Chapter 11

WAKING FROM SLEEP
Inside the veins there are navies setting forth
Tiny explosions at the water lines
And seagulls weaving in the wind of the salty blood.

It is the morning. The country has slept the whole winter.
Window seats were covered with fur skins the yard was full
Of stiff dogs and hands that clumsily held heavy books.

Now we wake and rise from bed and eat breakfast!-
Shouts rise from the harbor of the blood
Mist and masts rising the knock of wooden tackle in the sunlight.

Now we sing and do tiny dances on the kitchen floor.
Our whole body is like a harbor at dawn;
We know that our master has left us for the day.

By Robert Bly

Liz climbed the steps of David Peyton’s bungalow, clutching a small bottle of chardonnay against her chest. Her heart thundered painfully, as she gripped his handrail for careful balance. His steps were dark and slick with snow. The last thing she needed was another icy slip like the one last night. That would make for a graceless first impression, she thought with a wry laugh—and then for a moment, she feared she might literally be sick with nervousness.

Countless fears swelled in her heart. That they’d have nothing to say to one another, that he’d find her unattractive. And worst of all, that she’d be unable to handle the shock of his appearance without reacting visibly. That was the one thing she was determined above all else—that she wouldn’t inadvertently hurt him by gawking when he opened the door. Not when he’d showered her with his beautiful paintings, making her feel desirable and lovely. 

Besides, it was too late for regrets. She’d begun dreaming of him now, her heart waking just a little bit more every time, and the truth was she didn’t care what he looked like. Not with the way he’d moved inside her soul so effortlessly. 

Through a small pane of glass on the door, she glimpsed muted lighting inside, and thought she heard faint strains of music. She sucked in a tight breath, tossing her hair back from her face, and knocked on his door resolutely.

There was a muffled answer of footsteps from within, an off-kilter rhythm accented by a quiet thud. I walk with a cane…

She felt her throat constrict, and swallowed, licking her lips as the slow steps grew closer.

He’s far more nervous than you are, she tried to coach herself, and yet she wondered if that was even true as the door slowly opened.

And then there, in the half-light of his entryway, stood her enigma—her haunting and strangely beautiful David Peyton.

“Liz,” he said, his soft voice nearly indiscernible from beneath what could only be described as a mask. Long, wavy hair fell almost to his shoulders, dark and luminous. But it was the prosthetic mask that nearly struck her speechless as he eased the door open in invitation.

He leaned most of his weight on a wooden cane, a hand-carved piece, the kind of thing she’d seen for sale on the streets of the Plaza. The kind of cane a true artist would use.

She cradled the wine bottle in her arm, gently extending her hand to him. “David, it’s wonderful to meet you,” she said, and was instantly dismayed at how breathless she sounded. He took her hand within his own, and she blushed, as her eyes were again drawn sharply to his prosthetic.

Because despite what he called it, the prosthetic seemed quite simply a mask, a smooth veneer covering his entire face. Only his dark eyes remained visible, and they were almost impossible to see clearly, though one was obviously scarred, swollen partially closed. For his mouth, there was a small opening, with the form of lips, forever captured in a Mona Lisa smile. She was struck by that melancholy image of the frozen half-smile, and yearned to know what lay beneath.

“Nice…so nice, this,” he nodded, and this time when he spoke, she caught how halting his words were, how slurred by his apparent facial injuries. Her chest tightened sharply at the quiet sound, as he urged her inside with the silent wave of his hand.

She turned to him as he closed the door behind them, willing a radiant smile to spread across her features, aching for him to feel at ease.

“I brought wine,” she offered, producing the small bottle from the crook of her arm. “It’s already cold.”

“Thanks, Liz,” he nodded, averting his face from her as he took the bottle. “I’ll…open.”

His hand wandered absently to the left side of his face, rubbing his jaw as he stepped into a small kitchenette just off the entryway. “Snowing?” he called, as he opened a cabinet. 

“Not anymore.” Her gaze quickly swept beyond the foyer and into his living room, as she shrugged out of her coat. He emerged from the kitchen, reaching for her jacket.

“Sorry,” he apologized, taking it from her. “Let…me.”

“It’s okay,” she answered gently, handing him the coat. She noticed how his hands shook nervously, and she smiled encouragingly again. Yet he hardly met her gaze a single time, despite her efforts to ease his anxiousness.

The quiet crooning of Frank Sinatra’s Witchcraft wafted from his living room. She chewed her lip, wondering if he’d chosen the music in a purposeful effort to woo her, to create a romantic atmosphere. But she didn’t have time to consider it further, as she stepped into his living room, and was instantly overwhelmed by an explosion of vibrant color.

All around her hung countless paintings, displayed with perfect precision on every adobe wall—over the sofa, along the hallways, and further into a large sun porch at the end of the living room, obviously his studio. For a moment, she felt unsteady upon glimpsing so much of his painfully beautiful work. It was nearly inconceivable that so many of his delicate and rare treasures spread before her, all for the partaking. Almost like some artistic Garden of Eden, with tempting pleasures as far as she could see.

Take, eat of this fruit, she thought whimsically, as her gaze fell on a painting of a woman, seductive and innocent all at once. She was wrapped only in a towel, and the work recalled an impressionist piece, one by Renoir. It was deliberately referential, yet imbued with far more sensuality in some strange way. Perhaps because of his color choices, which included a vibrant red offset by creamy whites and stark blacks. Liz stepped closer, her hand flitting unconsciously to her jaw in a mirror image of David’s earlier gesture.

She drew near the painting, feeling its rhythm, the swirl of the colors. Such energy radiated from the canvas, pulsating life, that her eyes widened as it wove a mystic spell over her. 

“Like… it?” David asked, walking slowly toward her. He seemed to be looking at her this time, straight on, not casting his eyes downward. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze intently.

“Amazing,” she breathed. “God, David, your work…” she shook her head, wishing that the right words would suddenly present themselves. “I don’t have a way with words, either,” she finally blurted with a nervous laugh. And then just as quickly, she feared she might have offended him, until after a long moment, he began laughing softly, such a warm, gentle sound as he extended her a glass of wine.

“Good,” he agreed, the words muffled beneath his prosthetic, as he handed her a glass of wine. “Both… of us then.”

“But you have such a way with your art,” she continued, feeling an unexpected explosion of heat as their fingers brushed lightly together for the briefest moment. “No one has ever spoken to me like this, like you do with your paintings.”

No one, except Max Evans, a soft voice whispered in her mind.

“My painting…how I speak,” he answered simply, glancing past her to the canvas that had captured her attention. “Now.” And then he rubbed his jaw again, stealing a quick glance at her. “Jaw…is problem.”

She nodded encouragingly, and he immediately looked away again, his long hair obscuring his face. His hair was a dark brown, nearly black, and for some reason she ached to touch it. David appeared to be quite young, probably only a few years older than she was at most, though it was hard to pinpoint his age precisely because of the prosthetic. But his hair, his hands, even his general demeanor made her think of a thirty-year old man.

As she stole secretive glances at him, she noticed his left hand; that two fingers were crooked, the knuckles slightly swollen. She’d guessed correctly about the Windows of the Soul painting—he’d depicted his own imperfect hand. She ached to know what drastic fate had befallen David, leaving his body so badly broken.

She cut her eyes sideways, and for the first time since arriving, allowed herself to study his wardrobe. He was on the thin side, though not overly so, and wore a thickly knit, oversized sweater, the kind that Michael tended to slouch around in, only quite a bit neater. His jeans were faded, but like the sweater, far from sloppy. David dressed much the way he wrapped her packages, addressed her notes—kept his home even. Tidy and pristine, though filled with simmering passion, the kind that roiled in every one of his paintings.

Her face flushed sharply when he caught her staring at him, and she realized her mouth had fallen open unconsciously. She coughed in embarrassment, turning away immediately, and prayed he’d not thought her dismayed by his appearance.

“It’s okay,” he reassured her softly. “To look…odd, yes?”

“Odd?” she repeated in surprised confusion, still averting her eyes.

“The prosthetic.”

“No…no, it’s not,” she rushed, feeling heat creep from her face, all the way down into her neck. He laughed quietly again, and it electrified her completely.

“Bad liar…Liz.” 

She glanced up at him, and though she couldn’t see his mouth at all, only that illusion of a half-smile that was part of the mask, she felt him smiling. A broad, deep thing that caused warmth to erupt through her whole being.

“Am I that bad?” she teased, and he nodded generously.

“Doesn’t…suit,” he agreed, gesturing toward her. “You.”

“Okay, David, yeah the mask is just really… different,” she rushed, brushing at her hair nervously. “But you know that, of course you do.” She regretted that her words were so awkward and bumbling. “I just wish I could see you. It’s not that I’m staring, it’s just that I keep trying to do that, to see you, I mean.”

He nodded slowly, as if he were considering her words, and for a moment she thought he might remove the prosthetic. But instead he clasped her arm, guiding her very gently toward his studio. “Then…come.”

***

Stacks of paintings leaned against the walls, propped on easels, and generally spread in every direction of the sun porch, which like the rest of his house had a hardwood floor and adobe walls. “Me,” he explained, his words slurring softly. “See…me.”

“In your work,” she whispered, as her gaze roamed over the room, taking in his neatly arranged work materials, the paints and blank canvases. “You’re saying that’s how I can see you.”

“Yes.”

And suddenly she understood more than she’d ever guessed about David Peyton. He, who could only express himself in such broken, halting sentences, had instead poured his heart into the paintings, saying otherwise unutterable things. And therein lay the power she’d sensed from the very first painting he’d left on her doorstep. He literally put something of his soul in every stroke—something that would otherwise remain unspoken, even though he ached to express it.

“And hear,” he added quietly. “My… words.”

She nodded again, and suddenly tears filled her eyes, as something nearly lost within her heart thrummed to sudden life. What it was, she couldn’t say, yet the canvases before her blurred instantly, as David stepped past her to one in particular, displayed on an easel.

“Painted…for,” he hesitated a moment, rubbing his left jaw again. “You, Liz.”

There was a small loveseat in front of the canvas, and Liz dropped onto it wordlessly, sipping her wine as if it might provide boldness. Because the work displayed before her reached even deeper into her heart’s fragile places, as if David’s fingers had clasped something tender and fragile there, twining around it relentlessly. 

“For you,” he repeated softly, as she gazed up at the small canvas of a nighttime sky, filled with floating clouds and radiant stars, and then in the distance was the dark angel again. “Called…Ascendance,” he explained, studying it as she did.

Why he’d chosen such a dark painting as her special gift, she wasn’t sure. And yet it wasn’t dark, was the furthest thing from it. It was pure magic, like a spell of mystery he’d enchanted over the tiny canvas. Instead of a somber or depressing feeling, the work conveyed all the shimmering wonder of the desert at night.

“What does the angel mean?” she asked in an unsteady voice, not even really meaning to pose the question aloud. Tears burned her eyes again, as she thought of all the nights she’d stared heavenward with Max, out in the desert even. Of the night they’d found the orb, when something much deeper had almost happened between them, something that might have changed their future irreversibly.

“Angel…changes. Is many things,” he explained haltingly, and she ached to hear him clearly, to know all that pressed on his heart. “Tonight, angel is you.”

“Me?” she asked in surprise, turning quickly to look at him. But he leaned heavily on his cane, staring at the painting. She had the sense that he was avoiding her eyes. 

“Way it feels…you here.”

“Oh.” It was all she could say, feeling her heart’s tempo suddenly increase wildly. She could hardly even think clearly, she was so surprised by his bold admission. “Thank you,” she finally managed thickly.

He turned toward her then, and again she had the impression that he smiled at her. “Just truth.”

“It feels really amazing to me, too,” she admitted softly, and for a moment their gazes locked. She could barely see his dark eyes, not with how dim the lighting was throughout his home—and she realized he’d probably arranged it that way on purpose, to hide his strangely masked features. Perhaps to put her more at ease with him.

Yet even in the dimly lit room, something flared powerfully to life between them in that moment, and she saw him swallow hard, as he just stared at her wordlessly. Neither seemed able to look away, and she realized her hands trembled in her lap.

“More,” he finally half-whispered. “Show you more.” She literally leaned forward in order to hear him, his words were that quiet and slurred. He bent low, leaning heavily on the cane as he sorted through a stack of paintings propped on the floor, against the wall. “Here,” he encouraged and Liz rose from the sofa, stepping toward him. 

She noticed the difficulty with which he balanced his weight, while sifting through the paintings, and she placed her hand atop his momentarily, where it rested on the cane. “Let me sit on the floor,” she offered, glancing at him. “And I’ll do it.”

He nodded wordlessly, as she settled at his feet, her wine sloshing a bit onto her hand. Instantly, he reached for a soft cloth on the easel behind them, and blotted her fingers dry, and more fire shot across her skin at the intimacy, as their eyes met again for a long moment.

“How did you start painting, David?” she asked, as she turned hungrily toward the canvases, and images of clouds, sky, undulating colors paraded before her eyes with dizzying urgency. “You never told me that.”

“You persisted…though.” She heard him laugh softly, and he settled onto the love seat behind her. 

“You bet I did, David,” she agreed. “I’m an agent. I have to be persistent.”

“Yes…surely.” She caught a hint of admiration in his voice, as she continued looking through his paintings. His gaze burned against her back, she was that sure he studied her from where he sat on the loveseat behind her.

“So, allow me to persist again,” she continued, without glancing back at him. “How did you start?”

“Long story,” he answered with a weary-sounding sigh. 

“But I want to know,” she argued, as her gaze fell on one painting in particular of a little girl with dark hair, surrounded by a field of red flowers, growing high up to her knees. “You see what your work does to me. How affected I am by it.” The painting felt familiar, as if something about it struck a long forgotten chord in her being, as she eased it from the stack.

“Rehab,” he answered with a light cough. “Began in rehab.”

She scooted backwards, until she leaned against the sofa, right beside where he sat. The painting rested in her lap, and she outlined the swirling red flowers with her fingertips, tracing the pattern of movement.

“Tulips?” she asked curiously, wondering again what the tug of familiarity was.

“Yes.”

“What happened to you, David?” she asked, still just staring down at the painting. She didn’t want to hurt him, to press too hard, but she had to understand. “Was it an accident?”

He snorted wordlessly, and even as muffled as the sound was, she recognized the derisiveness in it. “No.” He said no more, only that, leaving her painfully curious.

“No? Then what, David?” Was he saying that someone had done this to him intentionally? Hurt him this profoundly by design?

“No accident,” he answered again softly, then, “Liz, please.”

“You don’t want to talk about it.”

“Not tonight,” he agreed quietly.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, begging him with her eyes. “Will you explain to me sometime, though?” She needed to know this part of his history, to piece that part of his obscured past together.

“Definitely.”

“Okay, then,” she nodded, focusing again on the beautiful painting that rested against her knees. She sucked in a sharp breath as she felt something unfamiliar twist deep in her heart, at the way the work moved her so fully.

“David, you must understand. Art is my life, my business…it’s my whole world,” she explained thickly. “And no one has ever moved me like you do. You have an inexpressible gift.”

“Easy when…inspired.”

She wasn’t sure precisely what he meant by that comment, or what kind of inspiration he was referring to. But then he clarified. “You.”

“Me?” she asked, staring straight ahead, keenly aware of the way her shoulder brushed his knee where she leaned against the loveseat. 

“Your…reaction. Inspiring,” he explained, the words slurring even more, as if the emotion of his confession was unsettling him. “You…great inspiration.”

“But you only just met me,” she offered faintly, still uncertain of his meaning. She found herself longing for the ease of their e-mail communication, though his physical proximity was worth far more than easy words.

He was silent for a long moment, and Liz could hear that his breathing quickened, the soft sound growing heavier beneath his prosthetic. She began to wonder if he’d ever speak, and that’s when she felt it. His fingers lightly touched her hair, just stroking the length of it in wondrous silence. 

She could only hold her breath, as she felt his gentle touch electrify her whole body. He wasn’t just touching her, he was offering her something beautiful. His heart.

Her eyes drifted shut, as David slowly ran his hand down the length of her hair, his fingers twining loosely through the strands. Worship, that’s what it felt like. As if his very caresses were an act of pure worship.

She drew in a tight breath, and slowly turned her face until her lips met his hand. Tentatively, she kissed his fingers, allowing her lips just to graze them one by one, yet she never looked back at him. Fire skittered across her cheeks, blazing her very soul, as he slowly stroked her cheek with the back of his hand, caressing her even more deeply now.

“Beautiful,” he assessed in a whisper. “Liz, so beautiful.”

She shivered at his words, at how his fingers wound their way across the length of her hair again. Some part of her brain questioned how an almost stranger could arouse her like this, could pierce her heart like a keen arrow, but she didn’t care. Nor did she require an answer. All she needed was this moment with her shy David, the feel of his gentle touch.

Without thinking, she reached over her shoulder and their fingers met, changing the caress. This one became more like lovemaking, as hands lingered together, hesitated then lightly stroked. Wordless, powerful lovemaking, of a kind she’d only known with one other person.

She heard his staggered sigh behind her, as their fingers twined carefully together, and suddenly tears blurred her vision again. Her heart ached with the beauty of his touch, of her awakening, and suddenly hot tears coursed her cheeks.

She blinked hard, needing more of his touch, yet burning to escape now. She pulled her hand back suddenly, wiping at the tears. “I’ve…got to go,” she managed to stammer, climbing awkwardly to her feet. “This has been perfect, David.” 

One quick glance, and she saw the confusion in his dark gaze, as he stared up at her, struggling to his feet. Obviously, it wasn’t a simple task for him, as he worked with his cane, trying to follow her quick movement.

“Liz.”

“It was wonderful, David,” she continued in a rush, wiping at the hot tears, as she brushed past where he worked to rise from the sofa. “You are, too.” She heard him behind her, the light thud of his cane, and the uneven cadence of his slow steps.

“Liz,” he called again. “Don’t…” His voice trailed off, and this time she was sure it wasn’t because of his halting speech. She had the sense that he was dumbfounded by her sudden flight, and her chest tightened painfully. This was what she’d wanted to avoid, hurting him in any way at all.

She spun on her heel as he approached. “It’s not you, David,” she whispered intently, not caring that he would see how she’d begun crying. “Absolutely not you.”

“Tell…me,” he urged, reaching lightly for her arm.

Tell me. Tell me the secrets long buried in your heart, the things you never wanted to admit again, not to anyone. Tell me that I’m awakening your long-slumbering soul.

“I loved someone once,” she explained fiercely, gazing up into his strange, half-obscured eyes. “I loved him more than life itself, more than my own life sometimes. But he died.”

David cocked his head to the side mutely, as if her words were unanticipated, difficult to process. “He died and no one else has ever touched me like he did, not in all these years,” she confessed, running a shaking hand through her hair. “Until tonight. Until you.”

With that, she spun away from him, nearly sprinting toward the door before he could speak again. Because it was almost as if she felt her composure disintegrating beneath his gaze, at even the memory of his touch.

And that was something she’d sworn no man would ever do to her again.

Chapter 12

SURPRISED BY EVENING

There is unknown dust that is near us
Waves breaking on shores just over the hill
Trees full of birds that we have never seen
Nets drawn with dark fish.

The evening arrives; we look up and it is there
It has come through the nets of the stars
Through the tissues of the grass
Walking quietly over the asylums of the waters.

The day shall never end we think:
We have hair that seemed born for the daylight;
But at last the quiet waters of the night will rise
And our skin shall see far off as it does under water
By Robert Bly

Liz hadn’t stopped shaking since she’d fled David’s bungalow. Not on the short drive home, not after entering her house and collapsing on the sofa, and certainly not after finally opening the brief e-mail she’d found waiting from him in her inbox. 

Now she sat at her computer, her hands trembling uncontrollably and wondered how she could possibly respond, what she could do to stop the avalanche of emotion that he’d somehow unleashed within her.

Beautiful Liz, 

Tonight was electric. Magic. Nearly more than my heart could handle, I swear.

I only wish you hadn’t left so quickly. Not when there was so much more I longed to say. 

I never should have been so bold, so careless with your emotions—especially not when my shocking appearance must have been enough for one night. God, I can only imagine what you thought of me, how startled you were, and for that, again I am so very sorry.

The thing is, Liz, you are beautiful. But that’s not what moved me tonight, not really. It was that being with you was so incredibly beautiful, too.

Yours, d

Liz buried her face in her hands, and began to sob uncontrollably. It was as if all the frozen emotions of the past ten years were suddenly welling up, unlocked from deep within her heart. All by a shy man’s quiet touch. By his simple caresses of her hair, her face.

All because he’d held her hand.

And she’d managed to hurt him. Somehow, even though she’d explained, he thought his face had frightened her, shocked her. 

Through her veil of tears, she began typing, working to compose something that might make sense.

David,

It wasn’t you, I promise. In fact, I wish I could express how very little your appearance even matters to me. 

But on the other hand, it really was you…and the powerful affect you’re having on me. It’s like you’re winding your way into my heart, bit by bit, and I promised myself I’d never feel these things again, never come alive like this at any man’s touch. 

That’s what scares me, David. Not the way you look, or the prosthetic…not even wondering what lies beneath it. I can handle all of that, just not the way you’re awakening my heart so quickly. That, sweet David, has left me utterly and completely terrified. 

Yours, Liz

Liz wandered into the kitchen, still wiping her eyes, and poured a small glass of wine. Then she just settled on her sofa in the darkness, trying to harness her emotions. She clicked the stereo remote, and Patti Smith came to life on her CD player, the haunting refrain of Because the Night floating through the darkened living room. Take me now, baby, here as I am…pull me close, try and understand…

And so she sat. Not really because she wanted the wine, or to listen to the music, but because she could hardly move until a reply came from David Peyton. Fortunately, she didn’t have long to wait, as one appeared in her inbox almost instantly. Liz realized he’d probably been waiting just as expectantly for her own answer, as she opened his latest note.

