bare legs, the wild swirl of hair with the circlet of rank crowning the head. Jeweled belt? he wondered. Maybe. The ancient weapon— double-headed hammer. Gleaming silver when gripped by the hand of the blood descendant of the warrior goddess . . .
And yeah, he needed a name for her.
Roman? Greek? Viking? Celt?
Celtic. It fit.
He held up the pad, and found himself grinning at the image. “Hello, gorgeous. We’re going to kick some major ass together.”
He glanced back across the road. The trucks were gone now, and while Cilla was nowhere in sight, the front door of the farmhouse stood open.
“Thanks, neighbor,” Ford said, and, rising, went inside to call his agent.
SURREAL WAS the best way to describe Cilla’s view on finding herself sitting on the pretty patio of her father’s tidy brick colonial, sipping iced sun tea fussily served by her stepmother. The scene simply didn’t fit in with any previous phase of her life. As a child, her visits east had been few and far between. Work trumped visitations, at least in her mother’s game.
He’d come to her now and then, Cilla remembered. And taken her to the zoo or to Disneyland. But at least during the heyday of her series, there’d always been paparazzi, or kids swarming her, and their parents snapping photos. Work trumps Fantasyland, Cilla thought, whether you wanted it to or not.
Then, of course, her father and Patty had their own daughter, Angie, their own home, their own lives on the other side of the country. Which, Cilla mused, equated to the other side of the world.
She’d never fit into that world.
Isn’t that what her father had tried to tell her? A long way, and not just the miles.
“It’s nice out here,” Cilla said, groping.
“Our favorite sitting spot,” Patty answered with a smile that tried too hard. “It’s a little chilly yet, I know.”
“It feels good.” Cilla racked her brain. What did she say to this sweet, motherly woman with her pleasant face, dark bob of hair and nervous eyes? “I, ah, bet the gardens will be great in a week or two, when everything starts to pop.”
She scanned the bed, the shrubs and vines, the trim swath of lawn that would fill with pockets of shade when the red maple and weeping cherry leafed out. “You’ve put a lot of work into it.”
“Oh, I putter.” Patty flicked her fingers over her short, dark bob, twisted the little silver hoop in her ear. “It’s Gavin who’s the gardener in the house.”
“Oh.” Cilla shifted her gaze to her father. “Really?”
“I like playing in the dirt. Guess I never grew out of it.”
“His grandfather was a farmer.” Patty sent Gavin a quick beam. “So it came down through the blood.”
Had she known that? Why hadn’t she known that? “Here, in Virginia?”
Patty’s eyes widened in surprise, then slid toward Gavin. “Ummm.”
“I thought you knew—your grandmother bought my grandfather’s farm.”
“I— What? The Little Farm? That was yours?”
“It was never mine, sweetie. My grandfather sold it when I was just a boy. I do remember chasing chickens there, and getting scolded for it. My father didn’t want to farm, and his brothers and sisters—those living at the time—had mostly scattered off. So, well, he sold it. Janet was here, filming on location. Barn Dance .”
“I know that part of the story. She fell in love with the farm they used and bought it on the spot.”
“More or less on the spot,” Gavin said with a smile. “And Grandpa bought himself a Winnebago—I swear—and he and Grandma hit the road. Traveled all over hell and back again for the next six, seven years, till she had a stroke.”
“It was McGowan land.”
“Still is.” Still smiling, Gavin sipped his tea. “Isn’t it?”
“I think it’s a lovely kind of circle.” Patty reached out, patted her hand over Cilla’s. “I remember how the lights would shine in that house when Janet Hardy was there. And how in the summer, if you drove by with
And yeah, he needed a name for her.
Roman? Greek? Viking? Celt?
Celtic. It fit.
He held up the pad, and found himself grinning at the image. “Hello, gorgeous. We’re going to kick some major ass together.”
He glanced back across the road. The trucks were gone now, and while Cilla was nowhere in sight, the front door of the farmhouse stood open.
“Thanks, neighbor,” Ford said, and, rising, went inside to call his agent.
SURREAL WAS the best way to describe Cilla’s view on finding herself sitting on the pretty patio of her father’s tidy brick colonial, sipping iced sun tea fussily served by her stepmother. The scene simply didn’t fit in with any previous phase of her life. As a child, her visits east had been few and far between. Work trumped visitations, at least in her mother’s game.
He’d come to her now and then, Cilla remembered. And taken her to the zoo or to Disneyland. But at least during the heyday of her series, there’d always been paparazzi, or kids swarming her, and their parents snapping photos. Work trumps Fantasyland, Cilla thought, whether you wanted it to or not.
Then, of course, her father and Patty had their own daughter, Angie, their own home, their own lives on the other side of the country. Which, Cilla mused, equated to the other side of the world.
She’d never fit into that world.
Isn’t that what her father had tried to tell her? A long way, and not just the miles.
“It’s nice out here,” Cilla said, groping.
“Our favorite sitting spot,” Patty answered with a smile that tried too hard. “It’s a little chilly yet, I know.”
“It feels good.” Cilla racked her brain. What did she say to this sweet, motherly woman with her pleasant face, dark bob of hair and nervous eyes? “I, ah, bet the gardens will be great in a week or two, when everything starts to pop.”
She scanned the bed, the shrubs and vines, the trim swath of lawn that would fill with pockets of shade when the red maple and weeping cherry leafed out. “You’ve put a lot of work into it.”
“Oh, I putter.” Patty flicked her fingers over her short, dark bob, twisted the little silver hoop in her ear. “It’s Gavin who’s the gardener in the house.”
“Oh.” Cilla shifted her gaze to her father. “Really?”
“I like playing in the dirt. Guess I never grew out of it.”
“His grandfather was a farmer.” Patty sent Gavin a quick beam. “So it came down through the blood.”
Had she known that? Why hadn’t she known that? “Here, in Virginia?”
Patty’s eyes widened in surprise, then slid toward Gavin. “Ummm.”
“I thought you knew—your grandmother bought my grandfather’s farm.”
“I— What? The Little Farm? That was yours?”
“It was never mine, sweetie. My grandfather sold it when I was just a boy. I do remember chasing chickens there, and getting scolded for it. My father didn’t want to farm, and his brothers and sisters—those living at the time—had mostly scattered off. So, well, he sold it. Janet was here, filming on location. Barn Dance .”
“I know that part of the story. She fell in love with the farm they used and bought it on the spot.”
“More or less on the spot,” Gavin said with a smile. “And Grandpa bought himself a Winnebago—I swear—and he and Grandma hit the road. Traveled all over hell and back again for the next six, seven years, till she had a stroke.”
“It was McGowan land.”
“Still is.” Still smiling, Gavin sipped his tea. “Isn’t it?”
“I think it’s a lovely kind of circle.” Patty reached out, patted her hand over Cilla’s. “I remember how the lights would shine in that house when Janet Hardy was there. And how in the summer, if you drove by with
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