PART FOUR

David Peyton’s colors moved within her soul.

All day long, Liz’s gaze had been drawn to his painting, as it seemed to exercise an unearthly force upon her.

His brushstrokes touched dead places, luring her deep inside his canvas, and left her aching for more. Unresolved…hungry.

Open Your Eyes, she thought. Oh, David…if only I could.

She lifted tentative fingers to touch the angel’s wings and closed her eyes. Just breathing.

In and out, the cadence of sleeping. The rhythm of dreams. Her hands reached upward, toward the beckoning sky. And she could simply leave, float away to a distant world forever.

Open Your Eyes….

Michael hadn’t answered a single one of her calls all day. Now it was nearly five p.m., and he hadn’t so much as brought her a cup of Starbucks to share—one of their little daily rituals. She’d ached to talk to him, to make sure she hadn’t hurt him too badly the night before.

He’d told he loved her. Finally. The culmination of ten years worth of emotion and deflected desire, and she hadn’t even been able to look him in the eye. Hadn’t admitted that sometimes, for the briefest moments, she felt alive when he was near.

That sometimes she believed in their possibilities.

So she strode to her desk, dialing his number again on her portable phone. She’d decided to take a bold step when he finally did answer her call, because there was something she needed him to know, a branch she yearned to extend by way of explanation.

She settled in her desk chair, drawing her legs up beneath her, and swiveled away from the rest of the gallery toward the wall. A calendar with vintage photos of New York City hung beside her, turned to last December. She’d left it there because she loved the photo of two lovers kissing at Coney Island…an illicit moment stolen under the boardwalk.

Michael jarred her by answering with his usual gruff hello. At least that was a positive sign, since he had caller i.d.

"What’s up?" He asked off-handedly. But she could hear the raw emotion in his voice, how tired he sounded.

"Painting?" She tried to sound bright.

"Not today." Then nothing, as she became aware of the receiver in her clammy hand. Help me, Michael, she begged mutely. Make this just a bit easier, please.

"So…" He began, but his voice drifted off into awkward silence.

"There’s something I want to say, Michael," she began tentatively. "Something I wish I’d explained…before."

"Sure," he encouraged softly.

She drew in a steadying breath, her gaze trained on the boardwalk kiss. "I know Max is dead," she began quietly, the sound of blood rushing in her ears. "I’m the one who felt it."

"Liz, look, I was out of line," he explained.

"Just let me say this," she interrupted.

"Okay."

"But sometimes I miss him so much that I think it will kill me," Liz half-whispered into the phone, her chest tightening with the blurted admission. Michael couldn’t possibly understand what he’d done to her last night, that he’d awakened something slumbering and glacial inside. Something she didn’t want to arouse.

But he only remained soundless on the other end of the phone, his soft breath barely audible. Whether he realized it or not, her own confession had come at a great price. Because she’d admitted to feeling something, and that was more than she’d been able to do for almost eight years.

Missing him like this would kill me…if I weren’t already dead, she thought, rubbing her jaw.

"Well, Liz, I wish I could help you on that," Michael finally answered. "But I think I’m done trying."

Her chest ached at his words, and she felt her throat constrict. "Michael," she begged softly. "Please."

"Liz, I can’t go on like this," he admitted, his voice filled with emotion. "I told you how I feel…you’ve known it for forever. But you still love him."

"So do you," she pointed out gently.

"That’s not relevant to this conversation."

"Michael, it’s the heart of this conversation. It’s everything."

He sighed heavily, and she heard the clatter of brushes behind him. Maybe he was painting, but why would he have lied?

"Why does loving him mean I can’t love you?" His voice was surprisingly lost and bewildered. "Or that you can’t love me?"

"I…I’m not saying that."

"Yeah, Liz, I think you are…it’s what you’re always saying. Or not saying," he said.

"Michael," she began, but he cut her off.

"You still love him, Liz. You’re just frozen there, and I can’t fight it anymore," he sighed heavily. "And I can’t fight him. Because if there’s one thing I figured out years ago, it’s that I’m never going to be Max Evans." His voice broke on the last words, causing Liz’s heart to turn over in her chest.

"I gotta go…gotta paint," he mumbled, slamming the phone down with a loud click, and Liz felt tears sting her eyes. She stared at the receiver, lightly stroking her fingers across the mouthpiece.

Michael, I love you.


She’d almost said it, had been painfully close. But like elevator doors caught too late, slamming shut just before she reached them, the moment had vanished. Another floor, another life. Another opportunity lost.
***
Liz had returned to Roswell after graduation strangely expectant. Not just about her career in art, but also about Michael. Maybe one bled into another, but for one fragmentary moment, it seemed she could be whole.

Her eternal mosaic shifted briefly then, and seemed to sort into place, a fractured image of possibility.

