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I'm just going through the stuff I brought down from the attic, stowed in the barn. Rainy-day work, I guess."

Brian lifted a dented toaster out of the wheelbarrow. "People keep the damnedest things."

"I can attest."

"We cleaned out the attic when my mother passed," Hank put in. "Found a whole box of nothing but broken dishes, and another dozen or more full of papers. Receipts from groceries back thirty years, and God knows. But you want to be careful sorting through, Miz McGowan. Mixed all in there we found letters my daddy wrote her when he was in Korea. She had every one of our report cards-there's six of us kids- right through high school. She never threw a blessed thing out, but there're important things up there."

"I'm going to take my time with it. I'm finding it an interesting mix of both sides of my family so far."

"That's right, this used to be the McGowan farm." Tom scanned the area. "I remember when your grandmother bought it from old man McGowan, back around 1960. My father had his eye on this land, hoping to develop it. He brooded for a month after Janet Hardy bought it-then he decided she wouldn't keep it above six months, and he'd snap it up cheap from her. She proved him wrong.

"It's a pretty spot," Tom added, then gave his son a poke. "See that you make it prettier. I'd better get going. Good luck, Miss McGowan. If you need any recommendations on subs, just give me a call."

"I appreciate that."

"I'd better get on, too." Hank pulled at the brim of his cap. "Get my grandsons home for supper."

"Grandpa."

"They'll talk another twenty minutes," Brian commented when his father and Hank strolled toward the red pickup. "But I really do have to get going." He handed Cilla a large manila envelope. "Let me know what you think, what kind of changes you might want."

"I will, thanks."

After Brian tossed the toaster into the Dumpster, he shot a finger at Ford. "Later, Rembrandt."

On a short laugh, Ford waved. "Around and about, Picasso."

"Rembrandt?"

"Short story. Wait. Jesus." After she'd handed him the envelope and started to push the wheelbarrow up the Dumpster's ramp, Ford nudged her aside. "Flex your muscles all you want, but not while I'm standing here holding paper and guys are around."

He shoved the envelope back at her, then rolled the wheelbarrow up to dump. "Brian and I could both draw, and somehow or other got into a sex-parts-and-positions drawing contest. We got busted passing sketches back and forth in study hall. Earned us both a three-day pass."

"Pass to what?"

He looked down as he dumped. "Suspension. I guess you didn't go to regular school."

"Tutors. How old were you?"

"About fourteen. I got my ears burned all the way home when my mother picked me up, and got grounded for two weeks. Two weeks, and it was my first and last black mark in school. Talk about harsh. Hmm."

"I bet they still have them," she said when he rolled the barrow down again. "And future generations will find them in the attic."

"You think? Well, they did show considerable promise and a very healthy imagination. Want to go for a ride?"

"A ride?"

"We can go get some dinner somewhere, catch a movie."

"What's playing?"

"Couldn't say. I'm thinking of the movie as a vehicle for popcorn and necking."

"Sounds good," she decided. "You can put the wheelbarrow back in the barn while I wash up."

WITH HER NEW WIRING APPROVED, Cilla watched Dobby and his grandson replaster the living room walls. Art came in many forms, she decided, and she'd found herself a pair of artists. It wouldn't be quick, but boy, it would be right.

"You do fancy work, too?" she asked Dobby. "Medallions, trim?"

"Here and there. Not much call for it these days. You can buy pre-made cheaper, so most people do."

"I'm not most people. Fancy work wouldn't suit this area." Hands on hips, she turned a circle in the drop-clothed, chewed-up living space."But simple and interesting might. And could work in the master bedroom, the dining room. Nothing ornate," she said, thinking out loud. "No winged cherubs or hanging grapes. Maybe a design. Something Celtic... that would address the McGowan and the Moloney branches."

"Moloney?"

"What? Sorry." Distracted, she glanced back at Dobby. "Moloney would have been my grandmother's surname-except her mother changed it to Hamilton just after Janet was born, then the studio changed it to Hardy. Gertrude Moloney to Trudy Hamilton to Janet Hardy. They called her Trudy as a girl," she added