Tribute

mean?”
    “According to Ford, it means some people like to mess things up.”
    “Damn kids. No respect.”
    “I don’t want Steve to hear about this. He’s got enough on his mind. I need to talk to you about the venting for the steam shower. I took another look last night, and . . . I really need to go over this with Buddy on site,” she said to Ford.
    “Go ahead. I’ve got this for a while.”
    “Thanks. Give me a lift, Buddy.” She hopped into the cab of the truck, and as Buddy turned in the drive, tried to imagine the house as Sleeping Beauty’s castle, with about half of the briars hacked away.
    FORD GOT IN a solid day before stepping back from the work to take a long look at the panels and the pencils. The story had turned on him a bit, but he considered that a good thing. He’d edit the script later that evening to suit the new images and action that had come to mind.
    To do that, he needed to let it stew. To stop pushing while it cooked on one of the back burners of the brain. Which meant, for his process, it was probably time for a beer and a little PlayStation.
    Downstairs, he opened the front door to take a quick look at what he thought of as Cilla World before wandering back to the kitchen. He saw Steve picking his way up the walk, the cane in one hand, a six-pack in the other.
    “This is what I call superior timing.”
    Beside Ford, Spock all but jumped up and applauded.
    “I escaped. The warden had to make a supply run, so I stole her beer and booked.”
    “Who could blame you?” Ford took the beer, flicked a thumb at a chair.
    “Doc cleared me. I’m heading out tomorrow.” He sat, with an audible whoosh of breath, then scrubbed his hand over Spock’s head.
    “You’ll be missed.” Ford popped the tops on two beers, passed one over.
    “I’m going to try to come back out in the fall, if I can manage it. The way she’s going, she’ll be down to punch-out work.”
    Ford glanced dubiously across the road. “If you say so.”
    “I’m mostly in her way now.”
    “She doesn’t see it that way.”
    Steve took a long pull on the beer. “She reamed my ass for going up in the attic to hang out with the guys. Wanted to set me out in a rocker like her grandfather, and give me a paint fan to play with. Jesus, next thing it’ll be crossword puzzles or some such shit.”
    “Could be worse. Could be knitting.”
    With a grunt, Steve frowned at the stone wall across the road. “What’s your take on what went down on that?”
    “Sorry?”
    “Don’t bullshit. My brain’s not that damaged. Guys on construction crews gossip like girls. I heard some asshole tagged the wall. Got about six different versions of what it said, but all the same basic idea.”
    “My take is some asshole tagged the wall, and he’s got a mean streak. It might be the same one that went after you, or it might not. She thinks it’s old man Hennessy.”
    “And you don’t.”
    “Old man’s the defining term. Then again, I can’t think of anybody who has anything against her except him. And he’s tough. Stringy, but tough.”
    “If I was a hundred percent—or closer to it—I’d stay. But I wouldn’t be much help to her right now.” He tipped his beer at Ford. “Up to you, Sparky, and your little dog, too.”
    “We’ve got it.”
    “Yeah.” Steve took another sip of beer. “I think you do.”
    SHE DIDN’T CRY when Steve climbed into the passenger seat of the RV on the cool and wet Saturday. She censored herself from making any suggestion he wait until the weather cleared to begin the long trip cross-country. Instead, she kissed him goodbye and stood in the rain to wave him off.
    And felt horribly, painfully alone.
    So alone, she closed herself in the house. The rain took planting or painting off the slate. She considered moving her things into the guest room Steve had vacated, but that struck her as too much housekeeping . She wanted work, not chores.
    She switched on the radio, turned up the volume to fill the house with sound. And got down to the business of building the shelving and framing out the storage closet for the utility room off the kitchen. The task wasn’t on the agenda for weeks yet, but it was exactly the kind of job that smoothed out nerves, soothed the mind.
    She measured, marked, sawed, lost herself in the rhythm of carpentry. Content again, she sang along with the radio as her cordless screwdriver spun a wood screw home.
    She nearly dropped the drill on her foot when she