Tribute

Dilly’s ear. “You leaked to the press you were coming.”
    “Of course I did. All press is good press.” She leaned back, and through the amber lenses of Dilly’s sunglasses, Cilla saw the calculatedly misted eyes widen in genuine concern. “Oh, Cilla, your face. You said you weren’t hurt. Oh, Cilla .”
    It was that, that moment of sincere shock and worry, Cilla supposed, that dulled the sharpest edge of resentment. “I got some bumps, that’s all.”
    “What did the doctor say? Oh, that horrible man, that Hennessy. I remember him. Pinched-faced bastard. My God, Cilla, you’re hurt .”
    “I’m fine.”
    “Well, why don’t you at least put on some makeup? No time for that now, and it’s probably better this way. Let’s go. I’ve worked it all out. You’ll just follow my lead.”
    “You sicced them on me, Mom. You know this is exactly what I didn’t want.”
    “It’s not all about you, and what you want.” Dilly looked past Cilla to the house, then turned away. And again, Cilla saw genuine feeling. Pain. “It never has been. I need the column inches, the airtime. I need the exposure, and I’m going to take it. What happened, happened. Now you can let them keep pushing on that, on you, or you can help spin some of it, maybe most of it, around to me.
    “Jesus! What is that?”
    Cilla glanced down and saw Spock sitting patiently, paw out, big, bulbous eyes latched onto Dilly.
    “That’s my neighbor’s dog. He wants you to shake.”
    “He wants . . . Does it bite?”
    “No. Just shake his paw, Mom. He’s decided you’re friendly because you hugged me.”
    “All right.” She leaned over carefully and, to her credit, in Cilla’s mind, gave Spock’s paw a firm shake. Then smiled a little. “He’s so ugly, but in a weirdly sweet way. Shoo now.”
    Dilly turned, her arm firm around Cilla’s waist, and flung out a hand to her husband. “Mario!”
    He trotted up, took her hand, kissed it.
    “We’re ready,” she told him.
    “You look beautiful. Only a few minutes this time, darling. You shouldn’t be out in the sun too long.”
    “Stay close.”
    “Always.”
    Clutching Cilla, Dilly began to move toward the entrance, toward the cameras.
    “Great shoes,” Cilla complimented. “Poor choice for grass and gravel.”
    “I know what— Who’s this? We can’t have reporters breaking ranks.”
    “He’s not a reporter.” Cilla watched Ford shove through the lines. “Keep going,” she told him when he reached them. “You don’t want any part of this.”
    “This would be your mother? It’s unexpected to meet you here, Miss Hardy.”
    “Where else would I be when my daughter’s been hurt? The new love interest?” She scoped him head to toe. “I’ve heard a little about you. Not from you,” she said with a glance at Cilla. “We’ll have to talk. But now, just wait with Mario.”
    “No. He’s no Mario, and he won’t be hanging back at heel like a trained lapdog. Don’t give them that, Ford.”
    “I’m going to go in and get some coffee,” he decided. “Want me to call the cops while I’m at it?”
    “No. But thanks.”
    “Isn’t he all southern-fried and yummy,” Dilly commented as Ford continued toward the house. “Your taste’s improved.”
    “I’m so angry with you now.” Indeed, the anger vibrated and pulsed inside her chest. “Be careful, very careful, what buttons you push.”
    “You think this is easy for me, coming to this place? I’m doing what I need to do.” Dilly lifted her chin, the brave mother, supporting her injured child. Questions hurled out, but Dilly walked through them, a soldier stoically braving the front line.
    “Please. Please.” She held up a hand, lifting her voice. “I understand your interest, and even on some level appreciate it. I know your viewers and your readers care, and that touches me. But you must understand that our family is, once again, going through a difficult time. And this is . . . painful. My daughter has been through a terrible experience. I’m here for her, as any mother would be.”
    “Dilly! Dilly! When did you hear about Cilla’s accident?”
    “She called me as soon as she was able. No matter how grown up, a child still wants her mother when she’s hurt. Even though she told me not to come, not to break off rehearsals for my cabaret act, not to expose myself to the grief and the memories this place holds for me, of course I came to her.”
    “You haven’t been back, by your own