Whirlwind (11 page)

“Hey, Forrester!” she bellowed once she returned to the lodge. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

She shouted for several minutes and looked for him all over the lodge, but Cliff was nowhere to be found. Chances were he was off somewhere on the lake, admiring his fish. Disappointed that she had nobody to share her excitement with, Liza had to settle for racing around the rooms with her sketchbook, making notes and rapidly drawing when words failed her. Her imagination fairly burned with more and more possibilities as she worked. She grabbed an apple and another cold tablet for lunch and worked all afternoon at getting her ideas on paper.

“A budget can wait,” she said to herself decisively. “At this point, it's more important to let my creativity flow!”

The best idea hit Liza when she was studying the entrance to the lodge, blowing her nose. It needed to be
grander—large and airy instead of the cramped space that currently served as a foyer.

“It needs a huge chandelier,” Liza said aloud. “Nothing ordinary either—something made out of deer antlers, maybe, or—or... Hey! Maybe I ought to tear out this wall! I wonder if it's possible.”

There was only one way to find out. In the pickup truck, Liza found a tire iron. With the tool in hand, she began to pry off the molding around one doorway, sneezing and coughing as she worked. The molding came off with a huge crash and sent a cloud of powdery plaster through the air. But underneath, Liza found some loose boards. She was busily hacking at them when Cliff walked in.

He halted in the doorway, his face a picture of astonishment. “Good Lord,” he said. “Are you
crazy?
”

Liza sat back on her heels, brushed a dusting of plaster from her face and grinned broadly as Cliff stared at the mess she'd created. He looked very attractive in a short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans that clung to his hips and tapered to some grungy sneakers. He still had the exhausted demeanor of a man who hadn't slept well in months, but he looked pretty good otherwise. From the glow of sunshine on his face and the flecks of paint that covered his chest and arms, Liza guessed he'd been scraping old paint somewhere outside—the boathouse, perhaps. She was delighted to see him and sneezed just to prove it.

“What do you think?” she demanded, blowing her nose lustily. “Isn't it going to be great?”

“You
are
crazy,” Cliff pronounced, full of awe as he stepped over the fallen molding to survey the destruction more closely. “Did you set off a bomb in here?”

“I'm expanding the space,” Liza explained, waving the tire iron to show him the lines of the room she envisioned. “We'll knock down this wall and the one over there, and throw up another one back here to keep the lounge intact, and then—”

“Who's going to do all this?”

“You and me, of course. Haven't we been through this before?”

Cliff stood over her like a disapproving high school principal. “Miss Baron,” he said, speaking carefully to avoid any confusion, “this job is beyond my ability and yours. You need a real carpenter. An architect. An engineer...”

“What kind of skill does it take to knock down a wall?”

“It's not the knocking down that's difficult! It's the... Oh, hell, why am I bothering to explain? To you of all people! It's useless!”

He turned to leave, shaking his head, and Liza boiled to her feet. “What was that crack supposed to mean?”

He turned back, his face lined with fatigue. In his voice, Liza heard the edge of anger along with exhaustion. “It wasn't a crack, it was the truth. You've never listened to anyone in your life, so why do I think I could be the first one to penetrate that thick head of yours?”

“My head is not thick!” Liza tried to jump over the heap of debris she had created, missed a step and lost her balance. When Cliff caught her hand in time to save her from a fall, she threw up her head and snapped, “I'm perfectly capable of doing the job I was trained for! My ideas are exciting and dramatic, so don't go—”

“I have no doubts about your ideas,” said Cliff. He helped her over the pile of rubble and added, “It's your common sense that's nonexistent.”

“Nonexistent!” Liza yanked her hand from his grasp. “Well, you're alone in that opinion, Forrester. My grandfather has faith in me. He's given me carte blanche—absolute authority to make any changes I see fit—”

“He said that? Those actual words?”

“Well, not those words exactly, but—”

“What words exactly
did
he say?”

“That I have permission to fix up the lodge however I like!”