Liz,

So it seems we’re both terrified, though for our own very different reasons. Let’s just remember to breathe (I think I forgot that peculiar habit for about fifteen minutes earlier this evening.) 

And we can take this slow, Liz, as slow as need be. The only urgent matter is getting your coat back to you, especially since as I gaze outside my studio window, I see it’s begun snowing again. Unfortunately, you left the coat in your hasty departure.

Well… admittedly not so unfortunate for me, since now I have the perfect excuse to see you at least once more.

Can I tempt you with another glass of wine tomorrow night, a toast to your New York trip? I can assure you that I will remain at a gentlemanly distance. Only my artist’s eyes shall adore you, not my wandering hands.

Yours, d.



Liz’s lower lip began trembling uncontrollably, and the tears threatened to start anew. Her face had flushed upon reading the final sentence of his note, and now she felt her abdomen tighten with undeniable desire for him.

How was she to answer his request to see her again, and so soon? If he’d affected her this powerfully the first time, she could only imagine the results should she venture near him again so soon. 

Yet, even as she reached to turn off the computer without replying, she knew she wouldn’t be able to stay away. Not now. Not after being touched by him.

***

This time, the dream was different. Liz lay sleeping in her bed in Santa Fe, nestled comfortably beneath the covers, fingers delicately curved along the edge of the blanket. She heard a quiet rustling within her room, something near the door, and though her heart thundered, she wasn’t afraid.

She was expectant.

And then he was there, just shadowing the frame, watching her. His unknowable dark eyes searching her heart, her very soul. Instead of moving, she lay watching him. He was beautiful, surprisingly so, in the soft moonlight that fanned across her hardwood floor. Like some oddly formed statue with a smooth, porcelain face, he braced himself against the doorframe. His silken dark hair fell to his shoulders, slightly disheveled.

“Come closer,” she whispered, aware that her voice had grown husky and thick.

He blinked soundlessly, and she sensed him ache for her, how he longed to touch her again.

“Liz,” he murmured quietly, and stepped toward her, his familiar, uneven gait echoing in her silent room. 

“I want you,” she breathed in the darkness, following his darkened movements with her eyes.

“I want,” he agreed, nodding almost imperceptibly. “You, Liz.”

“Why is it like this?” she asked breathlessly. “The way you move me; how is it this strong?”

He settled on the side of her bed, reaching tentatively for her hand. “Me…you,” he whispered cryptically, his voice ever gentle. Then she caught a glimpse of his brown eyes, the way they widened with his words. If only she understood the meaning of his simple phrase.

“I don’t understand, David.” She shook her head, swallowing hard. “But I want to.”

“You said…it.” His words slurred softly, as he gathered her hand in his own then, averting his eyes from her. His breathing became softly audible beneath the mask. “I awaken…” He paused, wrestling for words.

“You awaken me,” she finished for him, touching his arm, and he nodded in quiet agreement. “Yes, David, you do. I’m coming alive because of you.”

Very delicately, he reached his hand to her cheek and caressed it. Fingers explored silently, outlining the shape of her jaw, then the fullness of her mouth—and hesitated a moment, as slowly she kissed his fingertips. His fingers trembled lightly against her lips, yet seared her beyond description.

“Kiss me, David,” she murmured in the darkness. 

He shook his head. Because what she was really asking, was for him to reveal himself, to remove his mask. There would be no other way.

And so instead, she lifted her hand to his chest, feeling the thick wool of his sweater, then slowly trailed her fingers upward. They grazed his collarbone, where she felt his pulse beating steadily, and then explored carefully upward until she touched the odd synthetic material shrouding his face. Yet she felt him beneath, the strong outline of jaw, then nose, flesh and bone. A man, one she was falling in love with. She cupped his strange face within her palms.

“Come closer, David,” she begged quietly, trying to draw his face near. Needing more of him, to kiss his own lips. “Please.”

He shook his head, flinching as her fingers explored the side of his face that seemed to always cause him such pain. Yet even as he drew away, she pursued.

“Let me,” she murmured, as he averted that side of his face from her. “I want to touch you.” And she knew she’d found the center of his heartache, the aspect of his disfigurement that grieved him most deeply.

“Why?” he half-cried.

She hesitated a moment, just listening to the way his breathing grew heavier, sensing his hesitation. She ached to feel his skin against her own.

“You…me,” she answered simply, repeating his earlier words as she stroked his silken hair. He bowed his head wordlessly beneath her touch.

Finally, she saw him swallow, and he nodded. “Feel…me,” he breathed, glancing up at her again, as slowly she lifted her hand and stroked the tender jaw that he’d tried to hide from her touch. “My…Liz.”

My Liz. Somewhere in the night, or perhaps the evening, or even the past week—she’d given herself to him. Become his very own. If only she could recall that moment, the point when she’d obviously bound herself to this stranger—a stranger who would become a lover.

4:34 a.m.



***

Dream letters, parchment fluttering in the night like misplaced pages of her journal. Caught in pieces and bits as she moved in and out of sleep. Restless and insistent, they surfaced in her thoughts, moving ever upward in her consciousness.

Beautiful.

One word, full of so much meaning. A hand, a caress. A touch from you. Your eyes. The electricity that ripples through a room when you are near. Beautiful.

You, Liz.

All you…and now I must attempt to sleep.
Yours, d



Beautiful.

A man who wishes to hide from me, yet reveals his soul so generously. A man who I glimpse in every one of his paintings, and feel in every one of his touches. But it’s not enough. I want to truly see this man with my own eyes. I’m dreaming of it now. 

L.

***

Liz sat on a bench in Rockefeller Center, watching the ice-skaters glide around the rink, some gracefully, others with awkward, jarring motions, but always in elliptical patterns. Circular, endless, frigid in the night.

The crisp flags surrounding the rink snapped in the February wind, unfurled and proud. Flags of nations, vivid colors rippling overhead, as young people held hands, snuggling close to watch the movement on the rink below.

Yet Liz sat alone. All alone, arms wrapped around herself as she shivered in the cold, watching the lovers’ ageless dance all around her. 

Until Max was there. As easily as he’d once left her, becoming nothing more than a shrouding mist around her heart, he was beside her on the bench.

As handsome as he’d ever been, in his leather jacket and jeans, familiar boyish bangs framing his face. He glanced at her sideways, just beaming at the sight of her.

“God, Liz, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he confessed, studying her as if it had been years.

“You saw me just last night.”

He shook his head. “Dreams don’t count.”
“Sure they do,” she laughed, as he slung his arm easily along the back of the bench. “And sometimes the dreams keep it from hurting so much.”

“But you can’t rest in them, Liz.”

She bowed her head, staring at her hands, knowing he’d hit the mark. “I know.”

“Haven’t you wondered why I’m here, Liz?”

Liz thought a moment, watching one couple in particular skating awkwardly around the rink. The girl had long dark hair, and it caught occasionally in the wind, blowing into her eyes. The boy’s hair was dark as midnight—like a younger version of Max.

“I don’t care why.”

“There’s a reason, Liz,” he pressed. “A reason why I keep coming back.”

“And why do I have a feeling you’re going to tell me what it is?” she laughed, closing her eyes and feeling the warmth of him. Everything about Max was so different than David Peyton, she reflected silently. He was strong and sure, handsome, and left her feeling steady.

Yet the feeling wasn’t very different at all, she realized, as her eyes fluttered open. Again, the skaters caught her attention, the young lovers teasing as they moved in rhythmic union around the rink.

“That first Christmas after you left, Max, do you know what they did in Roswell?” she asked, turning to face him. His features darkened, shadowed with a melancholy that she could never have anticipated.

He shook his head silently, uncertainty flashing in his eyes.

“They put in a small ice rink in the middle of the park,” she explained, feeling the familiar tug of anger toward him. “Right there in Roswell.”

“They’d done that a few years before, too.”

“Yeah, but we weren’t together then, Max,” she corrected. “I didn’t care. It was that first Christmas, once you’d left that mattered. Because all I could think, every time I saw it, was what it would have been like if you’d taken me skating.”

“I’m a lousy skater,” he teased in his soft voice, the words nearly lost in the wind.

She ignored him, pressing forward with what needed to be said. “I went down to that stupid rink every night after my shift at the cafe, just like this, Max,” she continued, feeling bitter tears sting her eyes. “And watched the people skate. It was like I was dead, just watching them from some other dimension. That was how uninvolved I felt, how cold my heart had grown over you leaving.”

“Liz,” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head, but she cut him off, needing to continue.

“I’d watch just like this, and think how you should have been there with me,” she finished, her voice breaking.

“I can’t tell you how much I wanted to be.”

“I know,” she nodded sadly. “I knew it even then somehow.”

“I’d sit and imagine you, Liz, and wonder what you were doing. It was hard to figure out the calendar, but I had a rough idea when it was Christmas,” he admitted thickly. “My heart never left you.”

She turned to stare at him. “You thought about me?”

“Every day, every minute.” He rubbed his eyes wearily, avoiding her keen glance.

“What did they do to you, Max?” she asked, reaching to stroke the bangs away from his forehead. “Tell me.”

“I can’t, Liz.”

“They hurt you,” she nearly cried, tears blurring her vision. “I felt it when they killed you.”

He closed his eyes, bowing his head. “I tried…” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.

“Tried what, Max?” she begged, clutching at his arm. “I need to know. I’ve needed to know for so long.”

“To reach you,” he admitted, his face crumpling in pain. “I shouldn’t have done it, but I was so afraid. Not just of them, what they were doing to me, but…God, of losing you forever.”

“I felt you,” she repeated intently. “I knew when it happened.”

“Liz, you have got to let go.”

“Of what?” she shouted, the anger erupting with unexpected force. “You, Max? Is that what you’re saying?”

“All this hurt, the memory of that horrendous moment, me,” he urged, his golden eyes flashing powerfully. “It’s killing you, Liz. Literally.”

“I don’t want to let go.”

“God, you’re as stubborn as I am,” he observed in frustration.

“Welcome to my world,” she snapped irritably.

He shook his head, smiling wryly. “You’ve been around Michael too long.”

“Guess what? He didn’t leave me,” she cried, standing quickly, and clenching her hands in tight fists. “Michael didn’t leave me, Max. Michael didn’t sleep with our enemy. Michael has been there for me and never left.”

“I didn’t sleep with Tess.” His admission was so quiet she almost missed it, dissolving into the wind as it did.

“What?” she asked, spinning to face him.

“I never slept with her,” he repeated, gazing up at her earnestly. “There was no baby. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for so long.”

Liz felt her insides begin to quake, as something dislodged painfully, something she’d been holding inside since that day at the chamber almost ten years before. A silent cry formed on her lips, a terrible reflection of that famous Munch painting, as she collapsed to her knees. Max rushed to the ground beside her.

“Liz, sweetheart,” he begged. “Look at me.”

“But, but…” she could only stammer as the world spun crazily around her.

“She tricked me. Us. That’s all she ever did, and I was a fool to believe the memories she planted in my mind.”

Planted…memories. Fool to believe…

“I’m telling you now for one reason, Liz,” he explained, stroking the length of her hair soothingly, as he folded her tight within his arms. “I’m the only one you’ll listen to. It’s why they sent me.”

“They?” she asked dimly.

“You’re frozen back there, Liz,” he explained as she buried her face against his leather jacket. “You’ve been stuck for so long.”

“What am I supposed to do, Max?” she murmured, clinging to his leather-clad shoulders.

“Listen to David Peyton.” She bristled at the mention of David’s name, at the sound of it on Max’s lips. “Liz, open your eyes.”


Chapter 13

David,

I’d love a toast to my New York trip. Tonight at 7, then? And by the way…you were a perfect gentleman last night. I think I was the one who ravished you, was I not? But, nevertheless, I’ll pledge to be a perfect lady, as well.

Well, a modern one at least.

Yours, Liz



***

Modern Liz,

I never mind a good ravishing, just so you know. Not one as tender and sexy as you’re apparently capable of.

7 it is.

Yours, d

***



Apparently the nervous tension didn’t get any better. Not even upon a second visit to David’s home, Liz thought, as she sucked in gulps of frigid air before knocking. It was a perfect replay of the night before; inside she heard muted music, saw the dim lighting. And she was barely more than a nervous wreck, clutching another small bottle of wine in the crook of her arm.

Shouldn’t this be getting any easier? she wondered, licking her lips. At least she knew what to expect when he opened the door, but in a way, that made her even more anxious.

Because what she could expect was the near-inability to control her reactions when around her beautiful enigma. 

Liz raised her hand, and repeated her mantra, “You’ve done harder things than this…you’ve done harder things than this,” silently within her mind as she knocked.

From within, she heard the slow, familiar steps, accented by the rhythmic thud of David’s cane, then his shadowed form appeared within the glass window. Her throat went completely dry, as his door slowly opened, revealing his hauntingly familiar features.

She beamed instantly, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “Hi, again,” she laughed, and something about the way she sensed him smile in return, the way she felt his generous welcome more than even glimpsed it, relaxed her instantly.

“Welcome back,” he nodded encouragingly, opening the door wide to her. “Liz… Parker.”

As she stepped into his warmly lit home, the adobe walls shimmering with candlelight and shadows, she could have sworn she heard her own heart answer, welcome home.



***

Liz sat on David’s sofa, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She would have done anything to quell the visible tremors that shook them, yet as she watched his measured approach with her glass of wine, the shaking only intensified. She seemed unable to respond otherwise to his proximity, at least not tonight; though the nervous energy had dissipated, melting into a thrumming anticipation that vibrated through her entire body.

“Here,” he said simply, extending a single wine glass. She reached for it shakily, and like the other night, their fingers brushed lightly together, causing a shower of electric energy to shoot through her hands. It seemed she was keenly aware of the slightest physical contact with him.

“Thank you,” she smiled brightly, gazing up at his strange face. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of his dark eyes, of how they glittered in the candlelight of his living room. There was something undeniably melancholy in his gaze that even the prosthetic couldn’t hide, as their eyes locked for a silent moment.

Liz wished she could see his eyes more clearly, but unfortunately, they were partially obscured by the mask, causing them to appear deeply recessed behind the synthetic material.

For a moment, she thought of her art restoration class, and the way a black light revealed what lay beneath a painting’s surface. If there’d been a different sketch originally, perhaps a mother and child, instead of a pair of entwined lovers, then the light would reveal that secret history. Now, she wished she could shine such a light on David’s placidly sculpted facade and know what lay beneath. 

“Excited…about New York?” he asked, jarring her back to the moment with his attempt at conversation. He balanced his weight carefully on the cane as he settled beside her on the sofa, extending his left leg straight out, as she’d seen him do the previous night. Somehow that stirred her differently this time, as she imagined how it must ache, especially when he rubbed his knee absently for a moment.

“Not really,” she laughed, and he glanced at her, seemingly surprised.

“No? But galleries...” he hesitated, and she sensed his frustration as he labored to speak. “Seems exciting… you.”

“Exciting to me?” she clarified and again their eyes met for a brief moment, electrifying her completely.

He nodded, looking sharply away so that a lock of dark hair fell across his face. “As agent,” he explained quietly.

She smiled, realizing how easily she already understood his unusual syntax, how his words seemed to form within her before he even spoke them now. “Normally,” she reflected, remembering Michael’s observation about her lack of enthusiasm for this particular trip. 

Because you’re depressed…

“I don’t know, it just feels more like work this time for some reason.”

“You love…job,” he answered, the words slurring slightly, and she understood it was more of question, really, than a statement.

“Yeah,” she agreed softly. “I adore my job. I’m doing exactly what I want with my life. But somehow, this time, I don’t know. My heart just isn’t in it.” She stole another furtive sideways glance at him. The smooth features of his mask were shadowed eerily by the shimmering firelight, creating unexpected planes of dark and light. Pure chiaroscuro. 

“Why?” he asked, staring straight ahead into the leaping firelight. For the first time, she noticed rich highlights in his hair, but also some threads of gray that silvered in the candlelight. 

She shrugged. “I think I just need a break.” I think it’s just the anniversary of Max’s death. 

“I’m glad Michael’s going with me, though,” she added brightly.

“Michael?” he asked, and she wasn’t sure, but thought she detected a subtle flash of jealousy in his features, or perhaps surprise. “Friend?”

“Oh, Michael’s my best friend,” she rushed to explain, not wanting him to misunderstand. “One of my clients. You might even know his work, he’s local,” she stammered awkwardly. “Michael Guerin?” she offered helpfully, wishing she didn’t sound so oddly guilty.

David blinked, and she wondered what strange emotion she’d seen shadow his eyes. “Yes,” he agreed with an enthusiastic nod. “Amazing…artist.”

“Oh, so you’ve seen his work.”

“Window…your gallery,” he explained quietly and she leaned a bit closer trying to hear his muffled words. “Your web site…also.” The last was added almost as a shy confession, and was nearly inaudible.

She smiled in satisfaction, noticing how reticent he suddenly seemed, staring down at his knee, as he rubbed it absently. “You went to my web site?” she asked warmly.

“Of course.” He looked away from her, but then she had the distinct impression that he smiled as he laughed quietly. “But disappointed, Liz…no picture.”

Her cheeks burned at his words and she laughed giddily, too loudly really, as she took a long sip of wine. 

“You’re blushing,” he observed, turning to face her, and she shivered as his hand brushed her arm.

“Yeah, well you should see what your e-mails do to me,” she smiled, glancing at him through her lashes flirtatiously. 

“My emails…you blush?”

She fanned herself with her hand for dramatic effect. “God, David, it’s unbelievable how they affect me.”

“E-mail easier,” he reflected, rubbing his jaw. “For me.”

“To say what you really mean?” she prompted and he nodded wordlessly. 

“Very frustrating, this.” His words slurred a bit more than usual, as he added, “But I like more…being together.”

“Yeah, and I bet you’re blushing right now, too,” she teased, tipping her chin upward boldly as their eyes locked for a long moment. 

“Yes, definitely.”

“One day you’ll show me,” she asserted confidently, wanting him to know that she believed he’d open up to her. “I’ll see how handsome you are when you blush like this.”

“Not handsome.” That was all he said, dropping his gaze in an unreadable gesture. “But blushing, yes.”

“Why do you wear the prosthetic, David?” she pressed gently, not wanting to hurt him, yet needing to understand who he really was. “I mean, I know your face must be scarred, but…”

“Disfigured,” he corrected simply. “Badly.”

“But you won’t tell me what happened?”

“Liz, please,” he begged, his difficult words growing husky. “You…here tonight.”

You here tonight. For some reason, the meaning of that particular phrase eluded Liz.

“I’m sorry?” she finally asked, taking a nervous sip of wine. She hated asking him to repeat anything, not with how difficult it was for him to speak. But she’d already come to place a premium on every one of his utterances.

“You’re here with me,” he clarified slowly, brushing at his hair with a nervous gesture. “Past very painful. But you…so lovely.”

“Oh,” she sighed, feeling her heart pound like a tribal drum.

“I will tell you,” he paused, swallowing hard. “Promise.”

“Okay,” she agreed, her heart aching at his mention of a painful past. It seemed unfair that one with such a gentle spirit would have suffered this badly. And for some reason, she felt the undeniable urge to simply touch him as he glanced away from her again. 

Delicately, she placed her hand atop his where it rested on his jean-clad thigh, almost as if she were trying to tame a rare and exotic creature. He stared down at her hand a moment, and she sensed how he stiffened beside her, but then he gingerly rotated his hand until their palms met.

She gasped softly at the contact, at the feel of his warm skin grazing her own, just like the other night. The moment was entirely up to her, she knew. His hand lingered beneath hers, an unanswered question, yet she understood that he wouldn’t push, not this time. Tentatively, she threaded her fingers through his, until their hands closed together as one.

“I…promised,” he explained gently. “To only look…you. Not touch.”

She became aware of her breathing, that her chest labored a bit as she stared down at their joined hands. “It’s okay, David,” she encouraged, squeezing his hand. “I want more.”

He turned to her in surprise, cocking his head sideways as he studied her. She ached to know his thoughts, to read his expression—yet his prosthetic was impassive as stone.

Very tentatively, she lifted her other hand toward his face, and he jerked away reflexively. Something about the moment was hauntingly familiar, as if it had already happened, was something in the past not their present.

“I want to feel you,” she breathed, a soft sound that escaped her lips like electric current.

He shook his head vigorously, slipping his hand out of hers, as he pulled away from her. “No, Liz.” His answer was surprisingly firm, final even.

“You don’t want to feel me?” she asked, her voice wavering with emotion.

“More than,” he swallowed visibly. “You can know.”

Again, she lifted her hand slowly toward his face, and he bowed his head. But he didn’t flinch, and didn’t pull away. Gingerly, she stroked his cheek with her fingertips, feeling the synthetic material rough beneath her hand. She trailed her fingers lower, until they brushed against his neck, meeting his own skin, so warm and vital to touch. His neck was scratchy with light stubble, as she explored lower, reaching the hollow of his throat, and his pulse throbbed beneath her fingertips.

The silence between them was palpable, as only the sound of their breathing filled the moment. She was nearly leaning into his lap, she realized suddenly, and had never even noticed. Slowly, now, he turned toward her and she saw more acutely than ever how his left eye was swollen partially shut. For a moment, she shivered, thinking how it revealed much about his disfigurement, about how dramatic his injuries beneath the mask must be. For the briefest moment, the firelight glinted in his other eye, illuminating flecks of amber and gold. But Liz refused to dwell on that detail, wanted only to think of David, not recall the lost eyes of her spectral love.

