PART NINE

Beautiful Liz,

I’ve debated my response all morning, but I know what my heart wants. I must meet you, too. But this is alternately terrifying and exhilarating for me, please understand. Tomorrow night? I can offer dinner, or wine, or just a painting if you wish. Perhaps all three…

Yours, d


Liz read the e-mail repeatedly in stunned silence, not believing her eyes. Despite her hopes, she’d not believed David would ever actually consent to meeting her—at least not this soon. Not with his shy, reclusive nature, and not with his admission about the facial prosthetic. For the briefest moment, she wondered how bad his disfigurement really was, how she’d react upon glimpsing it. She hoped she could trust herself not to hurt him somehow--then just as quickly, she ached to make him feel handsome, desirable. As flushed as he always left her.

So she began tapping out a quick reply.


Oh Dashing One,
Terrifying is one word I’m definitely familiar with. So is exhilarating. Believe me, David, I can relate on both counts. Please don’t make dinner…just a glass of wine and the chance to see all your paintings is certainly enough for one night. Oh, and you, of course!

Time? Details?

Liz


****

"So you’re going to this guy’s place?" Michael huffed, as he gazed up at the new arrangement of paintings in the center of her gallery. "You have no idea who he really is, but you’re just waltzing over there like it’s perfectly safe."

Michael’s voice tightened with obvious jealousy, and Liz couldn’t help wondering how he would respond if he knew how heated David’s e-mails were becoming. How romantic they’d been from the very beginning.

But the seductive e-mails were her own precious secret, just as she refused to share the way David’s paintings aroused her, invading her dreams even. Some men would have dangled diamonds or pearls as courtly enticements, yet her elusive David adorned her in paintings. And the way he was wooing her with his hands and brushes and paints was a lovers’ dance meant for no one else to share.

"Is that what you’re doing, then?" Michael repeated, his voice thick as he fiddled with the bandana around his head. He often pulled his long hair back that way when painting, and ordinarily Liz found it quite sexy. But somehow today it struck her differently; more like a familiar detail she’d always associate with her beloved friend, not something that caused her to entertain thoughts of lunchtime seduction.

"You said he’s safe," she argued softly, avoiding Michael’s gaze. He knew her far too well, and if she were to meet his penetrating examination, Liz was certain he’d see right through her. That all her secrets would come unraveling within his hands.

"Maybe," he admitted reluctantly, chewing on his lip as he assessed the new arrangement of paintings. "This one’s crooked," he offered, stepping forward to delicately adjust one of the low-hanging panels.

"Well, you checked him out," Liz said, glancing all around them to be certain they were truly alone in the gallery. "I mean you did do that, right?" she asked in a more hushed voice.

"I didn’t get any flashes, if that’s what you mean."

"Then how do you know he’s safe?" she asked irritably, though she hardly needed Michael’s assurance of what her heart already knew.

"I felt it, Liz. I don’t know…I can’t explain. I just knew you could trust him," he admitted quietly. "I mean, I wish I could lie about it, but yeah, the freak felt okay to me."

"He’s not a freak."

"The guy, Mr. Mystery…whatever," he grumbled.

"Just so you know, Michael, I trust him completely," she stated resolutely. "And I’m going to see him."

Michael surprised her by simply nodding in acquiescence as he strode away from her, toward the door. "Tomorrow night?" he asked finally, turning back momentarily.

"Yes, Michael, I’m going over there tomorrow night," she explained with forced patience. "So long as that suits you, fearless leader."

She’d meant it as a playful term of endearment, yet Michael winced visibly. It implied too much about their shared history, and about his ultimate acceptance of Max’s vacant role. It was one of the great ironies of Max’s death that Michael--who had always pressed Max to assume his rightful leadership position--had assiduously avoided taking that mantle once he had the opportunity. Then again, Liz knew that related far more to Michael’s unwillingness to let Max go, than his actual reluctance to lead.

Of course, once Max left, it became quickly apparent that there wasn’t much need for a leader. All the threats against their group had simply faded away with time, though Michael had never ceased being incredibly protective of her in particular. And that part had puzzled her for years.

