Disclaimer: The characters of Roswell are the property of Twentieth Century Fox Television and Regency Productions. All original characters and concepts are the property of the author. No profit has been made from the distribution of this work of fiction.
Rating: PG-13
Category: M/L
Summary: This story is set ten years in the future, and is an alternative universe that plays off of events through Departure. It’s also a slight (very slight) nod to the film Vanilla Sky.

Email: RosDeidre@aol.com

Banner by: Schurry

* * *

Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

From John Keats’ ODE ON A GRECIAN URN

Chapter 1

Frieze. A moment caught in time, figures in dance with one another, hand to hand, shadow to light. Ancient battles fought, long ago decided, and ever yet hanging in balance so long as sculpture remained.

A weapon lifted, a horse rearing, a moment lost in time.

An empire crumbling.

She’d stood in the British Museum and studied their antiquities collection, and she’d walked the grounds of the Parthenon. Alone…always alone. In her memories and recollections, it didn’t matter if Maria had flown cross Atlantic to tour with her on a Eurail pass. Or if some boy from her exchange program had asked to tag along to the museum. 

In her remembrances, she was always detached, studying the ancient dramas, captured in stone—wondering how these great figures, mythological and immortal, still died such very slow deaths after countless years. Yet unlike Liz Parker, they weren’t quite alone. No, they were accompanied in death by the hands of artisans and builders, and students throughout the ages.

Frieze. A term she’d first learned in Art History 101 some eight years earlier. The term for decorative sculpture and ornament atop a building, like on the temples in Greece and Rome. 

And for some reason, she dreamed it every night. 

In her sleep, there was always the brightly dappled hillside, some place exotic like Athens or Rome. A crumbling building, ruins all around. Chunks of stone and pediments. Rocks and heat simmering in a desert mirage. 

And then the frieze.

A ruler, servants bowing down, sometimes soldiers. Fluttering pages in open art history tomes…slides flashing on her college classroom wall. A kaleidoscope of kings and emperors, tragedy and ruin.

And always the strangest sky, like something from an impressionist painting, all pink and purple and dappled. Too bright. Unearthly.

Like now, as Liz lay on her back at the foot of the temple, arms spread out at her sides, unable to move, unfeeling. Just watching the clouds float quickly overhead in the purple sky. Too quickly, as the sun began setting with shocking ease, and yet still she remained immobilized. Her hands grew cold, her feet, numb and paralyzed. 

And her face always ached with the same excruciating pain. Particularly her jaw as she wrestled to speak, but couldn’t so much as cry for help.

Help me, she moaned within her mind. Love me, see me…acknowledge my existence. Heal me. 

Yet she remained alone, broken…and utterly unable to speak.

Liz slammed awake, the damp sheets tangled around her body. She clutched at her throat, working her mouth soundlessly. God, why was it always so real, the aching need to cry out? Her nightshirt was wet with perspiration, and her hair clung to her neck. 

Liz rubbed her jaw, which ached a bit. Her dentist said she ground her teeth at night, and that was why she woke with the pain. Yet he couldn’t find any signs of TMJ or anything else to elicit such sharp facial sensations during her sleep.

She sank back into the mattress, pulling the blankets around her and wished the dreams would end. And wondered why they’d begun her freshman year in college, a snowy morning in Virginia…exactly one day after Max Evans’s death. 



***



Liz sipped her gourmet coffee, pulling her jacket tight around her shoulders. Santa Fe winters were bitingly cold, with chilling winds that blew unexpectedly. She loved how the lights twinkled in darkness on the plaza, though, how fresh the winter air felt when it filled her lungs. Roswell had never been that way, with its dusty air and shuddering heat.

Liz had bought a small house just a few blocks off the plaza, which meant she could walk to her gallery in a matter of moments. A convenient fact, since she all but lived in her small downtown shop, and seemed to walk there most often when it was still dark. And only headed home long after sunset.

She glanced down at her watch, tightening her knit scarf around her neck and hunkered low over her coffee. Six-thirty eight a.m. Late again, she thought, laughing wryly as the plaza came into view. Her gallery was nestled into a far corner, probably the least glamorous art establishment in the heart of downtown.

Funny how things had turned out, how unlike what she’d always imagined. For years her father had offered her a role in the Crashdown, suggested she open up a second café on the other side of Roswell. But the idea of entering the family business had left her cold. How ironic then, that in the end she’d turned out to be more of an entrepreneur than her father had ever guessed—and now made a decent living not only running the gallery, but also representing artists for a living.

Her father could hardly contain his pride, bragging to all their friends in Roswell that his daughter had inherited the old Parker business acumen. And when she jetted to New York four times a year, he was the first one calling her hotel room every night, to ask how her meetings had gone down in Soho.

Liz reached the doorway to her gallery and paused, retrieving the key from her pocket with thickly gloved fingers. She couldn’t seem to clasp the key, as she juggled her coffee against her chest.

And that’s when she saw it, tucked neatly in the corner of the doorway, just propped against the glass door. It was wrapped in pristine brown paper, tied with a piece of plain string. Smallish, not too big, waiting like a simple calling card.

She scowled at it a moment, it was so thoroughly unexpected. She was accustomed to unsolicited submissions and queries, desperate artists clamoring for the attention of an agent. But those typically arrived by mail, Federal Express, and the notes by e-mail.

No one had ever simply left a package on her doorstep like this, some eerie talisman in the night.

Liz continued staring down at it, and wondered what kind of desperate artist would drop his original work at her gallery this way, with no guarantee that it wouldn’t be stolen or even just discarded without consideration.

But curiosity had the better of her, and slowly she knelt to retrieve it between her gloved fingers. The brown paper crinkled like dried leaves as she lifted it, and that was when she glimpsed the simple white card that was attached.

No artist’s name was listed, no phone number or address. Just one simple message.

Open Your Eyes.

***



“Alright, I know you left it.” Liz cradled the phone receiver against her ear, while quickly typing out a reply to an email from a dealer in New York.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Michael huffed from the other end of the line. He sounded grumpy and tired, even though she’d patiently waited until ten a.m., the earliest he was willing to answer her calls.

“Michael, this isn’t funny.”

“I’m not doing anything!” he cried impatiently. In the background she could hear music echoing in his loft. “I’m serious. I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the weird package you left down here in the middle of the night.”

“I was sleeping in the middle of the night.”

“That’s a first,” she quipped. Michael typically painted until three or four a.m., then slept until at least ten.

“Dry spell,” he grumbled.

“Should I be worried?”

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

“It’s not my job to give you pep talks,” she retorted, spinning in her chair when the small bell chimed over the door. An elderly couple, clearly tourists, entered the gallery. She lowered her voice, turning back toward the computer. “It’s my job to keep you on track. New York is expecting something from me in two weeks.”

“Yeah, Liz, from you,” he laughed, and she heard him take a swig of coffee. “That doesn’t mean from me.”

“No, Michael, Leon wants three new paintings from you.”

“Liz, you need to find some new talent,” he offered softly. “You know why I’m in this…”

“For the money.”

“Yeah, last I checked that was you, babe.”

“Why did you leave me this painting?” she pressed again, knowing she sounded irritable.

“I’m hanging up,” he said and before she could open her mouth to reply, the phone clicked. 

She rotated in her desk chair, and eyed the package on the counter. She’d not opened it yet, not with how mysteriously she’d found it. Instead, she’d waited to call Michael, even though she knew he was far too boyish for this kind of thing, despite her determined questioning. He typically brought his paintings to the gallery with much fanfare, all exuberant for her praise and reaction. Leaving any of his work like that, especially so vulnerable to theft, simply wasn’t his style.

But she’d hoped somehow that he would offer an explanation, tell her it belonged to one of his artist buddies from town. She’d needed that kind of explanation because for reasons she couldn’t pinpoint, the package unsettled her. Like a quickly glimpsed doppelganger on a train, someone who looked like a lost friend but wasn’t, the package unnerved her.

She’d watched for Max in crowds for eight years now. Eight years, traversing continents, moving in New York subway trains, walking through airports, she always sought him. And she’d done a double take on countless occasions, only to glimpse a pair of green eyes. Or a different nose or chin. Never Max, no matter how hard she looked for him. She looked, even though she knew he was dead, because she couldn’t stop looking. Old habits died hard.

So now the paining sat atop her large counter desk, neatly folded within the confines of brown wrapping. And somehow, it reminded her of those strangers on trains, men turning on Fifth Avenue…moments caught in time, full of possibility.

The package was smallish, most certainly a painting, she thought, as she shivered and reached for her knife.

Open Your Eyes, she thought, drawing in a tight breath, as slowly she sliced open the paper. It unfolded like a flower, revealing an explosion of color—purples and golds and dreamy pinks. A sky. A giant, panorama of an otherworldly sky.

Like something straight out of her dreams.

Chapter 2

“Look, Michael,” she began as he walked into the gallery. “This isn’t funny.” He handed her a cup of Starbucks meeting her gaze with his own perpetually melancholy one. His long brown hair was disheveled and he needed a shave. Typical Michael, she thought, as he drew his eyebrows together in a scowl.

“Yeah, you said that on the phone. Where is it?” he asked, brushing past her and glancing intently around. He’d come downstairs from the loft he rented above the gallery, when she’d called a second time…after opening the package.

She pointed mutely to where the mysterious painting now hung on the gallery wall. She’d wanted to see how it looked on display, how it presented—if it would still impact her just as profoundly. Michael turned on his heel, and Liz took a sip of the steaming coffee.

He was silent a long moment, studying it from where they each leaned against her small counter. The vibrant colors were even more stunning on the wall, more magical and mysterious. A sky spread out, open and surreal, filled with radiant colors that bled one into another. Movement. That was the word that Liz heard clearly in her mind. Like some J.M.W. Turner painting, this one was all about energy and movement.

An angel soared heavenward, arms spread at its sides, opening to the sky above. Welcoming its destiny. Yet the angel’s face was darkened, not like the lovely colors undulating all around it. And it was shrouded completely in black, draped like some dark figure of apotheosis.

Liz shivered as she studied the work, feeling its magnetic allure. She stepped slowly closer, and lifted her fingers, allowing them to gently graze the surface of the painting. She needed to feel the strokes, their texture--was compelled to enter the painting, as she would a dream.

And it opened, the sky all above her…arms at her sides, gazing upward. And instead of the angel, she glimpsed the temple from her dream. Crumbling and broken. Shattered.

“No note?” Michael asked, stepping closer to the painting. She was jerked back to the present with a start.
She hesitated a moment, then lied. “No, nothing.” She wasn’t sure why she wanted to keep the card a secret. “I just assumed it was some artist looking for representation.”

“Maybe so,” Michael replied, still studying the piece quietly. “God, is this whacked or what?” She caught a hint of jealousy in his voice. Competition. 

“I love it,” she whispered, again lightly touching the surface of each stroke. Feeling them resonate inside her, weave their otherworldly magic within her soul.

“It’s pretty damn creepy, that’s what it is,” Michael assessed irritably.

“You’re jealous,” she laughed, slowly gazing up at him in surprise. His eyes shifted ever so slightly. Found out, known. They always did that to one another, ever since that eternal day on a hillside, some ten years before.

And then, “Why the hell would I be jealous, Liz?” She sensed his chest almost puff out, his territorialism. “I’ve got all the notice I want for my work.”

“Yeah, right,” she smirked, suddenly finding his moodiness sexy and charming. “Then just admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“Whoever painted this is really good.”

He blew out a breath, his eyes narrowing as he studied it. She watched his reaction, the way his brown depths shifted like soft mercury. Finally, he shrugged indifferently. “You’re the better judge of this stuff.”

“Why won’t you just admit it?” She stomped in frustration. God, he drove her crazy, and as he brushed his long hair away from his eyes she ached to kiss him. To just end their standoff, once and for all, and pull his mouth down to hers for a searing, loving kiss.

But that would require movement, something other than being trapped together in this motionless dance, endlessly spinning out between them.

“I mean, who just leaves something like this on your doorstep, huh?” he demanded, whirling to face her, and suddenly she was back in Roswell, ten years before.