“And he's paying?”

“Yes, of course. As soon as I prepare a budget, he—”

“Oho,” said Cliff, rocking back on his heels. “Maybe Granddad's not a fool after all. He's going to give you just enough money to keep you busy.”

Liza felt her blood pressure start to build, and she cocked her fists on her hips. She'd been happy with her day's accomplishments, and Cliff was heartlessly tearing down all her dreams. “What are you suggesting?”

Cliff took an old handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration and paint chips from his face. “Oh, come on, Liza,” he said, sounding tired of arguing. “You know what he's doing. Judson's giving his excitable granddaughter a project to keep her occupied until she settles down—”

“You bastard! Where do you get off saying things like that? This is an honest job—a project I can sink my teeth into! If you think Granddad is...is giving me some kind of charity, you should think again!”

“It'll take millions to fix up this old heap.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Liza retorted. “I can decorate this place for—for...well, for lots less than a million dollars!”

“What about the structural problems? The pipes? The roof? The electrical system is something out of the Dark Ages.”

“You're exaggerating,” Liza said, but her confidence faltered at the suggestion of structural problems. She hadn't planned on those.

Cliff laughed shortly. “Am I exaggerating? Have you tried running the toaster and a radio at the same time yet? And the whole second floor is jury-rigged so badly...”

“It won't take much to fix it,” Liza insisted weakly.

“You feel qualified to make that judgment? Face it, you're an amateur. A few curtains and a change of wallpaper isn't going to turn Timberlake into the next Club Med.”

A realization struck Liza, and she folded her arms over her chest. “Oh, I get it.”

“Get what?”

“You're just trying to make me quit.”

“What?”

“You hated the whole idea from the start,” Liza accused, jabbing her forefinger into his chest and knocking him back a pace with the force of her poke. “
You
don't want the lodge to become a resort at all.
You
want to have the place to yourself! Of course you'd try to talk me out of my ideas.”

“Listen—”

“No,
you
listen,” Liza cried. “I'm not some kind of spoiled brat who needs a keeper. I'm going to make something wonderful out of this lodge, and
you're
not going to stop me just because you want to play Rip Van Winkle all alone up here for the rest of your life!”

“That has nothing to do with—”

“Of course it does! If you don't like what I'm doing, Forrester, you can get the hell out! Go on! Go!”

Cliff stared at Liza for several heartbeats, hardly able to believe what she was saying. Her taut face was more angry than ever before.

“No,” he began unsteadily, determined to stay calm. Losing his cool around Liza was undoubtedly as dangerous as opening a vein in a shark tank. “Wait a minute.”

“You heard me,” Liza swept on, unaware of how profoundly her furious words were affecting him. “I'm going ahead with my ideas, and you can pack your bags if you plan to stand in my way!”

“I'm not leaving,” he said. “I—”

“And
don't
think you can start any more shenanigans designed to chase me away, because I'm not leaving, either!”

She threw down her tire iron, which bounced with lethal speed and nearly took off Cliff's kneecap. He dodged out
of the way just in time to avoid being crippled. Liza spun around, her long hair throwing bits of broken plaster as she whirled and marched for the stairs.

“Liza—”

“And you can forget about that spaghetti dinner!”

“What spaghetti dinner?”

“The one I was going to cook for you!” she shouted. “And believe me, I don't cook for anyone else in the world, buster!”

That declaration rang hollowly in the entrance hall. Watching Liza make her dramatic exit up the stairs, Cliff suddenly felt very unhappy. He hadn't meant to hurt her. Not really. She was so damned explosive!

“Liza,” he called tentatively. Then,
“Liza!”

She turned on the top landing and glared down at him. “You want the last word?”

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“What?”

Cliff hadn't noticed how the words stuck in his throat. He coughed and said louder, “I'm sorry for what I said. About Judson giving you a project to keep you busy.”

Was he imagining the sudden sheen in Liza's eyes, or had she gone teary as she swept up the stairs? She sneezed abruptly and fished in her pocket for a tissue. She looked about sixteen years old as she wiped her nose. “It's not true, you know.”