“May…I touch?” he asked in a whisper, meeting her eyes with sudden boldness. “Don’t want to…” his voice trailed off a moment, and he blinked.

“You won’t upset me this time, David,” she encouraged, and he lifted a tentative hand toward her face. He cupped her cheek a moment, closing his eyes as if to drink her in, and Liz felt her chest tighten at the intimacy. 

“Beautiful,” he assessed on a sigh, and somehow, she could hear the radiant smile in his voice. “Liz.”

She literally ached to kiss him, to feel their lips brush together. Yet that remained an impossibility, at least until they reached a point where he’d remove the mask.

His eyes fluttered open again, widening as he asked, “May I…paint you?”

It was as if he’d asked to make love to her, his request left her feeling so shy and womanly all at once—and it caused radiant heat to shimmer across her face in response. “Tonight?” she managed to answer, swallowing hard.

He nodded, slowly stroking her cheek beneath his thumb. “On…sofa.” Again, the images that rushed through her mind had nothing to do with painting, and much more with seduction. Just as he’d always bestowed his canvases upon her like a lover’s kiss, now the very act of painting her seemed like something far more intimate indeed.

“Why would you want to paint me?” she managed to laugh, wishing she didn’t burn so beneath his steady caress.

Gently, he dropped his hand away from her cheek. “Been painting,” he swallowed hard, tapping his cane lightly against the floor for a moment before finally finishing. “You.”

She knew she should have felt strange at his admission, smothered or frightened even, but it was so innocent, it only left her glowing. She thought of all his paintings with dark haired women in them. “Really?” The word escaped her lips breathlessly, and she wished she’d sounded more in command of her emotions.

“Ms. Parker Painting,” he explained. “Others.”

“Why me?” she cried in surprise, yet he only stared into his lap for a moment. 

“Santa Fe Trend?” he finally offered with a soft laugh, and she knew he was teasing her.

“Remind me to thank them,” she giggled.

“Damn good picture,” he nodded. “Told you.”

“But I don’t completely buy that.”

“No?”

“Had you seen me around town or something?” she asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion, unable to avoid the sudden sense that something more was happening between them. That a secret wedged there that she couldn’t quite decipher.

He shook his head vigorously, suddenly laboring with his cane as if he intended to rise.

“Yet you painted me.”

“Like angel…dark haired girl… changes.” he finally explained cryptically. “Tonight you.”

“Oh, so now the truth comes out!” she cried, only half-jokingly. “You just have a thing for girls with dark hair.”

He eased onto his feet, leaning heavily on his cane as he gazed down at her, suddenly seeming frail and weary for such a very young man. “Never, Liz. Only you.”



***

She lay curled on her side, pensive as David painted her from where he sat on the sun porch. He’d turned on more lights and she stole furtive glances in his direction, needing to see him more clearly, where he sat awkwardly astride a stool. Yet he stayed too far away, secure within the lights of his studio, glancing at her periodically as he worked.

“You’re reminding me of Michael.”

“Oh?” he asked in surprise. “How?”

“Well, we do this a lot…he’ll paint and I read.”

“He paints you?”

“Not much,” she answered, wondering again if he didn’t seem slightly jealous, in a benign sort of way. “He’s more of a landscape guy…with an abstract feel.”

“I would…think he paint you,” he reflected, glancing back at the canvas. “Beautiful subject, Liz.”

“Thank you.” She brushed at her hair self-consciously, and decided to keep her history with Michael a secret, something hidden between them still. Because Michael led distinctly to Max, and she was far from ready to open up any further about him. 

“Close your eyes,” David instructed quietly. “Painting you asleep.”

“Why asleep?”

He was silent a moment, and she peered at him through half-closed lids, wondering if he’d even answer at all. “So you won’t look…at me,” he finally replied.

“What’s wrong with me looking at you?” she asked, her eyes sweeping his living room, at the swirling colors that filled the canvases on every wall. Such energy radiated from his home, yet it stilled her soul.

“Easy answer, no?” he asked, scratching his neck with the end of his paintbrush.

“You’re very striking.”

“Ah, bad liar…again,” he laughed a bit wryly, glancing in her direction with what she could only characterize as a flirtatious look. Even with the prosthetic, she could recognize the undisguised message in his eyes.

“David Peyton!” she cried, sitting up on his sofa with a start. “I am so not a liar about that.”

“Striking?” he replied thoughtfully. “Compliment?”

“Of course it’s a compliment,” she teased huskily, easing back down into his thick pillows. “I can’t take my eyes off of you.”

“Both of us…then,” he coughed, shy with her once again. “You beautiful, blushing.”

With those words, she felt her entire face flame even hotter, and so she nestled back into her previous position. “I think I’ll just close my eyes,” she finally managed thickly.

“Sweet dreams, Liz.”

And with that benediction, she lost herself in his music, as Frank Sinatra spun a web around her thoughts, dizzying and romantic. Her very last notion was how relaxed she felt, as if she’d come home at long last, resting there on David’s sofa while he painted.

***



She was running, breathless and wild amidst tall red flowers. They nearly reached her thighs they grew so high, as she combed her fingertips along their velvet blooms. Laughter kept welling up from deep within her chest, and spilling forth like a babbling brook. Over and over, she giggled and felt someone chasing just behind.

“Lizzie!” her father called, and then she’d laugh again, a lilting free thing. Something she hadn’t known for such a long time.

“Catch me, Daddy!” she cried, shuffling quickly through the mass of red waves.

“Careful, Lizzie!” he laughed, hurrying behind her. “Don’t leave the path.”

She squealed as he reached her, scooping her up into his large safe arms. “Daddy!”

“Got you, little girl.”

But then the scene morphed, shimmering like an image in a reflecting pool, radiating out in elliptical circles, shattering. Rearranging.

Suddenly, it was Max, breathless and reaching for her, as she ran through undulating waves of crimson. She wore a long, white sundress, flowing halfway down her calves. “Catch me,” she teased with a coquettish glance over her shoulder, as he pursued her through a mass of red flowers, ones she’d never seen before. Unearthly buds, glittering and rich all at once.

“Yes, my lady,” he answered, reaching her waist and spinning her right into his arms. “And so you’re caught, princess.”

“Queen, thank you very much,” she corrected breathlessly, as he slipped his hands around her back, drawing her flush against him.

“Not yet.”

“Soon.”

“Oh, very soon, sweetheart.” He lowered her slowly in the field of flowers, so that she lay on her back, gazing up into his smoldering golden eyes as he dropped to the ground beside her. Above her spread a pinkish sky, familiar yet alien all at once. Along the far horizon, she glimpsed twin moons on the rise.

She cupped his cheek within her palm. “Is this real, Max?”

He blinked a moment, stroking the length of her hair with his fingers. “In my dreams, it’s always been real.”

“But I’m not awake, am I?”

“No, sweetheart.”

“Oh,” she answered sadly as he nestled beside her in the field, propping himself on his elbow as he gazed down at her. He wore a strange outfit, leather pants and a linen shirt, loose and open, so that she glimpsed the sun-touched planes of his chest. She reached an innocent hand and slowly stroked the warm skin there.

“Dreams are perfect, aren’t they?” she whispered reverently.

“That’s what makes them our dreams,” he answered with a boyish grin, dimples flashing suddenly.

She glanced around them at the field of vibrant red flowers. “You painted this scene, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“I saw the painting in your studio the other night.”

He stared at her in seeming confusion, long lashes fluttering seductively. 

“Don’t even try it, Evans,” she warned with a devilish smile.

“What?” he cried with feigned innocence, raking his fingers through his hair.

“You know what your eyes do to my soul.”

He dipped his head low, capturing her mouth with a tender kiss. For a long moment, their lips lingered together, as Liz threaded her fingers through his dark hair, longish on his nape. “Ditto on the kisses,” she murmured finally against his cheek.

He laughed, such a gentle, rumbling sound as he leaned back to look at her. “I dreamed of this for so long. It was the only thing that kept me alive, just fantasizing about being in your arms like this.”

“On Antar?”

“Yes, on Antar.”

“But the dream started,” she hesitated, unsure. “Well, like a memory. And that’s what the painting seemed to be.”

“Your memory, yes…I saw it once. In a flash when we kissed.” He rolled onto his back then, gazing up at the quickly moving clouds, like something from a surreal painting. “Aren’t they amazing?” he asked, propping his head on his arm lazily. “How often I would see these clouds and imagine your reaction. What you would have made of them, of the moons here, the stars.”

Liz nestled her head close to his shoulder, and suddenly they were little more than children again, lying on their backs, gazing up at the sky together, dreaming.

“Beautiful,” she breathed, drawing his hand close against her cheek. “Absolutely beautiful.”



***

Liz fought the need to wake, just as she would grapple with an assailant, as a monotonous sound kept a steady, rhythmic pace within her dream. It was like the pounding of a drum, over and over, dull and repetitious. For a moment, she swore she heard voices crowding around, but that only caused her to settle more completely into the gauze of her dream-state. Maria…Michael…her parents. Their voices echoed in the corridors of her thick sleep. But she couldn’t be certain what they were saying. Isabel? Liz swore she heard her muffled voice, too.

Then it began again, insistent and loud, a rapping sound, and slowly Liz eased one eye open. The fuzzy world around her was disconcerting until she recognized the rhythmic sound as someone knocking on her front door.

Her room had filled with morning light, and as she rolled onto her side with a groan she saw that it was after eleven a.m. Michael, she thought, planting her feet stalwartly on the floor. Only Michael would show up and knock that loudly on a Sunday morning.

And that meant one thing. Coffee and scones, she thought with a slight hop of glee, as she unfastened her door lock.



***

Michael lay on her sofa, his head propped casually on a cushion. He’d deposited his socked feet in her lap, and now Liz rubbed them absently as they talked, massaging his soles just like he loved. 

This was a ritual for them, one they’d fallen comfortably into for Sunday mornings over the past few years. Later they would prowl around the antique markets up on the expressway, though she rarely found anything valuable enough to cart home. Really, it was more about spending time together—that, and the great treasure hunt, which she’d been addicted to ever since discovering a rococo painting at a flea market senior year. That easy six thousand dollars from Sotheby’s had whetted her appetite for discovery like nothing since ever had. So, now, Michael usually tagged along and kept her company.

“Tell me everything,” he urged, sounding suspiciously like a best girl friend, Liz thought with a laugh. He was referring to her date with David Peyton two nights before, and she refrained from clarifying that, in fact, she’d seen him twice now.

“Okay, Maria.”

“What?” he cried with a defensive scowl.

“Tell me everything,” she mimicked playfully, rubbing his feet with affection. “You’re so funny, Michael.”

“It was a date, wasn’t it?” he demanded gruffly.

“Yes, Michael,” she acknowledged with a reluctant smile.

“All the more reason I should know everything. I’m hoping you hated him.”

She hesitated a moment, glancing down at his feet, then quietly admitted, “I didn’t.”

“Well, what was he like?” His voice sounded undeniably vulnerable, and Liz’s heart lurched. 

“Michael, look,” she began, cradling his feet a little closer against her lap. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal, Liz,” he argued softly. “I know nothing’s going to happen between us now. I mean, I know that for sure after the other night. I just want you to be happy.”

“What does that have to do with David?”

“The way you’re reacting to him, Liz,” Michael sighed, brushing at his hair where it had fallen into his eyes. “It’s powerful.”

“He’s a very unusual guy, Michael,” she answered, ignoring the implication of his sentence. This wasn’t territory she cared to explore with Michael, at least not yet, not when she knew how raw his emotions must still be from their discussion the other night.

“Unusual how?”

“He wears a facial prosthetic.”

Michael frowned, his dark eyebrows knitting together. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s…it’s like a mask,” she answered, feeling undeniably protective of David. “I think he’s…well that his face is badly disfigured from whatever happened. I mean, you saw that he uses a cane.”

“Damn, Liz, this guy just gets weirder and weirder.”

“He’s not weird, Michael,” she argued defensively. “I mean, it’s hard to explain, but he’s just incredibly…gentle. Funny, even. Talented. So many different things all at once.”

She glanced at Michael, and his mouth had fallen slightly open in surprise. “What?” she asked.

“You’re falling in love with this guy,” he pronounced quietly, his brown eyes wide with disbelief.

“Oh, I am not,” she argued with a roll of her eyes. “I hardly know him.”

He shook his head slowly, just studying her from where he lay on the sofa. “You and Max hardly knew one another in the beginning.”

“This isn’t the same,” she disagreed, taking a sip of coffee, as she avoided his astute gaze.

“It’s never the same,” Michael said with a frustrated sigh. “David Peyton is getting to you, Liz.”

“I’m just not even going to comment on all this,” she huffed, reaching into the brown bag for her blueberry scone.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” she sniffed.

“So what did he think about me going to New York with you?” he pressed suddenly. “Your best friend, who just so happens to be a guy?”

She narrowed her eyes at him in the closest approximation of a withering glare that she could manage. Yet, he only began laughing uncontrollably in reply.

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” he snorted. “He was jealous as hell.”

“Your point?”

“Chemistry, baby.”

“Thanks for the science lesson,” Liz snapped, shoving his feet out of her lap.

“At least it explains another mystery that’s been plaguing me,” Michael reflected, sitting up on the sofa as he reached for his coffee.

“And that would be?”

“The flashes I got from you during that stupid kiss.” Liz cringed because as badly as their kiss had ended, she never wanted him to think of it as stupid. Oddly, even with all its awkwardness and impossibility, it had been incredibly sweet to her, a treasured memory.

“Michael, the kiss wasn’t stupid.”

He ignored her, and instead explained. “I saw Max when we kissed, Liz, like you did. But that wasn’t all.”

“What else?” she asked, her voice wavering uncertainly. What could Michael have possibly glimpsed in that brief intimacy?

“You were in your room sleeping and someone had come to your bedside.”

“What?”

“I thought it was Future Max or something…the long dark hair and all. Except now I get it,” he reflected, almost as if thinking out loud. “The guy didn’t have a face…at least not one I could see.”

“No face?”

“It was just kind of…blank,” he nodded. “Like some kind of mask.”

“You saw David Peyton inside my mind,” she whispered in awe. 

“No, Liz, not inside your mind,” he disagreed gently. “Inside your soul.”

Liz shivered, because that meant that somehow, shy, elusive David Peyton had already entered that inner sanctuary, the one she’d reserved for no one else but Max—and before they’d even met or touched.

Apparently, she was in far more emotional jeopardy than she’d even guessed.

Chapter 14

DEAR love, for nothing less than thee
Would I have broke this happy dream ;
It was a theme
For reason, much too strong for fantasy.
Therefore thou waked'st me wisely ; yet
My dream thou brokest not, but continued'st it.
Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice
To make dreams truths, and fables histories;
Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best,
Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.

As lightning, or a taper's light,
Thine eyes, and not thy noise waked me ;
Yet I thought thee
—For thou lovest truth—an angel, at first sight ;
But when I saw thou saw'st my heart,
And knew'st my thoughts beyond an angel's art,
When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when
Excess of joy would wake me, and camest then,
I must confess, it could not choose but be
Profane, to think thee any thing but thee.

Coming and staying show'd thee, thee,
But rising makes me doubt, that now

Thou art not thou.
That love is weak where fear's as strong as he;
'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave,
If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have ;
Perchance as torches, which must ready be,
Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me ;
Thou camest to kindle, go'st to come ; then I
Will dream that hope again, but else would die.
THE DREAM, by John Donne

New York enveloped Liz’s senses. It was so easy to forget how visceral this city was, how the smells of coffee and pastries wafted out of cafés, then blended with exhaust fumes of a passing bus. Santa Fe was such a fresh city, the air so exhilarating, and Roswell had been similar in its own way. Yet, Liz wouldn’t have replaced the particular aromas of New York for anything—she was addicted to them.

The staccato sounds of sirens and horns, wailing even long into the night brought her to life, caused her blood to flow a little bit quicker. She’d only forgotten that. But now, as she worked hard to keep pace with Michael’s long strides down Lexington Avenue, she took long drafts of air and smiled.

“Michael, slow down a little,” she asked, reaching her hand into the crook of his arm. He stared down at her in surprise, completely unaware that he’d been nearly leaving her in the midst of the passing throngs.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. He always did that when they were in the city. His pace would increase, grow a little brisker, and she’d nearly have to chase after him. Which was fine at first, until her feet began to grow tired. 

He broke into a smile, and she tucked her hand neatly within his, as they began a slower walk. “I just want to drink it all in for a minute,” she explained and he nodded, squinting as he glanced up at the leaden sky. 

“It’s gonna snow,” he pronounced, as they side-stepped to allow a pair of businessmen pass them. 

“It won’t stick, though.”

“Nope, the guy at the front desk said three inches this morning.”

They stepped under a large scaffolding, then came to the familiar revolving door of their hotel, the one where Liz always stayed right on Lexington.

Her throat tightened nervously, as she released Michael’s hand and prayed he wouldn’t be angry with her, as he disappeared within the moving door. Liz followed, and as soon as she emerged on the other side, her gaze fell right on Maria, standing in the middle of the lobby.

Michael hadn’t glimpsed her yet, though Maria’s eyes had widened with indescribable emotion the minute she’d spotted Michael. In fact, Liz had to smile, because Maria had yet to even notice her, she was so captured by Michael’s appearance in the lobby.

After all, two years was a very long time when you still loved someone.

And then Michael caught sight of Maria, as they walked closer toward her on the way to the hotel restaurant, and he stopped right in his tracks. “Oh, shit.”

Liz glanced at him, and for a moment, her heart lurched with sympathy because his brown eyes were panicked. 

“Some way to greet a girl there, Guerin,” Maria laughed and scooped Liz into a tight hug. 

“Sweetie!” she exclaimed, squeezing Liz within her arms for a long moment and Liz felt tears sting her eyes. Maria’s familiar scent washed over her, sending her catapulting back through time, through decades even.

“So you managed to bring the old lug along,” Maria teased, releasing her and stepping toward Michael, who had only slightly regained his composure.

For a moment, they stood and simply stared at one another, until Michael took a tentative step toward Maria, embracing her loosely within his arms. 

“Didn’t expect to see me, huh?” she teased him, looping her arms around his neck.

“Liz promised I wouldn’t.”

“Now, that’s not entirely true,” Liz laughed and Maria rolled her eyes.

“I’m sure it is true, Liz,” Maria laughed, as her gaze moved down Liz’s new suit. She whistled appreciatively. “Looking hot!” she declared, and Liz glowed beneath her approval. Maria’s fashion sense had become impeccable after so long in New York, and Liz sometimes felt small town next to her, despite the sophisticated circles she moved in back in Santa Fe.

“You look great, Maria,” Liz assessed appreciatively, and they linked arms. “Come on,” Liz urged Michael, nudging his arm. He still looked stunned by the entire moment, almost inexplicably transfixed, which Liz didn’t quite understand.

Except, then she remembered that something had gone terribly between them during Maria’s last visit to Santa Fe—and then she remembered that they hadn’t seen one another since. 



***

“Yeah, well she’s fallen in love with the Phantom of the Opera,” Michael grumbled, picking at his salad with his fork.

“The musical?” Maria asked, frowning in confusion.

“The guy,” Michael explained, glancing up at her. “He lives in Santa Fe, disguised as some painter.”

“Yeah, you sound really happy about that, too,” Maria observed, raising her eyebrow wryly.

“He’s not the Phantom of the Opera,” Liz snapped irritably, cutting her eyes at Michael. She didn’t understand why he’d fallen into his worst, most disagreeable behavior while Maria was with them. If she’d known he would, she never would have arranged that Maria join them for lunch—not when she saw her other best friend so rarely.

“Tell me about him,” Maria encouraged, sipping from her ice water delicately. Liz smiled, because for some reason Maria suddenly seemed incredibly beautiful to her, more than she remembered. Maria glanced up and caught her staring. “What?” she laughed self-consciously.

“You’re so beautiful, Maria,” Liz answered with a warm smile. “I forget that sometimes when we’re apart. You just look wonderful.”

Maria reached across the table, covering her hand with her own. “I’ve missed you too, Lizzie.”

Liz’s throat tightened because it suddenly felt like such a very long time since she’d even seen Maria—as if she might never see her again, too.

“So are you going to tell me about this painter or what?” Maria laughed, glancing at Michael for encouragement. 

Michael only shrugged. “Don’t look at me.”

“Well, his name is David Peyton and he’s really amazing. Just so talented and…” Liz thought a moment as to how she might possibly describe him. “Well, like a beautiful riddle. I don’t know if that makes sense at all.”

“I’ll put it more bluntly,” Michael offered irritably, finally looking up at Maria. “He leaves paintings on her doorstep in the middle of the night, is handicapped and wears a strange kind of mask.”

Liz thought she might actually hit Michael, she felt that furious with him. She turned to him, seething. “Thank you, Michael.”

“No problem.”

Liz rolled her eyes and turned back to Maria who was staring at her in confused sympathy. “Liz, Michael is only being an asshole because I’m here. You can save all the details until we send him packing.”

“Yeah, not a bad idea.”

“Then go!” Liz cried, hitting him hard in the arm. “God, why are you doing this? I know you wanted to see Maria,” Liz blurted. “She’s going to think you’re always a total jerk.”

“No, Liz, Maria knows I’m a jerk,” he said, tossing his white linen napkin on the table, and pushing his chair back from the table. “Just ask her.”

“Only when I’m around, Guerin,” Maria disagreed.

Liz planted her elbows on the table, groaning into her hands. “Please, I just wanted to be with my two best friends. I just wanted a happy little reunion. Is that too much to ask?”
“Apparently,” Maria observed, arching an eyebrow.

