Tribute

everything he knows. Or vice versa. Anyway, I considered driving down, but it struck me as a waste of time. It’s better than a hundred miles one way, Cilla. It’s hard to believe she’d drive more than two hundred miles, in what had to be the middle of the night, to pose a doll she’d shot in the damn head in your mailbox. If she wanted to get at you, why move herself so far off when she’s got a house twenty minutes away?”
    He knew how to put things together, Cilla thought. Into panels that followed a logical line. “I hate that that’s realistic, that it rings true for me. Because it would be easier, simpler, if it was her. If I can’t believe that, I have to know it’s someone else. That someone else hates me.”
    She tipped back her cap, idly watched Spock stalking one of his cats in the front yard. “I’m looking at Buddy today because he’s whistling one of my grandmother’s songs, and I’m thinking, Hey, Buddy, did you happen to start a mad, passionate affair with my grandmother one night when you came by to fix a leak? Or, did she maybe reject your advances in a way that causes you to want to hurt me? I went through that same process with Dobby, who is, yes, entirely too old. But he had a son, and his son has a son. And I was just twisted up enough today to wonder if the very affable Jack was spending time shooting my plastic image because of something—anything—that went on with Janet three and a half decades ago. Or maybe my father had a point, and someone took a vicious and pathological dislike to Katie, and seeks to take revenge on me.”
    “Your father thinks you’re being threatened by somebody who hates a TV character?”
    “No. Not exactly. He suggested whoever’s doing this has some grudge against me, personally. But that doesn’t make any sense, either.” She sighed, lowered the screwdriver. “And because it doesn’t make any sense, none of it, I keep going around in circles, which leaves me dizzy and annoyed. Added to that, I’m going to have dozens of people here in a few days. And I know I’m going to be wondering, even as I pass the potato salad, if that person’s the one. If the person looking at me and smiling, thanking me kindly for the potato salad, would like to shoot me in the head.”
    He pushed up, walked to her. “I may have gotten my ass kicked with some regularity as a boy, but that—as my mother liked to say—builds character. The kind of character that means I can say to you, and you can believe me when I say it, nobody, Cilla, nobody is going to hurt you while I’m around.”
    “Keeping me from being hurt hasn’t been anyone’s priority up till now. Because of that, I do believe you. I feel safer with you, Ford, than I ever have with anyone.”
    He kissed her very gently, eased back and said, “Well?”
    “Oh, damn it! I walked right into it. I gave you a damn cue.” She pulled away, picked up her screwdriver. “Look, it’s been a really long day. I just don’t want to get into this now.”
    He simply put a hand under her chin, lifted it until their eyes met.
    “I don’t know. I don’t know . I haven’t made the lists yet.”
    He rubbed his thumb over her jawline. “What lists would that be?”
    “My lists, for and against. And if you’re going to push at this point, I’ll warn you that I can rattle off a ten-minute monologue of the againsts. The ones I’ve already given you and more.”
    “Give me one of the fors.” He tightened his grip when she shook her head. “Just one.”
    “You love me. I know that you do, I know that you mean it. But they call it ‘falling into’ for a reason. It’s the floundering around after you surface, the wondering what the hell you’re doing there and looking for the escape that make the falling-out-of part so horrible. And it’s not a practical for,” she insisted, when he just smiled and rubbed her jawline. “One of us has to be practical. What if I said yes, yes, let’s run off to Vegas—as both my grandmother and mother have done before me—and hit The Chapel of Love? What—”
    “I’d say you pack, I’ll book the flight.”
    “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” She tried to be annoyed, but nerves kept jumping in the way. “You don’t want some tacky Vegas fly-by. You’re serious . You’re serious about friendships, about your work, your family. You’re serious about Star Wars , and your active dislike of Jar Jar Binks—”
    “Well, God. Come on, anyone