The Great Alien Abyss. The Conspiracy. Someone always after them. The intervening years when the threats had died out dissolved, and suddenly time stood still. Max was calling a meeting in the basement of the UFO Center. Michael was pacing, angry and reactive, dead-set to know more about their origins. Not the very different man who stood before her now, dressed in a thick wool sweater and faded jeans, drinking Starbucks coffee. An artist to the core. Not an alien, or a gifted warrior with a profound destiny all his own. Certainly never that.

“Liz?” he asked. “Did you hear me?” He looked vexed with her, as she focused in again. She shook her head in confusion.

“Don’t you find it a little weird? Someone just leaves this…thing,” he gestured at the work derisively. “Anonymously on your doorstep? I mean anything could be happening here…anything.” He stared at her intently, conveying the precise meaning she’d imagined. Anything alien could be happening here, even though they’d buried those concerns together long ago.

She reflected a moment, yanked back to Roswell. To another Michael, to a time when Max was still with them…and closed her eyes to shut out the keen memories.

Clouds floating overhead, arms spread out at her sides, her jaw aching endlessly. Shattered. Frozen and captured. 
She stared at a sky filled with smoke, trailing like some comet of death.

“Liz,” he whispered now, his voice suddenly surprisingly gentle. She felt his large hand on her shoulder, his warm breath on her cheek, and her eyes fluttered open.

“I’m sorry. I…didn’t mean to push,” he offered softly. He could read her so well, after all these years of being only friends, of working together. Of both of them just surviving without Max.

“I think it’s really bizarre, yeah,” she answered, ignoring the tender concern in his voice. Yet he didn’t drop his hand away from her arm, instead let it rest there, burning softly against her. 

“Then again,” he suggested offhandedly, “it’s probably just some aspiring artist, desperate for Liz Parker’s attention.”

Like you? she ached to ask, feeling the unspoken words scald her throat. Just like you, Michael Guerin? 

Michael turned slowly, slipping his arm around her shoulder. They stood in silence, and studied the painting together. “God, it’s gorgeous. His use of color is just…incredibly powerful,” she whispered, hesitating as she reached inside for what her true reaction was. “He moves me.”

“He?” Michael asked sharply, catching her slip up instantly. “What makes you so sure it’s a he?
Liz rubbed her jaw absently, wondering why she felt so clearly that the artist was a man. “I don’t know…I just…feel it.” Something about mentioning the artist’s identity caused a little shiver to shoot across her skin, touched some long dormant part of her heart.

Michael tightened his arm around her shoulder almost imperceptibly, drawing her closer to his side. But she ignored the feel of his hand, slung so easily across her shoulder…how it electrified her.

“So I guess we wait,” he volunteered after a moment. A moment when her heart pounded heavily, when she sensed how his own beat in the magnetic silence between them both.

“We wait,” she agreed, swallowing hard.



***



Michael had been the first to run to her, that day at the Pod Chamber, almost ten years before. And that single memory was like a fine engraving, etched into her recollections, subtle yet permanent. The kind of detail that only struck one after the fact.

“So I guess we wait,” Michael had said as they’d stepped outside the cave. The world had seemed instantly sharp, far too sunny, as their eyes had adjusted slowly from the chamber’s dank interior.

“He doesn’t have long,” Isabel had reminded them. “Only about two minutes.”

“It won’t take Maxwell long to do what he’s got to do,” Michael had asserted boldly, and his gaze had imperceptibly wandered in her direction. Even as he and Maria had embraced so closely.

The minutes had ticked off, the time had drawn explosively near. Yet still no sign of Max at all.

And then it all became a blur in her remembrance, a series of images all pasted together like some jumbled collage.

Heat, smoke, and stone, mangled in memory. Pieced together.

The Granolith had blasted away, sending an avalanche of rock and debris cascading down the hillside as she’d skidded down the rocky incline with the others. Then, when the smoke cloud had cleared away, and they’d been left lying facedown and breathless in the rubble, it had been Michael who’d gone tearing back up the rock face to find Max. 

And Maria had held her close, refusing to let her follow after him.

When Max had told them all to leave, to give him just a few minutes inside the chamber with Tess, she’d never guessed it would be the very last time she’d see him. Never imagined that he’d simply vanish, no more said between them in the crushing weight of all that had happened.

But when Michael had slowly ambled back down the rocks, his head bowed and features unreadable, Liz had known before he ever reached her. Max was gone. Isabel was frantic, but for some bizarre reason, Liz felt an unearthly calm, just a steady sense of awareness.

Max had left with Tess. End of story.

Not like I love you…not like I love you…not like I love you. The words had beat like her heart, insistent and hypnotic as she’d watched Michael high atop the jagged rocks. She’d squinted, gazing up at the hidden cave like some ancient ruin on a Roman hillside—praying that somehow her instinct was wrong. That Max would emerge from inside the cave, sweep her into his arms, and plant a smoldering kiss on her lips once again. 

Not like I love you…not like I love you.

Her hand had clutched desperately at her throat, as she struggled to breathe. Tears burned her eyes as she’d watched Michael’s descent, and then finally he’d reached the place where she knelt on the dusty earth, Isabel clutching at his arm—and his eyes had met hers in the silence. They’d watered with his own unshed tears, anguished as he’d stared at her, unable to speak.

“He’s gone,” Liz had managed to whisper. She hadn’t voiced it as a question, she’d simply understood. Michael had dropped his gaze a moment again, as Maria had leapt to his side, and Isabel crumpled into his arms. Then, slowly, he’d met her intense gaze again, uttering only two words. “I’m sorry.”

And he’d never stopped murmuring those words ever since, not in all those ten years. The two of them had remained forever frozen in that single moment together, like the ancient sculptures from Liz’s dreams, unable to say the things that begged to be said. Always, those words hung between them, suspended and haunting.

I’m sorry.

Words that Max had never spoken before vanishing into a dreamy cloud of remembrance on that desert hillside.



***



It was well after five p.m. and Liz was still on the phone with New York. She would be traveling there in just a few weeks, and was still frantically setting meetings with key buyers and dealers. She sat at her desk, a makeshift area semi-hidden behind her counter, scrolling through the new emails that had arrived within the past few hours.

Several queries cluttered her inbox, as well as a forwarded joke from Maria with the subject line, “Are you still alive, chica? See you in two weeks!” And that was it.

Until a new e-mail suddenly appeared from an unfamiliar address. DavidPeyton321@newmex.net.

She clicked open, right as Leon came to the phone. She’d been on hold, and had used those moments to log online. 

“Liz,” he laughed in his smoker’s rasp. “I’ve got really terrific news for you.”
“Great, what’s going on?” she asked, opening the e-mail from the mysterious David Peyton.

“Looks like I just sold Guerin’s last piece in here. Guess how much?”

She thought a moment, wondering what kind of figure might leave Leon breathless like that, especially since he wasn’t easily given to flights of fancy. 

“I don’t know…eight thousand?” she guessed, but her gaze had fallen on the open e-mail. One line blinked at her from the computer screen.



Does it have possibilities?



“Ten thousand!” Leon laughed enthusiastically. “You’ve got to get me some new pieces from him soon. I think he’s finally ready to break out up here…I want to talk about a big show in the fall.”

“Okay,” Liz mumbled, staring at the computer screen. 

Does it have possibilities? What kind of obnoxious artist would send a query like that? She felt her dander rise in irritation, feeling indignant, no matter how talented he obviously was. 

“Oh, Liz, gotta run,” Leon buzzed across the phone line. “Someone’s coming in…talk to you in the a.m.”

Liz stood quickly from her desk, and walked to the glass door of the gallery. She flipped over the closed sign, bolting the door, and stared out onto the darkened plaza. Nighttime fell so early at this time of year, covering the old square with a delicate hush—even with the bustle of tourists and shoppers.

She squinted, staring out into the darkness, and felt a strange sensation shiver across her skin. It was as if someone were studying her, watching her from just beyond the glass door. Someone unseen and clandestine, out in the frigid nighttime.

Liz walked away, rubbing her neck slowly. She surveyed the narrow walls of her gallery, as she often did at this time of the day. From floor to ceiling, paintings hung in enticing display, intended to draw in the most ambivalent of patrons. Splashes of color, like New Mexico sun, brightened the walls. 

That was her taste, what she was known for from Santa Fe to downtown Manhattan. Liz Parker had a fabulous eye for color and form. In the local business journal, she’d been described as having, “impeccable instincts.” And now, when she called certain dealers, touting a new discovery, they took note, because they knew the level of talent she scouted. 

She leaned against the glass display counter, filled with much smaller trinkets and carvings-- something meant to draw the tourist traffic. Her gaze roved the current arrangement of works on the walls, as she considered how they might be rearranged. But despite her best intentions, her gaze was drawn like a magnet to the one new piece that hung right before her.

Does it have possibilities? 

Should she answer honestly? Or should she dismiss David Peyton out of hand? She despised the gimmicky tactics of would-be artists, always clamoring for her attention in such peculiar ways. She’d often wondered why they didn’t realize that a straightforward approach would get them much further, rather than such coy and vain meanderings.

That’s how the elusive David Peyton now struck her, with his pithy little e-mail, absent of so much as his phone number. Instinct led her to forget his seductive painting. But her heart seemed to say something else entirely, as she was drawn magnetically toward his work again.

It reminded her of another painting, one that she couldn’t quite place. The way the angel lifted off the earth, flying heavenward. The stark black, contrasted with the vivid colors…well, that part was reminiscent of Gauguin to her. But not the angel. That was just beyond her grasp. 

She moved to her computer screen, and began quickly typing. Are you seeking representation? She felt testy and irritable, wanted to add something snide, since she received hundreds of these queries a month—but for some inexplicable reason, refrained, and sent the e-mail without another word.

Only moments later, she received a reply.



I’m interested in your opinion, to know what you think of the work.



Liz yanked on her hair in frustration, and a mock-scream escaped her lips. “David Peyton, I’m going to throttle you!” she shouted, leaping from her chair. “You’re so completely obnoxious!”

Did the guy not believe in anything other than single line exposition? Good thing he was an artist and not a writer, she thought with a frustrated roll of her eyes.

She’d been about to leave for the night, her jacket already on, and a scarf wrapped around her neck. But something had compelled her to check her e-mail one last time as she’d turned out the lights in the gallery. Now, she lamented that decision, as her terrible curiosity flamed anew.

Look, I’m not in the habit of this kind of…staccato communication, she hammered out quickly. Why don’t you come down to the gallery tomorrow and we can discuss your work and whether or not it’s something I’d want to represent. Okay? Otherwise, let’s not waste one another’s time.

She hit send, and immediately turned off her computer screen. There, she thought with some satisfaction. That should show him.

The phone rang again in the darkness, and this time it was Michael. “Hear anything?” he asked, and somehow Liz felt he was a little too concerned. And not because he thought the painting represented a threat from beyond their galaxy.

“Nope,” she lied, the second time in one day. “Not a word.” 

“Just curious.” 

“I’ll let you know, okay?” she asked, spinning in her chair to check the door. Her earlier sense that someone had been watching her still left her a bit unsettled.

“Cool. What are you doing tonight?” he asked. “Thought I might make you a little dinner.”

“Uh, oh,” she laughed gently, thumbing through the pile of mail that still sat unopened on her desk.

“What?” he cried indignantly.

“You only cook for me when you need something,” she said knowingly.

He fell silent a long moment, and she heard him cough a bit, which perplexed her. Michael would ordinarily joust right back, tussling playfully with her. Instead, her words were only met with pensive quiet, until he finally spoke again.

“Yeah, I just need to talk,” he finished somberly.

“I’ll be right up.”



***



Michael had come to visit her in February of her freshman year of college. At that point, nearly two years had passed since Max had disappeared in the granolith, and Liz still maintained the vague hope that he would one day return.

But her hope for their love had slowly diminished with every dream of that day at the chamber. With every flash of Michael’s gentle brown eyes, distraught as they met hers—two people, reaching soundlessly for one another. 

Her subconscious, the perfect panorama of betrayal.

But it was much more difficult to convince her heart that Max Evans had left her forever. 

Isabel had moved to San Francisco, Maria had gone to New York, and Liz had headed off to private college in Virginia. Their group had scattered like so many ashes in the wind, each to their separate corners.

