Tribute

plumber, especially Buddy. Still, he’d have only been a few years younger than she was.”
    “Can you picture Buddy writing phrases like ‘I place my heart, my soul, in your lovely hands’?”
    “Really can’t. There are more connections between the then and the now than I realized, or appreciated. I may never know if there’s more to then than just the continuity of the place. The way it’s going, I may never know how, even if, what’s been happening here connects.”
    “The Hennessy house is up for sale.” Ford laid a hand over hers. “I drove by after I saw my grandfather. Curtains are drawn, no car in the drive. Spanking-new Century 21 sign in the front yard.”
    “Where is she?”
    “I don’t know, Cilla.”
    “Maybe if she’s responsible for this morning, it was a final fuck-you.”
    It didn’t play that way for Ford. The panels didn’t fit, and the images in them didn’t form true. He’d keep shifting them, he thought, changing, resizing, until he had not only the picture, but the whole story.

TWENTY-SEVEN
    W ith a great deal of pleasure, Cilla hung her first kitchen cabinet. "Looking good.” Thumbs hooked in his front pockets, Matt nodded approval. "The natural cherry’s going to work with the walnut trim.”
    “Wait until we get the doors on. Things of beauty. So worth the wait. Guy’s an artist.”
    She laid her level on the top, adjusted.
    “It’s beautiful work, and a lot of it.” He scanned the space. “But we’ll get them in today. How long before the appliances are back?”
    “Three weeks, maybe four. Maybe six. You know how it goes.”
    “The old-timey stuff’s going to be great in here.” He winked at her as she stepped down off the ladder. “Don’t let Buddy tell you different.”
    “It’ll give him something to complain about instead of my pot filler.” She ran her hand, lovingly, over the next cabinet. “Let’s get her up.”
    “One second,” Matt said as his phone rang. He glanced at the display. “Hey, baby. What? When?”
    The tone, the merging of the two words into one stream had Cilla looking over.
    “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I’m on my way. Josie’s water broke,” he said, snappinghis phone off. “I gotta go.” He lifted Cilla off her feet, a happy boost into the air.
    “So this is what goes on around here all day,” Angie said as she came into the room.
    Matt just grinned like an idiot. “Josie’s having the baby.”
    “Oh! Oh! What’re you doing here?”
    “Leaving.” He dropped Cilla back on her feet. “Call Ford, okay? He’ll pass the word. I’m sorry about—” He gestured toward the cabinets.
    “Don’t worry about it.” Cilla gave him a two-handed shove. “Go! Go have a baby.”
    “We’re having a girl. I’m getting me a daughter today.” He grabbed Angie on the way out, dipped her, kissed her, then swung her back up as he ran out of the room.
    “Boy, talk about excellent timing.” With a laugh, Angie tapped her lips. “He gives good kiss. Wow, big, huge day. I need to call Suzanna, Josie’s younger sister. We’re friends. And another wow, look at all this!”
    “Coming along. Look around if you want. I need to call Ford.”
    While Cilla made the call, Angie poked around the kitchen, in the utility room and back out.
    “Men are odd,” Cilla stated, hooking her phone back on her belt. “He said, ‘Cool. Got it. See ya.’”
    “A man of few words.”
    “Not usually.”
    “Well, I’ll use some to say, Cilla, this all looks amazing.” Angie spread her arms. “Totally amazing. And how the hell do you know where to put all these cabinets?”
    “Diagram.”
    “Yeah, but you had to make the diagram. I have a hard time figuring out if I can move my bed from one place to the other in my room, and where the dresser could go if I did.”
    “I had a hard time getting through a class, much less imagining teaching one the way you’re going to do. We all know what we know.”
    “I guess we do. Well.” Angie gave a snappy salute. “Private McGowan reporting for duty.”
    “Sorry?”
    “I’m here to paint. I could try to help you put these up now that Matt’s otherwise occupied. But I think you’ll be a lot happier with my painting skills than my cabinet-hanging ones. How do you hang them, anyway?” she wondered. “I mean, what holds them up? And never mind, I’d rather use a paintbrush.”
    “Angie, you don’t have to—”
    “I want to. Dad said they’ve finished scraping the old paint on the front and