He ignored her baiting comment, and instead his voice assumed a surprisingly gentle tone. "Have dinner with me tonight, then," he offered quietly. "I want to take you out on the town. To celebrate."

"Celebrate what exactly?" Liz asked, wondering bitterly what was possibly worth celebrating about today of all days. Well, other than her breakthrough with David, which caused her heart to beat crazily every time she thought of it. But Michael obviously had no desire to celebrate anything pertaining to David Peyton.

"Well…" Michael scratched his eyebrow for a thoughtful moment, and Liz had the definite impression that he was trying to invent a reason for their supposed celebration. "Hell if I know. I just want to take you out, okay?" He finally blurted, and Liz instantly understood what he was really trying to do—distract her on Max’s anniversary. She saw the worry etch his features, and realized that he didn’t want her alone tonight, mourning.

"That sounds perfect, Michael," she answered with a quiet smile. "Thank you."


****

Liz waited in a booth at the Canyon Café, sipping her glass of chardonnay. Michael was a few minutes late, but that hardly surprised her. And unlike Maria, who had always fumed and taken Michael’s tardiness far too personally, it never bothered her much. Maybe it was because she knew so many artists now, and had come to see Michael’s habits within that larger context. Or maybe it related to the easiness with which they’d accepted one another since senior year. Sadly, it had taken Max’s disappearance, and ultimately his death, to eradicate all the tension between them. At least the unpleasant kind, she thought wryly, reflecting on the romantic tugging that had plagued them all these years.

Liz glanced up and found Michael winding his way through the busy bar area, which was filled with happy hour patrons. The Canyon was a key gathering place for local artists and writers, and Liz tried to frequent it often after work. It was a good way to socialize with her competition and to network without being obvious about it.

She also made sure to drag Michael out in the art milieu far more often than suited him, so she’d learned the hard way to ply him with good, spicy food in order to get him out on the town.

"Hey," he smiled, sliding into the booth across from her. His long hair was still slightly damp from the shower, pulled into a halfhearted ponytail, despite the frigid temperatures outside. He looked striking and handsome, and not a little bit sexy, with one damp tendril falling loose against his cheek.

Instinctively, Liz reached to tuck it behind his ear, and their eyes met in crackling silence for a moment. "Missed one," she smiled softly, dropping her hand.

He brushed at the hair awkwardly, and a faint pink color tinted his cheeks. "Thanks," he mumbled, seeming oddly shy as he stared down at his menu.

All their earlier tension had dissipated, and Liz was thankful he’d insisted on taking her out to dinner. Clearly he remembered that today marked eight years since Max’s passing. Even though he hadn’t mentioned the anniversary all day, he’d obviously endeavored to drag her out for the night, to get her mind off the melancholy remembrance.

She’d gone home first to change clothes, and when she’d logged on to check her e-mail, she’d seen two notes waiting from David. But before she could open them, her mother had phoned and by the time she’d ended the call, she feared being late. So now the two unread missives burned in her consciousness, distracting her despite her best intentions. Every time she thought of them, her pulse raced, causing her face to flush uncontrollably.

And Michael seemed to notice the way her thoughts drifted, as he glanced up at her several times in curious silence.

"Look, Liz," he blurted, licking his lips nervously as he gazed down at the menu. "I just want to say something, before half of Santa Fe starts parading up to our table."

"Okay," she encouraged gently, wondering why he seemed suddenly uncomfortable. "Sure."

"I’ve been wrong, Liz, to push you right now," he said, still averting his eyes. "I mean, I know how I feel about you, but now is a damn stupid time to push you about it…and I don’t want you to think," he hesitated a moment, his voice catching slightly with emotion. "Well, that it means I don’t miss Max, or didn’t love him…or whatever."

Her heart lurched painfully, especially at the melancholy she glimpsed in his brown eyes. "Michael, I would never even think that. God, you know I wouldn’t." She reached for his hand, drawing it into her own. For a moment, he resisted, and then slowly closed her hand within his.

"I just wanted to say it."

She nodded silently, squeezing his hand. And then, for some reason, she didn’t let it go, just held it warmly like that. What she felt in turn wasn’t desire, or electricity, but gentle comfort from her dearest friend. And knew that he felt the same from her.

