Tribute

them.”
    Completely baffled, she set her hands on her hips. “I thought you were kind of—no offense—a pushover.”
    His expression placid, he patted her cheek. “No offense taken. What about the trim, the verandas?”
    She puffed out her cheeks, blew the breath out. She saw it now. Push-over, her ass. He just ignored the arguments and kept going. "Okay, we’ll take a look at the samples I’m thinking about. And once I decide, you can work on the verandas, the shutters. But you’re not hanging off scaffolding or climbing up extension ladders.”
    He only smiled at her, then dropped his arm over her shoulders the way she’d seen him do with Angie, and walked her downstairs.
    Though it wasn’t on her list—and she really wanted to get up to her office and check on the progress of her floors, see if Stan had finished the tile, start running the bedroom trim—she opened the three pints of exterior paint. “Could go deep, with this blue. The gray in it settles it down a few notches, and white trim would set it off.” She slapped some on the wood.
    “Makes a statement.”
    “Yeah. Or I could go quiet and traditional with this buff, use a white trim again, or a cream. Cream might be better. Softer.”
    “Pretty and subdued.”
    “Or I could go with this more subtle blue, again gray undertones keeping it warm, and probably go with a soft white for the trim.”
    “Dignified but warm.”
    She stepped back, cocked her head to one side, then the other. “I thought about yellows, too. Something cheerful, but soft enough it doesn’t pop out of the ground like a big daffodil. Maybe it should wait. Maybe it should just wait.” She gnawed on her lip. “Until . . .”
    “I’ve seen you make decisions, over everything that has to do with this house, with the grounds. Why are you having such a hard time with this?”
    “It’s what everyone will see. Every time they drive by on the road. A lot of them will slow down, point it out. ‘That’s Janet Hardy’s house.’” Setting down the brush, Cilla wiped her hands on her work shorts. “It’s just paint, it’s just color, but it matters what people see when they drive by on the road, and think of her.”
    He laid a hand on her shoulder. “What do you want them to see when they drive by here?”
    “That she was a real person, not just an image in an old movie, or a voice on a CD or old record. She was a real person, who felt and ate, who laughed and worked. Who lived a life. And she was happy here, at least for a while. Happy enough she didn’t let it go. She held on, so I could come here, and have a life here.”
    She let out an embarrassed laugh. “And that’s a hell of a lot to expect from a couple coats of paint. Jesus, I should probably go back into therapy.”
    “Stop.” He gave her shoulder a quick shake. “Of course it matters. People obsess over something as mundane as paint for a lot less important reasons. This house, this place, was hers. More, it was something she chose for herself, and something she valued. Something she needed. It’s been passed to you. It should matter.”
    “It was yours, too, in a way. I don’t forget that. That matters more now than it did when I started. You pick.”
    He dropped his hand, actually stepped back. “Cilla.”
    “Please. I’d really like this to be your choice. The McGowan choice. People will think of her when they pass on the road. But when I walk the grounds or drive in after a long day, I’ll think of her, and of you. I’ll think of how you came here as a little boy, and chased chickens. You pick, Dad.”
    “The second blue. The warm and dignified blue.”
    She hooked her arm with his, studied the fresh color over the old, peeling paint. “I think it’s going to be perfect.”
    WHEN FORD WALKED over late in the day, he saw Gavin on the veranda, scraping the paint on the front of the house.
    “How’re you doing, Mr. McGowan?”
    “Slow but sure. Cilla’s inside somewhere.”
    “I just bought a house.”
    “Is that so?” Gavin stopped, frowned. “You’re moving?”
    “No. No. I bought this, well, this toxic dump that Cilla says she can fix up. To flip. The seller just accepted my offer. I feel a little sick, and can’t decide if it’s because I’m excited, or because I can see this big, yawning money pit opening up under my feet. I’m going to have two mortgages. I think I should probably sit down.”
    “Pick up that scraper, give me a hand with this. It’ll calm you