PART TWO

"Look, Michael," she began as he walked into the gallery. "This isn’t funny." He handed her a cup of Starbucks, meeting her gaze with his own perpetually melancholy one. His long brown hair was disheveled and he needed a shave. Typical Michael, she thought, as he drew his eyebrows together in a scowl.

"Yeah, you said that on the phone. Where is it?" He asked, brushing past her and glancing intently around. He’d come downstairs from the loft he rented above the gallery, when she’d called a second time…after opening the package.

She pointed mutely to where the mysterious painting now hung on the gallery wall. She’d wanted to see how it looked on display, how it presented--if it would still impact her just as profoundly. Michael turned on his heel, and Liz took a sip of the steaming coffee.

He was silent a long moment, studying it from where they each leaned against her small counter. The vibrant colors were even more stunning on the wall, more magical and mysterious. A sky spread out, open and surreal, filled with radiant colors that bled one into another. Movement. That was the word that Liz heard clearly in her mind. Like some J.M.W. Turner painting, this one was all about energy and movement.

An angel soared heavenward, arms spread at its sides, opening to the sky above. Welcoming its destiny. Yet the angel’s face was darkened, not like the lovely colors undulating all around it. And it was shrouded completely in black, draped like some dark figure of apotheosis.

Liz shivered as she studied the work, feeling its magnetic allure. She stepped slowly closer, and lifted her fingers, allowing them to gently graze the surface of the painting. She needed to feel the strokes, their texture--was compelled to enter the painting, as she would a dream.

And it opened, the sky all above her…arms at her sides, gazing upward. And instead of the angel, she glimpsed the temple from her dream. Crumbling and broken. Shattered.

"No note?" Michael asked, stepping closer to the painting. She was jerked back to the present with a start.

She hesitated a moment, then lied. "No, nothing." She wasn’t sure why she wanted to keep the card a secret. "I just assumed it was some artist looking for representation."

"Maybe so," Michael replied, still studying the piece quietly. "God, is this whacked or what?" She caught a hint of jealousy in his voice. Competition.
"I love it," she whispered, again lightly touching the surface of each stroke. Feeling them resonate inside her, weave their otherworldly magic within her soul.

"It’s pretty damn creepy, that’s what it is," Michael assessed irritably.

"You’re jealous," she laughed, slowly gazing up at him in surprise. His eyes shifted ever so slightly. Found out, known. They always did that to one another, ever since that eternal day on a hillside, some ten years before.

And then, "Why the hell would I be jealous, Liz?" She sensed his chest almost puff out, his territorialism. "I’ve got all the notice I want for my work."

"Yeah, right," she smirked, suddenly finding his moodiness sexy and charming. "Then just admit it."

"Admit what?"

"Whoever painted this is really good."

He blew out a breath, his eyes narrowing as he studied it. She watched his reaction, the way his brown depths shifted like soft mercury. Finally, he shrugged indifferently. "You’re the better judge of this stuff."

"Why won’t you just admit it?" She stomped in frustration. God, he drove her crazy, and as he brushed his long hair away from his eyes she ached to kiss him. To just end their standoff, once and for all, and pull his mouth down to hers for a searing, loving kiss.

But that would require movement, something other than being trapped together in this motionless dance, endlessly spinning out between them.

"I mean, who just leaves something like this on your doorstep, huh?" He demanded, whirling to face her, and suddenly she was back in Roswell, ten years before.

The Great Alien Abyss. The Conspiracy. Someone always after them. The intervening years when the threats had died out dissolved, and suddenly time stood still. Max was calling a meeting in the basement of the UFO Center. Michael was pacing, angry and reactive, dead-set to know more about their origins. Not the very different man who stood before her now, dressed in a thick wool sweater and faded jeans, drinking Starbucks coffee. An artist to the core. Not an alien, or a gifted warrior with a profound destiny all his own. Certainly never that.

"Liz?" He asked. "Did you hear me?" He looked vexed with her, as she focused in again. She shook her head in confusion.

"Don’t you find it a little weird? Someone just leaves this… thing," he gestured at the work derisively. "Anonymously on your doorstep? I mean anything could be happening here… anything." He stared at her intently, conveying the precise meaning she’d imagined. Anything alien could be happening here, even though they’d buried those concerns together long ago.

