"Yeah, for me. Not for us. Sure, I love my house, and it's got a lot of me in it. But it's just a house for me, and Spock." He glanced around in time to see Spock catch and destroy the hated invisible cat. "He's happy anywhere. I haven't poured myself into my place the way you have this one. This is home for you, Cilla. I've watched you make it." Now he picked up her screwdriver. "With more than this. A lot more than tools and nails and gallons of paint. It's your place. I want it to be ours."

"But ..." But, but, her mind was full of buts . "What about your studio?"

"Yeah, it's a great s.p.a.ce. You'll think of something." He handed her back the screwdriver. "Make all the lists you want, Cilla. Love? It's green kryptonite. It powers out all the rest. I'll go out back and start the grill."

She stood, stunned, a power tool in her hand, as the screen door slapped shut behind him. And thought: What? Love is kryptonite? She'd think of something?

How could she understand, much less marry, a man whose mind worked that way? One who could make statements like that, then stroll off to start the grill? Where were his anger, his angst, his annoyance? And to suggest he could give up his place and move into hers without any real thought to where he'd work? It didn't make any sense. It made no sense at all.

Of course if she added the home gym off the south side of the house the way she'd been toying with, she could put on a second story, tying that into the existing house. Angle it for a little interest. Tight-winder stairs would work, and be fun to do. It would keep the work s.p.a.ces entirely separate, give them both privacy. Plus the southern exposure would give a studio excellent light. Then she could ...

Well, G.o.d, she realized. She'd thought of something. A d.a.m.n good something, too, she added and put down her tool to pace the veranda. Having destroyed his quota, Spock trotted up to pace with her.

The sort of something that would not only work, not only blend in with the existing structure, Cilla realized, but enhance it. Break up the roof line, finish it off with a sweet little balcony. Jib windows for access.

d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n it! Now she could see it. Now she wanted it. She stalked down the steps, around to the south side of the house with Spock bounding happily behind her. Oh yeah, yeah, not only doable, she thought, but it now seemed the house begged for it.

She jammed her hands into her pockets, and her fingers. .h.i.t the ring box she carried there. Kryptonite, she thought, pulling it out. That was the trouble, the big trouble. She did understand him. And more terrifying, more wonderful, he understood her.

Trusted her. Loved her. Believed in her.

WHEN SHE WALKED to the patio, Ford had the grill smoking. The corn, husks in place, were submerged in a big bowl of water for reasons that eluded her. He'd brought out the wine. The scents of roses, sweet peas, jasmine tangled in the air as he poured her a gla.s.s. Sun streamed through the trees, glinted off the pond where Spock wandered to drink.

For a moment, she thought of the glamour that had once lived there, the colored lights, the beautiful people wafting like perfume over the lawns. Then she thought of him, just him, standing on stones she'd helped place with her own hands, offering her a gla.s.s of wine, and a life she'd never believed she could have.

She stood with him, one hand in her pocket, and took the first sip. "I have some questions. First, just to get it off my mind, why are you drowning the corn?"

"My mother said to."

"Okay. If I thought of something, how do you know it's something you'd want?"

"If I didn't," he said, picking up the conversation as if there had been no break, "I know how to say I don't want that. I learned how to do that at an early age, with mixed results. But the odds are, if we're talking about construction and design, whatever you thought of would work."

"Next. Could I hurt you?"

"Cilla, you could rip my heart out in b.l.o.o.d.y pieces."

She understood that, understood he could do the same to her. And wasn't that a h.e.l.l of a thing? Wasn't that a miracle? "I couldn't have done that to Steve, or him to me. As much as we loved each other. As much as we still do."

"Cilla-"

"Wait. One more question. Did you ask me to carry the ring around with me because you hoped it would act as kryptonite, and weaken me over time until I agreed to marry you?"

He shifted his feet, took another drink of wine. "It might have been a factor."

With a nod, she drew her hand out of her pocket, studied the ring sparkling on it. "Apparently, it works."

His grin flashed, quicksilver delight. But when he moved to her, she slapped a hand on his chest. "Just hold on."

"That was my plan."

"Wait. Wait," she said again, softly. "Everything I said before, it's true. I'd made up my mind never to get married again. Why go through the process when the odds are so stacked for failure? I failed a lot. Some was my fault, some was just the way it was. Marriage seemed so unnecessary, so hard, so full of tangles that can never really be fully unknotted. It was easy with Steve. We were friends, and we'd always be friends. As much as I love him, it was never hard or scary. There wasn't any risk, for either of us."

Her throat filled, so much emotion rising up. But she wanted- needed-to get the rest out. "It's not like that with you because we're going to hurt each other along the way. If this screws up, we won't be friends. If this screws up, I'll hate you every day for the rest of my life."

"I'll hate you more."

"Why is that absolutely the best thing you could've said? We're not going to Vegas."

"Okay, but I think we're missing a real opportunity. How do you feel about backyard weddings?"

"I feel that's what you had in mind all along."

"You're what I had in mind all along."