“What happened with you guys?” Liz asked suddenly, glancing up at Maria. “I am sick of all this and I want to know what went wrong between the two of you.”

Silence fell over the table instantly, as Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair, still ready to leave, though hesitating now, as the question hung unanswered in the air.

“Well?” Liz prompted again, glancing between them both. Maria sighed heavily, folding her napkin with care and laying it on the table.

“He never told you?”

“No, Maria, neither of you ever told me,” Liz answered in frustration. “And it’s time you did.”

“She asked me to marry her,” Michael answered simply, gazing at Maria with infinite sadness in his brown eyes. “To have a baby with her.”

Liz swallowed hard in disbelief, as the two of them just gazed at one another, yet managed to communicate so much in the melancholy silence. “I’m sorry?” Liz finally asked, not certain she’d truly heard Michael correctly.

“You heard him,” Maria answered, still staring at Michael.

“I said no,” he explained softly, brushing his hair away from his face.

Maria laughed sardonically, finally looking down at her plate. “Not quite that elegantly, I might add. It went more like, ‘why the hell would I do that?’”

“Why the hell would I have done that?” Michael cried, his voice rising a bit too loudly for the restaurant.

“Because you loved me, you moron,” Maria snapped, her eyes filling with tears. “You had just told me that, remember?”

“Maria, I never knew any of this,” Liz half-whispered, reaching for her hand. 

“Yeah, well it was just a little too mortifying to share,” Maria sighed quietly. “As you might imagine.”

Michael leaned close across the table, his eyes trained intently on Maria. “I don’t even know if I can have children, Maria,” he whispered, glancing around them nervously, as he leaned closer toward her. “Especially not the kind you want,” he added softly, his face drawing into a painful expression of regret. “Why should I have lied about that?”

“I knew the risks, Michael…of who you are. I only wanted to try,” Maria whispered, tears now welling in her eyes. “And not with just anybody. With you.”

Michael leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “You only wanted me here, playing the whole New York game.”

“That’s not true,” Maria disagreed thickly, taking a long drink of water. “And you know it, Michael.”

“Whatever,” he grumbled, glancing around for some kind of escape. Yet he remained in his chair, and Liz realized that at least that was a good sign.

“Oh, you know what?” Liz interrupted suddenly, glancing at her watch in dramatic exaggeration. “I totally forgot a meeting I have downtown in just a bit.”

“Liz,” Maria begged her with her eyes. “Don’t go.”

“No, really, I’m serious,” she explained, pushing back from the table and slowly rising to her feet. “I forgot it completely!” She laughed nervously, brushing her hair from her eyes, as Michael gazed up at her in wide-eyed panic. “I’ll be back in about three hours,” she explained to him and leaned low to kiss him on the cheek. “Don’t run,” she urged in a whisper, quietly enough that Maria wouldn’t hear. “Work it out with her.”

Then, she moved toward Maria, and drew her into a warm hug. “Now, you, my dear, I intend to see again tonight for drinks at the Monkey Bar, okay?”
Maria wiped at her eyes, still damp with tears and nodded, kissing her on the cheek. “Six o’clock.”

“See you then,” Liz agreed, stepping quickly away from them with a broad smile on her face. Even if it had been painful, she was certain they’d just made progress for the first time in two years.

***

Liz marveled that snow had begun not only falling while in the restaurant for lunch, but had managed to accumulate a light dusting along the sidewalks of Manhattan. It made walking in her boots a slippery prospect, and several times Liz skidded along the pavement awkwardly. The snow swirled earthbound in thick clumps, blowing into Liz’s eyes and blinding her slightly, and she wished that she’d brought an umbrella like so many of the other business people hurrying briskly past her. At moments like this one, she felt like a small town girl in the big city. She would never have thought of using an umbrella to help with the thickly falling snow.

The truth was, she didn’t have any other meetings booked for the afternoon—she’d blocked out the time for spending with Maria and Michael, and had figured she’d spend the time shopping if the reunion failed miserably. Liz smiled to herself, drawing the coat close around her shoulders for warmth, and thought that oddly enough, leaving them alone had actually been the right thing. Even though they hadn’t realized it, Liz was convinced they had finally reached some kind of breakthrough in that brief lunch.

Liz stopped a moment, staring into a gift shop window, and found herself immediately thinking of David, what silly trinket she might tote home for him. He’d shadowed her thoughts constantly, long before she’d even left Santa Fe. They’d exchanged a few e-mails already, each of his missives leaving her even giddier than the last. One thing she could easily say of David Peyton—a poet’s heart beat in his chest, such that his every short letter was imbued with romantic promise, leaving her flushed and aroused.

Liz shivered slightly, and not from the whipping wind, as she came upon Times Square. She stared at the intersection where Broadway and Seventh met, wondering where she’d continue ambling. Suddenly, the thought of a glass of wine in the bar of the Marriott sounded warm and appealing, and she glanced quickly at the light as it changed, stepping into the slippery street.

Before she could blink, or even process the moment, she was hurled violently into the air, her briefcase catapulting out of her hand. That was the last thing she remembered noticing—the way her papers cascaded through the wind like scattered dust, mixing with the snow that fell all around—as she sprawled painfully on the hood of a taxi.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could only lie mutely on her back, staring up at the sky, white with swirling snow. Her head had slammed against the glass window with an inhuman crack, shattering the glass windshield she was sure. But why couldn’t she seem to move a muscle?

The moment seemed endless, as she lay staring heavenward, her thoughts tracking back far into the past. A quick rush of images flashed in her mind, punctuated repeatedly by Max leaning over her dying body in the Crashdown. You have to look at me…you have to look at me…you have to look at me.

Open your eyes…

She heard voices all around, shouts and cries, some familiar as her own heartbeat, others foreign and unknown. She heard the taxi driver’s shrill cries, was aware of how he waved his arms wildly at his sides. Yet she remained paralyzed and immobile.

Until Max appeared, pressing through the gathered crowd with determination. 

“Max,” she managed to murmur, though her jaw ached terribly, slurring his name. She thought of David then, of the pain he always lived with. 

“I’m here, Liz,” Max reassured her, climbing up onto the roof of the taxi with her. “I’m here, sweetheart.”

She nodded painfully, as he cupped her face within his palms. “You’re okay, Liz. I’m here.” He kept repeating those words, his voice soothing the fear she hadn’t even known had begun crowding her thoughts.

“Help,” was all she could manage to choke out, as their eyes locked.

“Just look at me, Liz,” he reminded her gently. “Just like before. Look at me.” 

He slipped a warm palm beneath her sweater, placing it squarely over her heart, as he cradled the back of her head with his other hand. Vaguely, as if through a dense fog, she wondered how he could be so bold, so utterly unconcerned with the crowd gathered around.

“Careful,” she murmured thickly. 

“It’s okay, Liz, they’re not even really here.” 

She nodded mutely again, wondering why his words made such perfect sense, as she felt a burning sensation erupt through her chest. “I’m healing you, though, Liz. Just accept that.”

And she felt his energy surge through her whole body then, her head, her chest…it powered down to her toes even, causing her to shake. “How?” she whispered, as he pressed a light kiss against her temple. 

“Through your dream, Liz,” he explained, stroking her hair out of her eyes. His strength began emanating through her body then, and she trembled against him, as he eased her slowly upright.

“Better?” he asked softly, his palm still so warm against her chest, his fingers lightly grazing the material of her bra as he slowly removed his hand.

She nodded, just staring at him. “What happened, Max?” she asked in thick confusion. Around them on the sidewalk, a crowd was gathered, yet no one attempted to talk to her. 

“Come with me,” he urged, clasping her hand in his warm one, guiding her away from the scene. “Ignore them and come with me.”

He led her silently through the snow, a soft blanket along the sidewalks now, as he kept guiding her quietly away from the scene. “Max?”

“Just follow me,” he repeated again, glancing at her over his shoulder with a reassuring smile. Max had always felt so safe, just like this, she thought as he tugged her down streets until they came upon Rockefeller Center.

“I wanted you to see this again,” he smiled broadly, as the rink appeared beneath them, dozens of skaters reveling in the winter snowfall. “While we talked.”

“About what, Max?” Liz asked, turning to him in surprise. For some reason, their entire odyssey made a bizarre kind of sense. The accident with the taxi, his healing her, and now winding up here at the skating rink again.

“You, Liz,” he answered softly, drawing her gloved hand into his own. “Your life.” He squeezed her hand tightly, and as she gazed up at him, his golden eyes flared with emotion.

“This is it, Liz,” he explained with surprising firmness. “Where it all ends, sweetheart.”

“Where what ends?” she asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion.

“You have to wake up now.”

“No,” she disagreed huskily, glancing around them. “No, I don’t, Max.”

“You’re dying, Liz. If you code again, they won’t revive you.”

“What?” she cried in confusion, but was only met by his warm, amber eyes, filled with compassion.

“Liz you’ve been asleep for thirty eight days, and it’s almost too late.”

“God, Max, you’re crazy!” she started laughing, rubbing his hands between her own gloved ones. “I have not.”

“Liz, you don’t understand,” he pressed gently. “You’re in a coma. You were hit by a taxi thirty eight days ago…and you’re not waking up.”

“No, see, that’s just wrong, Max,” she laughed awkwardly, glancing all around them in an effort to understand. “I’ve had some dreams about you lately, but that’s it.”

“You’re not waking up because you won’t let go of me,” he explained. “You have got to let go, Liz, and live.”

“I won’t do it.” Because suddenly she did understand, knew that she’d had him again all these weeks in the midst of such vivid dreams. “I won’t give you up.”

“I’m dead, Liz,” he whispered, cupping her face within his hands. “This version of me died eight years ago. You’ve always known it.”

Tears blurred her vision. “What are you trying to do to me, Max?” Her heart lurched with incredible pain. 

“Help you let go. It’s what I’ve been trying to do the whole time.”

“I can’t,” she disagreed, shaking her head firmly. “I won’t.”

“Liz, if you don’t choose to live, you will die in this hospital,” he whispered intently, drawing her face close to his. “You will die, and I’ll never have you again.”

“But you’re dead, you just said so,” she offered brightly. “So we can be together if I die!”

He shook his head slowly, just running his hand down the length of her hair. “Liz, this version of me is gone, long gone. Same as the beautiful seventeen-year-old girl is, the one I used to just sit in the Crashdown and stare at for hours on end.”

“What are you saying, Max?” she sobbed, as he pulled her close within his leather-clad arms. “Tell me.”

“Your heart has known all along, Liz,” he explained gently. “Your mind is starting to figure it out.” He pressed something into her hand then, and only when she glanced down at it, did she recognize it. David Peyton’s prosthetic.

Liz stared down at it, clutching it tightly within her fingers. “If I wake up, I’ll lose you.”

“You’ll find me,” he countered fiercely. “I’m waiting for you back in Santa Fe. That version of me needs you so much more than this one ever did…needs your love, your healing. God, your very touch, Liz.”

“I love him, too, but,” she reached deep within her lungs, dredging for any breath at all. 

“You haven’t let go of our past.”

She nodded hard, burying her face against the cool leather of his jacket, feeling his heart’s keen rhythm against her cheek. “I love him so much, Max. Already.”

“Then all you have to do is wake up.”

“Does David know? Who he is?”

“Yes,” he nodded, stroking her hair, soothing her just as sweetly as he ever had. “But he doesn’t remember everything.”

“About me?”

“What they did to him,” he paused a moment, then corrected himself. “To me. Liz, it’s going to be very difficult for him to speak about. There are places in his mind that aren’t quite as clear as others, memories that are missing, are damaged. But he knows exactly who you are, precisely what you mean to him.”

“Then why did he hide from me?” she cried. “Why didn’t you just tell me, Max? God, we could have been together!”

He stepped back then, stroking her cheek slowly beneath his thumb, just as David had the last night she’d seen him. “Did any of these things even happen, Max? Have I even met him? The paintings, were they real?”
“It all happened before you came to New York,” he nodded. “And you’ve been trying to figure it all out ever since. In your dreams.”

He stepped further away from her then, so young and handsome, like a lost fragment of her childhood, fading away. “Don’t go,” she choked again, tears burning her eyes.

“Open your eyes, Liz,” he encouraged softly, stepping even further away. “You’ve got to live, Liz.”

“I need to know why David hid from me,” she pressed, as Max stepped further from her, leaving her standing there by herself. “Please, Max.”

He turned from her then, with a melancholy smile, and mouthed the words, “I love you,” as he turned his back to her.

“Max!” she cried, clutching her chest. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel anything but a tightness in her chest and throat. 

But then he turned back to her, his long hair falling to his shoulders, and he moved much more slowly. And his face was disfigured, just as he’d told her, marred by countless jagged, angry scars. His jaw was misshapen and swollen, and yet…he was still her Max, beautiful in a strange, haunting way, as he walked carefully toward her, every step punctuated by his cane.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” she murmured again, wiping at her tears, as he drew near.

“Unworthy,” he explained slowly. “Felt…so unworthy.”

“Of what, David?” she asked, even though she knew he was Max now.

“You, Liz,” he said, reaching the place where she stood. “Your…love.”

“How could you have ever been unworthy of my love?”

“Broken,” he answered simply, staring down at the ground. “This…me, Liz.”

She lunged at him, not caring how forcefully she held him as she dragged him into her arms. “I love you, Max. You know that.”

He kissed the top of her head very gently, shyly even. “Like this?” he asked, the words slurring as they had with the mask on.

“Any way that you’d come to me, in my dreams even,” she cried, holding him closer than life itself. “I love you,” she murmured again against his chest.

He sighed softly, folding his arms close around her back, pulling her tight against himself. “Left… you.”

“To save me,” she countered, and he pulled back to look at her, his eyes widening in surprise. “I’ve always known that, Max.”

Tears filled his eyes then, and he just nodded, averting his eyes from her. “Look at me,” she whispered, cupping his scarred face within her palms, and slowly turning it until their eyes met. “You’re beautiful, Max.”

“No,” he disagreed shaking his head, then a slow smile spread across his unusual features, so that even his dimples appeared. “Striking. You beautiful.”

“You’re really waiting for me? Back home?”

“So worried,” he explained quietly. “Afraid…lose you.”

“What do I need to do, Max?” she asked, feeling her heart thunder in eager anticipation. “Just tell me.”

“Easy,” he whispered, stroking the length of her hair lovingly. “Open…”

“My eyes,” she finished, and he nodded in agreement.

And just like that, she did. 

The cold wind gave way to warm sheets. The feel of Max’s arms dissolved to the touch of Michael’s worried hand on her arm. The sounds of laughter and traffic morphed into the whispers of her nurses, as slowly her eyes fluttered open. 

She could only squint for a moment, couldn’t move at all, as she gazed around the room. Michael sat beside the bed, reading a magazine, yet his warm hand rested right on her arm. Beside him, Maria sat sleeping, her head resting on Michael’s shoulder. Liz blinked repeatedly at the bright lights, just listening to the strange repetitive noises in the room, one in particular that kept making a light suction sound.

Michael glanced up at her from his magazine suddenly, though she was certain she hadn’t moved at all. His brown eyes grew wide with surprise, almost shocked seeming, as he stared at her wordlessly. She blinked a few times, and he remained silent, just stroking her arm beneath his hand. The moment was like a stolen secret between them, stretching like eternity, his eyes locked with her own.

It was as it had been between them on that that sun-parched day long ago, when he’d emerged from the chamber without Max, and met her expectant gaze. Only this moment was like the negative of a photograph, because rather than bringing death, it promised life. Rather than signifying their loss of Max, she returned with him held delicately in her heart, ready to give him to back to all the others.

She returned from the near-grave with news that would change all their lives forever, and that was the last thing Liz thought, as she drifted soundlessly back to sleep, hearing Michael cry, “Get the nurse!”

Chapter 15

Apparently, it was April. Or so Michael had explained when she finally woke with some degree of clarity.

She’d gazed around the room again, studying the strange machines that pulsated rhythmically, some nearly soundlessly. More time had obviously passed, causing a shroud of darkness to fall over her room, yet Michael remained by her side, appearing haggard and tired. 

She’d tried talking almost immediately, but he’d taken her hand within his own clammy one and gently stroked her hair, explaining that she was still on a respirator, a breathing tube inserted down her throat. She’d nodded in slow understanding, glimpsing undeniable pain in his brown eyes as he studied her. 

What? she formed soundlessly in her mind, aching just to talk to him. But then the look quickly disappeared, leaving her with the impression that he suffered to see her like this. But she also had the sense that there was much she didn’t know about the past thirty-eight days.

If your heart stops again, they won’t revive you, she heard whisper through her mind. Max had said that, in her dream. But at the time she hadn’t thought of the implications as she did now, blearily studying Michael’s shadowed features as he continued softly stroking her hair.

“Liz, we’ve all been so worried about you,” he explained. “Everyone’s been here. Maria, me… your parents.”

She raised her eyebrows in question, glancing around the room meaningfully and he rushed to explain. “Went back to Roswell last night. Just for a couple of days to see to some business stuff…they’re killing themselves that they weren’t here when you woke. Neither one of them has left until now, Liz.”

She nodded wordlessly, her throat aching with tight dryness. Lightly, she reached a weak hand to her mouth, raising her eyebrows in question. “The respirator is off,” Michael explained. “But they didn’t want to remove the tube yet,” he paused, casting his gaze downward momentarily. “Well, until they were sure you were breathing well on your own.”

Again, she nodded, suddenly very tired. She closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting to David, secure at the mere thought of his gentle presence, as surreal images from his paintings floated through her mind. Red flowers, surrounding her, knee-high and glorious. Then Max, lying on his side, innocent and seductive all at once, as a starched linen shirt fell open, revealing his chest…the two of them, staring up at the Antarian Sky, at a glorious pair of twin moons on the horizon.

What had David thought of her prolonged absence all these weeks? Had he believed that she was simply ignoring his emails, she wondered with a start, her eyes fluttering open again.

Because chasing quickly on the heels of that thought was another. David Peyton was Max. In the thick gauze of sleep, she’d forgotten that newly discovered fact.

She glanced quickly at Michael, feeling panicked. “What, Liz?” he asked, concern etching his features. “What’s wrong?”

Her eyes darted around the room, seeking some way to communicate, as she tugged slightly on the tube that half-choked her. Michael’s hand immediately clasped hers, stopping her reflexive action.

“Liz, don’t,” he urged her, his voice still so surprisingly gentle. “It has to stay in.” She sank further into her bed, wishing he could know her unspoken thoughts, when suddenly he reached beside the bed, retrieving a pencil and paper.

“Can you write it?” he offered, and she nodded, taking the pencil within her weakened fingers. Just holding the instrument was difficult enough, and manipulating it from her reclining position proved even tougher. She raised the pad to an eye-level position, desperate to scribble her question. She managed to write “David” with a question mark after, though she wasn’t sure how legible his name appeared.

She handed the paper to Michael, flinching as sharp pain shot through her shoulder like fire. She lifted her fingers, rubbing her shoulder and was surprised to find it bandaged tightly. 

“Broken collarbone,” Michael explained. “That and one bruised jaw, two broken ribs, a broken wrist, and one hell of a concussion,” he cataloged, as he glanced down at the paper, drawing his eyebrows together in confusion. She blinked in silent understanding, but had the distinct feeling he was withholding additional information about her injuries.

He continued to study the paper in his hands, chewing his lip. “I can’t read this, Liz,” he finally admitted. “I’m sorry.”

She closed her eyes in exhaustion. All she wanted to know was whether he’d heard from David, not that she expected that he would—which meant that he’d remained in Santa Fe, undoubtedly convinced that she’d decided his physical appearance bothered her too much to continue their nascent relationship. Liz’s chest tightened painfully. She would never have wanted to hurt the David Peyton she’d already fallen in love with—and now that she knew he was Max, that idea pained her far worse. 

She stared at Michael in frustration, and again he stroked her hair slowly beneath his fingertips. “Liz, we’ve got plenty of time to talk about everything.”

She nodded, and then had an idea. She gestured toward her face, making a sweeping motion across her features with her hand, and prayed he’d understand that she indicated a mask.

His brown eyes widened, as he glanced again at the paper. “David,” he answered simply and she nodded.

Michael ran a hand through his long hair, leaning back into his chair with a soft sigh. “Liz, he knows,” he explained. “He…called me in Santa Fe and left a message,” he began. “I…well, Liz, I owe you an apology about him. I was really wrong.”

Liz smiled wanly, her whole body warming at the notion that Michael truly had no idea just how wrong he’d been, and had no idea that his other best friend would soon be restored to him. That thought was especially touching as she observed how he shifted awkwardly in his seat, clearly feeling guilty for all his derogatory remarks about David Peyton.

“I think he loves you, Liz,” he continued. “That’s the only way I know to explain how I felt when he called. In fact, he calls here everyday, something that’s obviously very difficult for him with his…well, with his speech problem.” Michael averted his eyes, and Liz imagined the first conversation between Michael and “David,” and how it might have gone.

I…call…Liz, she heard in her mind, imagining how strange his slurring and broken syntax must have sounded to Michael in the beginning. If only he knew the truth.

“He found out about your accident from the newspaper, and called me at home. Left a message on my voice mail. I guess you’d mentioned my name or something.” Liz nodded in agreement, keenly aware of precisely how he’d remembered Michael’s name so easily. “Yeah, well, he was clearly really worried, Liz. Like I said, I think he really does care about you. I phoned him earlier and let him know you’d come out of the coma.”

Liz closed her eyes, remembering Max’s dream words to her. So afraid…lose you. He’d been waiting for her back in Santa Fe all these weeks, probably too intimidated to come to her in New York, or perhaps not feeling it was appropriate. Yet, loving her enough that he’d risked contacting Michael as he had.