He closed the menu, and looked up at her. "Are you okay these days, Liz?" he asked seriously. "I mean, really okay?"

Liz thought she might cry at his simple question, at the concern she glimpsed in his eyes, and how loved he made her feel. She swallowed hard and nodded.

"I’m worried about you," he continued softly, as she took a sip of her wine. "Maria is, too."

"Maria?" she asked in surprise.

"Yeah, she’s been e-mailing me," he explained, tracing his fingers absently across the scarred wooden tabletop. "Says you haven’t returned her calls about the trip next week, haven’t been responding."

"Oh, I just dread going, that’s all. I’ve been meaning to call her."

"But that’s not like you," Michael argued, glancing around for their absentee waitress. "New York always energizes you."

"Not this year."

"Because you’re depressed," he observed simply.

Liz thought about his statement, and realized that he was more right than she wanted to admit. The only thing that had roused her passion in months was David Peyton’s paintings. Perhaps that was why they meant so much to her.

Perhaps it was why David already meant so much to her, as well.

She nodded slowly in affirmation, taking another sip of wine, as she tried to steady her thoughts. "I’d be a lot more excited about New York if you were coming with me," she teased lightly. "God, we could go to the Metropolitan and spend the weekend just bumming around."

"I’d come with you, if it was just… coming with you," he shrugged. "I mean, so long as it wasn’t a bunch of glad-handing."

"You’d really come?" she asked in surprise, feeling suddenly hopeful about the trip.

"Yeah, sure I would."

Liz’s eyes widened with excitement. The thought of Michael accompanying her to New York brought back all their happiest times together, and made the burdensome trip seem suddenly exciting.

"Well, then come!" she all but cried, as she began formulating plans quickly. "There’s a great exhibit at the Met, and we could have lunch at Tavern on the Green…"

Michael’s gaze softened, and Liz was instantly grateful. Grateful that he was her best friend again, and that the look in his eyes wasn’t one of desire or hunger, as she’d often glimpsed recently. Grateful that tonight of all nights, it seemed the perfect balance of their friendship had been restored.

"Cannoli," he laughed softly. "We can do whatever you want so long as I get my cannoli from that place on Seventh."

"Well, that’s an improvement over the cigars from that other place on Seventh," Liz teased huskily, making a face of displeasure.

"Okay, Maria, don’t give me crap about my Cohibas," he snorted. "I only smoke ‘em like twice a year."

"Maria!" Liz exclaimed suddenly, clapping with pleasure. "She’ll be as excited as I am about your coming!" How could she not have thought about Maria joining them, Liz wondered.

But Michael’s eyes darkened instantly. "Let’s just…keep it us, okay?" he asked softly. "I mean, I know you’ll see her, but don’t tell her I’m coming."

"You don’t want to see Maria?" Liz asked, shocked that despite their rocky relationship, he wouldn’t at least want to see her.

Michael shook his head silently.

"Michael, what happened last time?" She asked, referring to Maria’s visit for his gallery exhibition two years before.

"Liz, please…it’s a long story."

"Well, you’ve never told me, and she won’t either."

"Now that’s a surprise," he observed sardonically. "Maria keeping quiet about her never-ending disappointment with me."

"Maria loves you, Michael," she disagreed quietly, feeling oddly removed, as she often did when they discussed his relationship with Maria.

"She loves me, but she can’t stand me. Great combination."

"I think you’re wrong. She asks about you all the time, Michael," Liz countered. "She’s never gotten serious with anyone but you. Not in all these years."

"I love Maria. That’s never changed. But she’s never going to accept me just as I am…I figured that out a long time ago."

"I don’t buy that."

"She wants me in New York, playing the game like she does. And I’m just not cut out that way, Liz. You know it…you always have," he said, tugging absently at his ponytail. "My mistake was in trying again with her after college. I should have let her go forever after high school."

Liz’s palms grew clammy because they were wandering into dangerous territory, a realm they’d silently agreed never to discuss between themselves, yet something warned her that the bridge was about to be crossed.

And then, the waitress appeared, and just that easily, the moment was lost. The unspoken things were again cast into the realm of the unspeakable, and Liz breathed in quiet relief.


