Tribute

who—”
    “You’re serious,” she continued before he went on a Jar Jar rant, “about living your life on your terms, and being easygoing doesn’t negate that one bit. You’re serious about what kind of kryptonite is more lethal to Superman.”
    “You have to go with the classic green. I told you, the gold can strip Kryptonians’ powers permanently, but—”
    “ Ford .”
    “Sorry. We’ll skip that and go back to Vegas.”
    “We’re not going to Vegas. God, you make my head spin. You’re not thinking of a single practicality, of the reality.”
    “Test the theory. Give me one.”
    “Fine. Fine. Where would we live? Do we flip a coin, ask your Magic 8-Ball. Or maybe we’d—”
    “Well, for God’s sake, Cilla, we’d live here. Here,” he repeated, knocking his knuckles against the wall of the house.
    His instant answer tipped her off balance. “What about your house? You love your house. It’s a great house. It’s tailor-made for you.”
    “Yeah, for me. Not for us. Sure, I love my house, and it’s got a lot of me in it. But it’s just a house for me, and Spock.” He glanced around in time to see Spock catch and destroy the hated invisible cat. “He’s happy anywhere. I haven’t poured myself into my place the way you have this one. This is home for you, Cilla. I’ve watched you make it.” Now he picked up her screwdriver. “With more than this. A lot more than tools and nails and gallons of paint. It’s your place. I want it to be ours.”
    “But . . .” But, but, her mind was full of buts . “What about your studio?”
    “Yeah, it’s a great space. You’ll think of something.” He handed her back the screwdriver. “Make all the lists you want, Cilla. Love? It’s green kryptonite. It powers out all the rest. I’ll go out back and start the grill.”
    She stood, stunned, a power tool in her hand, as the screen door slapped shut behind him. And thought: What? Love is kryptonite? She’d think of something?
    How could she understand, much less marry, a man whose mind worked that way? One who could make statements like that, then stroll off to start the grill? Where were his anger, his angst, his annoyance? And to suggest he could give up his place and move into hers without any real thought to where he’d work? It didn’t make any sense. It made no sense at all.
    Of course if she added the home gym off the south side of the house the way she’d been toying with, she could put on a second story, tying that into the existing house. Angle it for a little interest. Tight-winder stairs would work, and be fun to do. It would keep the work spaces entirely separate, give them both privacy. Plus the southern exposure would give a studio excellent light. Then she could . . .
    Well, God, she realized. She’d thought of something. A damn good something, too, she added and put down her tool to pace the veranda. Having destroyed his quota, Spock trotted up to pace with her.
    The sort of something that would not only work, not only blend in with the existing structure, Cilla realized, but enhance it. Break up the roof line, finish it off with a sweet little balcony. Jib windows for access.
    Damn it, damn it, damn it! Now she could see it. Now she wanted it. She stalked down the steps, around to the south side of the house with Spock bounding happily behind her. Oh yeah, yeah, not only doable, she thought, but it now seemed the house begged for it.
    She jammed her hands into her pockets, and her fingers hit the ring box she carried there. Kryptonite, she thought, pulling it out. That was the trouble, the big trouble. She did understand him. And more terrifying, more wonderful, he understood her.
    Trusted her. Loved her. Believed in her.
    WHEN SHE WALKED to the patio, Ford had the grill smoking. The corn, husks in place, were submerged in a big bowl of water for reasons that eluded her. He’d brought out the wine. The scents of roses, sweet peas, jasmine tangled in the air as he poured her a glass. Sun streamed through the trees, glinted off the pond where Spock wandered to drink.
    For a moment, she thought of the glamour that had once lived there, the colored lights, the beautiful people wafting like perfume over the lawns. Then she thought of him, just him, standing on stones she’d helped place with her own hands, offering her a glass of wine, and a life she’d never believed she could have.
    She stood with him, one hand in her pocket, and took the first sip. “I have some