“I know. I just...I shouldn't have said that.” He gave a sigh and muttered, “Oh, hell, I'm not very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Talking. Explaining. I shouldn't have said what I did.”

“Maybe I didn't think about structural problems,” she said after a moment. “But you had no right to—”

“I hurt your feelings. I'm sorry. Really.”

“Well,” she said unwillingly. “That's a start, I guess.”

“A start?”

“You're very difficult to get along with, Forrester.”

“Me?”
Cliff waded through the debris she'd created on the floor and stood at the bottom of the staircase looking up at her. “You think
I'm
difficult?”

“Yes.” She lifted her pink nose arrogantly. “But I'll admit I can be...well, not easy all the time. I didn't want to hear anything negative, that's all. I'm excited about this project.”

“I can see that.”

She began to chew her thumbnail—an endearing weakness, Cliff noted—and nodded, surveying the mess she'd made with the tire iron. “Maybe it's going to be a little harder than I first thought. In fact, this may be the toughest job of my life.”

“Hmm,” Cliff said, trying not to agree too heartily in case she exploded again. He wasn't sure which side of Liza he liked most—her damn-the-torpedoes side or the chagrined little innocent side. Both were appealing.

Before he could think, Cliff heard himself saying, “How about if I cook the spaghetti?”

Liza's face brightened. “You mean it?”

“Well, I can try.”

“It's just bottled sauce,” she said. “Nothing fancy.”

“I can probably handle it, then. How about it? Since you're sick, I'll cook.”

Liza smiled tentatively. “I'll go wash my face first.”

When she smiled, Cliff's heart turned over. It was a queer feeling—a quick pang in his chest that left him breathless. As she scampered down the hallway and out of sight, he stood at the newel post like a dope and wondered about himself. Things seemed so normal one minute, then frighteningly unreal the next.

The sound of Liza happily splashing water in the bathroom made him feel absurdly happy. After years of cherishing the silence, Cliff surprised himself by feeling glad she had come.

He shook himself and went into the kitchen. He found
bags of groceries on the counter—bags Liza had obviously not bothered to unpack. She had been too charged up about the lodge to be bothered with food, he noted. In the bottom of one bag was a quart of melted tin roof ice cream, but other than that, the damage was minimal.

Cliff cleaned up the mess, put the food away and set about making dinner. Liza shyly joined him within a few minutes, and with very little prodding, began to describe her plans for the lodge.

Cliff didn't listen to the details, to tell the truth. Mostly, he watched Liza's face as she talked. The light in her eyes, her quicksilver smile and the animation in her expression were charming. She reminded him of a big, eager puppy, all long legs and enthusiasm. He found himself feeling invigorated around her. Energy radiated from Liza like heat from a stove. It warmed him. Cheered him.

She chattered and got in his way without being much help, so eventually Cliff steered her gently to the stool and plunked a bowl of lettuce in front of her. While she talked, she shredded lettuce for a salad, and didn't seem to notice that the pieces were tiny enough and plentiful enough to feed the Seven Dwarfs.

“Oh,” she said, blinking with surprise when she realized what she'd done. “This is an awful lot of salad.”

“That's okay,” said Cliff, slipping the bowl out of her range. “I'm pretty hungry. Want to butter the bread next?”

She completed whatever task Cliff put in front of her, but he was careful not to ask too much of her while she was so pumped up about the lodge.

At last the food was ready, and they ate without ceremony at the kitchen counter. It felt right that way. To eat together in the cavernous dining room under the chandelier would have been too awkward. Cliff was content to listen and watch, hardly tasting the food in front of him. Liza's energy seemed boundless, her smile infectious, her spirit untamable.

When it was time for dessert, Cliff began to fantasize about what it would be like to make love to her.

She said, “I wish I'd remembered to put the ice cream away when I came home from the store. I was so eager to get started with my sketchbook that I completely forgot to put it in the fridge.”