Tribute

fixtures yet to go. And thought about fixing herself an enormous sandwich.
    She ate it in solitary, pig-out splendor on her back veranda, and imagined the blooming shrubs, ornamental trees, the colorful plants in place of the hacked overgrowth. She imagined a rugged stone bench under the spread of the big sycamore and pictured the new slates and bricks on the patios and paths. The drip of willows at the pond, the shade of red maples, the glossy beauty of magnolias.
    Not cursed, she thought, rubbing lightly at the knee that was a little stiff and sore. Ignored, neglected for too long, but not cursed, despite the accusations of a bitter old man.
    She’d put up a martin house, and hummingbird feeders. And the birds would come. She’d plant a cutting garden with her own hands—after she researched what should be planted—and draw more birds and butterflies that would wing about as she harvested blooms for vases.
    She’d buy a dog, one who’d chase sticks and squirrels and rabbits, and she’d have to chase him when he dug in the gardens. Maybe she’d even see if she could hunt up an appealingly ugly one, like Spock.
    She’d have parties with colored lights and music with people wandering through the house, over the lawn, filling it, filling it with sound and movement. Pulses and heartbeats and voices.
    And she’d wake up every morning inside a home. Her home.
    She looked down at the paper plate in her lap, watched the tear plop. “Oh God, what’s this?” She rubbed her hands over her wet cheeks, pressed them to the tightness in her chest. “What’s this, what’s this?”
    On the sagging veranda facing the ruined gardens, she sat alone while the sun slid toward the mountains. And gave in to the sobs. Meltdown, part of her brain thought. Had to happen.
    Dogs, people, colored lights? Failure was a lot more likely. No, the house wasn’t cursed. It had good bones, good muscle. But wasn’t she cursed? What had she ever done that mattered? What had she ever finished? She’d fail here, too. Failure was what she did best.
    “Stop it. Stop this crap .”
    She choked back the next sob as she pushed to her feet. Grabbing the plate and the half-eaten sandwich, she marched inside, tossed them away. Breathing slowly, she splashed cold water on her face until it was drown or suck it up. Steadier, she went upstairs, deliberately applied makeup to conceal her pity bout, then picked up the copy of Gatsby .
    She carried it across the road and knocked on Ford’s door.
    “This is handy,” he said when he came to the door. Spock stopped his aliens-at-the-door trembling and raced forward to press his body to Cilla’s legs. “I was just going over a short list of excuses, deciding which one to pick that covered going over to your place. I was sitting out back so I wouldn’t appear to be obviously casing your house.”
    She stepped in, handed him the book. “You said I could keep this here.”
    “Sure. The letters?”
    “Yeah.” Because the dog looked up at her with love shining in his protruding eyes, she crouched for a moment to scratch and rub him into ecstasy. “I’m in a mood. I don’t want them in the house right now.”
    “Okay.”
    “Would you read them sometime, when you get a chance? I think I’d like someone else’s take.”
    “That’s a relief. Now I don’t have to fight a daily war between curiosity and integrity. I’ll put them in my office. Do you want to come up a minute? I’ve got some sketches I think you’ll like.”
    “Yeah.” Restless, she thought. She felt restless, itchy, a little headachy. Better to keep moving, keep doing. “Yeah, why not?”
    “Want a beer, some wine?”
    “No, no. Nothing.” Alcohol wasn’t the best idea after a meltdown.
    “Where’s Steve? I thought I heard his bike a while back.”
    “He went out. He said he wanted some action, maybe he’d play a little pool with some of the guys on the crew. I think he’s hoping to get lucky with one of the landscapers. Her name’s Shanna.”
    “Shanna and I go back. Not that way,” he said quickly. “Been friends since we were kids. Me, her, Bri, Matt.”
    “Nice. Nice to have friends you go back with. Oh. Wow.”
    He had two boards loaded with sketches. Action poses, she thought. Mid-leap, mid-stride, mid-spin. In all she looked—there was no mistaking her face—she looked strong, fierce, bold and brilliant.
    Everything, she realized, everything she didn’t feel at that moment.
    “I’m thinking tattoo.