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 wanted to be a father, too." He stared into her eyes intently, and countless words moved between them, unspoken yet effortless.

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.