Tribute

and, rolling away, pulled her up to sitting. “We’ll go over to my place.” Where what had happened wouldn’t keep slapping her in the face, he thought. “Toss something on, grab what you want. It turns out I’ve also imagined you wet and slippery. Now I’ll find out how close I was to right.”
    “All right. There was a mention of pancakes, too, as I recall.”
    “Stacks of them. We’re going to need fuel to get through the rest of the day.”
    THEY DIDN’T MAKE it to The Pancake House. After a long, steamy, energetic shower, the idea struck to stay in and make pancakes. The result was messy but reasonably edible.
    “They just need a lot of syrup.” Sitting at the kitchen counter in Ford’s T-shirt, Cilla drowned the oddly shaped stack on her plate.
    If the sounds from the mudroom were an indication, Spock had no trouble with his share.
    “They’re not so bad.” Ford forked a dripping pile. “And more fun than Eggos. I had this other idea. Instead of going out to see monkeys, we stay in and have monkey sex.”
    “So far your ideas are working out pretty well. Who am I to argue? What do you usually do on rainy Sundays?”
    “You mean when I’m not eating pancakes with gorgeous blondes?” He shrugged. “I might work some, depending on how that’s going, or fat-ass around and read. Maybe hang out with Brian or Matt, or both. If I had absolutely no choice, I’d do laundry. How about you?”
    "Back in L.A.? If I had a project going, I’d tackle some interior work, or paperwork, or research. If I didn’t have a project, I’d scour the Internet and real estate ads looking for one. That’d pretty much sum up my life for the past few years. That’s pitiful.”
    “It’s not. It’s what you wanted. A lot of people thought it was pitiful I’d rather hole up scribbling and sketching than, say, play basketball. Being tall, you know. I sucked at basketball. Never got it. On the other hand, I was good, and got better, at the scribbling and sketching.”
    “You’re frighteningly well adjusted. Or maybe just compared to me.”
    “You seem pretty steady from where I sit.”
    “I have abandonment issues.” She gestured with a dripping forkful of pancakes. “I have a drug phobia due to a family history of drug abuse that has me sweating taking an aspirin. I suffer from acute stage fright that escalated in my teens to the point that I could barely cope with being in the same room with three people at a time. The only way I can cope with my mother, sanely, is to stay away from her, and I spent the majority of my life alternately blaming myself or my father for the fact that we didn’t—don’t, really—know each other.”
    He made a pfft sound. “Is that all?”
    “Want more?” She ate pancakes, stabbed more. “I got more. I have dreams where I engage in detailed conversations with my dead grandmother, whom I never met, and to whom I feel closer than I do to any living member of my family. My best friend is my ex-husband. I’ve had four stepfathers, and countless ‘uncles,’ and being not stupid, understandthat is part of the reason that I’ve never had a long-term, healthy relationship with a man other than Steve. I expect to be exploited and used, or I expect the attempt, and, as a result, have successfully sabotaged any potentially long-term, healthy relationship I might have had. Fair warning.”
    He forked more pancakes, ate them. “Is that the best you can do?”
    With a laugh, she shoved her plate away, picked up her coffee. “That’s probably enough over breakfast.” She rose, held out a hand. “Let’s take a walk in the rain. Then we can come back and dive in your Jacuzzi.”
    They left the mess, took a long walk with the dog. Was there anything more romantic than being kissed in the rain? Cilla wondered. Anything more lovely than the mountains, shrouded in clouds and mist? Anything more liberating than strolling hand in hand through the summer rain while all the world huddled inside, behind closed doors and windows?
    Drenched, they raced back to the house to strip off dripping clothes. In the hot, bubbling water, they took each other slowly.
    Drained, they went upstairs to curl together like puppies to sleep on Ford’s bed.
    She woke him with love, the sleepy joy of it, the warm tangle of limbs and soft press of lips. When they dozed again, the rain slowed to a quiet patter.
    Later, Cilla slipped out of bed. Tiptoeing to Ford’s closet, she found a shirt. Pulling it on,