She reflected a moment, yanked back to Roswell. To another Michael, to a time when Max was still with them…and closed her eyes to shut out the keen memories.

Clouds floating overhead, arms spread out at her sides, her jaw aching endlessly. Shattered. Frozen and captured.

She stared at a sky filled with smoke, trailing like some comet of death.

"Liz," he whispered now, his voice suddenly surprisingly gentle. She felt his large hand on her shoulder, his warm breath on her cheek, and her eyes fluttered open.

"I’m sorry. I…didn’t mean to push," he offered softly. He could read her so well, after all these years of being only friends, of working together. Of both of them just surviving without Max.

"I think it’s really bizarre, yeah," she answered, ignoring the tender concern in his voice. Yet he didn’t drop his hand away from her arm, instead let it rest there, burning softly against her.

"Then again," he suggested offhandedly, "It’s probably just some aspiring artist, desperate for Liz Parker’s attention."

Like you? She ached to ask, feeling the unspoken words scald her throat. Just like you, Michael Guerin?

Michael turned slowly, slipping his arm around her shoulder. They stood in silence, and studied the painting together. "God, it’s gorgeous. His use of color is just…incredibly powerful," she whispered, hesitating as she reached inside for what her true reaction was. "He moves me."

"He?" Michael asked sharply, catching her slip up instantly. "What makes you so sure it’s a he?

Liz rubbed her jaw absently, wondering why she felt so clearly that the artist was a man. "I don’t know…I just…feel it." Something about mentioning the artist’s identity caused a little shiver to shoot across her skin, touched some long dormant part of her heart.

Michael tightened his arm around her shoulder almost imperceptibly, drawing her closer to his side. But she ignored the feel of his hand, slung so easily across her shoulder…how it electrified her.

"So I guess we wait," he volunteered after a moment. A moment when her heart pounded heavily, when she sensed how his own beat in the magnetic silence between them both.

"We wait," she agreed, swallowing hard.

****
Michael had been the first to run to her, that day at the Pod Chamber, almost ten years before. And that single memory was like a fine engraving, etched into her recollections, subtle yet permanent. The kind of detail that only struck one after the fact.

"So I guess we wait," Michael had said as they’d stepped outside the cave. The world had seemed instantly sharp, far too sunny, as their eyes had adjusted slowly from the chamber’s dank interior.

"He doesn’t have long," Isabel had reminded them. "Only about two minutes."

"It won’t take Maxwell long to do what he’s got to do," Michael had asserted boldly, and his gaze had imperceptibly wandered in her direction. Even as he and Maria had embraced so closely.

The minutes had ticked off, the time had drawn explosively near. Yet still no sign of Max at all.

And then it all became a blur in her remembrance, a series of images all pasted together like some jumbled collage.

Heat, smoke, and stone, mangled in memory. Pieced together, after the fact.

The Granolith had blasted away, sending an avalanche of rock and debris cascading down the hillside as she’d skidded down the rocky incline with the others. Then, when the smoke cloud had cleared away, and they’d been left lying facedown and breathless in the rubble, it had been Michael who’d gone tearing back up the rock face to find Max.

And Maria had held her close, refusing to let her follow after him.

When Max had told them all to leave, to give him just a few minutes inside the chamber with Tess, she’d never guessed it would be the very last time she’d see him. Never imagined that he’d simply vanish, no more said between them in the crushing weight of all that had happened.

But when Michael had slowly ambled back down the rocks, his head bowed and features unreadable, Liz had known before he ever reached her. Max was gone. Isabel was frantic, but for some bizarre reason, Liz felt an unearthly calm, just a steady sense of awareness.

Max had left with Tess. End of story.

Not like I love you…not like I love you…not like I love you. The words had beat like her heart, insistent and hypnotic as she’d watched Michael high atop the jagged rocks. She’d squinted, gazing up at the hidden cave like some ancient ruin on a Roman hillside—praying that somehow her instinct was wrong. That Max would emerge from inside the cave, sweep her into his arms, and plant a smoldering kiss on her lips once again.

Not like I love you…not like I love you.

