PART THIRTEEN

We awoke from our dream; things are not always what they seem,
Memories linger on, it’s like a sweet, sad old song.
Todd Rungren

***

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 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 sense 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.