Tribute

possible— ogled.
    “He didn’t bust up the johns,” she said as she changed into a tank and cotton pants. “I don’t know if he ran out of steam, or if he knew the tiles, the sinks, the block were all more expensive and would take more time and trouble to replace. He’d be right about that. But you don’t have to go outside if you have to pee.”
    “I’m good, thanks.”
    “You can turn around now.”
    She crawled onto the bed, didn’t bother to turn it down. “You don’t have to sleep in your clothes. I don’t know if I’m as decent as you, but I’m too damn tired to start up anything.”
    Taking her at her word, he stripped down to his boxers, then stretched out on the bed, leaving plenty of space between them.
    She reached out, turned off the light. "I’m not going to cry,” she said after a few moments of silence. “But if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to hold on to me for a while.”
    He shifted to her, turned, then, draping an arm around her, drew her back against his body. “Better?”
    “Yeah.” She closed her eyes. “I don’t know what to do. What I want, what I need, what I should, what I shouldn’t. I just don’t know.”
    He kissed the back of her head, and the quiet gesture pushed tears into her throat. “Whatever it is, you’ll figure it out. Listen, it’s starting to rain again. It’s a nice sound, this time of night. It’s like music. You can just lie here and listen to the music.”
    She listened to the music, how it played on and around the house she’d come to love. And, with his arm curled around her, slipped into exhausted sleep.

SIXTEEN
    T here was music when she woke. The same steady drum and plink of rain that had lulled her to sleep greeted her when she stirred. He’d held on to her, she thought—a little dreamily— when she’d asked. Just held on to her while the rain played and sleep took her under.
    Though she had a dim memory of just dropping down on top of the bed, she found herself cozily tucked in.
    And alone.
    The part of her that didn’t want to face it, didn’t want those memories to clear, urged her to sink down again, to just let the rain and the watery gloom stroke her back to sleep.
    Come too far for that, Cilla, she reminded herself. You’ve come too far for the slide and stroke. Pull it up, face the facts. Decide. Then deal.
    As she pushed herself up to sit, she thought that nagging, practical voice in her head a coldhearted bitch.
    Then she saw the coffee.
    Her insulated travel mug sat on the nightstand. Propped against it, one of her notepads sported a mercilessly accurate and wincingly unflattering sketch depicting exactly how she imagined she looked at that precise moment. Tousled, heavy-eyed, rumpled and scowling. Beneath, in bold block letters, the caption read:
    I AM COFFEE!!
DRINK ME!
(THEN TURN THE PAGE)
    “Funny guy,” she grumbled. She picked up the pad, tossed it on the bed before lifting the mug. The coffee it held was only a few degrees above lukewarm, but it was strong and sweet. And just what the doctor ordered. She indulged, sitting, sipping, letting the coffee give her system that first kick start.
    And idly, turned the page in the notebook.
    She hadn’t expected to laugh, wouldn’t have believed anything could cut through the fog of depression to pull a quick, surprised chuckle out of her.
    He’d drawn her vivid, wide-eyed, exaggerated breasts and biceps bulging out of her sleep tank, hair streaming in an unseen wind, smile full and fierce. The travel mug, a hint of steam puffing out of the drink hole, gripped in her hand.
    “Yeah, you’re a funny guy.”
    Laying the notepad back down, she went to find him.
    She heard the clattering sound when she opened the bedroom door. Glass—no, broken tiles, she decided—against plastic. She wended her way to the master bedroom, pushed open that door, then crossed to the doorway of the bath.
    He’d dug up work gloves, she noted, and a small spade, several empty drywall compound buckets. Two of them were filled with tile shards. It struck her almost harder than it had the night before, to stand there and see the methodical clearing of destruction.
    “You’re losing your status as a morning slug.”
    He dumped another handful of shards, straightened. He scanned her face. “You may have ruined me for life. How’s the coffee?”
    “Welcome. Thanks. You don’t have to do this, Ford.”
    “I don’t know anything about building, but I know a lot about cleaning