Her hand had clutched desperately at her throat, as she struggled to breathe. Tears burned her eyes as she’d watched Michael’s descent, and then finally he’d reached the place where she knelt on the dusty earth, Isabel clutching at his arm—and his eyes had met hers in the silence. They’d watered with his own unshed tears, anguished as he’d stared at her, unable to speak.

"He’s gone," Liz had managed to whisper. She hadn’t voiced it as a question, she’d simply understood. Michael had dropped his gaze a moment again, as Maria had leapt to his side, and Isabel crumpled into his arms. Then, slowly, he’d met her intense gaze again, uttering only two words. "I’m sorry."

And he’d never stopped murmuring those words ever since, not in all those ten years. They’d remained forever frozen in that single moment together, like the ancient sculptures from Liz’s dreams, unable to say the things that begged to be said. Always, those words hung between them, suspended and haunting.

I’m sorry.

Words that Max had never spoken before vanishing into a dreamy cloud of remembrance on that desert hillside.

****
It was well after five p.m. and Liz was still on the phone with New York. She would be traveling there in just a few weeks, and was still frantically setting meetings with key buyers and dealers. She sat at her desk, a makeshift area semi-hidden behind her counter, scrolling through the new emails that had arrived within the past few hours.

Several queries cluttered her inbox, as well as a forwarded joke from Maria with the subject line, " Are you still alive, chicka? See you in two weeks!" And that was it.

Until a new e-mail suddenly appeared from an unfamiliar address. DavidPeyton321@newmex.net.

She clicked open, right as Leon came to the phone. She’d been on hold, and had used those moments to log online.

"Liz," he laughed in his smoker’s rasp. "I’ve got really terrific news for you."

"Great, what’s going on?" She asked, opening the e-mail from the mysterious David Peyton.

"Looks like I just sold Guerin’s last piece in here. Guess how much?"

She thought a moment, wondering what kind of figure might leave Leon breathless like that, especially since he wasn’t easily given to flights of fancy.

"I don’t know…eight thousand?" She guessed, but her gaze had fallen on the open e-mail. One line blinked at her from the computer screen.

"Does it have possibilities?"

"Ten thousand!" Leon laughed enthusiastically. "You’ve got to get me some new pieces from him soon. I think he’s finally ready to break out up here…I want to talk about a big show in the fall."

"Okay," Liz mumbled, staring at the computer screen.

Does it have possibilities? What kind of obnoxious artist would send a query like that? She felt her dander rise in irritation, feeling indignant, no matter how talented he obviously was.

"Oh, Liz, gotta run," Leon buzzed across the phone line. "Someone’s coming in…talk to you in the a.m."

Liz stood quickly from her desk, and walked to the glass door of the gallery. She flipped over the closed sign, bolting the door, and stared out onto the darkened plaza. Nighttime fell so early at this time of year, covering the old square with a delicate hush—even with the bustle of tourists and shoppers.

She squinted, staring out into the darkness, and felt a strange sensation shiver across her skin. It was as if someone were studying her, watching her from just beyond the glass door. Someone unseen and clandestine, out in the frigid nighttime.

Liz walked away, rubbing her neck slowly. She surveyed the narrow walls of her gallery, as she often did at this time of the day. From floor to ceiling, paintings hung in enticing display, intended to draw in the most ambivalent of patrons. Splashes of color, like New Mexico sun, brightened the walls.

That was her taste, what she was known for from Santa Fe to downtown Manhattan. Liz Parker had a fabulous eye for color and form. In the local business journal, she’d been described as having, "impeccable instincts." And now, when she called certain dealers, touting a new discovery, they took note, because they knew the level of talent she scouted.

She leaned against the glass display counter, filled with much smaller trinkets and carvings-- something meant to draw the tourist traffic. Her gaze roved the current arrangement of works on the walls, as she considered how they might be re-arranged. But despite her best intentions, her gaze was drawn like a magnet to the one new piece that hung right before her.

Does it have possibilities?

Should she answer honestly? Or should she dismiss David Peyton out of hand. She despised the gimmicky tactics of would be artists, always clamoring for her attention in such peculiar ways. She’d often wondered why they didn’t realize that a straight-forward approach would get them much further, rather than such coy and vain meanderings.

That’s how the elusive David Peyton now struck her, with his pithy little e-mail, absent of so much as his phone number. Instinct led her to forget his seductive painting. But her heart seemed to say something else entirely, as she was drawn magnetically toward his work again.