***

“What about David?” Michael asked, leaning close over her bed. They’d extubated her earlier in the morning, but her throat was so raw and tight, she could only whisper breathily in his ear.

“David…is…Max,” she repeated, feeling his long hair fan against her cheek. Michael leaned back, studying her in confusion, and she fought to keep her eyes open. For days now, she’d drifted in and out of consciousness, her thoughts remaining on the border of some netherworld existence.

“David is Max,” he finally repeated, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. “What?”

She motioned him close again, and he leaned low over her bed. She reached a hand and cupped his scratchy cheek within her hand. “I…love you,” she whispered quietly, needing him to know her heart before she continued. “Michael.”

“Liz,” he soothed softly, kissing her cheek. “I know that and I love you, too. Tell me again,” he continued. “I’m trying to understand.”

“I…know.” For a moment, she thought of Max, of how difficult it was for him to express himself, and understood how trapped he must feel at times like this, when he burned to say something.

“David Peyton is Max,” she repeated on a breath. “They’re the same person, Michael.”

“Liz, you’ve been asleep a long time,” he began, leaning away from her. He thinks my mind is just muddled, she realized hopelessly, her eyes suddenly heavy again.

“Michael, ask him,” she begged with all the energy she could summon. “Please just ask…” 

And then sleep enveloped her once again, leading her toward her beloved.

***



They were lying in the field of flowers again, lush red blooms surrounding them in every direction. Max propped lazily on his elbow, staring down into her eyes with what could only be described as a princely mien. The unusual Antarian sunlight caught his eyes differently than the Earth’s sun ever had, flecking the gold seductively, making his depths shimmer and change by the moment.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered, reaching a hand to stroke his cheek, and he dropped his gaze immediately. “How could I have forgotten just how this feels?”

“Did you forget?” he asked, his voice suddenly low and husky.

“No,” she admitted, allowing her fingers to explore the left side of his face. “Never did I forget. I think that was the problem.”

“And now?” he asked, his eyes growing suddenly doubtful. “Are you frightened of me?”

“I could never be afraid of you, Max.”

“What about how I’ll look,” he offered, lowering his lips to her forehead, sealing it with a warm kiss that caused her to shiver. “Don’t you worry it might be…shocking?”

“Show me,” she encouraged, stroking the hair along the nape of his neck, as he nuzzled his mouth low against her collarbone.

“Is this where it hurts?” he asked, his lips lingering along the place where her bone had been shattered. 

“Yes,” she managed, suddenly aware that something was changing between them, something physical.

“Let me heal it,” he promised, tracing his fingertips along the base of her throat, then delicately outlining her fractured bones. Instantly, she felt the injury repair beneath his loving touch. She sighed, settling back into the grass.

“I still want you to show me,” she encouraged, as he pulled back to stare into her eyes. His face remained perfect, his skin smooth and gilded by the setting sun.

“You’ve already seen the worst of it,” he finally answered, studying her carefully.

“Why haven’t you healed yourself, Max?” she asked in confusion, and he rolled away from her, onto his back. “Or why didn’t anyone else?”

His eyes became unspeakably melancholy as he rolled onto his back, nestling his head against hers quietly. “You ask tough questions sometimes, sweetheart.”

“It’s why you love me,” she laughed, drawing his hand to her lips and kissing his fingers slowly.

“I do love it, but it’s not why I love you,” he disagreed quietly. “Not by a long shot.” She didn’t miss how serious his voice had grown. All the amorous teasing was gone, and now a somber mood settled quickly over them. “I couldn’t heal myself,” he finally answered. “I tried over and over.”

“But…why not?” she asked, feeling very confused. “Was it because the injuries were your own?”

“Maybe, but I don’t think so,” he admitted. “My people think Khivar planted something in my mind, my soul even.”

She sat up with a start, staring down at him in shock. A stranger couldn’t plant something in your soul, it shouldn’t even be possible. Max just continued lying on his back, staring at her with an unthinkably sad expression on his face. 

“How could he do that, Max?” she finally managed thickly. “Your soul is your own.”

He nodded silently, reaching a tentative hand to stroke her hair back over her shoulder. “Yes, it is my own. But that didn’t prevent him from extracting as much vengeance within mine as he could.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, feeling tears sting her eyes. How had such a beautiful moment as this one, something filled with childlike innocence, and sensuality all at once, been so easily darkened?

“Not here,” he finally said, seeming to read her mind. “Not like this, Liz. I’ll explain in Santa Fe.”

“Why couldn’t anyone else heal you?” she pressed, wondering why these questions seemed so critical, yet nearly impossible to voice.

Max’s gaze wavered, and instead seemed to move to the sky, where the twin moons had continued their ascendance. “Look at them,” he whispered in awe. “Come close to me, Liz and just look.”

She settled onto her back again, nestling against his side, so that they both stared up at the heavens. “I watched them like this every night from my cell. They were a rare moment of beauty every day. And every day I’d whisper to you across the galaxies. Did you ever hear me?”

He turned toward her then, cupping her cheek within his palm, his expression growing melancholy again. “You didn’t, did you?”

“I…I’m not sure, Max,” she finally admitted. 

“You believed me dead,” he stated simply and she swallowed hard, nodding. 

“You can heal me,” he whispered, the words moving like electricity across her very heart. “The elders, my followers…they couldn’t get past the blocks Khivar placed inside me. But you can.”

“Me?” she asked, turning toward him in surprise.

“My gift is inside you, ever since that day at the Crashdown. You just don’t realize it. My soul is inside yours since that day, too,” he continued slowly, obviously wanting her to understand. “I’m telling you now because David doesn’t understand. He needs you, Liz. Like I told you before, he needs you more than you can imagine.”

“I don’t understand…about our souls.”

“Did you feel alive all these years? When you felt I was dead?” he asked seriously, leaning up on his elbow to gaze into her eyes. 

She thought for a long moment, closing her eyes at the impact of his words. Finally, she whispered, “No. I was dead.”

“You were dead as you felt me to be,” he explained huskily. “Because our souls are like those moons above us, Liz. Twins, joined yet separate. As one moves, so does the other, even though we might be a universe apart.”

“Then why was I so sure you’d died that night? I felt it, Max. I felt you reach to me, then you just…” She couldn’t finish, as tears began streaking her face, choking her very words from her throat.

“Because I did die that night.”

“What?” she cried, her eyes flying open in shocked disbelief. “But you told me you didn’t. You said so!”

“I reached to you just before it happened, and then,” he paused, running a nervous hand through his hair. “I died. I actually left my body and saw it lying on the floor of the cell beneath me. But then I felt you, reaching for me, pulling me back and I couldn’t go yet. You saved my life that night, Liz. By promising me you’d never leave me.”

Liz closed her eyes as the tears coursed her cheeks, and she buried her face against his chest. “You saved me,” he whispered again. “You’ve always saved me, Liz.”

***



“How long have I been out of the coma?” Liz asked sleepily, gazing up at Michael where she’d found him sitting beside her bed. He’d been staring blankly at the wall, clearly deep in thought when she’d woken again. 

“Ten days.”

“Where is everybody else?” she asked groggily, glancing around the room. It was dark again, lit only by the dim glowing displays of the monitors and the corridor lights. 

“Well, Maria went home to rest, your parents are back at the hotel.”

“And you’re here with me,” she finished.

“I’m here with you,” he agreed, nodding slowly.

“Thank you, Michael,” she whispered, reaching for his hand. “You’ve been here every day, I know.”

“I couldn’t have been anywhere else, Liz,” he explained quietly. “You know that. I’ve been insane…we all have.”

“I’m going to be okay, Michael,” she reassured him. He nodded, squeezing her hand warmly within his own, and then their fingers threaded together, as she drew his hand against her chest. They remained like that for several long moments, and she stole periodic glances at him, feeling a certain weight press against her. She knew Michael better than anyone else, and she sensed that he longed to tell her something. 

“What is it, Michael?” she finally asked, feeling somewhat apprehensive. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He sighed, leaning closer toward her, still holding her hand tightly. “Liz, I need to talk to you about something.” She noticed that his voice wavered nervously, and her heart began beating in nervous apprehension. Perhaps she had some permanent injury, something that was going to leave her debilitated.

She tried sitting up in bed, and he stopped her with his hand. “You still need to lie down,” he explained quietly.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Michael,” she pressed, feeling her voice grow tight. “You’re scaring me.”

And then he did the most surprising thing. He began laughing, a joyous sound that was completely incongruous with how nervous he seemed. She wrinkled her nose in confusion, just staring at him. 

“Liz, it’s…it’s not bad,” he explained warmly. “Just hard to say.”

“Okay,” she answered, still feeling a little wary. “Go on.”

“Do you even remember what you tried telling me about David Peyton when you first came out of the coma?” he asked. 

She thought a moment, staring up at the ceiling. She’d tried writing Michael some note that first day or so, though she couldn’t recall what had been in it now.

“Kind of,” she finally answered. “But I’m not sure what it said.”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

She shook her head. “Not really, no. Something about… if he knew I was in the hospital?”

“More than that, Liz. A lot more,” he continued, his eyes dancing with undisguised joy. “You told me that David Peyton is Max.”

“What?” she laughed, wondering why on earth she’d have told him something so ludicrous. Yet the notion felt incredibly familiar, undeniably true, and her laughter faded on her lips. Something about the way Michael’s brown eyes danced as he stared at her caused her abdomen to twist in expectation.

“That’s what you told me,” he explained, his voice edged with excitement. “God, I don’t even know why you suddenly thought that, but… well I had to go back to Santa Fe to check on the gallery and something made me want to know if you were just crazy…”

“Or if I was telling the truth,” she whispered, realization beginning to dawn. Her dreams began crystallizing in her mind again, as memories of talking to Max came into sharp relief.

“Yeah, Liz,” he nodded, smiling. “As crazy as it was, I had to know. So I went to see David. Unannounced.”

Liz realized her entire body had grown taut as a drum, from her hands to her toes, as if she were bracing for a sharp blow. “Tell me,” she finally whispered tightly. “Michael, please.”

Michael bowed his head a moment, reaching inside his jacket pocket. He produced a pristine white envelope, and she saw her name written in neat hand on the front—in David Peyton’s familiar handwriting. Carefully, he passed the letter to her, as if by way of explanation. 

“What are you saying, Michael?” she all but cried, taking the envelope within her hand.

“Max is alive, Liz,” he explained quietly, tears filling his eyes. “Very much alive.”
She stared at the white envelope through eyes blurred with her own tears, then drew it to her lips, just pressing it there. For a long moment, she remained completely silent, her thoughts spinning in countless directions—back to her coma-induced dreams, through her more recent ones, and then to her time with David in Santa Fe. 

“I think I always knew,” she finally whispered, closing her eyes. “Somehow my heart recognized him from the very beginning.” My mind just had to figure it out, she finished silently, recalling the repeated words of Max’s dream self.

“You figured it out in the coma, didn’t you?” Michael asked.

“He came to me, in my dreams,” she explained, remembering her vision of Max at Rockefeller Center. “Max did. And told me to wake up. Then he told me he was David.”

“He thinks you won’t have anything to do with him now,” Michael explained, laughing softly. “Same old Maxwell. Stubborn as hell… he’s convinced you’ll never forgive him for leaving in the first place, and now for not telling you who he was once he came back.”

Liz just shook her head. “Did you explain?”

“What?”

“That I stopped living the day I thought he died,” she cried hoarsely. “How can he think I’d do anything other than love him? That I ever could?”

“Because he thinks you won’t accept the way he looks now,” Michael answered seriously. “That it will be too much.”

Liz stared at Michael through her tears, feeling a sob well up within her chest. “What did they do to him, Michael?”

“I…I’m not sure, but it’s a lot deeper than what they did to his body. It’s what they did to his soul.”

She nodded, wiping at the tears. “How bad is it? The disfigurement?” she asked, though it hardly mattered to her. The only reason she asked was because her heart broke for him, at the memory of how he’d hid behind the prosthetic, so clearly ashamed of his appearance. 

Michael dropped his gaze suddenly, avoiding her eyes and she felt her chest tighten. “It’s bad, Liz,” he finally answered, glancing up at her significantly before continuing. “But not nearly as bad as he thinks it is. That’s the real problem.”

She nodded, swallowing hard, remembering how he’d flinched when she’d reached a hand to the left side of his face, averting it so quickly from her touch. How mortified he’d been for her to feel the contours of his injuries.

“What did you tell him about me?” she finally continued. “About what I’d think?”

“That part was easy,” Michael explained, folding his arms over his chest as he studied her. “I told him that if he didn’t know one thing about Liz Parker by now, he never would. That you were his soul mate, plain and simple, and that was something that no scars could ever change.”

“I fell in love with him again as David,” she whispered. “I didn’t care what he looked like, how badly disfigured he might be. I just loved him with all my heart already.”

“I know and I told him that, too,” Michael smiled reflectively. “That not in ten years had you ever fallen for anyone, not until the mysterious David Peyton appeared,” he continued, and Liz didn’t miss the faintest edge of melancholy in his voice at the admission. “That’s what made me wonder if you were right about his identity, Liz. The way he’d affected you.”

Liz stared at the envelope, fingering it. “He’s just afraid, Liz,” Michael continued softly. “That you won’t love him. That you can’t now.”
“I can deal with that,” she answered with a resolute nod. “I can definitely deal with that.”

“I tried to get him to come back to New York with me, but he thought you’d need some time.”

“What did you tell him about you and me?” Liz suddenly asked, glancing at Michael meaningfully. He dropped his gaze again, blushing slightly.

“That things had changed since he left,” Michael explained huskily. “That you’re my best friend. That you’re a really important part of my life now and he’s going to have to get used to that fact.”

“I’m sure he had something interesting to say about that,” she giggled, feeling tears burn her eyes anew.

Michael coughed, shifting self-consciously in his chair, and Liz wondered why he seemed suddenly so shy. Finally, he answered her. “Yeah, he was really glad we’ve had one another all this time,” he answered. “That neither of us was alone.” Then, he began laughing sheepishly. “That, and he gloated that I finally figured out why he always loved you so much.”

Liz thought he seemed a tad guilty at the last, until he laughed softly. “Kind of ironic, huh?”

“How do you mean?”

“Before, I gave him such a hard time about you, about how in love he was with you,” he answered quietly. “And in the end, I couldn’t live without you any more than he could. The past few weeks taught me that much for sure.”

“Oh, Michael,” she whispered, reaching for his hand, and cradling it close against her cheek. “Thank you for believing me. For going to him.”

“And now he’s waiting for you, Liz,” he answered. “I don’t think he’ll be able to rest until he sees you again… and as himself, not David Peyton.”

Liz nodded, gazing down at the envelope in her hands again. And knew that she wouldn’t be able to rest either, not until she held Max in her arms, their two bodies forming as one. Not until she beheld his handsome face again, no matter how badly it was scarred. 

For Max Evans could only ever be one thing to her—her beautiful beloved.

Chapter 16

Hold me in your hands like a bunch of flowers,

Set me moving to your sweetest song.

I know what I think I’ve known all along…

Loving you is the right thing to do.

Carly Simon



The airplane banked, slicing effortlessly through a cloud until it emerged high above the frothy white, bathed in sunlight. Liz squinted, leaning her head against the oval windowpane beside her seat. So much had changed since the last time she’d traveled on a plane. Two months had passed, and the season had transitioned from winter to late spring. 

And now she was going home.

Her heart quickened in anticipation, as her thoughts moved to Max, to seeing him once she was back in Santa Fe. She was thankful that she was returning alone with Michael, and not her parents. She wasn’t ready to explain Max’s mysterious return to them yet, not when more pressing matters weighed on her mind. Like getting through Max’s stubborn assumptions about her ability to love him. Or figuring out how she was the one who could ultimately heal him, as he’d explained in the dream.

That part perplexed her considerably, but she’d already decided to proceed slowly, and keep it like a carefully guarded confidence. Somehow she knew that the right moment would present itself, but until then she would focus on simply loving him, healing him with her heart.

Michael had assured her parents that he would help her settle back into the house, and ultimately urged them to return separately to Roswell a few days earlier. Still, they’d continued hovering over her until the very last moment, even long after her move to a regular hospital room. Liz had grown impatient, though she’d tried to imagine how she would have felt if her own daughter had nearly died. 

Unconsciously, Liz traced a finger across her collarbone. While still in ICU, it had inexplicably improved one night, mystifying her team of doctors. Yet Liz wasn’t bewildered at all. She remembered the way Max had traced his fingers along that fragile place, leaving a fiery trail in the wake of his healing. It didn’t matter that it had been in her dream, because in that moment, their souls had touched. Just as they had on the countless other occasions where they’d met in that in-between place of dreams and wakefulness, the realm where souls brushed together.

Liz closed her eyes and breathed in and out, until she sensed him deep inside of her. That was the thing she’d learned in the coma—and then remembered in the subsequent days after she’d woken. Some part of Max, a latent bit of his soul, lay deeply entwined with her own, ever since he’d healed her in the Crashdown. And nothing could tear that from within her, not death, or illness, not even a chasm that spanned galaxies.

Their souls were interlaced, like a carefully wrought sculpture, where the beginning melded seamlessly into the end and back again.

Now she just had to make him understand that a bond like that transcended mere appearances, that despite his scars and slow gait—even his prosthetic—he was breathtakingly beautiful to her. That had never changed.

Liz glanced sideways at Michael, but he was wearing his headphones, watching the movie that had just begun, so she clandestinely reached inside her briefcase and retrieved Max’s letter. 

The first time she’d read it, she’d begun sobbing halfway through, and then with every subsequent reading, she’d continued to cry, though more quietly into her hospital pillow. It had reminded her of his letter from so long ago, and how she’d lain in bed for weeks, burying her face against his leather jacket for comfort. If she’d had that familiar jacket in the hospital, she’d have been holding it along with the letter, not just the cool edge of her hospital sheet.

But now, her emotions were shifting. Perhaps it was knowing that she was only a few hours away from seeing Max again, but the tears had finally dried. Instead they were replaced by a keen sense of expectation, her heart thundering as she imagined holding him in her arms again at last. 

She sighed as she unfolded the letter and began reading the now familiar words, ones she’d nearly memorized in her heart’s deepest places.



My beautiful Liz,

I’ve stared at this empty page for hours now. If only I understood it as well as the blank canvases I paint upon. If only I knew how to wield a pen as well as a paintbrush, or understood my heart well enough to express it to you in words.

How do I cover the span of ten years in one letter? 

How do I tell my beloved that I never wanted to leave her so many years ago, and that I certainly never intended to deceive her when I returned?

I suppose I must begin as I do with every painting, first a stroke, then another. For you’ve always known the quiet language of my soul, Liz. That’s why you responded to my paintings as you did, as if I were making love to you with each piece. Because in a very real way, I was.

I’ve dreamed of you every night for years now. Yet those dreams have changed in recent weeks, becoming more vivid and lifelike while you were in the coma. It was as if we began speaking to one another then, sharing secret things between our souls. 

For so long, I’ve wanted you to know the real reason why I left with Tess, and while Michael assures me that you knew I left to save you, nothing will ever erase my regret. Not your forgiveness, not time. Not even countless paintings where I’ve tried to show you how I ached. 

And because of that regret, I determined to stay as far from you as possible when I returned from Antar--because I didn’t want to hurt you any more than I already had.

So when I arrived here a year ago, I lost myself in New York City, miles from where I knew you lived. I literally forced myself to stay away, and for a very little while it worked. Then I saw Maria on Spring Street one afternoon. She never even knew, yet with that one glimpse, it was as if all the intervening years had just evaporated.

After that I had to come home. To follow my heart where it has always led me, back to you, Liz. No matter where I’ve been in the universe, even in prison all those years, my heart was always with you.

I’m not the same, Liz. I can’t pretend that I am, and surely even with the prosthetic you can see that. I’m a twenty-eight year old man whose body seems to grow more ancient every day. Sometimes the pain in my jaw and knee becomes so unbearable I think I’ll go mad. But that’s what they did to me--drove me mad, bit by bit. By breaking my body, stealing my memories, and marring my soul.

I should not speak of these things. Instead, I should just say that I love you. That all I ever lived for was coming home to you, even though I tried to fight it. But beneath the prosthetic, my face is forever changed, Liz. My jaw is swollen and disfigured. The scars, they're deep and brutal, and there are a lot of them. In my heart I couldn’t imagine that you’d love me like this, yet I couldn’t stop hoping.

Michael tells me that all these years, you were certain that I’d died. But by now, if my recent dreams are true, you understand what really did happen. Because I’ve told you countless times in the past month, over and over. Needed you to know that you did feel me die that night, that you sensed the moment when my spirit left my body. But you drew me back with your promise. “I will never leave you,” you said. 

And that’s why I had to hope, despite my broken body, despite my ruined face--that you might still love a man who loved you as deeply as I always have. 

That’s why I left you the very first painting, and why I couldn’t stay away afterwards. 

That unspeakable night eight years ago, Khivar called me to his chambers. He hated me because of my family, my claim to his throne, but it was more than that. He despised my humanity. And knowing that a mere human bore the royal Antarian seal, well let’s just say that he despised that most of all. I was beaten beyond recognition that night, as he watched, then later he mindraped me. But that wasn’t enough. He wanted my face, that mark of humanity that mocked him so forcefully. His guards took it that night, with their weapons, their hands.

And then they left me on the floor of my cell to die. No one returned for nearly six days. Maybe longer, I’m honestly not sure. The only thing I held on for was you, Liz. The six longest days of my life and I clung to you with every breath.

I long for you even now. To have you back in my arms, to touch you, and yet I fear so much. I know you’ve seen me in your dreams. Seen my face. And I know that you’ve not run; yet I can’t silence the fears. But I shall certainly try, Liz. I will do whatever it takes to be ready for you, for when you return to me.

