Title: Serendipity

Author: Sharon
Rating: PG
Movie Character: Alex Ross “Rough Magic”
Disclaimer: The following story has been written with no intention of claiming
ownership or solicitation, nor does the author claim the movie character(s) as his/her own.
The movie character(s) have been borrowed solely out of a love of the particular movie
and is not intended for any other purpose but amusement and entertainment.

Much gratitude and affection goes out to: Tina, Taffey, Jessie, and Darrin for their
wonderful support and encouragement in my writing.

July, 2007

“That’s not for sale,” the big-haired lady behind the counter told Deidre Montgomery,
flicking an apologetic smile her way over the top of her magazine. She sat behind a long
row of wood and glass showcases stuffed full of Depression-ware and baubles. Her tone
indicated that she had kept an eagle’s eye on Deidre’s movements through the store for
the past half-hour.

Deidre straightened from bending over one particularly dusty corner of the display case,
feeling chastised by a teacher for playing with the science equipment. Her hand hovered
above the area where a small blue and white bowl sat portioned off from other pieces by a
hand written sign explaining its history. She’d gasped in surprise when she read the
placard, for it was a bowl from Nagasaki, an artifact of the Japanese city where the
second atomic bomb had been dropped. She had gasped because it certainly looked as if it
had been bombed: one half of it was blackened and scorched with a tell-tale patina of
violent heat and light. Deidre meant to ask what it was doing here in an antique store
instead of a museum, but the lady had anticipated her unspoken hope.

“Oh, if only…” Deidre murmured, shoulders slumping in disappointment. There was no

price visible on the piece and she’d also been thinking that the price might have to be
negotiated. No sign of a price meant the same as it did in a restaurant: if you had to ask,
you couldn’t afford it.

“Did you find any of the pieces made in Occupied Japan?” the saleslady asked, a polite
reminder of their earlier conversation. The establishment they were in was an antiques
mall in an old warehouse in the heart of downtown, the kind of shot-gun building that
seemed to run back into some undefined alleyway. A few corners were well lit, while
others hovered in a dim light shadow, enclaves and nooks and kiosks filled to the brim
with items that most people had considered junk at one time. Deidre glanced at her watch:
almost time to close.

“Yes, yes, I did,” Deidre replied, pressing her fingers together, wondering if she could at
least…hold it…bring into a little bit better light, maybe see the markings on the bottom.
But she didn’t have any gloves with her, and it would feel almost sacrilegious to place her
oily fingertips on such an item. A three-year career as a museum curator had honed her
sensitivities that way. “I found it in one of the cases in the back, a sweet little demitasse
cup that my aunt would just adore.” She returned her attention to the forbidden item
before her, pointing down to it. She was not going to be dismissed so easily, “if it’s not
for sale, may I ask who owns it?”

“A gentleman brought it in one afternoon and he was first going to sell it,” the
proprietress said, her reading glasses at the end of her nose, reinforcing the distracted but
firm image of a teacher caught in her work. She laughed as she remembered. “But no
sooner had he marched out the door, he turned around and marched back in and I thought
he was going to take it back. I talked him into at least letting it just stay here in the case.
You don’t see a piece of history like that every day. He said he felt bad hoarding it away,
but I could tell he was having a hard time parting with it, too. Have to wonder if it doesn’t
have some sentimental value.”

“I bet it does,” Deidre said, images of a world-weary, life-worn elderly veteran flitting
through her head. “What’s his name?”

The saleslady frowned for a moment and then shuffled over to the spot, pulling out a key
from her pocket. She opened the back door to the case, reached in, and tilted it enough to
look at the tag attached. “A Mr. Ross Millan,”** she informed Deidre, and set it back
down.

“Did he leave a phone number?”

“Oh, now if he did,” the saleslady sighed, giving her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure I
couldn’t find it right now. I tell you what, if you want to talk to him so bad, you can
leave a message and I can put it with the bowl for when he comes back in.”

“Does he come in often?” Deidre pursued, after she had scribbled her own contact number
on a piece of paper torn off her grocery list.

“I haven’t seen him for some time, but that doesn’t mean he won’t come in soon. He’s a
bit unpredictable,” the lady replied.

When Deidre returned to the front with the demitasse to pay, the saleslady was waiting.