****


"Thanks for dinner," Liz said, stepping carefully along the snowy sidewalk. All the slush had solidified into a treacherous icy sheen, as soon as the sun had set.

"No problem." Michael clasped her elbow, guiding her over a particularly slippery spot. "I enjoyed it. And besides, you managed to seduce me into that trip next week."

Liz glanced up at him through her lashes. " Seduce you?" she teased huskily, feeling her heart race at the way he gazed down at her with sudden flaring passion.

"That’s what it was. Seduction, pure and simple, Parker."

"Yeah, right," she laughed, stepping ahead of him with a toss of her hair. "You wish, Guerin."

"Call it like I see it, Liz."

She glanced back at him, about to level him with a witty retort, but in that quick moment, she stepped on a patch of black ice and felt the world shift beneath her feet. She fell hard, flying off the edge of the sidewalk and nearly landed right in busy Canyon Road.

"Liz," Michael cried, reaching for her clumsily as he captured her arm. But she slid hard, landing on her side, causing her feet to dangle off the curb dangerously.

"Oh, God!" she cried, drawing them back as a car passed, causing wet slush to fly into her face.

"You okay?" he asked, dropping quickly beside her on the frozen ground. "God, you scared the shit outta me!"

She wiped the dampness from her face, and he clasped her shoulders within his palms, turning her to face him. "You okay, Liz?" he asked again, so incredibly gentle. And for a moment, she feared she would faint. Then just that quickly, before she could think about it, or even analyze it, he was kissing her.

He was just kneeling there beside her, cradling her close within his arms, his lips brushing softly against her own.

And the most familiar warmth erupted, unfurled as their lips parted, and his tongue darted warmly inside her mouth.

This was an alien kiss, not a human one, and all the accompanying sensations were so exotic. Yet not at all like one of Max’s kisses, she realized, even as the flashes began. Because unlike with Max, the images stumbled awkwardly one atop another, with the quickness of film frames, yet none of them were of her. None of them were romantic, or erotic, or painfully beautiful. There were no celestial glimpses in the twinkling of their moment.

There was only Max. Every single flash the two of them shared in that stolen intimacy was of Max Evans. Her love, their beloved friend, their leader. Her soul mate.

Which meant that nothing about the moment truly belonged to them, but remained instead the property of another--one whose absence was utterly palpable, even as their lips pressed heatedly together.

Liz broke the kiss first, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she pulled quickly away from Michael’s touch. "God." It was all she could even think to say, her mind had become so unsteady and thick. "God, Michael," she whispered again, sliding back from him as if she’d just been burned.

He stared at her, his brown eyes growing unthinkably sad, as he let her slip out of his grasp. "Sorry."

It was all he said, as they just sat staring wordlessly at one another. "No…no, don’t be," she stammered after a moment of stunned quiet.

"Liz, please," he stated simply, shaking his head as he rose to his feet. "Let’s just get you home."

He extended a warm hand to her, and for a moment as Liz sat staring up at him, she thought she might burst into terrible, convulsive sobs. How was it that something she’d dreamed of so many times could have fallen so miserably flat?

The worst part was how guilty and disloyal she felt toward Max, as if they’d just betrayed him unthinkably on the very anniversary of his death. The two people who’d loved him most.

But then she felt another flash of remorse, one that surprised her far more, as she imagined a pair of beautiful hands. One perfect, the other slightly broken.

And she wondered how it was that David Peyton had already laid claim to her heart—and just this quickly.


****

Michael knelt in front of her fireplace, poking at the smoldering logs. "This should get it going," he said, sounding oddly formal. From the moment they’d kissed in the middle of Canyon Road, he’d assumed this distant tone with her, and Liz’s stomach was starting to roil nervously.

She couldn’t risk things growing worse between them, not now—especially not when they’d made such headway over dinner.

"Michael, look, please don’t be…"

"What, Liz?" he snapped, turning to face her. "Embarrassed?"

She shook her head firmly. "I wasn’t going to say that."

"You didn’t have to."

She suddenly felt unbelievably exhausted, as if all she wanted was to sleep forever. "Michael, it’s just tonight of all times…"

"No, Liz," he cried out unexpectedly. "Don’t you get it? It’s just me."