I love you more than you’ll ever know. Yours, Max



***



After reading his letter, Liz had immediately yearned to call Max and dispel every one of his fears about her love for him, scars and all. But as many times as she had reached toward the phone, something had always stopped her. Perhaps it was the knowledge of how difficult it was for him to talk, she wasn’t sure, but replying by letter had seemed the only proper response, especially since she knew their first conversation would be an emotional one. 

So once she was transferred to a regular hospital room a few days later, and even though Michael urged her to rest longer, she powered up her laptop and began composing a careful reply. 

Max had raised so many issues in his letter, and she ached for him to understand that her love for him had never diminished. That forgiveness was a gift she could easily give, especially when he’d only left to save her life, and had never stopped paying such a terrible price for that one act. 

It had been difficult to type with her wrist still bandaged, so she’d worked to formulate words within her mind that day, and then carefully translated them into a brief e-mail. Yet she’d hoped that her simple words would adequately reflect the incredible depths of her feelings for him.



Dear Max,

After so many years, do you not know my heart? Could I ever love you less than I did from the beginning? In my dreams you told me that you left part of your soul inside my own that day you healed me. And I have no doubt that somehow a part of mine is hidden deeply inside of you, as well.

I’m coming home to you, Max. But until then, know that I fell in love with you all over again as David Peyton, because my heart would recognize you anywhere. Like I said then, no one has ever made me feel the way Max Evans did—until that night.

I’ll never forget the way just being in your bungalow electrified me. How just gazing at your paintings set my soul afire. Or even how your simplest emails set me blushinglike a seventeen-year-old girl. God, who else could ever move me like that, Max? The answer is simple. Only you.

There is much more to say, but Maria is scowling at me, and I think Michael will join her next if I do not rest. So, I will save the words to whisper in your ear very soon, Max. Until then, know that I yearn for you as never before, and that the years have only magnified those feelings inside my heart.

All my love,
Liz



And so had begun the exchange of a series of loving e-mails between them, traded approximately once a day for the past week. Each letter had only intensified her need to see him, to touch his face, more acutely than the last. Liz closed her eyes and reached inside her soul again, breathing in and out, and tried to calm her rapidly thundering heart.

Only a few more hours, she promised herself, clutching his letter against her chest.



***



“Okay, so you’ve got groceries in the fridge, and your stuff’s unloaded from the car,” Michael announced, giving her living room a cursory glance. He’d insisted on settling her on the sofa with pillows and a blanket, before actually going home himself. 

While Liz felt a bit hovered over, she couldn’t fight the sense that he and Max had arrived at some kind of undisclosed agreement. The two of them seemed far too insistent that she rest after her long travels, rather than see Max. She didn’t have trouble guessing who the chief conspirator probably was, as Michael moved around her living room, giving everything one final inspection before he left her.

“Michael, I’m fine,” she assured him with an embarrassed laugh, leaning back against her pillows. “I promise.”

“It was a long trip, Liz,” he reminded her seriously, folding his arms across his chest as if he dared her to challenge him. 

“You carted me to and from the gates in a wheelchair,” she complained, staring up into his brown eyes. 

“Because you were only released from the hospital yesterday, Liz.”

“I haven’t done anything all day but sit on an airplane.”

“Is this an argument for going to Max’s?” he questioned, his eyes narrowing seriously, though she saw them dance with a bit of playful mischief.

“No, because Max won’t hear of it,” she sighed in frustration. “We already discussed it by email. He’s insisting I rest tonight, just like you are.”
“Well, he’s right.”

“I’ve waited ten years to see him again and I’m going crazy.”

“Too bad,” Michael laughed, tossing her the television remote control, which landed on her lap. “So is he. But he knows you need the rest, Liz.”

“And you know this because?” she waved her hand in the air, wondering just how often he’d been communicating with Max in the past few weeks.

“Because he told me on the phone last night,” Michael supplied with a boyish grin.

“You’re saying that just to infuriate me,” Liz huffed. “You know how badly I want to talk to him.”

Michael turned toward her kitchen counter, retrieved her cordless telephone, and then tossed it to her as easily as he’d just flung the remote. “Then call him.”

Liz stared down at the receiver where it rested against her legs. “I don’t want to,” she admitted softly.

“God, would you just give him a call already?” Michael cried in exasperation. “The two of you are driving me insane.”

“It’s so hard for him to speak,” she explained, tucking a stray hair behind her ear as she stared up at Michael. “When we talk the first time, I want it to be in person.”

“You have talked before,” Michael countered gently, sitting on the arm of the sofa. “Only you thought he was David Peyton.”

“That was different,” she answered, dropping her gaze to her lap.

“And it’s not that hard for him, Liz. He actually does pretty well on the phone.”

“I think I’m afraid,” she admitted, her voice tremulous. “I just don’t know what of.”

“Of course you’re afraid, Liz,” Michael nodded, reaching to rub her foot in reassurance. “But just call him and tell him to get his ass over here.”

“I thought you wanted me to rest?” Liz asked in confusion. 

“I do,” he agreed, moving close to where she lay on the couch. “But I know you too damn well, Liz. You’re only going to lie here and fret.” He bent low and kissed her softly on the temple. “So call him already.”

“Maybe,” she answered, cradling the phone within her hand. 

Michael moved toward her foyer to leave, then turned back to her. “You know the number?” he called.

“He gave it to me in an e-mail.” And I memorized it instantly, she added silently.

Michael just smiled at her, shaking his head as he left. “Talk to you tomorrow, Liz,” he called over his shoulder with a wave of his hand, disappearing out her front door. Liz heard his key turn in the deadbolt, and leaned back into the pillows he’d arranged behind her. The truth was, she was tired, though not nearly as much as she’d expected. But she knew that the plan she’d formulated with Max was best—that she would take this first night to recuperate from her journey home, then see him the next day.



***



Liz ran down the darkened beach, the long white dress flowing around her, whipping in the ocean breeze. Max laughed behind her, catching hold of her arm, then spinning her easily into his warm embrace. 

It was the first time she’d glimpsed his face that night, and he was stunning. The twin moons caused his eyes to nearly burn, flashing darkly in the pale golden light. But that wasn’t the only thing that struck her. His face was etched with countless scars, dark even in the moonlight, and his left eye was partially closed. They gave his face a rugged appeal that he’d never possessed before.

And she’d never wanted him more.

They tumbled easily onto the sand in one another’s arms, unable to stop the passion quickly unfurling between their two bodies.

As in the field of red flowers, Max wore a white linen shirt that fell open revealing the smooth skin of his chest. Only this time, she glimpsed a jagged scar that slashed over his heart, puckered and angry. “No way to dress on the beach,” she teased, as he drew her flush against himself, where he lay on his side. She traced her fingertips along his chest, outlining the scar.

“How would you have me dress?” he laughed, combing his fingers through her long tresses, as they settled on the sand.

Her hand wandered along the waistband of his leather pants, her fingers dipping easily inside the edge. She teased with her fingertips, aching for so much more.

Yet this was all that had ever existed between them. There was only the two of them, together in their dreams, as in love as they’d been as mere children. He was always her beautiful Antarian lover, clad in the traditional wardrobe of a prince, and she his young bride, ready for their wedding night.

As Max bent his head low, capturing her lips for a kiss, she sensed how controlled his passion was. That he wanted much more of her, yet the sweetest kisses were all he claimed. 

“Tell me why,” he whispered softly in her ear, his voice surprisingly serious. She pulled back and gazed at him, still surprised to see how his face was etched with jagged scars.

“Why, what?” she asked, her heart quickening its pace.

“Kyle,” he answered, rolling onto his back. This was how it always seemed to end. Whether in the field of flowers, or here on the beach, the kisses always ended. Became secrets shared between their two hearts.

“You’ve asked about him once before,” she clarified. His voice had grown indescribably quiet and her heart ached. “Long ago.”

“I don’t remember the answer,” he said, propping his head atop his arm, as he stared up at the darkened sky. “I know I saw you in bed with him,” he answered softly. “But I don’t feel like you slept with him. I never have.”

“Oh, Max,” she whispered, rolling onto her side to stare down at him. She traced her fingertip across his cheek, outlining the harsh marks that lined it. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re wearing white,” he observed, glancing sideways at her. “You always are in these dreams. An Antarian Princess or Queen can’t wear this white dress unless she’s saved herself for her husband.”

“Max, I did save myself for you. Always.”

“All these years I’ve tried to remember, to understand,” he continued, raking his fingers through his long, dark hair. “I think I did at least a little before…that night.”

“What night?” Liz asked, leaning closer toward him. 

“When Khivar mindraped me,” he explained, his voice growing weary and distant. “He stole my memories then, and some things have never made sense again.”

“But Max, the reason you don’t understand is because I never had the chance to explain. You’re missing some memories, but that’s not why you’re confused.”

“But why?” he asked, glancing at her. “Why would you have lied to me about that? I don’t remember…don’t understand,” he explained, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He sounded so vulnerable and lost, that Liz instantly felt tears sting her eyes. “I’m just trying to make sense of the memories I do have, Liz.”

“I know,” she soothed, pressing gentle kisses against his cheek. “Of course, sweetheart.”

It had never occurred to her that in their years apart, he might have wondered if she’d actually slept with Kyle. Not when she’d told him that much of the truth before he left. Her heart broke silently as she realized that he’d remained unsure about the facts, always riddling over the disjointed and remembered pieces that he did possess. Yet he seemed equally certain that she remained untouched because of the white dress she wore in so many of his dreams.

“Max, trust me when I tell you that nothing happened with Kyle,” she promised solemnly, stroking his long hair away from his face. He closed his eyes, a faint smile playing at his lips. For a moment, he reminded her of a cat, the way he nearly purred beneath her loving caresses. “It’s such a long story, but your dreams have all been true. No one has ever touched me, not in all these years apart.”

“Me neither,” he admitted, the smile broadening. “But you probably guessed that I’m still a virgin.”

She leaned low over him then, drawing her lips right against his ear. “Wake up and make love to me,” she coaxed, surprised by how husky her voice grew with the words.

“Open my eyes?” he smiled, dimples appearing, as his eyes fluttered open. 

“Yes, and make me your lover. Forever,” she breathed against his cheek. “I’ve waited so long.”

“We both have,” he agreed huskily, cupping her face within his palms. “But I would have waited forever to hold you again like this.”

He leaned upwards, pressing light kisses against each of her eyelids. “Let’s both wake up, sweetheart,” he murmured and Liz felt her dreams give way to reality.



***



Liz’s hands were shaking as she dialed Max’s phone number, but she could wait no longer. Carefully, she pressed each button and heard the phone ring on the other end, as she leaned back into her pillows.

“Liz?” Max’s soft voice called from the other end of the receiver. Not hello, just her name.

Liz laughed nervously, swallowing hard. “You must have caller ID.,” she joked, her voice sounded strained even to herself.

“Very handy,” he laughed, sounding a bit breathless as he spoke. “Home?”

Liz’s heart instantly found a saner pace, as his familiar broken syntax comforted her. It amazed her how easily she understood him, no matter how nonsensically his words might arrange themselves.

“A while ago,” she explained, glancing at the clock. It was just past ten-thirty. “I’ve been napping,” she said, then added significantly. “Dreaming.”

“Oh,” was all he answered, but she heard his smile in the slurred words as he added. “Nice dreams…hope?”

“Wonderful ones,” she blushed, leaning deep into the pillow behind her. For a moment they both fell silent, yet it wasn’t awkward, as she’d thought it might be. It was perfect and beautiful, like when she’d still thought him David Peyton, and had sat just watching him paint. Finally she spoke again, tugging on the edge of her crocheted comforter. “The thing is, Max, they made me want to see you. Tonight.”

She heard his soft exhalation of breath, sensed how he considered that option. “Should rest…Liz,” he encouraged, yet she knew what he really wanted. Felt the silent words his heart longed to whisper.

“I did,” she argued. “I feel great and I was thinking that I could just throw on some fresh clothes and come see you. Unless…well, you’re tired…or…or,” her words trailed off, and she felt her cheeks flame hot with embarrassment. Suddenly, she felt inexplicably shy for pressing him about getting together. But then she heard him laugh softly on the other end.

“Liz Parker…want to see…you,” he explained, instantly allaying all her fears. “Just worried… you.”

“I’m fine, Max. I’m absolutely fine,” she answered in a rush. “Please don’t worry.”

“Too late.”

She cradled the phone closer to her ear, nearly whispering as the moment suddenly seemed utterly intimate. “But you don’t need to worry anymore.”

“Hard…to believe,” he confessed, his voice growing just as quiet as her own.

“Then see me, and it won’t be,” she urged.

“I come… there.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Okay,” she nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “Come here, then. Great…I’ll just change.” She tried to breathe, tried to prevent her heart from slamming so forcefully within her chest.

“Messy.” It was all he said, and she wondered exactly what he meant. Some of his one-word assessments were endearing at times, in how open-ended they seemed.

“You?” she asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion.

“Me,” he laughed easily. “Been…painting.”

“Painting what exactly?” she flirted, suddenly suspicious that it was a gift for her.

“Surprise, Liz,” he countered, pausing a moment. “You wait…few days.”

“I will,” she promised breathlessly. “But I don’t want to wait anymore for you, so hurry over, okay?”

“There…soon…Bye.”

“Bye, Max,” she smiled, and leapt from the couch, hurrying toward her bedroom to choose the perfect outfit. 

She flung open her closet door, nearly panicked with indecision. What did you wear when you saw the love of your life for practically the first time in ten years? Anything at all? she laughed to herself. 

And then she spied it, dangling right in the back of the closet. A dress her mother had bought her last spring, and which she’d never even worn because it seemed so naïve and girlish. A white sundress that flowed well below her knees, airy and innocent, yet oddly seductive in the way it formed around her curves.

Liz pulled it from the rack, drawing a tight breath as she gathered the soft cotton within her hand. She had to smile, as she wondered what Max would be wearing tonight, if he’d appear magically clad in black leather pants.

Because one thing was certain, no matter what Max chose to wear tonight. The white sundress was straight out of her Antarian dreams.

Chapter 17

The white dress fit perfectly, even though she’d lost some weight in the hospital. Liz ran her palm down the length of it, smoothing the gauzy material beneath her fingertips as she examined herself in the hallway mirror. 

It amazed her how similar the sundress was to the one from her dreams, and she wondered if perhaps her subconscious had simply supplied a familiar article of clothing. If so, then Max’s black leather might only have appeared from her memories of his future self, she reflected. But somehow she knew that wasn’t the truth. Max had described their attire as traditional Antarian garb, nothing less. 

Liz tugged nervously at the cotton fabric that dipped slightly low in front, outlining the soft rise of her breasts in full detail. She blushed inexplicably, as she imagined Max’s reaction, feeling as if she prepared for a first date with him. And in a strange way, she did. She spun a slow turn in front of the mirror, and time seemed to melt away around her. She became seventeen again, dressing in her room above the Crashdown. 

She smiled, remembering the night when Max had gotten drunk and followed her around town on her blind date. He’d been so incredibly determined in his love for her then, such an innocent boy. A harsh wave of melancholy reminded her that he’d ceased to be a boy not long after that night—had become a man with a painful, unavoidable destiny that had led him galaxies away, and then back again. Now she awaited that same man, one who was battered, yet not jaded. Still beautiful, no matter how time had ravaged his heart and body.

Liz shivered, shaking off the painful memories because tonight was about healing. She pirouetted in front of the mirror, examining herself again. Her naturally dark features seemed luminous against the crisp white, creating a surprisingly girlish impression. She wore her hair loose, spilling across her shoulders. It had grown longer while she’d been in the coma, and though it needed a slight trim, she liked the added length. Liz smoothed the tresses over her shoulders, leaning a little closer to the mirror to study her reflection.

The only thing she couldn’t hide were the dark circles that still shadowed her eyes. There seemed no way around those, no amount of makeup to hide that truth. But she’d lit candles all around her living room and entryway, creating the same atmospheric lighting that had bathed Max’s own home. She wanted him to feel relaxed and comfortable around her, not scrutinized. And, hopefully the shimmering lights would obscure the dark marks beneath her eyes.

Perhaps the hardest choice had been her music selection. She’d knelt before the stereo, riffling through her cd’s, tossing dozens aside. Something from ten years before seemed overly pointed, yet she didn’t want anything too contemporary either. Frank Sinatra had been the perfect choice at his house before, and now she couldn’t seem to find anything to rival it. Finally, her gaze fell on an old Carly Simon cd that she’d borrowed from her father’s collection at Christmas. There were no deep memories associated with it for them, not like Gomez or Counting Crows. Yet it was romantic music to the core.

Liz felt her throat go dry as the opening notes of The Spy Who Loved Me filled her living room. This reunion was utterly different than when she’d gone to see David Peyton. It was as thrilling and intimidating as that one had been, yet imbued with an undeniable expectation all its own. 

Then she heard the soft knock on her front door, a sound as gentle as the man who awaited her on the other side. She hurried to unlock the door, and felt the white dress billow around her, floating airily upward just as it had in the dreams. She drew in a tight breath, her hands trembling on the edge of the door as she opened it. 

And there he stood, dressed in soft khaki paints and a long-sleeved jersey t-shirt, something he might easily have worn ten years before. His hair fell loose on his shoulders, and he leaned slightly forward on his cane.

For a moment, they simply stared at one another, unable to speak, and Liz felt her face burn beneath his steady gaze. She tried to keep her own eyes from sweeping the perfectly sculpted features of his prosthetic, even though she fought tears at the sight of it. She’d been certain he wouldn’t hide himself any longer, not after all they’d shared in the past months. 

Not after the dreams.

He was the one to finally break the silence. “Hello…Liz,” he said, in his familiar quiet voice, the words slurring softly.

“Max,” she finally managed, her voice a near-whisper. For the briefest moment, her gaze wavered, moving over his smooth mask.

He bowed his head instantly, the long hair obscuring his features as he glanced downward in seeming uncertainty. And she knew that despite her efforts, her face had betrayed her shock that he’d worn the prosthetic. 

She reached quickly toward him with her hand, beckoning him inside the house. “Max, please,” she urged hoarsely, forcing a smile. “Please come in.” All she’d wanted was for this moment to be a perfect reunion, and it seemed to be disintegrating before it had even begun.

He shifted his weight momentarily on the cane, as he fumbled with a small bouquet of white roses that he clutched tightly in his other hand. Tears nearly blurred her vision as she spied the lovely blossoms. But then he glanced upward again, and she caught an unfettered glimpse of his golden eyes beneath her porch light, their amber hues familiar and hauntingly beautiful. Her heart lurched at the undisguised anguish she spied in their depths, at the fear he couldn’t possibly express, as for a brief moment his unsteady gaze locked with hers. She willed her own eyes to reveal all the love in her heart, to reassure him more than her words ever could. 

And then he averted his face from her again, moving past her, and inside the house. He remained stiffly beside her there, as she closed the door, aching for him to sweep her into his arms. Yet his stance remained formal, as he leaned heavily on his cane for support. 

“You…so lovely,” he finally said, studying her shyly, still just clutching the bouquet of roses in his other hand. “Tonight.”

She blushed at the quiet compliment, toying nervously with a strand of her hair. “Thank you, Max.” She yearned to say thousands of other words, to put voice to every emotion pounding within her heart. Yet they only stood there, awkward and silent, unsure of one another. She finally gestured toward the white roses, “You remembered.” It seemed such a lame remark, that she instantly wished she could rush after it, and retrieve it from the quiet space between them. 

Max nodded, extending them to her gingerly. “Never…forget,” he assured her softly. “White favorite.”

Their fingers brushed together with a momentary explosion of fire, as she gathered the flowers into her hands. She drew them to her face, closing her eyes and suddenly flashed on the night he’d serenaded her. The night of Future Max. Unbelievable, that all these years, he’d never known her secret.

“Beautiful,” she smiled, cradling them against her chest. “I’m surprised they weren’t red, though,” she teased, taking a chance by pushing the emotional boundaries between them. “I think red tulips might just be my new favorite.”

Max nodded, brushing at his hair nervously. “None at…florist,” he laughed, and she sensed that he smiled broadly beneath the mask.

“Maybe I’ll just insist on the original painting,” she countered flirtatiously, tilting her chin upward.

“Artist difficult,” he advised in mock-seriousness, with a knowing shake of his head. “Temperamental.”

“Oh, I can tame a moody artist in a heartbeat,” she giggled. “Lots of practice with that one, Max.”

“Tame?” he questioned pointedly, meeting her steady gaze with an undeniably suggestive one of his own. 

Liz’s face flamed even hotter at his comment, and he laughed quietly at her clear discomfort. And then she began laughing too, as she realized that the moment had grown suddenly easy between them. They were flirting and sparring and all the tension had dissipated. The nervous tension, at least. The physical and emotional tension remained immense.

“Embarrassed?” he teased, shifting his weight on the cane momentarily. 

“No, not one bit,” she denied playfully, drawing the flowers close to her face again. “I’ll just…go put these in water. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do,” she giggled nervously. She moved away from him, quickly toward her kitchen, feeling her face with the back of her hand. Her cheeks were blazing hot.

She fumbled awkwardly with the bouquet of small sweetheart roses, her hands shaking as she unwrapped the delicately gathered buds. How very like Max, she reflected as she arranged them in a vase, positioning them on the windowsill of her kitchen. 

The soft thudding of Max’s cane betrayed his movements through her living room, and she smiled, realizing he was studying her paintings. She was certain of his position, just by the slow rhythm that moved around the periphery of her living room. His own small panel of Windows of the Soul hung beside her desk, where she could glance at it as many times as she wanted while working. She wondered if he’d spied it yet, if he’d gauged its utter importance to her from its key positioning.