She and Michael had been growing closer during the whole of their four-year separation, especially during his east coast visits, when they’d trailed through the galleries together endlessly. Afterwards, each time, they’d spent hours just talking over pizza, fingers brushing together lightly with an explosion of surprising heat.

In those days, she’d thought she might be falling in love with him, but she’d willed the emotions back underground, buried them beneath the cold embers of her heart. But every time they’d been near one another, they’d wound up taking another cautious step closer. Finally, they’d spent her spring break that senior year camped out in her dorm room, and they’d lay nestled together every night.

Once during that week, when he’d thought she was asleep, Liz had felt him press tender kisses against her forehead. Stolen and achingly beautiful. But no matter how much she’d wanted to simply tilt her face upward, and capture his soft lips with her own, she’d been unable. She’d been paralyzed, just lying there in his arms, images of Max haunting her. Visions of their first kiss on her balcony, the feel of his fingers against her exposed skin.

Finally, she’d heard Michael’s breathing change, grow deeper against the top of her head, his hand relax slightly against her side. And Liz had wept for what might have been.

Not just for Max, and how he might have been the one holding her that chilly spring night. But for Michael, too. For all that might have been in her life.

But by the time she returned to Roswell that late spring, she’d made a conscious decision. They were all attending a small graduation party her parents were throwing at the Crashdown. Maria was returning from New York, Isabel from California, and the gang would be together, celebrating with friends from home.

And she would tell Michael that she wanted him, because while she never ceased aching for Max, she’d come to the tentative conclusion that she could care for Michael, too. Her heart was opening like an early spring flower, delicate and fragile.

As she dressed for the party, she spent hours before the mirror, piling her hair in just the right style, and she wondered how Michael felt about seeing Maria again. The two of them had broken up during their senior year of high school, but she also knew his feelings were still slightly unresolved about her—and that he’d hardly seen her in all the intervening years. It was Liz that he traveled to visit at least once a year, not Maria.

As for Maria, she was well involved with the drummer in her latest band—some guy who worked an internship at MTV on the side. So Liz knew that while Maria might be surprised, she certainly wouldn’t be shocked if the two of them began dating. And while she yearned to talk to her about it—especially when Maria pressed her for details about her nonexistent love life at every possible juncture—somehow it just felt too awkward.

All through the party, Liz caught Michael staring at her at odd moments, and she blushed softly in reply each time. Especially at how shy he seemed around her, so different than their last time back east. His cautious behavior recalled memories of another shy young man, just watching her from the other side of the Crashdown silently.

Michael laughed with Maria all night long, but every time Liz looked up, his eyes had been trained on her. Full of unmasked desire.

At some point, with all the friends coming in and out of the diner, Liz had lost track of him. But he’d already asked her to walk back to his apartment and hang out—he hadn’t moved to Santa Fe yet then.

As the gathering drew to a close, Liz toted a few dirty plates into the kitchen, and she heard a strange noise in the supply closet. Something cautioned her to ignore it, some primal instinct of protection, yet she found herself opening the closet door—despite every warning in her mind.

And she found Michael and Maria entwined together in the dark, her legs wrapped easily around him, his mouth buried against her neck. They’d both cried out, as the small arc of light from the hallway had pierced the darkness, illuminating their half-naked bodies perfectly. And Liz had stood transfixed for what felt forever, until finally she’d mumbled an awkward, "sorry…so sorry," and pulled the door shut again, her face flushed in terrible shame.

She’d stumbled upstairs to her room, wiping her eyes blindly--and cursing herself for having hoped, for having ever believed she might be able to love again.

Especially when she couldn’t stop her heart from loving Max. All else was just pretense.

Later, Michael found her on the balcony, lovingly reading the first entries in her old journal. She’d drawn her legs up, and just nestled with her memories of Max, stroking each yellowing page as she’d turned it.

Michael lumbered through her window, silent and palpably guilty in his demeanor.

"Liz," he began, slipping his long legs through the small opening of her casement.

"Michael, God, let’s just not talk about it, okay?" She blurted, feeling utterly foolish.

"I don’t love her anymore."

"Yeah, of course you do. She’s Maria. She’s wonderful," Liz had gushed, meaning every word.

" You’re wonderful…I’d be with you in a heartbeat if I thought you’d have me."

"Maria’s the one for you," she countered quietly, avoiding his piercing gaze.

"She’s a habit…a comfortable habit."

"Look, Michael, you know I will only ever love one person," Liz replied archly, meaning to sound distant. But what she spoke was the truth, and he needed to know it. "You read it in this book years ago." She waved the journal at him meaningfully, reminding him of those purloined words, emotions from her heart that he’d never been meant to know.

It occurred to her that perhaps those words were what bound the two of them together so profoundly, as they stood caught forever on that rocky hillside, billows of smoke rising from the pod chamber.

