PART ELEVEN

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 labored to rise from the sofa. "You are, too," she continued, and 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.