Tribute

and apple cobbler, and treated a meal as food rather than a performance. And a guest or family—she thought she fell somewhere in the middle—was given a plate of each covered in tinfoil to take home for leftovers. If the guest/family was driving, she was offered a single glass of wine with dinner, then plied with coffee afterward.
    Cilla glanced at her watch, smiled. And could be walking in her own door by eight.
    After stowing the two plates in her trusty cooler, Cilla planted her hands on her hips and looked around. The bare bulbs cast harsh light and hard shadows, spotlighted cracked plaster and scarred floorboards. Poor old girl, she thought. You’re in desperate need of a face-lift.
    She picked up her flashlight, switched it on before turning off the overhead bulbs and, using it to guide her way, started toward the steps.
    A glance out the front window showed her the lights sparkling from homes scattered across the hills and fields. Other people had finished their home-cooked meals, she supposed, and were settled down to watch ’TV or finish up a little paperwork. Maybe kids were being tucked into bed, or being told to settle down and finish their homework.
    She doubted any of them sat reading changes in the script for tomorrow’s shoot, or yawned through another running of her lines. Foolish to envy them, Cilla thought, for having what she never had.
    Standing there, she picked out the lights in Ford’s house.
    Was he crafting the Seeker’s next adventure? Maybe chowing down on frozen pizza, what she imagined the bachelor’s version of a home-cooked meal might be? And what was a comic book writer—pardon me, graphic novelist—doing living in a beautifully restored old Victorian in rural Virginia?
    A single graphic novelist, she remembered with a smirk, with an unquestionably sexy Southern drawl and a lazy gait that edged up toward a swagger. And an odd little dog.
    Whatever the reasons were, it was nice to see the lights shining across the road. Close but not too close. Oddly comforted by them, she turned away to continue upstairs, where she intended to slide into her sleeping bag and work on her plans.
    HER CELL PHONE woke her out of a dead sleep, had her eyes flashing open, then slamming shut again against the glare of the light she’d neglected to turn off before dropping off. Cursing, Cilla pried one eye partially open as she slid a hand over the floor for the phone.
    What the hell time was it?
    Heart pounding, she read the time on the phone—3:28 A.M.—and her mother’s data on the display.
    “Crap.” Cilla flipped the phone open. “What’s wrong?”
    “Is that any way to answer the phone? You don’t bother to say hello?”
    “Hello, Mom. What’s wrong?”
    “I’m not happy with you, Cilla.”
    What else is new? Cilla thought. And you’re drunk or stoned. Ditto. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, especially at three-thirty in the morning, East Coast time. Which is where I am, remember?”
    “I know where you are.” Bedelia’s voice sharpened even as it slurred. “I know damn well. You’re in my mother’s house, which you tricked me into giving you. I want it back.”
    “I’m in my grandmother’s house, which you sold to me. And you can’t have it back. Where’s Mario?” she asked, referring to her mother’s current husband.
    “This has nothing to do with Mario. This is between you and me. We’re all that’s left of her! You know very well you caught me in a weak moment. You took advantage of my vulnerability and my pain. I want you to come back immediately and tear up the transfer papers or whatever they are.”
    “And you’ll tear up the cashier’s check for the purchase price?”
    There was a long, brittle silence during which Cilla lay back down and yawned.
    “You’re cold and ungrateful.”
    The thin sheen of tears on the words was much too calculated, and too usual, to get a rise. “Yes, I am.”
    “After everything I did for you, all the sacrifices I made, all of which you tossed away. Now, instead of you willing to pay me back for all the years I put you first, you’re tossing money in my face.”
    “You could look at it that way. I’m keeping the farm. And don’t, please don’t, waste my time or your own trying to convince either of us this place matters to you. I’m in it, I’ve seen just how much you care about it.”
    “She was my mother!”
    “Yeah, and you’re mine. Those are the crosses we have to bear.” Cilla heard the crash, and