It was Michael who’d stayed at home, and begun painting his heart out, frantic in his need for expression. The canvas was the one place he could speak the unutterable things, the silent words that friendship with Max wouldn’t allow him to breathe life into.

Fractured images appeared, a schematic of what had happened to their leader, their destiny. The greatest love of her life. But he’d shown them to no one, just kept on painting. He only confessed his addiction to Liz on that snowy visit freshman year, as they’d roamed the corridors of the National Gallery. As they’d lain awake in her dorm room, talking until dawn.

He’d flown into Dulles Airport, an army duffel slung over one shoulder, and a black portfolio in his other hand. His hair had grown hopelessly long, obscuring his features from her as he’d loped into the gate area. He’d brushed at the hair with his fingers, searching her out and then their gazes had met across the short distance.

And an uncertain smile had formed on his lips. Liz understood that hesitation well, because she was terrified to see Michael alone, without accompanying friends and noise. Because unchaperoned, they might actually speak of secrets trapped between them.

One of them might actually make a move, instead of remaining in statuesque form, eternally reaching for the other. Not in love, not in friendship…but in ruin.

Chapter 3

Michael slid open the door to his loft, a weighty, leaden thing. Like a door to a crypt, she thought, as it strained on its hinges. Inside, the apartment had a vacant, hollow feeling, despite the rhythmic droning from his stereo. A melodious drumming of only a few notes, over and over.

Liz frowned, glancing in the direction of the CD player. Michael followed her gaze. “It’s only Radiohead,” he explained defensively.

“I hate Radiohead.”

“You don’t listen to their music,” he argued. “They rock.”

“Only before Kid A.” 

Michael huffed soundlessly, as he lifted the stereo remote, and clicked the volume control with his thumb.

It was their usual banter, playful and charged with disagreeable tension, yet Liz sensed something else between them. Michael seemed nervous, fidgeting as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other

“What?” she asked, suspicion edging her voice. “What’s going on?”

He avoided her gaze, and instead moved away from her, smiling faintly. “Nothing, Liz, I just wanted to see you.”

“You told me you needed to talk.”
He sighed, slipping the door to the loft back in place. It groaned in aching complaint, as Liz dropped heavily onto his sofa, pulling her jacket tight around her. The loft was always drafty, and tonight was no exception.

“I do,” he agreed, turning to face her. He drew in an audible breath, then finally spoke. “About Max.”

The hair on the back of her neck bristled at the mere mention of his name. They rarely spoke of him, though he stood ever between them.

“I’d rather talk about Leon’s call a few minutes ago.”

“You’re just changing the subject.”
“He got ten thousand for the last painting,” she countered.
Michael’s eyes widened, obviously despite himself. “Really?”
Liz leaned back into the sofa, folding her arms over her chest in satisfaction. She loved her job, loved making her clients’ dreams come true. Even though Michael was her beloved friend, he was still her client—and the disbelief shining in his eyes made every thankless moment worth it.

“Yeah, really!” She laughed. “And he wants to talk about a show in the fall.”

Michael began pacing, wringing his hands together slightly. His eyes had assumed a far off look, as he quickly processed all that she’d shared. His work had been selling steadily in Soho for a year now, but no one had offered him a show yet.

And this meant he’d forget about Max, Liz sighed with delicate relief.

“But I still want to talk about Max,” he announced, turning to face her where she sat on the sofa. 

“Well, I don’t.” She closed herself off instantly, became resistant.

“Isabel called yesterday,” he continued. “I hadn’t wanted to say anything yet, but I don’t know…I just think it’s time you dealt with this.”

“With this?” she exclaimed. She had the sense that they were closing in on her like a tight knot, choking the breath from her lungs.

“She wants to do some kind of memorial this spring…at the chamber.”

Liz began shaking her head vehemently. “No, no…that’s just not right.”

“What can’t be right about it? This spring will be ten years, Liz, and everybody wants to do something.”

“Everybody?” she asked meaningfully, feeling somehow betrayed by him.

“Yeah, I do, too,” he admitted with a shrug of his shoulder.

“That’s not when he died,” she whispered hoarsely, her throat burning. “Don’t you even care about that?”

“Liz,” Michael dropped to the floor just in front of her, planting his hand on the arm of the sofa. His eyes shimmered in the golden light of the loft, filled with undeniable feeling. “You know I care, but it’s the only sure thing the others can mark.”

“But…don’t you believe me?” she asked, feeling tears burn her eyes. Damn him, for bringing her emotions to the surface like this, she thought. For making her heart awaken, when all she wanted was for it to remain cold as a stone.

He touched her face, and slowly stroked a long strand of hair from her cheek, his fingers lingering tenderly there. “Liz, I’ve always believed you. In the connection you shared with him.”

“You know what I’m asking, Michael,” she nearly cried, ducking sharply away from his hand. He dropped it instantly as she recoiled from his touch, and she noticed that his features hardened a bit.

“When would you want a memorial?” he snapped. “I mean, you tell me when you’d do it, and hell, I’ll set it up.”

She dropped her head, feeling her jaw ache. Her throat constricted painfully, and all she wanted was to run. To move freely, not to feel so transfixed by emotion. So captured by Michael’s keen stare.

“In February…that’s when it happened.”

“No, Liz, it isn’t. He left in May.”

“Stop it!” She cried, wiping at her eyes. She leapt to her feet, struggling past him, but he immediately followed, pouncing to his feet like a graceful tiger. 

“You’ve got to deal with this, Liz,” he pressed. “I care enough to make you.”

“He died in February and I know it!” she shouted, her words echoing hollowly off the rafters of the loft. Michael caught her arm, spinning her back to face him. Suddenly, his expression softened as tears filled her eyes.

“I know, Liz,” he shushed her gently. He suddenly seemed so tall, looming over her in the half-darkness of his apartment. “It’s just…well, the others aren’t as convinced.”

“I felt it the moment it happened,” she explained, words tumbling out in a rush. “I dreamed it eight years ago this month…at precisely the moment it happened.”

“Then why can’t you let him go?”

“What?” she cried indignantly. “Excuse me, but what did you just say?” She planted her hands on her hips, staring up at him in forceful determination. 

“You heard me.”

“But see, I can’t believe I just heard that from you of all people, Michael Guerin.”

“I love you, Liz,” he blurted, raking his fingers through his long hair. Their eyes met for a soundless moment, only their hearts beating against the insistent rhythm of the music.

Not like I love you…not like I love you…not like I love you.

He’d spoken the unutterable, broken the sacred promise that had bound them, all these many years.

Liz began moving, around the loft, toward the door. Anything other than just standing in the crosshairs of his vulnerable gaze. She clutched at her throat, wishing the painful tightness would lessen.

“Look, I’ve got to go,” she finally answered. “Do whatever you guys want on the stupid memorial. He’s dead, end of story.”

“Then why can’t ours just begin, Liz?” he asked quietly, so softly she nearly missed it. 

“I’ve gotta go,” she repeated numbly, images of the mystery painting flashing in her mind. 

Open sky, arms extended.

Broken sculpture…slides in college.

Michael in her dorm room, nestling far too close in her bed. Holding her for hours while they both wept. Stroking her hair.

The most loving hands since…

She reached for the handle on the door, throwing all her weight into it, working to force it open. Suddenly Michael caught her hands, trapping them against the steel.

“Wake up, Liz,” he hissed powerfully against her ear. “Max is dead.”

She paused a moment, closing her eyes, trying to regain her equilibrium, even though her legs trembled beneath her. Finally, she swallowed hard and spoke.

“Yeah, well so am I, Michael.”

***

A polar ice cap shifting, groaning against the solid surface underneath. A shattering, a rearranging. A deal forsaken.

Liz glanced upward, into the New York sky, just the fragments of clear blue that peeked from above the glass and chrome and steel. Occasionally, a cloud would sail quickly into view, then beyond.

An aperture opened and closed, revealing a series of images soaring overhead-- sped up then eerily slowed down, frame by frame, depending on how she studied them.

She sipped her coffee, not Starbucks this time. From that other coffee place that she only ever found in New York. The one whose name she never could remember, not even in her dreams, like now.

A little froth tickled her upper lip, and her tongue darted out, licking it away, as she looked first to the left, then to the right of the busy intersection. Blaring horns wailed, pierced the morning calm. 

Steam roiled upward from the subway grating, billowing in delicate puffs of creamy white. Smoke signals from the subterranean city, a secret code that she might decipher. 

If only she understood the lexicon of her dreams.

She was in New York, somewhere in the financial district in the early morning. Men in pristine suits bustled to monotonous jobs on Wall Street. Traders and bankers, all droning to employment they might not want, like so many bees in a hive.

The noise was cacophonous, harsh in her ears, as she glanced upward, searching for the sky. And that’s when the edges of blue and cloud glinted from above, tessarae in some critical mosaic. Here was where the truth lay, if only she could reach deeper into the dream.

On her first trip to New York, she’d wanted to see the World Trade Center memorial, had been inexplicably drawn there. She knew from Maria that there wasn’t much to see—not in those days at least—but some part of her needed to touch it herself. 

Three thousand or more voices silenced all at once, beautiful and vital, then suddenly no more. Well, not quite at once, she reflected as she stood on the downtown corner in Manhattan, glancing left and right at the morning traffic.

Not a singular moment, but a series of silences. First, 8:53 a.m., and then death parceled out in measurable increments. Like Max’s journey. First the granolith, and later her vision of his death. Now the memorial his loved ones and friends wanted to stage.

And then just silence.

The downtown memorial area was a windswept crater in the midst of the throbbing city center--like a mini-Hiroshima, some cosmic canyon of the human consciousness.

Liz stood on the platform, gazing out at the bits of mangled steel and concrete that remained. Stylized rubble, like some piece of modern sculpture. 

Then, in the smallish morning gathering, she saw him. Just standing on the other side of the street, dark hair neatly brushed back, briefcase in hand.

A doppelganger, an eerie likeness of her erstwhile soul mate.

Only this time he looked up at her, from the other side of the flowing river, taxis and buses, pedestrians pulsating between them.

Golden eyes didn’t shift to green, a chin wasn’t different.

Max smiled at her, a tender, haunting half-smile of acknowledgement.

“Max!” She screamed soundlessly, unable to work her mouth. Her jaw throbbed as she moved her lips, tried to utter something. But he turned slowly from her, no further acknowledgment as she scrambled desperately down the viewing platform. She tripped on the steps, sliding.

She hurled herself after him, into the street.

And slammed awake as she landed on the hood of a taxi, sprawling wildly. A hand splayed on the hood, coffee flung against glass.

Shattered pieces. Broken shards. A moment’s image in pieces.

She lay on the hood, breathless and terrified, searching the crowd for Max. 

But he was gone, lost in a sea of souls all around her.



***

Liz woke from the dream in a sweat, glancing quickly at the digital alarm clock. 

4:34 a.m.

The same time she’d been waking for most every night eight years now, always vaguely terrified. Always from the same dreams.

She rubbed her eyes sleepily and reached for the lamp. She’d tried explaining the repetitive dreaming to her psychiatrist, the one her family had insisted she see during college.

After Max had died.

And he’d explained the waking pattern to her in a perfectly scientific manner, one that she readily acknowledged as the truth. She woke every night at the same time—at the precise time of his death-- as some way of holding onto Max. She’d elected herself keeper of his memory, the one who cared enough to stand vigil over his death hour.

It was like a perverse deathbed watch.

Only she’d never been allowed that, given that closure. So instead she clung to 4:34 a.m., repeated night after night, like some surreal purgatory of her own making.

And that was much less painful than actually clinging to Max.

***

A single e-mail flashed in Liz’s inbox, begging to be read. David Peyton had responded in her absence.

She felt her heart quicken in anticipation, as she slipped out of her heavy winter coat. She flicked the coffee pot on, and settled into her desk chair, ready to be irritated by him.

But she’d never expected the words that she saw, flickering luminously on the screen.

I must apologize, Ms. Parker. I meant no disrespect at all…quite the contrary. I do know how busy you are, and wanted only to make my intentions known. I am not seeking representation, simply to know if you feel my work has potential. Please accept my most humble apology if my actions seemed rude or…crafty. 

Yours, David.
P.S. I will send a courier for the painting.

