much.”
    “I know you did.”
    “She was going to take me to Paris. Just the two of us. It was all planned. Then Johnnie died. He always did spoil everything for me.”
    “God,