Tribute

thought. Jealousy? He wasn’t the jealous type. Was he? Okay, maybe he’d had a couple of bouts with it in high school, and that one time in college. But that was just part of growing up. He sure as hell wouldn’t get worked up about some over-tattooed earring guy kissing a woman he’d known for a month.
    Okay, maybe she’d gotten under his skin. And Spock’s, he conceded as his dog stood at full alert, snarling and grumbling. But a good part of that could be attributed to the work, and her starring role in it. If he felt territorial, it was just a by-product of the work, nothing more or less.
    Maybe a little more, but a man didn’t like to stand around and watch a woman slap her lips to some strange guy’s when they’d been slapped to his a couple of days before. The least she could do was stop flaunting it in his face and take it inside where . . .
    “Shit. Shit. They’re going inside.”
    “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’RE HERE.”
    “I told you I’d swing down if I had time.”
    “I didn’t think you’d have time, or remember to swing down.” Steve tipped down his Wayfarers and looked at Cilla over them with his deep and dreamy brown eyes. “When have I ever forgotten you?”
    “Do you want a list?”
    He laughed, gave her a hip bump as they crossed the veranda. “When it counted. Whoa.” He stopped just inside the doorway, scanned the living area, its pockets of drying plaster, the patchwork of scarred floors and splattered drop cloths. “Excellent.”
    “It is, isn’t it? And it will be.”
    “Nice space. Floors’ll clean up. Walnut?”
    “They are.”
    “Sweet.” He wandered through, passing casual how’s-it-goings to the workers still on-site cleaning up for the day.
    He walked lightly, and looked slight. Looks, Cilla knew, were deceiving. Under the T-shirt and jeans, he was ripped. Steve Chensky honed his body with the devotion of an evangelist.
    Cilla thought if he’d worked half as hard on his music, he’d have made it from struggling artist to serious rock star. Or so she’d told him, countlesstimes. Then again, if he’d listened to her, their lives might have turned out very differently.
    He stopped in the kitchen, took his measure of the place with his sunglasses hooked in his T-shirt. “What’s the plan here?”
    “Take a look.” She flipped through the notebook sitting on the one remaining counter, found her best sketch of the concept.
    “Nice, Cill. This is nice. Good flow, good work space. Stainless steel?”
    “No. I’m having the fifties appliances retrofitted. Jesus, Steve, they rock. I’m looking at faucets. I’m thinking of going copper there. Kind of old-timey.”
    “Cost ya.”
    “Yeah, but it’s a good investment.”
    “Granite countertops?”
    “I toyed around with doing polished concrete, but for this? You’ve got to go with granite. I haven’t picked it out yet, but the cabinets are in the works. Glass fronts, see, copper leading. I nearly went white there, but I want the warmth, so they’re cherry.”
    “Gonna have something.” He gave her an elbow bump this time. “You always had an eye.”
    “You opened the door so I could use it.”
    “I opened it. You knocked it down. I drove by the Brentwood house before I headed to New York. Old time’s sake. It still looks fine. So, gotta beer?”
    She opened the mini fridge, pulled out a beer for each of them. “When do you have to head back to L.A.?”
    “I got a couple of weeks. I’ll trade labor for digs.”
    “Seriously? You’re hired.”
    “Like old times,” he said, and tapped his beer to hers. “Show me the rest.”
    Ford bided his time. He waited a full hour after the crews headed out for the day. No harm in wandering over, he told himself. Paying a friendly visit. He scowled at the Harley, and after Spock peed copiously on its front tire, crouched down to exchange a quick high five with his loyal best friend.
    It wasn’t as if he’d never driven a motorcycle. He’d taken a few spins in his day. Okay, one spin. He just didn’t like bugs in his teeth.
    But he could drive one if he wanted to.
    He jammed his hands in his pockets and resisted giving the Harley a testing kick. He heard the music—ass-kicking rock this time—and instead of going to the front, followed the sound around back.
    They sprawled on the steps of the veranda with a couple of bottles of beer and a bag of Doritos. His flavor of Doritos, Ford noted. With her head tipped back against the post, Cilla laughed