For crying out loud, Liz thought with a roll of her eyes. It wasn’t even six a.m. She was tired and irritable, and somehow such a seemingly genuine response only frustrated her more.

No problem, she tapped out snappishly. Just curious what, “Open Your Eyes,” meant. Can you come to the gallery? We’ll discuss your work…I’m here all day.

Liz heard a shuffling overhead and felt a sharp pang of guilt. Michael never stirred this early, which meant one of two things. Either, he’d been up all night, or was already awake uncommonly early.

She knew that either way, she was partly to blame, the way she’d blown off his declaration of love for her. She closed her eyes, shuddering at the memory. And remembered how she’d ached to kiss him just the day before, how beautiful he’d looked standing there beside her, studying the painting.

I love you, Liz. He’d murmured the words with such passion, such intent feeling. She knew the price he’d paid to admit what should never have been spoken.

But he understood their arrangement, and it wasn’t to be defied. No matter what her heart kept whispering in return.

***



I regret that I can’t come. Unfortunately, it isn’t feasible. I am, as they say…physically challenged.


The ellipses betrayed his confession, beckoned her attention to his words, as if he’d wrestled with his self-description, and had arrived at the only possible explanation. But not quite right, she sensed somehow.

Do you take visitors? she quipped, feeling smug. Have you any other work that I might come to? see? 

She was determined to know what secrets David Peyton hid, how this secretive man’s life mirrored her own. For there was a kinship she sensed in his painting, something clandestine and obscured in his work. A terrible secret, a moment forever lost…ever remembered.

There are other pieces, yes, Ms. Parker. But I don’t think you should come. I’ll leave them for your perusal, if that’s alright.



“No, it’s not alright!” she cried loudly, then glanced overhead wondering if Michael had heard her shout, especially since a muffled sound answered right above where she sat.

“Sorry, Michael,” she muttered quietly under her breath, hoping she hadn’t woken him from a tentative nap.

I will come there, she persisted. Liz Parker hadn’t made a name in the art world in just four very short years without learning how to be quite determined when it came to scouting talent. Because as curious as she was about the elusive David Peyton, she also knew he had something. 

The ability might be slightly undeveloped yet, but his one painting revealed a gift for expressing himself outside convention. She saw thousands of paintings a year from would-be clients, all of them perfectly competent. The problem was what they lacked…the magic. The inspiration. A certain something that would set them apart from the masses of other artists.

David Peyton had that something, so she was willing to pursue him a bit.

What about “Open Your Eyes,” she added in a second email. What did that mean, David?

Liz walked to the coffee pot, startled by the quick refrain of “you’ve got mail,” as it chimed almost immediately within the silent gallery. She ambled back to her computer, and opened another e-mail from DavidPeyton321@newmex.net



Open Your Eyes…is the title of the painting.



Those ellipses again, Liz thought smugly, and knew that while it might be the title, he’d also yearned to tell her something entirely different.

Chapter 4

David Peyton’s colors moved within her soul. 

All day long, Liz’s gaze had been drawn to his painting, as it seemed to exercise an unearthly force upon her.

His brushstrokes touched dead places, luring her deep inside his canvas, and left her aching for more. Unresolved…hungry.

Open Your Eyes, she thought. Oh, David…if only I could. 

She lifted tentative fingers to touch the angel’s wings and closed her eyes. Just breathing. 

In and out, the cadence of sleeping. The rhythm of dreams. Her hands reached upward, toward the beckoning sky. And she could simply leave, float away to a distant world forever.

Open Your Eyes…

Michael hadn’t answered a single one of her calls all day. Now it was nearly five p.m., and he hadn’t so much as brought her a cup of Starbucks to share—one of their little daily rituals. She’d ached to talk to him, to make sure she hadn’t hurt him too badly the night before. 

He’d told he loved her. Finally. The culmination of ten years worth of emotion and deflected desire, and she hadn’t even been able to look him in the eye. Hadn’t admitted that sometimes, for the briefest moments, she felt alive when he was near.

That sometimes she believed in their possibilities.

So she strode to her desk, dialing his number again on her portable phone. She’d decided to take a bold step when he finally did answer her call, because there was something she needed him to know, a branch she yearned to extend by way of explanation.

She settled in her desk chair, drawing her legs up beneath her, and swiveled away from the rest of the gallery toward the wall. A calendar with vintage photos of New York City hung beside her, turned to last December. She’d left it there because she loved the photo of two lovers kissing at Coney Island…an illicit moment stolen under the boardwalk. 

Michael jarred her by answering with his usual gruff hello. At least that was a positive sign, since he had caller ID.

“What’s up?” he asked off-handedly. But she could hear the raw emotion in his voice, how tired he sounded.

“Painting?” She tried to sound bright.

“Not today.” Then nothing, as she became aware of the receiver in her clammy hand. Help me, Michael, she begged mutely. Make this just a bit easier, please.

“So…” he began, but his voice drifted off into awkward silence.

“There’s something I want to say, Michael,” she began tentatively. “Something I wish I’d explained…before.”

“Sure,” he encouraged softly.

She drew in a steadying breath, her gaze trained on the boardwalk kiss. “I know Max is dead,” she began quietly, the sound of blood rushing in her ears. “I’m the one who felt it.”

“Liz, look, I was out of line,” he explained.

“Just let me say this,” she interrupted.

“Okay.”

“But sometimes I miss him so much that I think it will kill me,” Liz half-whispered into the phone, her chest tightening with the blurted admission. Michael couldn’t possibly understand what he’d done to her last night, that he’d awakened something slumbering and glacial inside. Something she didn’t want to arouse. 

But he only remained soundless on the other end of the phone, his soft breath barely audible. Whether he realized it or not, her own confession had come at a great price. Because she’d admitted to feeling something, and that was more than she’d been able to do for almost eight years.

Missing him like this would kill me…if I weren’t already dead, she thought, rubbing her jaw.

“Well, Liz, I wish I could help you on that,” Michael finally answered. “But I think I’m done trying.”

Her chest ached at his words, and she felt her throat constrict. “Michael,” she begged softly. “Please.”

“Liz, I can’t go on like this,” he admitted, his voice filled with emotion. “I told you how I feel…you’ve known it for forever. But you still love him.”

“So do you,” she pointed out gently.

“That’s not relevant to this conversation.”

“Michael, it’s the heart of this conversation. It’s everything.”

He sighed heavily, and she heard the clatter of brushes behind him. Maybe he was painting, but why would he have lied?

“Why does loving him mean I can’t love you?” His voice was surprisingly lost and bewildered. “Or that you can’t love me?”

“I…I’m not saying that.”
“Yeah, Liz, I think you are…it’s what you’re always saying. Or not saying,” he said.

“Michael,” she began, but he cut her off.

“You still love him, Liz. You’re just frozen there, and I can’t fight it anymore,” he sighed heavily. “And I can’t fight him. Because if there’s one thing I figured out years ago, it’s that I’m never going to be Max Evans.” His voice broke on the last words, causing Liz’s heart to turn over in her chest.

“I gotta go…gotta paint,” he mumbled, slamming the phone down with a loud click, and Liz felt tears sting her eyes. She stared at the receiver, lightly stroking her fingers across the mouthpiece. 

Michael, I love you.

She’d almost said it, had been painfully close. But like elevator doors caught too late, slamming shut just before she reached them, the moment had vanished. Another floor, another life. Another opportunity lost.



***



Liz had returned to Roswell after graduation strangely expectant. Not just about her career in art, but also about Michael. Maybe one bled into another, but for one fragmentary moment, it seemed she could be whole. 

Her eternal mosaic shifted briefly then, and seemed to sort into place, a fractured image of possibility.

She and Michael had been growing closer during the whole of their four-year separation, especially during his east coast visits, when they’d trailed through the galleries together endlessly. Afterwards, each time, they’d spent hours just talking over pizza, fingers brushing together lightly with an explosion of surprising heat.

In those days, she’d thought she might be falling in love with him, but she’d willed the emotions back underground, buried them beneath the cold embers of her heart. But every time they’d been near one another, they’d wound up taking another cautious step closer. Finally, they’d spent her spring break that senior year camped out in her dorm room, and they’d lay nestled together every night. 

Once during that week, when he’d thought she was asleep, Liz had felt him press tender kisses against her forehead. Stolen and achingly beautiful. But no matter how much she’d wanted to simply tilt her face upward, and capture his soft lips with her own, she’d been unable. She’d been paralyzed, just lying there in his arms, images of Max haunting her. Visions of their first kiss on her balcony, the feel of his fingers against her bare skin.

Finally, she’d heard Michael’s breathing change, grow deeper against the top of her head, his hand relax slightly against her side. And Liz had wept for what might have been.

Not just for Max, and how he might have been the one holding her that chilly spring night. But for Michael, too. For all that might have been in her life.

But by the time she returned to Roswell that late spring, she’d made a conscious decision. They were all attending a small graduation party her parents were throwing at the Crashdown. Maria was returning from New York, Isabel from California, and the gang would be together, celebrating with friends from home.

And she would tell Michael that she wanted him, because while she never ceased aching for Max, she’d come to the tentative conclusion that she could care for Michael, too. Her heart was opening like an early spring flower, delicate and fragile.

As she dressed for the party, she spent hours before the mirror, piling her hair in just the right style, and she wondered how Michael felt about seeing Maria again. The two of them had broken up during their senior year of high school, but she also knew his feelings were still slightly unresolved about her—and that he’d hardly seen her in all the intervening years. It was Liz that he traveled to visit at least once a year, not Maria.

As for Maria, she was well involved with the drummer in her latest band—some guy who worked an internship at MTV on the side. So Liz knew that while Maria might be surprised, she certainly wouldn’t be shocked if the two of them began dating. And while she yearned to talk to her about it—especially when Maria pressed her for details about her nonexistent love life at every possible juncture—somehow it just felt too awkward.

All through the party, Liz caught Michael staring at her at odd moments, and she blushed softly in reply each time. Especially at how shy he seemed around her, so different than their last time back east. His cautious behavior recalled memories of another shy young man, just watching her from the other side of the Crashdown silently.

Michael laughed with Maria all night long, but every time Liz looked up, his eyes had been trained on her. Full of unmasked desire.

At some point, with all the friends coming in and out of the diner, Liz had lost track of him. But he’d already asked her to walk back to his apartment and hang out—he hadn’t moved to Santa Fe yet then.

As the gathering drew to a close, Liz toted a few dirty plates into the kitchen, and she heard a strange noise in the supply closet. Something cautioned her to ignore it, some primal instinct of protection, yet she found herself opening the closet door—despite every warning in her mind.

And she found Michael and Maria entwined together in the dark, her legs wrapped easily around him, his mouth buried against her neck. They’d both cried out, as the small arc of light from the hallway had pierced the darkness, illuminating their half-naked bodies perfectly. And Liz had stood transfixed for what felt forever, until finally she’d mumbled an awkward, “sorry…so sorry,” and pulled the door shut again, her face flushed in terrible shame.

She’d stumbled upstairs to her room, wiping her eyes blindly—and cursing herself for having hoped, for having ever believed she might be able to love again.

Especially when she couldn’t stop her heart from loving Max. All else was just pretense.

Later, Michael found her on the balcony, lovingly reading the first entries in her old journal. She’d drawn her legs up, and just nestled with her memories of Max, stroking each yellowing page as she’d turned it.

Michael lumbered through her window, silent and palpably guilty in his demeanor.

“Liz,” he began, slipping his long legs through the small opening of her casement.

“Michael, God, let’s just not talk about it, okay?” she blurted, feeling utterly foolish.

“I don’t love her anymore.”

“Yeah, of course you do. She’s Maria. She’s wonderful,” Liz had gushed, meaning every word. 

“You’re wonderful…I’d be with you in a heartbeat if I thought you’d have me.”

“Maria’s the one for you,” she countered quietly, avoiding his piercing gaze.

“She’s a habit…a comfortable habit.”

“Look, Michael, you know I will only ever love one person,” Liz replied archly, meaning to sound distant. But what she spoke was the truth, and he needed to know it. “You read it in this book years ago.” She waved the journal at him meaningfully, reminding him of those purloined words, emotions from her heart that he’d never been meant to know. 