Liz found him staring up at one of Michael’s gorgeous canvases, probably her most favorite of his works, one that he’d painted of the desert near the pod chamber. Max studied it silently, and she wondered what he thought. For the first time, she reflected on just how much he and Michael had in common now, this totally new territory in the realm of their paintings. Both were so gifted, yet utterly different in style.

“What do you think?” she asked, moving close to him. A light shiver passed down her spine as she drew near to him, sensing the incredibly energy of his body. He turned to her momentarily and smiled. She didn’t see it, couldn’t possibly, yet she felt the warmth of it all the way to the center of her being. 

“Very talented,” he assessed, the words slurring softly. “Proud…him.”

“Me, too,” she agreed. “He’s worked so hard, Max. Incredibly hard at his gift.”

“Clearly. Always made,” he hesitated, pausing to rub his jaw before continuing. “Him…happy.”

“Yes, it did,” she agreed, easing a little closer toward him. She ached to embrace him, to simply throw her arms around his neck, and draw him close against her body. She was keenly aware that they’d yet to even touch. “And you, too, apparently,” she observed.

He glanced at her, his eyes widening in surprise. “You think?”

“That it makes you happy? Yes, that’s obvious,” she agreed with an eager nod of her head, then suddenly doubted herself. “Doesn’t it?” she asked uncertainly, noting how he stared at her in surprise.

He was silent a long moment, and gazed again at Michael’s painting. “Yes, definitely…you’re right.” That was all he said, but she sensed much more beneath the surface, volumes that he ached to speak, but wouldn’t even try.

“Tell me more,” she pressed, touching him lightly on the arm. “What you’re not saying, Max. I want to know.”

“Painting like…breathing,” he explained with a sigh. “Now. Talking.”

Painting like breathing and talking now. She wondered what that meant, how it translated in his fractured lexicon.

“It’s how you express yourself?” she asked, easing even closer so that her hand rested in the small of his back. Again, a shiver of electricity shot through her hand at their physical contact. He glanced at her momentarily, then just as quickly away again. He was still averting his face, hiding from her, she was certain.

“First year…after,” he paused, and finally gestured toward his face in explanation. “Couldn’t speak. That year.”

Liz nodded, feeling tears sting her eyes anew. He hadn’t even been able to speak for the first year after his injuries. 

“Painting…only way.”

“Is that when you began painting?” she asked quietly, and he nodded, glancing away from her. 

“Guard…friend,” he offered in simple explanation, and for a moment Liz riddled over the words. But she needed more, had to press for information, to understand this critical piece of Max’s life on Antar.

“There was a guard who was your friend?” she clarified, reaching toward his arm again, only this time he shifted his cane to his other hand, and gathered her hand within his own. He just held it warmly, then slowly drew it against his chest. 

“Sympathetic…my family,” he finally continued. Liz was keenly aware of the way their hands pressed together over his heart. “Sympathetic me. Brought paints…brushes.”

“And that’s how you began painting,” Liz finished in a wondrous voice. Max nodded silently, gazing down at the ground in deep reflection. 

“No pens…weapon. No writing.”

“But they let you have brushes and paints because they were okay. Safe,” she finished easily. 

“So spoke… with paints,” he continued, his thick words growing husky with emotion. “No words, only…” his voice trailed off and he gestured at the painting before them in explanation. “Still easier.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s much easier to express yourself in painting, even now,” she assured him, and he squeezed her hand even closer within his. She moved slowly then, until she half-faced him. “But your words are just as beautiful as your paintings, Max.”

He glanced at her dubiously, his golden eyes narrowing with emotion. “Frustrating.” It was all he said; yet her own mind filled in all the unspoken words. He was frustrated to be with her, so unable to express himself. Frustrated by his own limitations, that wielding his brushes came with such ease, while his spoken words were nearly incomprehensible to most.

“I know,” she whispered in reassurance, then reached a tentative hand toward his face, and softly stroked the hair away from his eyes. “But I understand you perfectly, Max. You know that.”

Suddenly, it seemed they were utterly transfixed that way, her hand stroking his hair, his head inclined toward her. Yet neither was able to move, to speak. To even breathe. The need between them surged unexpectedly, becoming something tangible and palpable in the air between them. The silence was charged with electricity, moving like electrons in the short span between their bodies.

“Liz,” he finally whispered huskily, reaching his own hand toward her. And then the tension ruptured, and before she could think, she’d flung herself against his chest, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. She felt him stagger slightly at the sudden impact, but only embraced him harder, drawing him flush against her own body. She needed to hold him in her arms so badly, needed it more than maintaining her composure, more than whatever strange dance had been in play between them.

“I can’t stay away, Max,” she murmured, holding him close. “Can’t pretend that I don’t want to touch you like this.”

As in her dreams, she felt his hands fold around her back, tentative yet filled with love. “Wanted this…so long,” he whispered against the top of her head. “Ached for you…so long.”

“Then hold me,” she urged quietly. “Just like this. Hold me all night long, Max.” She pulled back, and gazed up into his eyes, saw the utter vulnerability in them. It wasn’t disguised now, the countless emotions that flickered in his shimmering depths. 

“Take it off, Max,” she urged in a whisper, and his eyes widened. “Please.”

He shook his head forcefully, his gaze growing panicked, as he bowed his head away from her.

“Please,” she begged again, reaching to cup his face within her palms, as she slowly turned it toward her again. “I want to see your face so badly.” 

“Can’t,” he managed and she saw tears fill his eyes.

“But it’s me, Max,” she reminded him, and slowly stroked his face beneath her fingertips, feeling the rough material of his prosthetic. “I will always love you. I love you no matter what.”

He broke away from her then, shrugging off her hands, and spun his back toward her. Slowly, he thudded to the other side of the room, and she saw his shoulders heave as if beneath a great weight.

“Liz,” he began and she heard his voice waver uncertainly. He hesitated, raking a hand through his hair, as slowly he moved around her living room. She let him distance himself, step away, even though she yearned to match his every step. “Too much.”

“No, it’s not,” she countered without hesitation. “I’m not asking too much at all.”

“No, injuries…too much.”

“For what, Max?” she cried, clutching her chest with her hands. “My love? My acceptance? How are they possibly too much?”

“Because they are,” he shouted with sudden force, spinning to face her. “Told you…in letter,” he cried, his voice growing much quieter. Yet the anguished intensity remained in his words. 

“I’ve seen the scars, Max, countless times,” she reminded him, her voice equally intent as she stepped closer toward him. “I’ve seen them in my dreams, and I haven’t run. You said that in your letter, too,” she reminded him, becoming suddenly angry. Angry that he was such a stubborn man, that he’d always made these decisions for her. “It’s my choice whether they’re too much, Max,” she said, her throat tightening painfully as tears began to spill down her cheeks. “And I choose you. I’ve always chosen you. That has never changed!”

Suddenly, he bowed his head, a soft cry of pain escaping his lips. His shoulders slumped forward and he buried his face in his hands, and then another soft sob followed the first cry. Liz ran to him, as he sank onto her sofa, his shoulders shaking slightly. And they weren’t faint tears that he cried. They were deep, heart-wrenching ones that needed to find release. 

She mirrored his action, settling just beside him on the sofa, as he hid his face in his hands. “Why choose…me?” he asked suddenly, gazing up at her through his tears, his long hair tangling across his features. 

“Do you even need to ask?” she whispered in awe, reaching to gently cradle his face within her palms. “After everything we’ve shared these months? After our letters?” She hesitated a moment, brushing his hair away from his smooth featured face. “With as much as I’ve always loved you?”

He stared down at his hands, silent for such a long time, Liz wondered if he’d ever answer. Until finally, he met her piercing gaze with his own steady one, whispering, “How love…me? Like this?”

“Because soul mates love forever, Max,” she murmured softly, drawing her lips right against his cheek. She knew he wouldn’t feel the kiss, not really, not with the thick material shrouding his skin. But slowly, she parted her lips and kissed him there, long and tender. “I will love you forever, Max,” she sighed against his cheek, nuzzling him with her mouth. “Let me kiss you,” she finally urged on a sigh, as her fingers gingerly explored the edge of the prosthetic, the place where it met his hairline. “I need to kiss you so badly.” Liz held her breath a long moment, expecting his protests. Yet he didn’t fight her, just remained still as a statue beneath her exploratory touch.

So, she eased closer, leaning halfway into his lap, and again, kissed him on the face, ignoring the synthetic material that separated them. She focused on Max, on the man just beneath the mask. Tenderly, she reached behind his head, slowly unfastening the band that affixed the prosthetic, so that it fell loose within her hand. She faced him completely now, almost in his lap, and with her fingers, she delicately began prying loose the mask.

The first thing she saw was a jagged red scar, running the length of his face, nearly from his hairline, down to his jaw. Then more scars appeared as the prosthetic crumpled within her fingers. Yet Max remained stoic and still, his eyes closed. It was almost as if he were bracing himself, the way his facial muscles had tensed. Almost as if he expected her to cry out at what she saw.

Yet she saw only her beloved. A beautiful face scored with countless dark scars and lines, yet rugged and handsome as never before. Slowly, she outlined the longest one with her fingertip. She drew her lips close against it and pressed loving, searing kisses along the length of the mark. She willed Max to feel her adoration of him, as her lips trailed fire across his face. Literally, she wanted him to know he was bathed in her love, as she moved her lips to the other side of his face. To the one that was so badly swollen and disfigured along the jaw. She pressed her mouth against the bone, the place that was painfully misshapen, and she heard a quiet cry escape his lips.

But then he did the most unexpected thing. He cupped her hips firmly within his palms and pulled her straight onto his lap. So easily, in fact, it was as if she were the most delicate thing in the world. As if his knee wouldn’t hurt beneath the weight of her body at all.

She pulled back and stared down into his eyes. They were so open and eager, shimmering with tears. He stroked the length of her hair with his fingers, threading them through like a trail of fire. Until his hand rested tentatively on her waist, feeling the white material of her dress. He stared down at it, tugging softly on the folds that spilled across his lap.

“Seen…this,” he acknowledged, smiling gently. “Many times.”

“I wondered if you’d recognize it,” she laughed breathlessly, slipping her arms around his neck. He drew her closer against his chest, settling her more neatly on his lap. 

“Princess…Liz,” he beamed, and Liz literally felt her heart thunder at the radiant smile on his face. He had no idea, and that was what amazed her the most. He literally had no idea that he was still a strikingly handsome man, just more rugged than before. And seeing his beautiful features for the first time in ten years moved her in places she hadn’t known still existed.

“What?” he asked softly, raising his eyebrows in question. 

“You’re simply…beautiful,” she sighed, shaking her head in deep pleasure. He cupped her face within his own palms now, drawing it near his own. She began trembling against his touch, her whole body shaking with light tremors. “I forgot the way you move me—that it feels like this to be in your arms.”

He blinked beneath her steady gaze, then drew her mouth down, capturing it in the softest of kisses. Like warm velvet, their lips met. For the first time in ten years, she kissed this man, the one she’d never stopped loving. Had been unable to relinquish within her heart.

His fingers threaded through the folds of her white dress, as she explored the long soft tresses that spilled to his shoulders. Liz couldn’t say where he ended and she began at that moment, as sensations began cresting through her body, images and motion swirling as one. As she bathed him in her love, determined that each of her gentle kisses would heal him just a bit more.

All she knew was that she lost herself in him. Right then and there, the important divisions melted away, and her soul became one with his for those moments. But not just then, she realized as flashes shimmered like gold dust between them, reflecting all their shared memories and dreams. 

No, their souls would always be one, for the rest of eternity.

Chapter 18

A summer rain drummed against Max’s rooftop, melodious and rhythmic, lulling Liz as she lay on his sofa. Over the past two months, this had become a tender habit between them—he would paint, while she read or rested on his couch, just as she’d often done at Michael’s loft. 

Yet tonight was different, because Max had shyly asked to paint her portrait, indicating that he had something special in mind. He’d already been working on it for several hours, studying her quietly from the studio while he painted. Each time he glanced in her direction, his eyes seemed to grow moodier, filled with undeniable need. 

And her body answered every glance, every gesture he made toward her. Truthfully, the longer she lay beneath his studied gaze, the more her body flushed in reply—especially as she glimpsed how his own cheeks stained with pleasure whenever their eyes met.

He’d wanted her in the white dress for the portrait, and she’d brought it to change into after work. But an unexpected downpour had begun during her drive to his house, so she’d run up his front steps quickly, sheltering the dress against her chest. Her sandals had slapped puddles along his walkway, splattering water onto her bare calves. By the time Max opened his front door, dark rivulets of water trickled down her legs, and her hair was thoroughly doused.

Max ushered her inside, taking the dress from her, as he led her into his kitchen with a silent smile. She was confused by his reaction until he softly assessed, “Hair beautiful…wet. Good painting.”

She blushed, running her fingers over the wayward strands, until he raised his hand to stop her. “No…like this.”

“You sure?” she asked uncertainly and he nodded, wiping his thumb across her damp cheek. Then, he surprised her by taking a hand towel, and leaning low on his cane to dry her damp legs. She protested that she could do it herself, but he only smiled, as he stood again. Slowly, he kissed her on the mouth, licking at droplets of rain that still tickled her upper lip. 

And something was markedly different in that kiss. It was imbued with an expectation, an unrestrained heat. The warmth of it seared her, as their lips brushed together and it deepened for a moment. Whatever new mystery had begun between them, her lips burned as he slowly pulled back.

“Hey,” he whispered, as if seeing her for the first time all night. Only then did she realize he’d barely spoken since her arrival. Yet they’d been communicating ever since. 

She reached her damp fingertips to his cheek and touched his face. It was something she loved to do, could hardly refrain from doing anymore. “You’re in a good mood,” she observed softly, tracing his most jagged scar, and his eyes flared. She recognized the same energy from their kiss, flashing like the flecks of gold and amber in his eyes.

“Happy,” he agreed, slipping a hand around her waist, guiding her into his living room. “Weekend.”

Liz gazed up at him, as they moved slowly together toward his sofa. It amazed her how easily she understood him now; how his most fractured sentences seemed lengthy and detailed. Happy weekend. In Max’s lexicon that meant he was happy that the weekend had arrived, bestowing upon them almost three days to share without interruption. 

He loved their weekends together, seemed to thrive on them, and she adored bathing him in her loving attention then. There was no gallery, no other artists clamoring for her time. Well, unless you counted Michael’s Sunday morning visits, but that fell within the realm of family and best friends, not needy clients.

“Me, too,” she agreed, as he slowly lowered himself onto the sofa, gazing up at her expectantly. “Don’t you want me to change?” she asked, as he laid the dress beside them on the sofa.

He shook his head. “Not yet,” he answered huskily. “Explain portrait.”

“Explain?” she asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion as she dropped carefully beside him on the couch. He seemed suddenly shy, as he clasped his cane between his fingers, rolling it within his palm.

He trained his eyes on his hands, averting his face from her, as he whispered, “Explain…the dress.”

“I think I know why you want me in this dress, Max,” she teased girlishly, leaning against him. “I think I know exactly why.”

“Think about it…always,” he offered softly, still toying with the cane. 

“Think about what, Max?” she pressed, although she already knew his answer. Knew what he wanted, what he was implying.

“Not just it…you,” he sighed, glancing at her with undisguised longing. “Always think…you.”

And she’d been sure he was going to confess how he ached to make love to her, whisper the words in her ear. Ask her finally. Yet he’d not, had only struggled slowly to his feet without another word, and walked toward his studio. 

For a moment, she’d felt the familiar ache of frustration, had wanted to cry out. To ask if he didn’t feel the things she did, until he’d paused, glancing back at her with one of his warm smiles. The kind when his dimples flashed suddenly, and his entire face lit with radiant joy.

“Love you,” he offered. “So much, Liz.”

“I love you, too, Max,” she’d answered gently, her frustration dissolving in the light of that smile. One she imagined had appeared far too infrequently for so many years.

And she’d been lying on his sofa ever since, puzzling over the dress, over what he’d said about it. Had he really meant what she’d imagined?

As she listened to the pattering of rain on the roof, her thoughts floated to the dreams, to Max on the beach, to the field of flowers. To the meaning of the white dress between them both.

What it still meant between them even now, because they’d not yet given their bodies to one another, not in the two months since they’d come back together. They’d been too careful in their explorations, their touches. Too delicate in the balance of love that had blossomed between them like a crocus after winter snows. 

Liz loved him more now than ever before, but she’d also realized they should move slowly in their physical relationship—especially with what she’d learned about his handicap. How sometimes his knee plagued him for days, requiring only rest, as he lay with it propped on pillows. The way his jaw thrummed with such intense pain, he couldn’t even speak at times. And she’d seen how he visibly blanched when he stumbled with the cane, though he always fought to hide the pain from her. 

No, she’d become far too familiar with Max’s silent pain cues—the ones he seemed to think he hid so well—to rush anything physical between them. Their first time making love should be gentle and careful. It had to be absolutely right, because she refused to make him feel exposed or vulnerable about his body.

Especially not when it was still so utterly beautiful. 

She knew that much because she’d glimpsed him at odd moments without his shirt, only in jeans or boxers after they’d spent the night in one another’s arms. She’d felt his body against hers, when they’d exchanged little more than chaste kisses—and he’d opened her shirt, trailing his lips over her chest in a path of shimmering silver. When he’d drawn her nipple inside his mouth, laving it until his energy shot unexpectedly across her chest like a dazzling meteor shower.

But she’d seen nothing more. Not yet. Though she already knew that he was exquisitely beautiful. Loving him had always told her that.

She jumped when he asked, “What thinking?” He’d stopped painting and stood wiping a brush on a cloth, watching her. Like Michael, he tended to pull his long hair away from his eyes while he painted, and loose tendrils fell along his cheek. 

“Wh…what?” she stammered, as he wiped his face with the back of his hand. She felt suddenly exposed, as if he’d known her thoughts, especially the way his eyes widened a bit at her question.

“Liz,” he laughed, dropping the brush on his worktable. “Bad liar. Remember?” he teased, slowly ambling toward her. Without his cane. 

She bolted upright, ready to comment on his unaided steps—yet something silenced her. Perhaps that she wasn’t sure he even realized he did it, as he took slow and plodding strides her way, smiling seductively.

“Then I won’t lie,” she answered boldly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. The sundress fell open suggestively, disheveled from her position on the sofa. She knew it revealed the rise of her breasts, perhaps more. But she didn’t reach to adjust it. Instead, she never allowed her gaze to waver from his face.

“I was thinking how much I want you,” she answered, her voice thick and husky. “That all I want is for you to make love to me.” He stood over her, gazing down into her eyes. “It’s what I’ve wanted all these months,” she finished, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

“That’s why…” he paused a moment, and Liz saw him wince momentarily in pain, then he continued. “I wanted…white dress,” he said, reaching to touch the cotton material where it fell along her shoulder. “Tonight.”

“Really?” Liz asked, aware that her heart began racing wildly. 

“Why I had…to paint you,” he nodded, stepping even closer. She reached a hand and caressed his waist, slipping her fingers beneath the edge of his t-shirt, so that she stroked his flat abdomen. “Tonight,” he answered finally in a thick voice. “Painting like…making love. Speaking. Breathing.” It was almost what he’d said that night months ago, only now he listed making love as the first comparison.

She lifted his shirt, until she glimpsed the smooth bare warmth of his stomach, and leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss there. It was something she’d wanted to do since high school, since she’d first glimpsed his lovely body. It had changed since then, certainly. Yet it remained surprisingly muscled and defined, despite his handicap, despite the years of imprisonment.

A soft sound escaped his lips, as she continued slowly kissing his abdomen, pushing the waistband on his jeans lower, so that her mouth could graze the skin beneath. He plunged his hands through her hair, kneading his fingers in the length of it with a quiet cry.

“Liz,” he begged softly, as she slipped a hand along his hip. She knew she was taking the lead, that it would change in a moment when they entered the bedroom. But right now, she wanted him to feel all her restrained desire for him, wanted him to know how she saw him. Had always seen him.

Suddenly a river opened beneath them, and they tumbled headlong together, spiraling into the rushing sound of light and images, as Max knelt slowly in front of her. She nearly stopped him, almost protested that he should be careful with his knee, but she didn’t dare. The flashes intensified, the rushing sound wrapping around them like a lover’s arms, and she saw everything inside his heart. 

His fears, his vulnerability about the scars and disfigurement, his craving for her and the way it never ended. And she saw that he’d taken her like this on thousands of occasions, more times than he could count, always making love to her as his betrothed in white. He as her prince, she the bride of his heart.

Tears began streaking her face and she couldn’t stop them, could only murmur his name softly against his scarred cheek. “Max,” she begged, twining her fingers through his long hair, as he eased onto the sofa with her. “Max,” she moaned again, moving aside so he fit easily in her arms. She slid her palms beneath his shirt again, easing it upward so that her hands moved against his fiery skin. 

“Liz,” he cried, tugging the shirt over his head. “Love…my love,” he murmured, falling into her arms again. His hair spilled loosely across his shoulders, and she couldn’t stop touching it, trailing her fingers through the silken strands. Just as his own fingers kept caressing her body, outlining every curve with such desperate need, as he pulled at the material of her dress. 

She glimpsed his longing in the flashes, that he needed her body joined with his. Not clad in folds of material, not separated by his jeans. He had to have her as his own.

“Liz,” he finally managed. “Bedroom…not…sofa.”

“No, not sofa,” she repeated, mirroring his pattern of speech, as they broke their desperate kisses and stared into one another’s eyes for a long moment, drawing in shaky breaths.

