Tribute

house.”
    “Me too.” He led the way down a wide hallway with lofty ceilings framed in creamy crown molding. “I bought it pretty much as it stands. Previous owners did a good job fixing it up, so all I had to do was dump furniture in it.”
    “What sold you on it? There’s usually one or two main hooks for a buyer. This,” she added as she walked into the generous kitchen with its wide granite serving bar opening into a casual family room, “would be one for me.”
    “Actually, it was the view, and the light from upstairs. I work upstairs, so that was key.”
    He opened a drawer, located a corkscrew in a way that told her his spaces were organized. He set the tool aside, then stepped to the sink to wash the brush.
    Spock executed what looked like a bouncing, nail-tapping dance, then darted through a doorway. “Where’s he going?”
    “I’m in the kitchen, which sends the food signal to his brain. That was his happy dance.”
    “Is that what it was?”
    “Yeah, he’s a pretty basic guy. Food makes him happy. He’s got an autofeeder in the laundry room and a dog door. Anyway, the kitchen’s pretty much wasted on me, and so was the dining area they set up over there since I don’t actually dine so much as eat. I’d be a pretty basic guy, too. But I like having space.”
    He set up the cleaned brush bristles in a glass. “Have a seat,” he invited as he picked up the corkscrew.
    She sat at the bar, admired the stainless steel double ovens, the cherry cabinets, the six-burner range and grill combo under the shining stainless hood. And, since she wasn’t blinded by end-of-the-day fatigue, his ass.
    He took two red wineglasses from one of the cabinets with textured glass doors, poured the wine. He stepped over, offered her one, then, lifting his own, leaned on the bar toward her and said, “So.”
    “So. We’re going to be across the road from each other for quite a while, most likely. It’s better to smooth things out.”
    “Smooth is good.”
    “It’s flattering to be seen as some mythical warrior goddess,” she began. “Odd but flattering. I might even get a kick out of it—the Xena-meets-Wonder-Woman, twenty-first-century style.”
    “That’s good, and not entirely off the mark.”
    “But I don’t like the fact that you’ve been watching me, or drawing me when I wasn’t aware of it. It’s a problem for me.”
    “Because you see it as an invasion of privacy. And I see it as natural observation.”
    She took a drink. “All my life, people watched me, took pictures. Observed me. Take a walk, shop for shoes, go for ice cream, it’s a photo op. Maybe it was usually set up for that precise purpose, but I didn’t have any control over that. Even though I’m not in the business, I’m still Janet Hardy’s granddaughter, so it still happens from time to time.”
    “And you don’t like it.”
    “Not only don’t like it, I’m done with it. I don’t want to bring that by-product of Hollywood here.”
    “I can go with the second face, but I’ve got to have the eyes.”
    She took another drink. “Here’s the sticky part, for me. I don’t want you to use the second face. I feel stupid about it, but I like the idea of being the inspiration for a comic book hero. And that is something I never thought I’d hear myself say.”
    Inside, Ford did a little happy dance of his own. “So it’s not the results, it’s the process. You want something to eat? I want something to eat.” He turned, opened another cupboard and pulled out a bag of Doritos.
    “That’s not actual food.”
    “That’s what makes it good. All of my life,” he continued as he dug into the bag, “I’ve watched people. Drawn pictures—well, I drew pictures as soon as I could hold a crayon. I’ve observed—the way they move, gesture, the way their faces and bodies are put together. How they carry themselves. It’s like breathing. Something I have to do. I could promise not to watch you, but I’d be lying. I can promise to show you any sketching I do, and try to keep that promise.”
    Because they were there, she ate a Dorito. “What if I hate them?”
    “You won’t, if you have any taste, but if you do, that would be too bad.”
    Contemplating, she ate another chip. His voice had stayed easy, she noted—over the rigid steel underlying it. “That’s a hard line.”
    “I’m not what you’d call flexible about my work. I can pretzel about most anything else.”
    “I know the type. What comes after