It occurred to her that perhaps those words were what transfixed the two of them together so profoundly. 

“I could love you.” Michael’s voice had become quiet, undeniably gentle, as he stood on her dark balcony, his hands thrust awkwardly in his jeans pockets. He was a strange counterpoint to all her memories of Max, standing on that same balcony in such a similar pose.

“Yeah, well don’t,” she snapped, closing her diary with an air of finality. But she’d never forgotten the way he’d stared at her, his melancholy eyes seeming so dazed and lost.

Something nascent had withered inside of her that night. It was as if her heart had almost opened again, a tiny crocus blossom peeking out from the snow. But had closed again just as quickly, never to bloom again.



***



“I’m sorry,” Michael murmured, staring at some unseen point over her shoulder, as he pressed a cup of Starbucks coffee into her hand. He glanced anxiously around the gallery, at the walls, the paintings, his eyes apparently focusing on anything but her.

Liz blushed softly, feeling the awkward strain between them. Aching to end it somehow.

“I deserved it,” she answered quietly. He shook his head in silent denial, and their eyes met for a moment, as she walked around the counter toward him. He stepped away from her, pausing just in front of David Peyton’s painting, thoughtfully studying it. 

Unspoken words crackled like electricity in the air, held life even in silence. She sensed that there was more he wanted to say, as he brushed his hair away from his eyes pensively. For a moment, he seemed ready to speak, and Liz braced herself. Then, his demeanor changed a bit, relaxed. 

“Why does this thing bug the crap outta me?” he asked rhetorically, scratching his eyebrow as he squinted at the painting. “I think I hate it.”

“Why?” she asked, puzzled by his reaction. Keenly aware of how near he stood to her, the proximity of his body, so warm. Like Max’s always had been. Warmer than a human’s body, just pulsating with heat and power. 

“It’s pretentious,” he observed, taking a sip from his own cup of coffee. “I mean, hell, it’s like a rip on Chagall or something.”

That was it. The painting that had been eluding her recollection, the one it had reminded her of all along. David’s work was reminiscent of Chagall’s childlike flights of fancy, yet was borne of some darkly illuminated alter-universe, twisted and misshapen.

His gift was rare as a comet’s path, chasing through an unknown galaxy, trailing stardust in its wake.

“It’s…like magic,” she breathed, gazing at the angel’s hands. They were so perfectly formed and beautiful, reaching ever upward with long tapered fingers, delicate in shape. The kind that could touch you and bring healing—or unlock your soul if you needed it.

Hands that would stroke your hair all night long, just soothing you until the demons departed.

“You’re in love,” Michael scowled, moving away from her. For a moment, his words caused her to start. 

Images flashed quickly through her mind. Michael at his easel, whistling softly while she napped on his sofa. The pull of desire, as she watched him through a half-opened eye.

Michael touching her cheek to wake her, resting his fingers a moment too long.

Found out, utterly exposed. 

Until she realized he meant that she’d fallen in love with the painting. “So you better figure out who the hell painted the thing, huh?” He all but growled.
She stared after him, as he loped toward the darkened front door. His sweater had a large hole in the back, along his upper shoulder, and she had the urge to slip her fingers through the torn place and just touch his back. To caress it, expressing everything she couldn’t say in words.

“I know who painted it,” she confessed, staring after him, aching for him to stay just a little longer.

Slowly, Michael spun to face her, his liquid brown eyes shifting mercurially. 

“His name is David Peyton,” she explained. “And he’s couriering more over before the end of the day.”

“Well, hope they’re as…magical as this one,” he barked. He was reverting, yanking her back ten years ago, to a time when they were always opponents. Abandoning her.

“But I wanted to know what you think, too.” Her voice was small, as forlorn as she felt inside.

“You don’t need my opinion, Liz,” he snapped coolly, opening the door. “Hell, you don’t need me at all.”



*** 



“Can you give me the address where you picked these up?” Liz asked, turning the courier’s clipboard so she could sign for the packages. He balanced a slim stack of three neatly wrapped paintings under his arm, the paper measured and pristine in the way it enfolded each one.

“Sorry,” the courier answered, handing her a yellow receipt. “Not allowed to give that information out.”

“These are from David Peyton, correct?” Liz persisted, as she took possession of the three pieces, cradling them to her chest like delicate porcelain. “That’s who sent them, right?”
“If that’s what it says on the slip,” the courier answered flatly, turning toward the door.

“Sure you can’t give me his address?” Liz pressed, unwilling to be daunted, but the courier simply shook his head. 

“Can you at least tell me what he looked like?” Liz called, aware that her voice was edged with desperation. “Anything at all?” For reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, she needed to learn something solid about her enigmatic David Peyton.

The courier paused a moment, his hand just resting on the glass door. He stared down at the ground thoughtfully, clearly considering whether company policy allowed him to answer. “Different,” he finally said, opening the door. “Definitely different. See you later, Ms. Parker.”

Different. What kind of an answer was that? Not handsome, or crippled or wickedly ugly. Just…different.

Liz felt an undeniable tug of curiosity, as she balanced the three packages in her hands, walking to the counter. She spread them in an orderly row atop the glass, noticing that each bore a plain white card on the outside.

The first note was written in impeccably neat hand, and read simply, Insert Pictures Here. She wasn’t sure if it was an instruction, or the work’s title. She frowned, studying the next painting’s placard. Segue to Dream. Now, that was a title, she thought with some satisfaction, and a damn good one. And then the third card read, As Yet Untitled Ms. Parker.

And oddly enough, that was the card that puzzled her the most. It was clearly just a working title for that painting, yet because of the absent comma, it almost seemed to imply that she was the as-yet-untitled Ms. Parker. As if all her life, Liz Parker had been in a holding pattern, simply waiting for David Peyton to bestow a title upon her. The one she most eloquently deserved.

As if that title might still be in the offing.

Liz reached a hand, and slowly caressed the paper of the first package, noting the crisp edges. And something made her refrain from opening it…any of them. Instead, she moved around the counter to her desk and typed out a short e-mail to the one who’d so lovingly wrapped them.

David, they’ve arrived. I’ve not opened them yet, but am curious about the titles before I do. Any explanation in order? Anything here a companion to another? All Best, Liz P.

Liz dialed New York, handling a few mundane details of her upcoming trip, and all the while her eyes were trained on her e-mail inbox. Finally, the reply she’d been anticipating arrived. 



“Insert Pictures Here” and “Segue to Dream” are, in fact, semi-companions…though I’m not certain it struck me that way until you asked. As mentioned, the third one is hopelessly in need of a title. Perhaps simply “Ms. Parker” might do nicely? Incidentally, may I call you Liz? Or am I being too forward, as one who’s never met you?

Yours, David



Liz couldn’t explain it, but she was blushing terribly. Heat had crept up her neck, all the way to the crown of her head, at his mere suggestion of naming the painting, Ms. Parker. And that combined with his polite request to address her by her first name, had left her face flushed like a schoolgirl’s. She ran her fingers through her hair, willing her heart to stop its insane thundering.

No stranger should be able to unnerve her this way, yet something about David’s cryptic, terse notes had begun to fluster her—to delve inside her as easily as his paintings did.

Liz backed away from the computer screen, reaching for her slim pocketknife. Michael had given her a soft pink Swiss Army Knife a few Christmases back. It had been a campy little joke between them, since she’d been ever borrowing his clunky, half-rusted knife and not returning it. So, he’d managed to find what he termed, “A girl’s knife” for her handy wielding.

Liz assessed the neat little row of brown packages, laboring over which one to open first. For some reason, she found herself thinking of the golden boxes of Godivas that her clients showered her with each Christmas. 

Undeniable curiosity drew her to the Ms. Parker painting—as she’d already come to think of it in those few short moments-- and she sliced open the paper of that package first. The brown wrapping unfolded, beckoning her closer like a coy lover.

She brushed back the paper’s edges, and suddenly otherworldly pinks and reds dusted a harsh landscape. On a distant hillside, barely visible, was a young woman. She stood on a jagged promontory, glancing over her shoulder, captured right as she turned away. She was draped in a black shawl, almost a mantle, as she looked out on a flat, unfolding terrain below. It seemed like the New Mexico desert, with its many surprising and amorphous hues. But Liz realized that wasn’t quite right. Somehow, it felt like she was staring into another world altogether.

The landscape was too unforgiving, too brutal, as if it had been forged from the driest bones and rock. The terrain was parched, yet at the same time mystical and hushed. This painting was no different than the angel one—a bizarre mixture of something painfully lovely, as well as something relentless and foreign.

Liz released a slow sigh, and only then did she realize she’d been holding her breath, tight within her lungs as she gazed down at the work. Her gaze swept over the landscape, lingering for a moment on the young woman. She was cloaked in the perfect black covering, just peering out from a distance. Liz had to admit that she possessed an undeniable sensuality. Creamy skin, offset by the vibrant colors shimmering all around her.

Like a Middle-Eastern beauty, she stood transfixed by the landscape around her, the terrain of dreams.

A hand flew to her face, as Liz became aware of how warmly her cheeks flamed at the realization that this dark beauty, so delicately inserted in the midst of David’s maelstrom of color and light was perhaps in some way intended to be…her.

May I call you Liz? Or is that too forward…

Liz shook her head, laughing out loud. “God, Parker!” she giggled. “You’re spending way too much time alone lately.” What had she been thinking? David Peyton was nothing more than an aspiring artist, still quite bent on capturing her attention like the philistine that he was.

No man has made you blush like this in years, a soft voice argued. You know just how long it’s been. 

But she pressed the thought aside, moving to open the other two paintings, drawn forward by an aching curiosity.

Chapter 5

Liz had jotted off a quick note to David Peyton moments before, explaining that she was going to wait until the next morning to open his final painting, Insert Pictures Here. Then, she’d added with a devilish smile, Your pieces are far too special to open all at once.

It was a silly confession, a flirty one she knew, but she’d made it nonetheless.

And he had taken the bait heartily.

Ms Parker,

So you’re doling out the paintings to yourself now? I think I must resolve to shower you with them forever, then, if they bring you this much joy. Still waiting on the Liz/Ms. Parker answer, though. I think I very much prefer Liz…with all due respect, of course.
Yours, David

“I think I very much prefer Liz,” she whispered aloud, feeling undeniably breathless as she examined the newly opened Segue to Dream. Until she unwrapped the final piece, this one would remain without its mate.

Yet even on its own, Segue to Dream was stunning. And different than David’s other paintings, at least that she’d seen. It was oddly edgier, although it was less about movement and urgency, and more about stillness. Quiet. A hush hovered over the canvas like a spirit, whispering to her.

For some reason, as she studied the work, she found herself thinking of a Sunday afternoon, the kind where you’d lie on your bed, just reading, dust motes cascading through rays of sunlight. 

The colors were far more muted than in his other two paintings. There was a large gray mass--what looked to be a wall--accented by splashes of bright light and golden oranges. The contrast was what captured her. Dark and light, fantasy and reality. This one was all about juxtapositions, surprises. 

And beneath the arcs of light, a man lay facedown, sleeping. He was cloaked and faceless beneath a blanket, and almost seemed to be in a cell of sorts. Liz’s gaze swept the painting’s surface again.

The gray mass, the light piercing from one corner, then the man on the cot.

The man was in prison, she realized. He was surrounded by walls, and given only the one window—a beautiful portal glimpse into ethereal light. Segue to Dream.

Was the idea that this man’s life was a prison, and his only freedom came in sleep? Or were his dreams his prison? 

Liz had to walk away, the painting troubled her so.

***

She’d read about the art treasures of Pompeii in her survey course, and studied them in depth later her senior year. But it wasn’t their art that impacted her so hauntingly. It was the moment, suspended forever, a study in human kind.

A child laughing as she clasped her mother’s hand. Lovers trapped in an erotic embrace, stealing kisses throughout time.

Two perplexed figures staring upward at the sky, confusion riddling their features, eternally mesmerized by an unforeseen avalanche of lava and rock.

Sometimes these ancients appeared on the hillsides of Liz’s dreams, overshadowed by temples and ruins. Jagged pieces of sky, pasted against fluted columns, lovers in relief against cloud.

