and thought of the letters.
"Is that so?" Dobby shook his head, dipped his trowel. "Pretty, old-fashioned name Trudy."
"And not shiny enough for Hollywood, at least when she came up in it. She said in an interview once that no one ever called her Trudy again, once they'd settled on Janet. Not even her family. But sometimes she'd look at herself in the mirror and say hello to Trudy, just to remind herself. Anyway, if I came up with some designs, we could talk about working them in upstairs."
"We sure could do that."
"I'll do some research. Maybe we could... Sorry," she said when the phone in her pocket rang. She pulled it out, stifled a sigh when she saw her mother's number on the display. "Sorry," she repeated, then stepped outside to take the call.
"Hello, Mom."
"Did you think I wouldn't hear about it? Did you think I wouldn't see?"
Cilla leaned against the veranda column, stared across the road at Ford's pretty house. "I'm good, thanks. How are you?"
"You have no right to criticize me, to judge me. To blame me."
"In what context?"
"Save your sarcasm, Cilla. You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"I really don't." What was Ford doing? Cilla wondered. Was he writing? Drawing? Was he turning her into a warrior goddess? Someone who would face down evil instead of calculating how to stretch the budget to accommodate handcrafted plaster medallions, or handle a motherly snit long-distance.
"The article in the paper. About you, about the farm. About me. AP picked it up."
"Did they? And that bothers you? It's publicity."
"'McGowan's goal is to restore and respect her neglected heritage. Speaking over the busy sounds of banging hammers and buzzing saws, she states: "My grandmother always spoke of the Little Farm with affection, and related that she was drawn to it from the first moment. The fact that she bought the house and land from my paternal great-grandfather adds another strong connection for me." ' "
"I know what I said, Mom."
"'My purpose, you could even say my mission, is to pay tribute to my heritage, my roots here, by not only restoring the house and the land, but making them shine. And in such a way that respects their integrity, and the community.'"
"Sounds a little pompous," Cilla commented. "But it's accurate."
"It goes on and on, a showcase during Janet Hardy's visits for the luminaries of her day. A pastoral setting for her children, now peeling paint, rotted wood, overgrown gardens through a generation of neglect and disinterest as Janet Hardy's daughter, Bedelia Hardy, attempted to fill her mother's sparkling footsteps. How could you let them print that?"
"You know as well as I do you can't control the press."
"I don't want you giving any more interviews."
"And you should know you can't control what I do, or don't. Not anymore. Spin it, Mom. You know how. Grief kept you away, and so on. Whatever happy times you spent here were overshadowed, even smothered, by your mother's death here. It'll get you some sympathy and more press."
The long pause told Cilla her mother was considering the angles. "How could I think of that place as anything but a tomb?"
"There you go."
"It's easier for you, it's different for you. You never knew her. She's just an image for you, a movie clip, a photograph. She was flesh and blood for me. She was my mother."
"Okay."
"It would be better, for everyone, if you vetted interviews with me or Mario. And I'd think any reporter who works for a legitimate paper would have contacted my people for a comment or quote. Be sure they do, next time."
"You're up early," Cilla said by way of evading.
"I have rehearsals, costume fittings. I'm exhausted before I begin."
"You're a trouper. I wanted to ask you something. The last year or so, before Janet died, do you know who she was involved with?"
"Romantically? She could barely get out of bed by herself half the time in the first weeks after Johnnie. Or she'd bounce off the walls and demand people and parties. She'd cling to me one minute, and push me away the next. It scarred me, Cilla. I lost my brother and my mother so close together. And really, I lost them both the night Johnnie died."
Because she believed that, if nothing else, that was deeply and painfully true, Cilla's tone softened. "I know. I can't imagine how terrible it was."
"No one can. I was alone. Barely sixteen, and I had no one. She left me, Cilla. She chose to leave me. In