"I could love you." Michael’s voice had become quiet, undeniably gentle, as he stood on her dark balcony, his hands thrust awkwardly in his jeans pockets. He was a strange counterpoint to all her memories of Max, standing on that same balcony in such a similar pose.

"Yeah, well don’t," she snapped, closing her diary with an air of finality. But she’d never forgotten the way he’d stared at her, his melancholy eyes seeming so dazed and lost.

Something nascent had withered inside of her that night. It was as if her heart had almost opened again, a tiny crocus blossom peeking out from the snow. But had closed again just as quickly, never to bloom again.

***
"I’m sorry," Michael murmured, staring at some unseen point over her shoulder, as he pressed a cup of Starbucks coffee into her hand. He glanced anxiously around the gallery, at the walls, the paintings, his eyes apparently focusing on anything but her.

Liz blushed softly, feeling the awkward strain between them. Aching to end it somehow.

"I deserved it," she answered quietly. He shook his head in silent denial, and their eyes met for a moment, as she walked around the counter toward him. He stepped away from her, pausing just in front of David Peyton’s painting, thoughtfully studying it.

Unspoken words crackled like electricity in the air, held life even in silence. She sensed that there was more he wanted to say, as he brushed his hair away from his eyes pensively. For a moment, he seemed ready to speak, and Liz braced herself. Then, his demeanor changed a bit, relaxed.

"Why does this thing bug the crap outta me?" He asked rhetorically, scratching his eyebrow as he squinted at the painting. "I think I hate it."

"Why?" She asked, puzzled by his reaction. Keenly aware of how near he stood to her, the proximity of his body, so warm. Like Max’s always had been. Warmer than a human’s body, just pulsating with heat and power.

"It’s pretentious," he observed, taking a sip from his own cup of coffee. "I mean, hell, it’s like a rip on Chagall or something."

That was it. The painting that had been eluding her recollection, the one it had reminded her of all along. David’s work was reminiscent of Chagall’s childlike flights of fancy, yet was borne of some darkly illuminated alter-universe, twisted and misshapen.

His gift was rare as a comet’s path, chasing through an unknown galaxy, trailing stardust in its wake.

"It’s…like magic," she breathed, gazing at the angel’s hands. They were so perfectly formed and beautiful, reaching ever upward with long tapered fingers, delicate in shape. The kind that could touch you and bring healing—or unlock your soul if you needed it.

Hands that would stroke your hair all night long, just soothing you until the demons departed.

"You’re in love," Michael scowled, moving away from her. For a moment, his words caused her to start.

Images flashed quickly through her mind. Michael at his easel, whistling softly while she napped on his sofa. The pull of desire, as she watched him through a half-opened eye.

Michael touching her cheek to wake her, resting his fingers a moment too long.

Found out, utterly exposed.

Until she realized he meant that she’d fallen in love with the painting. "So you better figure out who the hell painted the thing, huh?" He all but growled.

She stared after him, as he loped toward the darkened front door. His sweater had a large hole in the back, along his upper shoulder, and she had the urge to slip her fingers through the torn place and just touch his back. To caress it, expressing everything she couldn’t say in words.

"I know who painted it," she confessed, staring after him, aching for him to stay just a little longer.

Slowly, Michael spun to face her, his liquid brown eyes shifting mercurially.

"His name is David Peyton," she explained. "And he’s couriering more over before the end of the day."

"Well, hope they’re as… magical as this one," he barked. He was reverting, yanking her back ten years ago, to a time when they were always opponents. Abandoning her.

"But I wanted to know what you think, too." Her voice was small, as forlorn as she felt inside.

"You don’t need my opinion, Liz," he snapped coolly, opening the door. "Hell, you don’t need me at all."
***

"Can you give me the address where you picked these up?" Liz asked, turning the courier’s clipboard so she could sign for the packages. He balanced a slim stack of three neatly wrapped paintings under his arm, the paper measured and pristine in the way it enfolded each one.

"Sorry," the courier answered, handing her a yellow receipt. "Not allowed to give that information out."

"These are from David Peyton, correct?" Liz persisted, as she took possession of the three pieces, cradling them to her chest like delicate porcelain. "That’s who sent them?"

"If that’s what it says on the slip," the courier answered flatly, turning toward the door.

"Sure you can’t give me his address?" Liz pressed, unwilling to be daunted, but the courier simply shook his head.

"Can you at least tell me what he looked like?" Liz called, aware that her voice was edged with desperation. "Anything at all?" For reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, she needed to learn something solid about her enigmatic David Peyton.

The courier paused a moment, his hand just resting on the glass door. He stared down at the ground momentarily, clearly considering whether company policy allowed him to answer. "Different," he finally said, opening the door. "Definitely different. See you later, Ms. Parker."

Different. What kind of an answer was that? Not handsome, or crippled or wickedly ugly. Just…different.