“Liz, changes…everything,” he offered, pressing a tender kiss against her temple. “You know that. Never same.”

“I want those changes, Max,” she answered, clutching his shoulders. “I can’t wait anymore. I need all of you now.”

“Me too,” he nodded softly, scooping her hands into his. He pressed gentle kisses into her palms, gazing into them for a thoughtful moment. Then their eyes met in the shimmering candlelight, as he whispered, “I need all of us, Liz.”



***



Sunlight splashed across Max’s bed, warming their bare bodies in the morning’s first golden rays. As Liz woke to the feel of Max’s hand nestled securely against her abdomen, she smiled. Yet she didn’t dare open her eyes, or even move, lest she wake him. 

They were lovers now, and there’d be no going back. Their bodies had solidified what had always existed between their souls. They were one.

He’d been right in a way—making love had changed things between them forever. Now she would always know the feel of him, moving deep within her own body. Would always know the depth of their connection, what it was to lose herself in his golden shimmering light.

But one thing could never have changed, not from one night of making love, not from a thousand. Her love for him remained as constant as the pounding of her own heart, as certain as the twin moons of Antar.

Max snored softly against her cheek, a sweet, melodic sound that she’d come to treasure in the past two months. Without even opening her eyes, she sensed the peace surrounding his soul; that he rested more easily than he had in years. Since high school even. And perhaps that was how one marked the passage from beloved to lover. Maybe it was in the way one trusted just like this, how one’s heart beat a little more surely, even in dreams.

Liz couldn’t be sure. Yet, as they lay together in his bed, she had all she’d ever wanted; her soul mate lying flush against her, his warm body draped with her own.

Slowly, she allowed her eyes to flutter open, and found Max’s long hair tangled across his face. She studied him freely, blinking as the sunlight spilled across his dark hair, silvering strands of gray against his pillow.

And something uncanny drew her attention to the scars along his face. 

For a moment, she swore the dappled sunlight played a trick on her, but then she dismissed it, deciding the strands of hair were simply obscuring his features. But finally, she lifted a tentative hand, and stroked dark tresses away from his cheek, because she needed to see his scars more clearly. 

She drew in a sharp breath at the sight of his face, her eyes growing wide with wonder. Instantly, Max stirred beside her, and she allowed her hand to drop away. He opened his eyes, smiling at her sleepily. 

She stroked his face with her fingertips, outlining the familiar scars, the deep scored lines along each cheek. And they even felt different beneath her touch.

Max stretched languidly, raising his arms above his head, so that the sheet draped low around his hips. Liz’s gaze fell on the familiar scar that shot like a dagger across his heart, amazed that it, too, had faded overnight. 

Liz placed her palm over his heart, feeling the thick scar beneath her hand. “Max,” she managed, swallowing hard. “I love you.” For some reason, she wanted him to know that first, to hear the words pass her lips. But her voice betrayed her, wavering with emotion, and he glanced at her in surprise.

“Love you, too,” he answered softly, but his dark eyebrows drew together in confusion. “What’s…wrong?”

Liz brushed her hair over her shoulder, sitting up in bed to look at him. The new angle afforded her an incredible view of his transformed face, of just how different that rugged terrain appeared after only a ten-hour span.

She gathered his hand within her own, threading their fingers together before speaking. “Max, something happened to you,” she explained gently. “When we made love.”

His demeanor changed instantly, his features relaxing. “No kidding,” he laughed, caressing her shoulder slowly with his hand. “Was amazing.”

“No, I mean something really happened, Max,” she pressed, feeling tears well in her eyes. “To your face.”

“My face?” he asked, reaching to rub his jaw. “Don’t understand.”

“Max, the scars are…they’re,” she stammered, and the tears spilled down her cheek before she whispered hoarsely, “Lighter. A lot lighter…this morning.”

The marks had always been a harsh pink, unhealed and angry against his golden skin. In the past two months, Liz had longed to suggest the healing stones, to gather everyone and attempt to heal him. Yet something had always stopped her, prevented her from making that suggestion. 

She’d held back because she’d glimpsed things in their flashes while kissing, things she knew he’d never meant for her to see. 

Max ran his hand over his face, surprisingly calm, then finally rolled onto his back and just stared at the ceiling. Countless emotions shifted across his features, and Liz felt excluded from them all. He was back on Antar, back in prison. Millions of miles from their bed, her arms.

“Max, talk to me,” she urged, wiping at the tears with the back of her hand. “What are you thinking?” She’d expected him to rejoice, to be happy, not melancholy and withdrawn like this.

For a long moment he was silent, until finally he sighed heavily. “Wondering why I ever left with Tess.”

The room seemed to spin at his words, as a bit of magic faded quickly away. “You don’t… understand,” he finally continued, after a long moment of studying her. “Do you?”

“No,” she answered, shaking her head. Why would he mention Tess now, draw her into their bed at the precise moment when his healing had begun?

“You healed me,” he answered simply. “I felt it, Liz. Last night.”

His speech had changed, was less broken and more coherent. But Liz didn’t focus on that; instead she trained her gaze on her lover, on the golden eyes that never left her own face. “When you…touched,” he hesitated a moment, rubbing his jaw with a frustrated sigh. “My face.”

She knew the precise moment he referred to, the one when the change had happened during their lovemaking. His eyes had told her everything then—at the height of it, when she’d cupped his beautiful face within her palms, showering kisses across the brutal scars. Something had happened beneath her lips, something mystical—and then silver had shot across his skin, like the distant lightning that kept illuminating his room. His mouth had opened, a soft cry escaping, and he’d reached to touch his own face in wonder.

“I know you did,” Liz agreed, cupping his face within her palm even now. “Silver moved across your scars then, Max. I saw it.”

“Like handprint,” he whispered, eyes widening. “On you.”

“Just like it, only,” she paused, thinking how to describe it. “It was like an electrical storm.”

“Liz, not healed before.” The statement was obvious, and left her uncertain of his meaning.

“I know, sweetheart,” she finally affirmed, nodding her head, as she cuddled close against him in the bed. Yet Tess’s name still seemed to echo within the room, haunting the moment even now.

“Because of Tess,” he said simply.

“What?” she nearly cried. In her dreams, he’d explained about Khivar, that he’d placed blocks to the healing. In their flashes, she’d seen how Max’s followers had tried to heal him after his release from prison, but without success.

“Tess was there…night,” he shook his head, and now his eyes filled with tears. And Liz understood. Something absolutely critical was happening between them, some important facet of his healing. His sentences were becoming fractured again because he was delving into a hidden place, something he’d never exposed to light before.

Magic fell over the room again, like a shimmering hush of expectation. 

“Tess was there when, Max?” Liz encouraged, stroking his hair soothingly. “Tell me.”

“Khivar mindraped me,” he finished thickly. “Tess there and…hurt me.”

“Tess hurt you?” Liz repeated hoarsely, feeling fury well within her core. “How?”

Max shook his head firmly, and Liz felt his hands tighten painfully around her waist. He seemed utterly unaware that his once gentle hold on her had become like a vise. “My mind. She hurt my mind.”

Max grew silent, staring at Liz as if she held the balm that would heal his very soul. As if she would divine his meaning without the need for words. She hurt my mind. What was he telling her? Liz felt desperate, as she contemplated the cryptic words. 

“During the mindrape?” Liz finally asked, chewing her lip in frustration. “She hurt your mind, then?”

“She blocked…healing. Permanently. She joined power…with Khivar, placed blocks…my mind. No healing.”

“Oh, God,” Liz whispered, as the horrible truth of what he meant became clear. Max only stared at her, his eyes wide and vulnerable. “God, I’m so sorry, Max.”

Tess and Khivar had joined their power to place healing blocks within his mind, to make sure that no one could ever repair the damage done to Max that night. That was why the elders had been unsuccessful back on Antar, why Liz had instinctively known they shouldn’t try the healing stones.

“Only you, Liz,” he finally murmured, burying his face against the top of her head. “Your love. Only you…could heal.”

“Did Tess tell you that?” Liz asked. “That without me, you’d never be healed?”

“Yes.” He said nothing more, yet Liz knew that ghosts stood between them. More, Max, she urged him silently. Tell me everything.

Yet he remained quiet, cuddling her tight against his chest, his breathing uneven and anxious. Finally, when Liz almost begged him to finish, he admitted softly, “Tess said…you never love me…like this. No healing without your love.”

Liz closed her eyes, as a quiet sob escaped her lips at his confession. Tess had taunted him, told him that he’d lost the love of his soul mate forever that night, because his face had been ruined. And yet she’d made sure he knew that only one avenue remained for his healing—the love of that very same soul mate. Tess had meant it as a cruel joke, had been certain that he’d never find his way back to Liz. She’d convinced Max that even if he did, Liz couldn’t love him, not with his face and body so badly broken.

Liz continued to cry, pressing tender kisses along every scar. “She was so wrong, Max. You won, don’t you see?” She smiled, feeling radiant laughter well from within. “We won, Max. We defeated your enemies once and for all.”

“She stole…too much. Ten years…with you.”

“We can’t think about that, Max,” Liz reassured him, shaking her head firmly. “Not now. Not after you’ve come home to me at last.”

“She stole memories, things…” he sighed in frustration, then finally looked steadfastly into Liz’s eyes. “Belonged to us. Gone. Years gone. Khivar stole too much.”

“Like what?” Liz asked and Max clutched her tightly. “What kind of memories?” She felt her heart’s pace quicken, dreading his answer. Did he not remember their first kiss? Healing her?

“Like prom.”

“Prom?” Liz nearly choked the word out. “What?”

“I remember going with you, but…not leaving. Not taking you home. No kiss.”

“Oh, God, Max,” Liz whispered, sitting up in bed. With that one statement, he’d just explained so much about his experiences on Antar. He’d spent years riddling over their prom date, over why he had no memory of taking her home—when Liz knew the painful truth of what had happened the night of that dance. She wondered how many other moments fell apart in his hands like that one, shattered into nonsensical pieces that would hurt so much less if only he understood them.

“Max, prom was a disaster. If you don’t remember that, then all the better.”

“How is that…possible?” he asked, knitting his brows together. “I loved you. Wanted so much that night.”

Liz nodded, feeling tears burn her eyes anew. “I know you did,” she whispered. “I know.”

“How remember?” he finally asked. “How will I know what…lost? So much is confusing.”

Liz thought a long moment, then gazed into his eyes intently. “Because I remember for you, Max.” she answered, understanding that she held the key to the unanswered questions that plagued him. “It’s the true way my love will heal you. All those memories, everything you’ve forgotten. They’re still locked inside of you, and I see them in the flashes. And you’ll start seeing them, too. Things from Antar, from our past together, your childhood. You’ll find them all again each time we make love.”

Max’s golden eyes grew wide and luminous. “You… are right,” he finally agreed huskily, drawing her hand against his cheek, as he sat up in bed. 

“You will remember, Max,” she whispered fiercely. “Let that be my gift to you. My gift of love.” 

He drew her hand against his mouth, and kissed each finger tenderly. “Your love…is already… gift.”

Liz threaded her arms around his neck, and drew her lips within a breath of his own. “Max Evans, no one can ever separate us again,” she proclaimed, feeling his hands close around her waist. Heat exploded within her core, as slowly he lowered her onto her back. “No one can take this love from you. From us,” she finished as he followed her down into the mattress. “You know why, Max?” she asked breathlessly, as she felt the warmth of him between her legs.

Max interrupted her, finishing the sentence as he kissed her, “Because soul mates… love forever,” he whispered fiercely.

She cupped his face within her palms, drawing his mouth near for another kiss, and Liz glimpsed silver shimmer across his scars. 

And then she swore they grew just a little bit lighter before her very eyes.

Epilogue

8:04 a.m. 

Liz hurried toward the gallery, glancing at her watch as she rounded the corner of the plaza. She was late again, a recent habit she kept intending to break, yet her resolve always seemed to fail her. Somehow her long workdays weren’t nearly as alluring anymore, not when she woke every morning nestled securely within Max’s arms.

Not when he whispered quiet words of seduction in her ear, often nearly begging her to make love before they parted for the day—she to the gallery, and he to his studio. And it was especially hard to resist his murmured pleas for artistic inspiration, right as he tumbled her onto her back with a sexy growl.

Liz smiled, feeling a familiar burning low in her abdomen, a keen sensation that sometimes grew quite intense after he’d been inside her. A human lover would never have left her so radiant, at least not in her deepest places. But nothing about her union with Max had ever been normal, so the curious tingling rarely surprised her.

Ahead, she glimpsed the gallery doorway, lined in golden sunlight, and for a moment her thoughts traveled back to the previous winter, to that brief magical time of David Peyton. And her eyes misted with sudden tears. 

Oddly, when she recalled how Max had once courted her secretly, she felt sentimental, wistful even. Not because she regretted that David had turned out to be Max, but rather because there’d been something overwhelmingly innocent about that fleeting time. About the expectation and mystery she’d felt every day as she walked to the gallery, wondering if he’d bestowed another of his treasures upon her.

Now, Max’s canvases were inextricably woven with her love for him—no beginning, no end. They were the beauty of his soul. And that was something far more precious than David Peyton’s courtship had ever been. As was the healing reflected in every new painting Max created, causing even his recognizable style to alter slightly. Become bolder, freer…more whimsical and joyous. 

The healing had come gradually, too, transforming him every time they touched or made love. Eventually, he’d been utterly changed, his features, his body. He’d discarded the cane a month ago, his gait now only slightly halting and uneven. And though the familiar scars still etched his face, they were no longer thick and harshly colored, but had instead silvered to a faint white. Lately, if she glimpsed Max from across the street, or even in a dimly lit room, she couldn’t even discern them anymore. They’d become a finely marked legend of his time on Antar—always there, just subtle and delicate now.

In a way, it made sense that he’d forever bear at least some aspect of the scars. Because what he’d experienced during those ten years had been too significant, his soul too deeply wounded, for all the outward marks to vanish completely. They would remain as a testament to what he’d endured—to what they’d endured—during their years apart. Besides, Liz reflected with a devilish smile, they only gave him a roguish handsomeness that she adored. 

Liz fished in her pocketbook for the key to the gallery door, but stopped mid-stride when she glimpsed something leaning just inside the portico. It was a slender package, flat and wrapped in pristine brown paper. For a moment she blinked, not trusting her eyes, because it seemed so eerily familiar. Yet it remained, just waiting for her.

Liz’s heartbeat increased quickly, as she dropped to the ground and lifted the package. She turned it over within her hands, feeling the contours of canvas beneath the paper. On the backside, a simple white card was attached, inscribed in neat hand.

What Dreams Are Made Of…

That was all it said, in her beloved’s familiar handwriting. What was Max up to?

Liz stood, feeling her fingers tremble unexpectedly as she turned the key in the door, and entered the gallery. Overhead lights flickered on, spotlighting the long array of paintings on the walls, as she set the package on the counter. She tugged at the edges of the paper, and finally reached for her pink pocketknife, wondering why Max would have chosen to deliver a painting this way.

Wondering why he might have titled it so mysteriously.

The paper unfolded with the delicacy of a morning rosebud, revealing a familiar scattering of bold reds and a small girl dressed in white. It was the painting she’d loved so many months before when she’d first visited his bungalow. The one that had been displayed in her bedroom ever since he’d brought it over and hung it himself, so that every time she woke, it was nearly the first thing she beheld.

The night she’d discovered the red painting was when she’d first suspected she was falling in love again—without ever knowing that her mysterious David Peyton was Max.

But why had he suddenly left the painting on her doorstep this morning, like some delicate offering of love? She couldn’t recall noticing its disappearance from her bedroom, although she’d slept at his house last night, so he might have retrieved it without her notice. But that still didn’t answer her nagging question of why he’d done it.

The emotions coursing through her body were achingly familiar, as her pulse skittered unpredictably and somehow she felt as if he were courting her all over again. She gazed down at the vivid colors on the canvas, the vibrant reds, and then the pure white of the little girl’s dress, contrasted with the nearly black color of her hair. 

It was an image lifted from her memories, and captured lovingly on canvas, stroke by very stroke. Suddenly, the most impermanent illusions from within her mind became bold and lasting beneath Max’s touch. 

Somehow, gazing down at the painting anew, it impacted her as it had the first time, not with the familiarity of a beloved piece she glimpsed every day. Maybe that’s what Max had been trying to tell her?

She stepped around the counter, and reached for the phone, but something stopped her. Somehow she understood the rules to this flirtatious game he’d begun, and instead she returned the phone to the receiver, logging online.

One email flickered in her mailbox from Maxwelle@newmexnet.net. Liz smiled, and clicked open.



My Beautiful Liz,

I can imagine the thoughts in your head, even as you sit down to the computer. How is it I’m sure you won’t just call me? Because I know you, sweet Liz. Like my own heart, like these scars on my face, like the feel of your body beneath my hands. You’re a part of me now, though that much never changed.

You’re wondering what I’m up to. And rightly so. You’ve always loved a plan, and there is madness to this one.

To the title of this painting, I will now add another:

Open Your Eyes.

Yours…and for always,

Max.



And then the dream changed, and suddenly she was catapulted within the painting, running breathlessly in the field of flowers. She was a tiny girl again, feeling her father clasp the hem of her sundress. 

“Lizzie!” he called. “I’m going to catch you!”

“No, Daddy!” she cried, feeling flowers brush against her tiny legs. “You can’t! I’m too fast!”

“I’m going to catch you!” a deeper voice teased and suddenly Max spun her into his arms. And she was a woman, in her husband’s strong embrace.

“What are you doing, Max?” she laughed breathlessly, shielding her eyes against the setting Antarian sun. “Have I been dreaming all along?”

“I’m showing you something important,” he explained, drawing her flush against his body. He panted lightly, as he cupped her face within his palms, turning it upward. Their gazes locked for a long moment, and she glimpsed fire within his amber eyes. She saw the familiar scars etched along his face, light against his golden skin. If not for her close proximity, she might never have even noticed them. But she loved them, as surely as she loved the feel of his silken hair, or the strong line of his jaw. They were an inseparable part of him now, and she wouldn’t have wished them gone.

“Max,” she laughed, feeling a little confused. “The dreams keep changing.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I’m not sure,” she frowned. “Am I in a coma again?” she asked, feeling suddenly afraid, but he pressed a soothing kiss against her temple.

“Never. Never again,” he whispered gently and her fear dissipated. “No, Liz, there’s something here. Something important,” he explained, glancing around at the familiar field of flowers. “I want you to understand.”

He twirled Liz, so that she spun like a graceful little girl, the velvet field of red spiraling around her. It was just like her childhood memory, only transformed into Max’s own fantasy from Antar. She knew they were on his planet because the twin moons peeked along the edge of the horizon, cresting just behind a purple-hued mountain. 

“We’re on Antar again.”

“Yes,” he answered simply. “Where I first dreamed of this.”

“This?” Liz asked in confusion, turning back toward him. She noticed that he wore the white linen shirt, saw how it fell open low along his chest, only half-tucked into his leather pants. She gazed down, and was surprised to find herself draped in the white sundress.

“Max, we’re not virgins anymore,” she laughed, feeling her face flush, despite how familiar they’d become with one another’s bodies. With one another’s passion. “I thought this was the Antarian wedding attire…for our first time,” she stammered shyly.

“That’s true,” he agreed with a broad smile. “But that’s not what this dream is about.”

“Then just tell me,” she laughed nervously, as he tugged on her hand, so that they dropped easily to the ground together. He patted the soft place beside him, as he collapsed onto the warm grass. “Here, Liz.”

She cuddled against him, her hands wandering hungrily beneath the soft folds of his shirt. His chest rippled like warm velvet beneath her touch, and she heard his breathing change, grow unsteady. He propped his head on the elbow, gazing up at the sky, and asked, “How did this dream begin?” He seemed to be leading her someplace, toward some destination that only he knew.

She nestled close against his chest, her fingers still exploring beneath his linen shirt. “At the gallery?” she asked, feeling confused. 

“But it led here, to where it began some ten years ago. You and me, like this…but Liz, this vision was always tied to another. To the one I painted of you as a little girl,” he explained, his voice growing thick as he rolled onto his side to study her. She was surprised to see tears shine in his eyes.

“You and me, Liz,” he whispered fiercely. “It was all I ever ached for…all those years in prison.” He stroked the length of her hair, his fingers just winding slowly through it, as he continued. “Except there was one other thing I wanted. Just one.”

He lifted an eyebrow, as if he thought she’d understand, supply his next words for him. And for some reason, her heart began palpitating wildly. 

“You wanted a daughter,” she finally offered, her voice wavering. He only nodded, tears brimming in his eyes. 

“I wanted to be your husband, your lover…but I also wanted to be a father.” He stared into her eyes intently, and countless words moved between them, unspoken yet effortless. Then he whispered, “A father to a little girl just like you.”

And then she simply knew. “I’m pregnant,” she realized aloud, her voice filled with wonder. “That’s what you’re telling me, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” he agreed, causing her own eyes to burn with tears. “A little girl, like the one in the painting.”

“You painted our future,” she said softly. 

“I saw it in your past.”

“So what do I do now?” she asked breathlessly and he rolled her close against his side, showering her face with loving kisses. 

“Just open your eyes,” he murmured, smiling like a boy of seventeen. “And let our dreams truly begin.”

And as Liz glanced around them at the vivid colors of the Antarian landscape, at the twin moons in ascendance, she understood something critical. Something she’d missed in all their other dreams just like this one.

She realized that every time they dreamed of this Antarian Sky, spread above them like a glittering mystic tapestry, it meant one thing. One thing that was truer now than ever before.

The king had returned to his kingdom, and all was right with the world.

The End