She shook her head, then laid her hands on his cheeks. "I'd love a backyard wedding. I'd love to share this house with you. I don't know how anything that scares me this much can make me so happy."

He took her lips with his, soft, soft, spinning the kiss out in the perfumed air, with the sun streaming through the trees. "I believe in us." He kissed her again, swayed with her. "You're the one I can dance with."

She laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes.

THE LITTLE FARM 1973 "I believed in love," Janet said as she sat back on the white silk pillows on the lipstick-pink couch. "Why else would I have thrown myself into it so often? It never lasted, and my heart would break, or close. But I never stopped opening it again. Again and again. You know that. You've read all the books, heard all the stories, and the letters. You have the letters so you know I loved, right to the end."

"It never made you happy. Not the kind that lasted." Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Cilla sorted through photographs. "Here's one taken the day you married Frankie Bennett. You're so young, so happy. And it fell apart."

"He wanted the star more than the woman. That was a lesson I had to learn. But he gave me Johnnie. My beautiful boy. Johnnie's gone now. I lost my beautiful boy. It's been a year, and still I wait for him to come home. Maybe this one will be a boy."

She laid a hand on her belly, picked up a short gla.s.s, rattled the ice chilling the vodka.

"You shouldn't drink while you're pregnant."

Janet jerked a shoulder, sipped. "They didn't make such a to-do about it when I was. Besides, I'll be dead soon anyway. What will you do with all those pictures?"

"I don't know. I think I'll pick the ones I like best, have them framed. I want pictures of you in the house. Especially pictures of you at the farm. You were happy here."

"Some of my happiest moments, some of my most desolate. I gave Carlos-Chavez, my third husband-his walking papers right in this room. We had a vicious fight, almost pa.s.sionate enough to have me consider taking him back. But I'd had enough. How he hated it here. 'Janet,' he'd say in that Spanish toreador's voice that seduced me in the first place, 'why must we camp out in the middle of nowhere? There isn't a decent restaurant for miles.' Carlos," she added and lifted her gla.s.s, "he could make love like a king. But outside of bed, he bored me brainless. The problem there was we didn't spend enough time outside of bed before I married him. s.e.x is no reason to get married."

"Ford never bores me. He made me a G.o.ddess, and still when he looks at me, he sees me. Too many of them didn't see you."

"I stopped seeing me."

"But in the letters, the letters you kept, he called you Trudy."

"The last love, the last chance. I couldn't know. Yet maybe some part of me did. Maybe I wanted to love and be loved by what I'd lost, or given up. For a little while, I could be Trudy again." She stroked her fingers over one of the white pillows. "But that was a lie, too. I could never get her back, and he never saw her."

"The last chance," Cilla repeated with photos spread before her, and Janet on the bright pink couch. "Why was it the last? You lost your son, and that was horrible and tragic. But you had a daughter who needed you. You had a child inside you. You left your daughter, and that's haunted her all her life-and I guess it's haunted me too. You left her, and you ended the child when you ended yourself. Why?"

Janet sipped her drink. "If there's one thing you can do for me, it would be to answer that question."

"How?"

"You've got everything you need. It's your dream, for G.o.d's sake. Pay attention."

TWENTY-NINE Crazy. She had to be crazy hosting a party. She didn't have any furniture, or dishes. She didn't own a serving spoon. She was at least three weeks out from delivery on her stove and refrigerator. She didn't own a G.o.dd.a.m.n rug. Her seating consisted of a single patio set, a couple of cheap plastic chairs and a collection of empty compound buckets. Her cooking tools were limited to a Weber grill, a hot plate and a microwave oven.

She had supplies, G.o.d knew. A million festive paper plates, napkins, plastic cups and forks and spoons, and enough food-which she didn't know how to prepare-stuffed into Ford's refrigerator to feed most of the county. But where were people supposed to eat ?

"On the picnic tables my father, your father and Matt are bringing over," Ford told her. "Come back to bed."

"What if it rains?"

"Not calling for rain. There is a thirty-percent chance of hail and locusts, and a ten-percent chance of earthquakes. Cilla, it's six in the morning."

"I'm supposed to marinate the chicken."

"Now?"

"No. I don't know. I have to check my list. I wrote everything down. I said I'd make crab dip. I don't know why I said that. I've never made crab dip. Why didn't I just buy it? What am I trying to prove? And there's the pasta salad." She heard the lunacy in the rant, couldn't stop. "I took that, too. Eating pasta salad through the years doesn't mean you can make pasta salad.

I've been to the doctor through the years. What's next? Am I going to start doing elective surgery?"

Though it was tempting, he didn't put the pillow over his head. "Are you going to lose your mind like this every time you give a party?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"Good to know. Come back to bed."

"I'm not coming back to bed. Can't you see I'm dressed? Dressed, pacing, obsessing and postponing the moment when I go downstairs and face that chicken."

"All right. All right." He pushed himself up in bed, scooped back his hair. "Did you agree to marry me last night?"

"Apparently I did."

"Then we will go down and face the chicken together."

"Really? You'd do that?"