It reminded her of another painting, one that she couldn’t quite place. The way the angel lifted off the earth, flying heavenward. The stark black, contrasted with the vivid colors…well, that part was reminiscent of Gaugin to her. But not the angel. That was just beyond her grasp.

She moved to her computer screen, and began quickly typing. "Are you seeking representation?" She felt testy and irritable, wanted to add something snide, since she received hundreds of these queries a month-- but for some inexplicable reason, refrained, and sent the e-mail without another word.

Only moments later, she received a reply.

I’m interested in your opinion, to know what you think of the work.

Liz yanked on her hair in frustration, and a mock-scream escaped her lips. "David Peyton, I’m going to throttle you!" She shouted, leaping from her chair. "You’re so completely obnoxious!"

Did the guy not believe in anything other than single line exposition? Good thing he was an artist and not a writer, she thought with a frustrated roll of her eyes.

She’d been about to leave for the night, her jacket already on, and a scarf wrapped around her neck. But something had compelled her to check her e-mail one last time as she’d turned out the lights in the gallery. Now, she lamented that decision, as her terrible curiosity flamed anew.

"Look, I’m not in the habit of this kind of…staccato communication," she hammered out quickly. "Why don’t you come down to the gallery tomorrow and we can discuss your work and whether or not it’s something I’d want to represent. Okay? Otherwise, let’s not waste one another’s time."

She hit send, and immediately turned off her computer screen. There, she thought with some satisfaction. That should show him.

The phone rang again in the darkness, and this time it was Michael. "Hear anything?" he asked, and somehow Liz felt he was a little too concerned. And not because he thought the painting represented a threat from beyond their galaxy.

"Nope," she lied, the second time in one day. "Not a word."

"Just curious."

"I’ll let you know, okay?" She asked, spinning in her chair to check the door. Her earlier sense that someone had been watching her still left her a bit unsettled.

"Cool. What are you doing tonight?" he asked. "Thought I might make you a little dinner."

"Uh, oh," she laughed gently, thumbing through the pile of mail that still sat unopened on her desk.

"What?" He cried indignantly.

"You only cook for me when you need something," she said knowingly.

He fell silent a long moment, and she heard him cough a bit, which perplexed her. Michael would ordinarily joust right back, tussling playfully with her. Instead, her words were only met with pensive quiet, until he finally spoke again.

"Yeah, I just need to talk," he finished somberly.

"I’ll be right up."

***
Michael had come to visit her in February of her freshman year of college. At that point, nearly two years had passed since Max had disappeared in the granolith, and Liz still maintained the vague hope that he would one day return.

Her hope for their love had slowly diminished with every dream of that day at the chamber. With every flash of Michael’s gentle brown eyes, distraught as they met hers--two people, reaching soundlessly for one another.

Her subconscious, the perfect panorama of betrayal.

But it was much more difficult to convince her heart that Max Evans had left her forever.

Isabel had moved to San Francisco, Maria had gone to New York, and Liz had headed off to private college in Virginia. Their group had scattered like so many ashes in the wind, each to their separate corners.

It was Michael who’d stayed at home, and begun painting his heart out, frantic in his need for expression. The canvas was the one place he could speak the unutterable things, the silent words that friendship with Max wouldn’t allow him to breathe life into.

Fractured images appeared, a schematic of what had happened to their leader, their destiny. The greatest love of her life. But he’d shown them to no one, just kept on painting. He only confessed his addiction to Liz on that snowy visit freshman year, as they’d roamed the corridors of the National Gallery. Laid awake talking in her dorm room.

He’d flown into Dulles Airport, an army duffel slung over one shoulder, and a black portfolio in his other hand. His hair had grown hopelessly long, obscuring his features from her as he’d loped into the gate area. He’d brushed at the hair with his fingers, searching her out and then their gazes had met across the short distance.

And an uncertain smile had formed on his lips. Liz understood that hesitation well, because she was terrified to see Michael alone, without accompanying friends and noise. Because unchaperoned, they might actually speak of secrets trapped between them.

One of them might actually make a move, instead of remaining in statuesque form, eternally reaching for the other. Not in love, not in friendship…but in ruin.