Liz felt an undeniable tug of curiosity, as she balanced the three packages in her hands, walking to the counter. She spread them in an orderly row atop the glass, noticing that each bore a plain white card on the outside.

The first note was written in impeccably neat hand, and read simply, Insert Pictures Here. She wasn’t sure if it was an instruction, or the work’s title. She frowned, studying the next painting’s placard. Segue to Dream. Now, that was a title, and a damn good one, she thought with some satisfaction. And then the third card read, As Yet Untitled Ms. Parker.

And oddly enough, that was the card that puzzled her the most. It was clearly just a working title for that painting, but because of the absent comma, it almost seemed to imply that she was the as-yet-untitled Ms. Parker. As if all her life, Liz Parker had been in a holding pattern, simply waiting for David Peyton to bestow a title upon her. The one she most eloquently deserved.

As if that title might still be in the offing.

Liz reached a hand, and slowly caressed the paper of the first package, noting the crisp edges. And something made her refrain from opening it…any of them. Instead, she moved around the counter to her desk and typed out a short e-mail to the one who’d so lovingly wrapped them.

David, they’ve arrived. I’ve not opened them yet, but am curious about the titles before I do. Any explanation in order? Anything here a companion to another? All Best, Liz P.

Liz dialed New York, handling a few mundane details of her upcoming trip, and all the while her eyes were trained on her e-mail inbox. Finally, the reply she’d been anticipating arrived.

"Insert Pictures Here" and "Segue to Dream" are, in fact, semi-companions…though I’m not certain it struck me that way until you asked. As mentioned, the third one is hopelessly in need of a title. Perhaps simply "Ms. Parker"
might do nicely? Incidentally, may I call you Liz? Or am I being too forward, as one who’s never met you?

Yours, David

Liz couldn’t explain it, but she was blushing terribly. Heat had crept up her neck, all the way to the crown of her head, at his mere suggestion of naming the painting, Ms. Parker. And that combined with his polite request to address her by her first name, had left her face flushed like a schoolgirl’s. She ran her fingers through her hair, willing her heart to stop its insane thundering.

No stranger should be able to unnerve her this way, yet something about David’s cryptic, terse notes had begun to fluster her—to delve inside her as easily as his painting had.

Liz backed away from the computer screen, reaching for her slim pocketknife. Michael had given her a pink Swiss Army Knife a few Christmases back. It had been a campy little joke between them, since she’d been ever borrowing his clunky, half-rusted knife and not returning it. So, he’d managed to find what he termed, "A girl’s knife" for her handy wielding.

Liz assessed the neat little row of brown packages, laboring over which one to open first. For some reason, she found herself thinking of the golden boxes of Godivas that her clients showered her with each Christmas.

Undeniable curiosity drew her to the Ms. Parker painting—as she’d already come to think of it in those few short moments-- and she sliced open the paper of that package first. The brown wrapping unfolded, beckoning her closer like a coy lover.

She brushed back the paper’s edges, and suddenly otherworldly pinks and reds dusted a harsh landscape. On a distant hillside, barely visible, was a young woman. She stood on a jagged promontory, glancing over her shoulder, captured just as she turned away. She was draped in a black shawl, almost a mantle, as she looked out on a flat, unfolding terrain below. It seemed like the New Mexico desert, with its many surprising and amorphous hues. But Liz realized that wasn’t quite right. Somehow, it felt like she was staring into another world altogether.

The landscape was too unforgiving, too brutal, as if it had been forged from the driest bones and rock. The terrain was parched, yet at the same time mystical and hushed. This painting was no different than the angel one—a bizarre mixture of the painfully lovely, as well as relentless and foreign.

Liz released a slow sigh, and only then did she realize she’d been holding her breath, tight within her lungs as she gazed down at the work. Her gaze swept over the landscape, lingering for a moment on the young woman. She was cloaked in the perfect black covering, just peering out from a distance. Liz had to admit that she possessed an undeniable sensuality. Creamy skin, offset by the vibrant colors shimmering all around her.

Like a middle-Eastern beauty, she stood mesmerized by the landscape around her, the terrain of dreams.

A hand flew to her face, as Liz became aware of how warmly her cheeks flamed at the realization that this dark beauty, so delicately inserted in the midst of David’s maelstrom of color and light was perhaps in some way intended to be…her.

May I call you Liz? Or is that too forward…

Liz shook her head, laughing out loud. "God, Parker!" she giggled. "You’re spending way too much time alone lately." What had she been thinking? David Peyton was nothing more than an aspiring artist, still quite bent on capturing her attention like the philistine that he was. He hadn’t even met her, or seen her.

No man has made you blush like this in years, a soft voice argued. You know just how long it’s been.

But she pressed the thought aside, moving to open the other two paintings, drawn forward by an aching curiosity.