"I'll also face the crab dip and the pasta salad with you. Such is the depth of my love, even at six o'clock in the morning." Spock rose, yawned, stretched. "And apparently his. If we poison people, Cilla, we'll do it together."

"I feel better. I know when I'm being a maniac." She walked to him, leaned down and kissed his sleepy mouth. "And I know when I'm lucky to have someone who'll stick with me through it, right down to the crab dip."

"I don't even like crab dip. Why do people eat stuff like that?" He gave her a tug, pulling her onto the bed. And rolled on top of her. "People are always making dips out of odd things. Spinach dip, artichoke dip. Have you ever asked yourself why?"

"I can't say I have."

"Why can't they be satisfied with some Cheez Whiz on a cracker? It's simple. It's cla.s.sic."

"You can't distract me with Cheez Whiz." She shoved him off.

"I'm going down." She tugged her shirt back into place. "I'm ready."

IT WASN'T ALTOGETHER horrible or intimidating, Cilla discovered. Not with a partner. Especially when the partner was as clueless as she. It was almost fun. She thought, with some repet.i.tion, and a bit more skill, boiling pasta or mincing garlic might slip past the almost and become actual fun.

"I had a Janet dream last night," she told him.

"How can the simple tomato come in so many sizes?" He held up a beefsteak and a handful of grape tomatoes. "Is it science? Is it nature? I'll have to do a study on it. What was the dream about?"

"I guess it was about love, at least on one level. And my subconscious poking around about what it means. Or what it meant to her. We were in the living room of the farm. The walls were my walls-I mean the s.p.a.ce was mine, the color of the paint, but she was on that bright pink couch. And I had photographs spread on this glossy white coffee table. Photos I've managed to get my hands on, the photos your grandfather took, photos I think I might have just seen in books. Hundreds of them. She was drinking vodka in a short gla.s.s. She said it had been a year since Johnnie died, and how she hoped this baby was a boy. She said it was her last chance. Her last love, her last chance.

"It's so odd. She knew she was going to die soon. Because I knew. I asked her why, why did she do it? Why did she turn away from that last chance and end it all?"

"What did she say?"

"That if I could do anything for her, it would be to find that answer. That I had it all in front of me, but I wasn't paying attention. So I woke up frustrated because, as she said, it's my dream. If I know something, why don't I know it?"

Ford took up his a.s.signment of slicing the beefsteak. "Is it too much to accept she might've been too sad, too deep in the dark, and saw it as the only way to end the pain?"

"No. But I can't quite make myself believe it. I never fully could, or never fully wanted to. And since I came here, started on the house, I believe it less-and want to believe it less," Cilla admitted. "She found something here. Look at all she took and let go of again. Men, marriages, houses, possessions. She was famous for acquiring and disposing of. But she kept this place, and more, made arrangements so it would remain in the family long after she died. She found something she needed here, something that contented her."

She looked out the window and watched Spock on his morning rounds. "She kept the dog," Cilla murmured. "And an old jeep. A stove and refrigerator that were out of date. I think, in a way, this place was real to her. The rest, it's not. For the smart ones, it's a job. It's good work. Fame can be a by-product, but it's fleeting and fickle and so much of it's an illusion. She didn't need the illusion here."

"And falling in love here made it more real?"

She looked over, grateful he followed the thread of her thoughts. "It follows, doesn't it? The worst thing in her life happened here when Johnnie was killed. An inescapable reality. But she kept coming back, facing it. She didn't close the place up, or sell it. He called her Trudy, and that's who she wanted to believe he loved. I think she wanted that last chance, desperately. I think she wanted the baby, Ford. She'd lost one child. How could she, why would she kill herself and end the chance for another?"

"And if she realized it wasn't Trudy this guy loved, that that was another illusion?"

"Men come and go. They always did for her. And I guess I remembered that, resolved that through the dream last night. Her one true love was Johnnie. Her work, too. She pa.s.sionately loved the work. But Johnnie was hers. My mother always knew that, always knew she didn't quite hit the same spot. The last love, the last chance? I think it was the child for her. I can't believe, just can't, that she'd have killed herself over a love affair that went south."

"You said she was drinking in the dream. Vodka."

"Her standard." When the timer dinged, Cilla hefted the pot of pasta, carried it to the sink to drain into the waiting colander. "But there weren't any pills in the dream."

She stood, watching the steam rise. "Where were the pills, Ford? I keep circling back to those letters, to the anger in the last few. He didn't want her in this house. She was a threat to him, an unpredictable woman, a desperate one, pregnant with his child. But she wouldn't give it up. Not this place, not the child, not the chance. So he took it from her. I keep circling back to that."

"If you're right, proving it would be the next step. We've already tried to find out who wrote those letters. I don't know how many more avenues there might be to take."

"I feel like ... I feel like we've already been down the right one, or close to it. And missed something that was right there. Right there. That I didn't pay attention, and it slipped by."

She turned. "This is my reality now, Ford. You, you and the farm, this life. I found that, I can take that because of her. I owe her. And I owe her more than planting roses and painting and hammering wood. More than bringing this place back as tribute. I owe her the truth."