That’s what Segue to Dream reminded her of. Her own nightly frescos, painted on the gray walls of her sleeping mind. 

But occasionally in her dreams, it was blackest night. Wet streets reflecting light and movement on the pavement. The city. Like now, as Liz walked through the brisk nighttime world of New York, drawing her coat close around her body. A turn off 45th Street, and there she was in the heart of Times Square, garish neon flashing.

Human bodies pressed close together, shoving past her, never meeting her gaze.

In the median, a man turned. Familiar dark head of hair, but longer. Older than he’d ever been, a face etched by slight scars. She could see the outline of his perfectly muscled arms even from where she stood, recognized the leather.

Max turned slowly toward her, smiling faintly, a beautiful warrior marred by unthinkable battles. She began waving frantically, dropping her briefcase as her mouth worked to form his name.

“Max!” she cried, as cars cut a swath between them, speeding arcs of color and sound. Hordes of people stepped among them, ever moving.

He raised a hand, scattering something into the traffic, something she couldn’t quite make out. For only a moment, she glanced down at the wet pavement of Broadway, a chiaroscuro of dark and light. Then just that quickly he’d vanished.

“Max!” she shouted again, leaping after him into the traffic. But like the night they’d danced on her balcony, and he’d twirled her in his strong arms as his bride, he was gone.

The scraps of paper fluttered in the wind, sticking to the wet pavement. Other bits floated down from the sky. She knelt in the road, determined to divine their meaning, like so many tiny Chinese fortunes.

Cars swerved, missing her with keen wailing horns, as one by one she lifted the papers from the pavement. But then they were caught by the wind, billowing upward into the neon of Times Square. She reached for them, had to know what prophetic utterances he’d left her.

She never heard a sound, was simply catapulted onto the hood of the taxi, sprawling painfully against the glass windshield. She lay on her back, breathless and aching, unable to move.

The small scraps cascaded earthward, landing in her outstretched hands. Open Your Eyes…Insert Pictures Here…Segue to Dream.

A mystery resolved. Truth fashioned together like a Warholian collage of her life. 

Liz moaned softly, rolling over in bed as she glanced at the clock.

4:34 a.m.

No surprise in that, she thought, feeling her heartbeat instantly quicken. She needed to use the bathroom, but was vaguely frightened. Too afraid to confront the dark.

She’d never figured out precisely what scared her so about this nightly witching hour. Was it Max? Did she think his boundless spirit lurked in the depths of her closet, just waiting for her to pass by on her way to the bathroom? That made no sense. Max had loved her with all his heart. So why did the notion of his spirit hovering nearby paralyze her with fear?

Only at night, she reminded herself. Only when darkness draped her dreams like inky velvet, smothering her with memory. 

Liz flicked on her bedside lamp. Her gaze fell on a small strip of photos inserted in her mirror. The same one that had been there for years now, though its edges had curled with age. But she reached for another set of pictures assembled in a small album on her bedside, and began thumbing through it.

A birthday present from Maria a few months earlier, it contained old photos from high school. And more recent ones of her visit to New York, when Maria had yanked her from one glamorous party to another. Finally, she’d included a few wayward pictures of Michael, his arm thrown around Liz’s shoulder, holding her surprisingly close during his opening at her gallery two years ago.

Why hadn’t she realized how intimate their pose looked? What had Maria thought, Liz wondered, tracing the photo lightly with her fingertip. Yet Maria had included the pictures in her folio album, almost as if she intended for Liz to notice something about them.

In the first one, Michael was staring at her, his soft brown eyes wide and joyous. His hand was tucked around her shoulder possessively, as if announcing to the world that Liz Parker belonged to him.

And in that picture, Liz had to admit that she didn’t mind being claimed by him. She nestled her head on his shoulder, and for once, was smiling. 

She flipped a page, and her gaze fell on pictures from junior prom. Liz’s stomach tightened convulsively. Max stood beside her, awkward and stiff with his arm on her shoulder. Things had become so strained by then. He’d been so young and handsome, more innocent than he looked even just a few weeks later. How was it possible that one could age so much in only a matter of days?

Another page showed a picture of her on Max’s lap from sophomore year, before Tess had shown up. Max’s hands had slipped around her waist, as Liz leaned into his arms. She could almost smell his leather jacket, so familiar and soft, even after all those years. 

Liz closed her eyes and inhaled, just remembering.

“Wake up, Lizzie,” Maria had whispered in her ear a few weeks after Max left for Antar. “You’ve got to get up.” Maria had found her curled up in her bed with Max’s jacket, something she’d managed to wrangle out of Isabel right after he’d disappeared in the granolith.

“Go away!” Liz cried, burying her face in the familiar leather coat again. It still smelled like him, just a trace.

Liz wasn’t even sure how much time had passed since the awful day at the pod chamber, just that she’d told her parents she was sick, and pulled the curtains shut. And slept. Day in and day out, a cocoon of dreams woven around her, she’d slept.

And the dreams had smothered her. The images had bled one into another…Future Max, Tess, Max, herself. But never any answers. No matter how long she held out her hands, they remained full of empty promises.

Maria jerked back the covers, wrenching his leather jacket from her hands. “Stop it!” Liz shouted, but Maria wouldn’t be daunted, flopping down on the bed.

“Liz, I love you, but this has to end.”

“What has to end?” Liz asked, nestling her face into the down pillow.
“This death watch, or whatever the hell it is.”

“Max isn’t dead,” Liz countered defensively, lifting her head.

“No, Lizzie, he’s not dead. He left with Tess,” she reminded her gently, leaning close into her face. “You know, the girl he slept with and knocked up.”

Liz groaned, rolling onto her side again. “When I left the chamber, I didn’t think he would still go. He didn’t even tell me goodbye,” she whispered into her pillow. “Or anything at all…like why.”

“You may never know why.”

“He loved me more than he ever cared for her…he told me so. You read his letter.”

Maria curled up beside her on the bed, slipping her arm around her, slowly stroking her hair. “Liz, Max left two weeks ago. You’ve been holed up in here for almost that long. You’re going to have to live,” she said with loving force.

“I can’t.”

“Lizzie, Max would have wanted you to live. That’s one answer I do have.”

“It’s killing me, Maria,” she said and a little helpless cry escaped as she began sobbing softly. “Alex, then Max…I’m dying inside.”

Liz felt like someone had thrown a dark blanket over her head, capturing her so that now she was trapped, suffocating soundlessly.

“I know, I know,” Maria shushed gently. “But you’re still here and you’ve got to join the rest of us. It’s time to get out of bed and just breathe, babe.”



***



The shiny knife blade flicked open easily, and Liz cut the wrapping around the final painting, Insert Pictures Here. It had haunted her all night—in her dreams, her fantasies. What would this final revelation bring?

Liz had almost sprinted the entire way to the gallery, so eager had she been with anticipation. And she felt melancholy with the knowledge that her stolen pleasures ended with this painting.

Unless David Peyton proved true to his suggestion of “showering her with paintings,” a promise that had caused her pulse to skitter wildly, at the way it implied something sensual. As if paintings were the same currency as furs or diamonds--or languid kisses between two lovers on long winter nights.

Liz brushed the paper back, wide-eyed with expectation. What latest lover’s gift had David Peyton bestowed on her now, she wondered.

Paper curled away to reveal what appeared a woman’s bedroom. A mound of blankets and quilts heaped in a disheveled mass, and in the middle of the bed a woman peeked out from beneath the covers. A cloud of dark tresses spilled across her pillow, but she lay facedown, unknowable. Just as the solitary man in the companion painting had appeared on his jail cell cot.

Only this woman was a study in sensual pleasure, not surrounded by the cold masses of gray walls in Segue to Dream. Her room vibrated with color—a plum vase, a sun-dappled quilt, a splash of wild flowers by her bedside. But all through the room, on her vanity, on her walls were picture frames—and none of them held any pictures inside whatsoever. As if this faceless young woman somehow lacked the memories or experience to fill the frames. As if she herself were something of a blank slate.

Liz shivered, cocking her head to the side. Because the woman on the bed bore a striking resemblance to the raven-haired beauty in the Ms. Parker painting—and somehow, in a nearly amorphous way, the bedroom was reminiscent of her old room above the Crashdown.

***



Isabel had called her, later that very day after Max left in the granolith. They’d lingered at first on the hillside, just kicking at the rocks, discussing the inconceivable. Not only had Tess murdered Alex, but Max had left with her for reasons none of them could fathom. 

And then finally, they’d all slowly scattered, each to their own homes to rest a bit. It had been several days since Liz had slept at all, and she’d collapsed onto her bed, unbelievably numb. Yet it was a familiar feeling, much like the morning of Alex’s funeral, as if some part of her had just stopped moving. Like a clock, with its hands forever positioned at one time of day.

Sleep had come like a gauzy thing, wrapping itself around her mind, muting the voices in her head. The ringing phone had jarred her, and she’d sat upright in bed, just gazing around the room in confusion as she fumbled for it on her bedside.

Isabel’s voice had been almost unrecognizable with grief, as she’d murmured into the phone, “I have something for you, Liz. Something that Max left you.”

“Okay,” Liz answered, her heart clenching painfully. “I’ll be right over.”

She’d walked all the way to his house, hoping to regain her equilibrium, but had only felt overcome by heat the further she strode. By the time Isabel opened the door, she was nearly faint from the beating sun, and Isabel had pulled her quickly into Max’s room.

“Our parents have no idea,” Isabel whispered softly, tears glinting in her eyes. “They think he’s out running errands or something. I don’t know what to tell them.” 

“They’ll find the jeep,” Liz suggested, sitting on the edge of Max’s bed. Everything still appeared just as he’d left it. A book was even propped open on the covers, as if he’d just set it aside moments earlier.

“I don’t understand why he left, Liz,” Isabel said quietly, walking toward his closet. “Why he would have gone with her, once we knew what she’d done.” Isabel stood surveying Max’s clothing, and Liz had the feeling she was hiding tears. “God, Liz, you do know how much my brother loved you, don’t you? I mean, do you have any idea?”

“He still does,” Liz asserted in a small voice. She didn’t like Isabel’s use of past tense in describing Max.

Isabel reached inside his desk drawer, and withdrew a thin white envelope. “He left you a letter, Liz. I found it on his bed when I got back.” Isabel extended it to her, and Liz accepted it like a sacred offering, something pristine and delicate. “I think he wrote it before we left for the pod chamber,” Isabel explained.

“Thanks,” Liz said, turning it over in her hand. 

“My parents aren’t here, so I’ll just leave you alone in here, okay?” Isabel suggested and Liz nodded, already gingerly opening the letter.

Liz stared down at Max’s neat handwriting, at paper that now seemed little more than an artifact of their love, the words blurring with her tears. She swiped at her eyes, and began reading.

Dear Liz,

God, I hope you know what this is doing to me. How leaving you behind, when all I’ve ever wanted is you, is tearing my heart out. There was so much I should have said in the jeep earlier. I should never have let you leave without saying those things. But I was scared. Scared that I would only hurt you more, if I tried to explain that I ran to Tess because I thought...

What? I don’t even know what I thought anymore, Liz. Just that all I ever really wanted was you. And when I thought I’d lost you, I was almost crazy for a while. I swear I didn’t even feel sane, Liz. And now all I wish is that I’d pressed you harder for the truth. Asked more questions; kept my faith. Now I’ll only ever regret that I gave up on you. On us.

I’ll never know why you wanted me to believe you’d slept with Kyle, though I fear I have a theory. I think maybe you were trying to push me toward Tess all that time, weren’t you? 

How could I not have seen it??

Because I’m a fool. I had the perfect love of the most perfect girl and I threw it away. 

Tess is never going to be you. Not tomorrow, not ten years from now. All my life I’ll only be wishing she were you. All my life. And all my life, I’ll only be wondering what my soul mate is doing, if she’s happy. Because that’s what I want for you, Liz: to be happy. 

I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I can’t even ask for it. But just know that I’d undo it all, if only given the chance. You would be the first woman I ever made love to, the mother of my first child. Because in my heart, you’ve always been first. And even when I slept with Tess, my heart wished that she were you. 