"That’s not at all true, and you know it."

Michael stormed past her, pacing in front of the sofa where she sat with her legs tucked neatly beneath her. "No, Liz, you’re right," he finally agreed softly, spinning to face her. "It hasn’t always been this way between us."

Liz’s throat tightened painfully. Here they were again, dancing perilously close to a realm she never wanted to enter with him. And she had no doubt he was going to forge ahead.

"You wanted a relationship with me after college," he whispered fiercely. "And I totally blew it."

The air became electric between them, and Liz felt her heart’s tempo increase quickly at the admission. "No…" she began, wanting to reassure him. "Not really."

"I blew it because that night at the party, when you’d come home from Virginia, I saw something in your eyes," he continued, settling on the floor at her feet. He had his back to her now, raking his fingers through his long hair shakily.

Liz slid off the sofa, onto the floor beside him, needing to see his face. "What?" She’d felt sure she knew where the conversation was headed, but this admission was a surprise.

"You were looking at me like you used to look at Maxwell," he answered thickly. "And it terrified the hell out of me." Liz closed her eyes, feeling jagged pain shoot through her heart.

"God, I was such an asshole to you that night," he breathed, and Liz’s eyes fluttered open. "But when I saw that look, I knew what it meant," he continued. "That you could love me, that I could be what…ah, hell. Not what he’d been, never that, but you were just so open."

"I do love you, Michael." The words rushed out before she could stop them this time. And Liz’s face blushed painfully, as his soft brown eyes widened in surprise, then glimmered with emotion.

"Liz…"

"I loved you then, Michael. So much. I think I’ve loved you ever since that day you came to see me in Virginia and got off the plane."

"At the party, it seemed you wanted me to be Max. And I ran from that."

"I think I did," she agreed softly, though she’d never realized it until this very moment.

"I can never be Max," Michael sighed. "Can’t even come close. I can only be me…and Maria can’t handle that." He turned to her, his gaze painfully lost. "But it’s always seemed like you really just get me, you know?"

"I do get you. You’re my best friend."

"And that’s just it, Liz. We’re best friends. Very best friends, but I want more…and you still want me to be Max. I felt that when we kissed earlier."

"No, Michael. You’re not quite right about that…it’s not that I want you to be Max. It’s that I still want him."

"Yeah, same thing, though, Liz. Same damn thing. And I’m only ever gonna be me," he sighed quietly, gazing past her into the darting flames. When he finally spoke again his words were so quiet, she nearly missed them. "I swear you’re more interested in this David Peyton than you’ve ever been in me."

Liz ached to disagree with him, to put his mind at ease on this last point. And yet, in her heart’s secret places, she knew that Michael was absolutely right.

Liz stared into the fire a moment, and her thoughts drifted easily to David, to the way he was awakening her. As only Max Evans ever had. And she wondered if she had the strength to tell Michael what he really needed to know about their earlier kiss, though she knew she had no real choice.

"When we kissed, I got flashes, Michael," she whispered on a tight breath.

"Yeah?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows curiously.

She nodded, swallowing hard as she gazed into his earnest brown eyes. Her best friend, the one she needed more than anyone. Her rock. She took a steadying breath, and slipped her hand onto his knee.

"I saw Max," she said simply.

"Oh, shit."

"Just lots and lots of flashes of Max. He’s not just my problem here, Michael, he’s yours, too. You’re hanging onto him as hard as I am." Michael ran a hand through his hair, avoiding her eyes. He drew his knees closer to his chest, and suddenly seemed so incredibly vulnerable.

"Of course I am," he finally breathed, his voice wavering tremulously. "I can’t let go anymore than you can. Because then otherwise he really is dead."

And with those words, Michael began to cry, silent tears streaking his face. Liz’s chest tightened painfully, as she tried to draw him near. He ducked away from her touch, burying his face in his hands, but she wouldn’t be daunted. She reached again and finally was able to pull him into her arms.

Liz rocked him close against her like that, just stroking his hair as he’d done for her so many times, willing him to feel comforted and loved, as his hot tears dampened her blouse.