PART TWELVE

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."