Wherever it is I’m going now, whatever Antar turns out to be, I know that you’ll always be my compass. That no one can erase you from my mind because you’re written there indelibly. No matter how bad things get, I know I’ll feel you, even at the worst of it…because a part of you is inside me now, and I can’t shake that. Nothing can break that bond between us. I’m not even sure death could.

I’m not going to say I’ll come back, Liz. I can’t promise that because it wouldn’t be fair to you. All I’m going to say is that no matter where I go, no matter how long I live, I will always love you, Liz.

Always.

Max



Liz sat staring at the paper for what seemed hours, just gazing at his handwriting, the last personal touch she’d ever have from him. Until Isabel finally came, and slowly helped her up off the bed, pressing Max’s leather jacket into her hands to comfort her. Until Maria came to drive her home.

Later that afternoon, she crawled in bed, just holding his jacket and reading the letter over and over. And that’s where she stayed for weeks.

***

Liz carefully hung Insert Pictures Here on the main wall of the gallery, leaving enough room for Segue to Dream right beside it. They were inverted images of the same idea. One painting represented a desolate life, yet with glimmers of hope, where as the other was of a rich, verdant one pervaded by inexplicable emptiness. Opposite sides of the same coin, the man and woman seemed to be.

Liz only wished that both paintings weren’t such a piercing reflection of her own life. That they didn’t leave her feeling as if David Peyton were able to glimpse inside her soul, delving out her heart’s most tender secrets.

Something about that idea caused her stomach to tighten with an indescribable heat. Something strangely akin to desire.

As she stared at the girl in the disheveled bed, nearly buried under a mass of brightly colored quilts, she wondered why David Peyton left her burning so. And as she reached a finger to delicately outline the brushstrokes of the man sleeping on the cot, the dark head of hair, the subtle outline of shoulder, she traced every lift of David’s brush. She stroked every swirling line, aching to know what the faceless stranger looked like.

The door chime tinkled, interrupting Liz’s reverie, and a little girl and her mother entered the gallery, holding hands. They were regulars who Liz instantly recognized. The mother dabbled in pottery, selling a few pieces on the plaza occasionally, and her tiny daughter was her constant companion. 

“Good morning,” Liz called brightly, swiveling in her chair.

“It’s snowing!” The little girl cried, clapping with glee. “Look,” she offered, extending a mittened hand for Liz’s examination. 

“Look at that,” Liz agreed with a smile, as the little girl twirled in a sudden circle. Lacy flakes vanished into her pink woolen hand.

“Is that an angel, mommy?” Lelia asked, her delicate blonde eyebrows knitting in confusion, as she stopped her pirouettes in front of Open Your Eyes.

“Yes, sweetheart, it is.”

“Is he going to heaven?” the little girl asked seriously. “Is that why he’s flying, mommy?”

“I think he probably is going to heaven,” the mother explained with a patient smile.

“I don’t think he’s a happy angel, though.”

“Why not?” Liz asked, feeling curious as she stepped closer to the little girl. “Maybe he’s happy to be going away,” she suggested.

“No, happy angels would never wear black. They’d wear gold or pink. Never black.”

The little girl spun in another circle, unsteady as she reached toward Liz. “Are you a happy angel?” Little Lelia laughed, gazing earnestly up at Liz. As if it were the most important question in the world.

And for some reason, Liz felt tears instantly sting her eyes.

Chapter 6

And what did the lovely Ms. Parker think of the last two paintings? The anticipation is killing me.

Yours, David



Lovely. He’d described her as lovely. Now, the odd thing about that was that David Peyton had no idea what she looked like—at least not that Liz was aware of. She tapped her pencil lightly against her forehead, trying to recall any photos that might have appeared of her online, or even in local papers. She could think of nothing, and her pulse quickened at the possibility that David might have been watching her.

In fact, she should have been frightened, or immediately on the phone with Michael about it. But it had been so long since any man had made her feel beautiful in quite the way that David’s spare words did, that she couldn’t help but stare at the screen in heated surprise. 

So rather than commenting on his paintings, she slowly composed her own haiku style e-mail, feeling flirtatious and sassy. Like a woman.



David, David. You’re going to make me blush. How would you know whether I’m ugly, exquisite or otherwise homely? I’m an e-mail inbox to you, am I not?

Liz…a most decidedly Liz, not Ms. Parker.



***



Decidedly Liz.

Your heart is lovely-- that much is readily apparent. I may be a mere painter, but I recognize that kind of beauty in any form.
Yours, David

P.S. There is also a damned good picture of you in Santa Fe Trend from November. 



She sat staring at the screen, blinking. Trying to comprehend how this quiet stranger—and precisely how she knew he was quiet, she wasn’t sure—could write so simply, yet electrify her to the core. The only rational explanation she could offer was because that was how his paintings touched her, how he caused her to open like an early morning flower, petal by petal.

As if his fingertips were literally coaxing her with every stroke of his brush.

But that didn’t explain the way his postscript left her feeling flushed, and oddly shivering with desire. How her gaze swept the entrance to the gallery, wondering if David Peyton had ever been inside of it, an anonymous stranger in her midst, just studying her with an artist’s keen eyes. Or the way she imagined him looking. Exotic, like the landscapes he captured on canvas. Dark, like the man in the prison cell.

And what did “physically challenged” mean precisely? That question had been steadily plaguing her since yesterday.

She chewed on the tip of her pencil, and wished she possessed some alien gifting, some way of perceiving more of David’s motives. Max might have been able to get a flash off the open e-mail, might have known his intentions just by placing a warm palm against the screen. 

But not her, because once Max had returned to Antar, any nascent alien power within her had been snuffed out. It was as if that part of Max—that little spark of his spirit still resident within her soul- had slowly withered, until the strange bursts of energy that she’d once felt had dissipated completely.

In fact, that part of her had died the last time she’d gone to the granolith chamber. Alone with Michael. That had been the end of all things alien for Liz. And sometimes she wondered if that was what scared her away from him, the fear of unlocking that hidden part of herself again. As if Michael’s alienness might resonate with that latent bit of Max, still concealed so deftly in her heart’s chambers.

Liz blinked, studying David’s e-mail again. She didn’t have any special powers, so she’d just have to seek the answers she yearned for.



David,

May I ask a rather personal question? When you say, “physically challenged,” you mean…what exactly? I hope you don’t mind my asking.

Decidedly Liz



Liz drew in a tight breath, and prayed she wasn’t pushing the tentative boundaries of their new friendship too far. Different, definitely different. That’s what the courier had said, and she’d been unable to stop speculating about that description ever since. It sent her mind racing with possibilities. And fortunately, David’s answer came almost immediately.



Ah, Decidedly Lovely Liz,

I knew that you would ask because you seem far too curious to leave something that open-ended dangling. If only the explanation were a simple one. Yet, I will try for a simple answer. I use a cane. 

Yours, David



“A cane? That’s all?” Liz shrieked, shoving back from her desk. The wheels on her chair careened wildly, nearly knocking her into the small display counter. She frowned at the computer screen, slowly rolling back toward the keyboard. “Alright, David, this is war. All out war,” she murmured under her breath.

She began typing furiously. And what, may I ask, do you mean by that? Then you can come down to the gallery and discuss representation, can you not? A cane should not prevent you from seeing me, either here or at your house.



***



Liz,

I am joking, though not entirely. I do use a cane, yes, but that’s not the extent of the issue. It is complex, and suffice it to say that I’m…very limited in my ability to get downtown. And, well… there’s just a lot more to it than that. But I enjoy your e-mails very much. You’re a remarkable person.

Yours,

David.

P.S. Still wondering on those last two paintings…can’t help but ask again. 



***



David—

As mentioned, you can come down here and talk about the paintings if you want me to represent you. Grrrr.

Liz

P.S. Where were you trained? How did you begin painting? If you wish for my opinion, which I’m more than willing to give, I need to know more. It’s only fair.



“There,” Liz declared, sending the letter with a toss of her hair. “Let’s just see how you answer those questions, David Peyton.”

Something about him had begun to unsettle her. Not just the way he’d made her blush so easily, or even the aching beauty of his paintings. But the inescapable sense that he was speaking to her through his work--that words were passing between them somehow.

But more than that, in the past fifteen minutes, as they’d traded e-mails quickly across cyber-space, he’d begun to fluster her. She’d lost her perfect composure, and that was an unfamiliar sensation these days.

The Federal Express man entered, bantering lightly about the traffic out on the highway, and how nobody really knew how to drive in the snow. He fumbled awkwardly with the packages he handed her, dropping one letter packet to the ground. Liz always suspected that he had a crush on her, just by how awkward he seemed with each delivery. 

She heard the quiet refrain of, “You’ve got mail,” and stepped away from him eagerly. “Thanks!” She called, stepping back to her computer, as he left her gallery. Liz hurriedly opened her newest e-mail from David, her pulse quickening with anticipation.



Liz,

Ah, grrr indeed. I really don’t mean to frustrate you, I promise. 

I’m not really interested in having you represent me—though I do know your reputation, and am honored by your interest. Honestly, it was just important to know what you thought of the works.

I do hope we might meet sometime, though.

Yours, David



“What?” Liz squealed, stomping her foot in frustration. “No…no, no, no. You’re not weaseling out of this one, Mr. Peyton.”

You didn’t answer all the questions, she tapped out angrily, hitting send.

Liz jumped up from her desk, nearly knocking the chair over in her swift movement backwards. She felt like throwing something hard. At Michael. He would make a worthy target, she decided, reaching for the phone. After all, it was his fault she was in such an edgy mood anyway. He’d been ignoring her all day again, causing her blood pressure to slowly rise.

Causing the endless ache in her jaw to thrum, she thought as she rubbed her cheek with her fingers, listening to the ringing phone. She heard Michael’s laconic greeting on the other end, and had the distinct impression she’d just interrupted his work.

“I’m coming up,” she spat, without waiting for him to reply. “And you will open the door.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered dutifully, and she was at least relieved to hear some amusement in his voice.



***



She’d knocked on Michael’s apartment door in Roswell in just the same frame of mind. Resolute and angry.

In need of some kind of truth she could have faith in.

It had been two weeks since Max had left in the granolith, and she’d spent that time in bed, clutching his leather jacket, simply aching. Her body, her heart. Like so many shards of glass, pieced together into a makeshift whole. 

Michael had squinted as the desert sunlight flooded his dimly lit apartment, and Liz had realized he wasn’t doing much better than she was. It was different for him, losing a best friend, a brother—and yet, as he filled the doorframe, rubbing his mournful brown eyes, Liz had felt something twist in her heart.

Before even thinking about it, she’d flung herself against his chest, pulling him tightly toward her. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “God, Michael, I know this must be so hard for you.”

Everyone had expected her to mourn, allowed her that grief. But what of Michael, now thrust into the position of their erstwhile leader? Liz felt his hands slowly close around her back, hesitant, yet filled with surprising warmth. Like Max’s. A gentle warrior’s hands, surging with life and power.

“Thanks,” he mumbled softly against the top of her head, sounding adrift. He wanted so badly to be strong, she could sense it. Most especially for her, though she couldn’t grasp why.

He patted her awkwardly on the back, stepping apart. “Wanna come in?”

“Actually, I wanted to take you some place,” Liz explained softly. “I have an idea of something that might help us both.”

“What’s that?” he asked, drawing his dark eyebrows together dubiously. 

“I need to know why Max left with Tess,” she answered flatly, feeling tears sting her eyes. “Because it doesn’t make sense.”

“He’s gone, Liz,” Michael began, shaking his head as he squinted into the sunlight. Spring had come early that year, and it was already a swelteringly hot day, even in early June. “We have to accept that fact. Both of us.”
“But the question is why. Don’t you want to know?”

Michael grew thoughtful a moment, folding his arms over his chest, then just nodded silently. 

“What’s your plan?” he asked, his brown eyes narrowing.

“For you to get flashes off the chamber,” she explained simply. “So we’ll know what happened after we all left him alone with her in there.”

Michael frowned sharply. “Liz, it may not work like that. I can’t just get flashes at will.”

“I can’t explain it, Michael. But somehow we’ll just know.”



***



They rode in thick silence all the way to the pod chamber. Liz had asked Maria if she could borrow the Jetta, making some excuse about an errand for her dad in Hondo, but hadn’t confessed the true reason. She knew Maria would have tried to convince her not to do it, would have wanted to protect her.

But not Michael. He was far too familiar with the burning need to simply know, and so he’d dutifully climbed into the car, supporting her silently as they wound out the dusty highway into the desert.

Michael kept flipping the radio dial, until it landed on an oldies station. He hesitated a moment, his finger just hovering over the dial indecisively, as John Lennon’s voice filled the car with the haunting lyrics of A Day in the Life.

I read a news today, oh boy, about a lucky man who made a grade, and though the news was rather sad, well I just had to laugh…I saw the photograph.

Michael turned the dial again, sighing heavily as he changed the station.

And Liz understood. The song felt far too reminiscent of Max’s disappearance from their lives. So like a death…yet not quite.

Liz recalled a photograph she’d once seen of the Beatles as a child, one of those endless bits of Paul is Dead arcana, part of a labyrinthine mythology she’d never fully grasped. That’s what Max’s departure reminded her of now. So many clues, so many pieces of him scattered throughout their lives. Yet none of them pointing to a fully comprehensible truth.

A letter…a jacket…a pendant.

Disjointed evidence of one glaring fact.

He’d left her. Forever.

And not just her, she realized as she glanced sideways at Michael. He stared out the window, head propped against the glass, silent and moody. She felt such inexplicable kinship with him now, as if losing Max had forged them together into an unlikely bond of sorts.

At the chamber, Michael placed his palm on the glowing handprint, and the door slid open effortlessly. For a moment, he simply stood, gazing into the dank interior, a perplexed look shadowing his features. As if the very fact of his opening the door signified the conveying of Max’s mantle.

Finally, Michael stepped cautiously over the threshold, shielding his eyes as he entered the cave. Images of ancient Egyptian tombs flashed through Liz’s mind, chambers filled with artifacts of a remote heritage, dusty treasures leading nowhere. Liz followed, walking slowly toward the dimly glowing pods. She traced her fingers across the strange material, feeling a little jolt of energy in the heart of her being.

“That’s mine,” Michael gestured offhandedly at one of the luminous pods, then stopped in front of Max’s, just staring a moment. 

Liz touched Michael lightly on the arm, wanting to offer comfort, but he bolted away from her instantly, moving to the other side of the chamber. Liz slowly traced her fingers across the veined surface of Max’s pod. She knew it was his because he’d pointed it out to her once, when he’d drawn her fingers to it reverentially. Fearfully.

She stroked the rough surface again now, tracing the undulating curves as she had that day, just breathing. In and out.

In and out, the rhythm of life in any part of the universe. 

In and out, trying to feel Max, to drink him in from across the galaxies. In and out, as she felt his power slowly begin coursing through her body.

Almost a trance-like feeling overtook her, as she pressed her eyes tightly shut, hearing an otherworldly hum she’d never noticed, and then it grew louder. Became an insistent keening wail.

Became Tess’s shrill, high-pitched voice, as images flooded Liz’s mind like a rushing river of electricity.

If you don’t come with me, I’ll kill her. Tess paced the length of the chamber. The image faded, replaced by Max, lifting his hand in anger, ready to strike her down.

But Tess created a protective shield, hissing at him. You can’t stop me that easily, your highness. She disappeared then, reemerging inside the granolith as Max stared up at her in shock.

Khivar’s assassins will come for her, and the others, too. But I’ll be sure Liz dies first. By then, we won’t need you.

The image shimmered, nearly faded, then a clear snapshot formed. Max crying out sharply, slamming his hands against the granolith’s smooth exterior. 

I’ll protect her—

—You won’t be able to! Not any of them. Unless you come with me now, Tess promised coolly. If you come with me now, we’ll spare everyone. Khivar will have what he wants…you.

Max glanced around the chamber, desperate. Frantic as he stared at the cave door, torn painfully. She felt his fear for her, stifling to the point that she began rasping for breath. But she wouldn’t break the rush of images, had to know.

He glanced at the door again, needed her so badly, just to touch her one more time.

Damn you for this, Tess, he cried in pure anguish, placing his palms flat against the granolith. With those words Max reached upward, drawn instantly within the Granolith’s interior chamber.

And then just that easily, they both vanished.

Liz heard a strange choking sound, an unearthly rasping of breath, like dry leaves brushing together. The pulsating feel of the pod moved beneath her fingertips as hot tears streaked her face. Yet the dry sound didn’t stop, only intensified in frequency and pitch.

“Liz!” She felt Michael’s fingers close around her arms. “Liz, you’ve gotta pull out of this!”

He called to her as if down a tunnel of sorts, beckoning forcefully. But she wanted to shrug him off, needed to stay. She kept reaching for more of Max, kept feeling for him.

“Liz, open your eyes!” he cried against her cheek, warm breath so surprising. “Pull out…now!” And then her eyes just fluttered open, the rush of images and sensations arrested, and she realized her chest was heaving desperately.

The rasping sound was her own shallow, convulsive breathing. She collapsed forward against Max’s pod, sobbing, wrestling for breath, and Michael drew her into his arms. He cradled her there on the floor for what seemed hours as her heart hammered erratically, and her breathing felt like it would never normalize.

“God, Liz,” he whispered as she shook in his arms, unable to stop the tremors. “You scared the hell out of me…what would I have done?”

“Done?” she asked in a daze, feeling her hands tingle with the raw alien power she’d unleashed.

“If you’d died,” he breathed against the top of her head, his hands clenched too tightly around her. “You almost died.”

Something about that struck Liz as oddly funny, because she could have sworn she really had.



***



“So, he’s been like what? Stalking you?” Michael thundered in angry frustration. His fingers were covered in paint, and he wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. He’d let her in the loft, smiling faintly, a welcome relief after their unacknowledged standoff. And then Liz had sputtered all the facts breathlessly, wanting someone to understand her confusion over David’s bizarre communications—not confessing that they’d begun to feel like some sort of innocent courtship.

And she’d naively believed that Michael wouldn’t resurrect the alien mafia on her behalf.

“No, Michael,” she sighed in exasperation, as she flopped onto his sofa. “God, please don’t be melodramatic about this.”

He stood in front of her, a paintbrush still in his hand. His hair was tied back beneath a faded blue bandana and a light streak of purple lined his jaw. He’d obviously only stopped working long enough to let her in.

Usually they bantered while he worked, and she reclined on his sofa, shoes kicked off on the floor. It was a comfortable habit, just nestling there among his things like that, listening to his music. Just basking in their closeness, as often they both fell completely silent for long stretches. And sometimes, it was far more than arousing.

Like when she caught him studying her once, slowly licking his lips with desire. He’d thought her to be reading, and when she’d glanced up from the newspaper, it had been too sudden for him to mask the hunger in his mercurial eyes. He’d turned away, blushing as he fumbled with a tube of paint.

But she hadn’t missed it, and had felt something twist low in her abdomen…something fiery. Had been unable to stop stealing glances at him the rest of the night. 

The rest of the month.

That had been just last month, as a matter of fact.

Yet, now he stood staring at her, mouth slightly open in dismay, her protector once again.

“Liz!” he cried in frustration. “You’re not being yourself about this. I think this guy is psycho.”

“Oh, and he’d be the first psycho, over-sensitive painter I’ve known?” she teased huskily, as she gazed up at him through lowered lashes. She saw his eyes flare in reaction, knew that he’d seen the look. The intended flirtatiousness in it.

He took a step backward, shaking his head. “God, Liz, you’re smarter than this.”

“You’re jealous,” she snapped.

“You’re trying to play me.”

“Now why would I do that?” It was an honest question, almost intended as much for her, as it had been for him.

“Damn good question,” he retorted loudly, hurling his paintbrush hard against the wall, an angry gesture she couldn’t recall seeing from him before. Normally he treated his brushes with true reverence, soaking them and cleaning them religiously. “I don’t get you right now, Liz. I just don’t.”

“Michael, please don’t worry about me…or about David. That’s not why I came up…”

“Then why did you?”

That answer was undeniably simple. Yet so frightening, it stifled the very air from her lungs. “I need you right now.” Her voice was hushed, almost like the prayer that it felt.

“For what?” he blurted, his eyes shifting vulnerably around the room. “Tell me for what.”

She hesitated, saw the undisguised hurt in his quick glance, and instantly regretted her flirtatiousness. It was like she was being torn apart, pulled toward David Peyton one moment, then drawn powerfully by Michael’s magnetic force the next.

He blew out a breath, answering his own question in a sarcastic voice. “Yeah, you need me. You’ve always needed me. I love you, but you need me.”

Liz’s chest tightened sharply at his words. “Michael,” she began quietly, but he held his hand up, silencing her.

“I’m looking into this freak. I’m not going to let you underestimate some guy who’s obviously following you around town.”

She leapt to her feet, slipping on her shoes. “I thought you might actually help me for once, not just overreact.”

“God, now you’re sounding like Maxwell!” he thundered.

She cut her eyes at him angrily, storming toward the open loft door. She had the impression he was following her. “I just thought you’d listen,” she mumbled as she hurried away from him.

This was how it always seemed to be ending between them lately, no matter what she did.

“It’s my job to protect you, Liz!” he called after her into the hallway. “Last orders, remember?”

How could she forget, she reflected as she ran down the stairs two at a time.



***



Liz fumbled with her key, her hands shaking so hard she couldn’t get it in the lock of the gallery. She’d closed shop right at twelve, leaving her sign, “Out at lunch—Back at one,” dangling in the glass pane of the door.

Snow had slowly been accumulating on the walkway, and for a moment she lost her footing as she finally turned the key, opening the door.

Michael had left her trembling with countless emotions. She didn’t understand all the stirring she’d felt toward him in recent months, and it only seemed oddly magnified in the past few days. She wasn’t sure if that was because of his declaration of love for her—twice now in as many days—or if it was the sudden appearance of David Peyton and his arousing paintings.

Another thought danced on the periphery of her mind, one she refused to acknowledge as it chanted and whispered quietly. A reminder of the anniversary that would fall in two more days.

Eight years without the promise of Max, without life. Stone cold, like the people in Pompeii, forever frozen glancing upward.

Eternally losing Max, reliving that moment outside the cave over and over. And sadly, Michael’s presence in her life had always been something of a perverse reminder of that fact.

Liz dropped her keys on the counter, settling down at her desk. She’d received at least fifteen e-mails in the short time she’d been upstairs at Michael’s. But there was only one that instantly captured her attention and it was addressed to “A most determined agent.”





Lovely Liz,

No, I don’t suppose I did answer all the questions. In fact, I know I didn’t, and I apologize for that. By “physically challenged” I mean that I am disabled. Really, it isn’t the physical impairment that makes it so troublesome—that’s nothing too difficult--but the fact that I… wear a facial prosthetic. So to quote you, perhaps it could be said that I’m “ugly, exquisite and homely”--yet all three at once. You’d have to ask my mirror to be sure.

At any rate, I think I prefer knowing you this way for now…if you don’t mind. Thanks, Liz.

d.



Liz’s throat tightened to the point that she feared her windpipe might close up completely. A prosthetic was something that replaced an arm, or a leg…not a face. Was David telling her that he had no face at all?

She typed the term “facial prosthetic” quickly into her Internet search engine, desperate to know what it might mean.

Desperate to know if her poetic David Peyton, whose hands crafted such painfully beautiful work, and who left her feeling flushed and desirable—might have put far more of himself into those paintings than she’d ever imagined.

Chapter 7 

Floating. She was floating through a quiet museum, maybe the National Gallery, down the corridors like a restless spirit. She hovered periodically, just studying a wall of paintings spread before her, until she found the room that felt most like home.

She settled there on a soft bench, drawing her legs up beneath her as she examined the works on the long wall. First, there were Michael’s familiar canvases, so much a part of her that they almost undulated with her heart’s rhythm. They represented all that was beautiful and perfect in her life now. She sighed softly, just drinking them in. So like Michael’s spirit, she thought, breathing in the colors and movement with each slow inhalation. 

Then her gazed shifted, as she discovered David’s paintings hanging just beside Michael’s. They were arousing, moving her deepest places, and somehow, though she’d never noticed it before, powerfully erotic.

A nearly