“You know, you got my curiosity up,” she said, “and I did find this,” she held up a card
with scribbling on it. She wouldn’t let Deidre see the phone number, though. “He’s at a
place called the Gaslight Tavern. I think its some resort out on the edge of town. Way
out in the country. People I know like to go there once in a while and kick up their heels,
but I’ve never been there myself. I hear it’s a real fine place,” she concluded.

After leaving the shop, Deidre drove aimlessly around the square in her car, debating
whether or not she should make the foray down the country lanes to look for the vaunted
Gaslight Tavern. With luck, she’d be able to talk with the original owner and charm him
into letting her showcase the bowl. However, there were only so many country lanes she
could investigate and the sky had turned from a watery blue to silver gray in the time that
she was in the shop. A light drizzle tamped down what little adventuresome spirit she
had started out with.

She almost turned back to tell the owner of the shop that she was the curator of exhibits
at the Abner Grove Museum of Natural History – would she not consider a special loan?
Did she think the man might agree to that? Deidre felt certain that if she explained that a
traveling exhibit on the Pacific Theatre of World War II was arriving next week, the logic
of borrowing the bowl would be obvious. And, in the greedier parts of her heart, she was
certain that would give her an advantage to purchase the bowl, as she was sure it would be
a timely accomplishment for Acquisitions.

It wasn’t mere greed that compelled Deidre Montgomery to think this way: she had an
eye for historical pieces, ones that others would cast away as insignificant or meaningless,
ones that generations of people connected with once it was placed in its proper context.
She often spent her Saturdays going to garage sales, estate sales and the occasional out of
the way antique store. Her antiquities-eye had been trained while she worked for an art
appraiser for several, but was now somewhat lax since she took the job as museum
curator. She enjoyed her job thoroughly, but it was sadly and utterly focused ‘in house.’
This was a necessary task as the previous curator had left the record-keeping and
preservation room in a shambles, but the weekend jaunts had become her way of keeping
a practiced eye open for those odd pieces that might otherwise pass by and the little
Nagasaki bowl was a real gem of a find in this out of the way town.

She was jarred out of her daydream by a honking horn – the light she’d been waiting for
had turned green. Muttering under her breath, Deidre turned her car homeward in
resignation. She needed to rest anyway. Tomorrow, the new exhibit arrived and she
would be chin-deep in dispersing papers, un-boxing artifacts, sorting labels, moving
display cases, and managing the crew, not to mention the meetings with her bosses. It
would be a busy week before she’d be able to relax once more.

** From the book Myra Shumway Waves a Wand by James Hadley Chase.

~@~@~@~@~

August, 2007

Voices behind him were appropriately hushed, lowering somewhat as they rounded the
corner of the display wall and entered the exhibit enclave where he stood. Alex Ross did
not turn. He remained in his lackadaisical stance of hands in his pockets, shoulders at rest,
his jacket looped over one hand, chewing thoughtfully on a cinnamon-flavored toothpick.
His present awareness was somewhat muddled by the images before him, large black and
white photos mounted on black masonite and overlapped in a scattered outline of the
various scenes of the Pacific Theatre of World War II.

The words on the various labels before him were a blur: he knew the story well enough.
He’d wondered how he would feel seeing the items that had participated in the events so
long ago enclosed in plexiglass and labeled and categorized – had anticipated disgust and
apathy. Instead, the melancholy with which he was so familiar returned - born more of a
disappointment by how little there was to represent that particular theatre of war.
Unlike the European theater, the display explained, fighting in the Pacific had not garnered
quite as much “memorabilia,” largely because there was less ‘portability’ and less
interaction with the cultures in the Pacific. Alex knew there were more personal reasons,
though, the kinds of reasons he shared with many of the Greatest Generation: some of
those things should have been left behind.

Still, it made him feel not quite so alone to see that he wasn’t the only one who brought
home souvenirs.

The Abner Grove Natural History sat in a reclusive part of town, back upon a hillock,
surrounded by artistic gardens and pools, approached by a long winding drive with tall
elm trees arching over. It stood apart from the mainstream of the city, a little bubble of
culture that seemed to thrive only on the good graces of a few interminably rich donors.
It was Tina who had suggested he come to the exhibit, bless her heart. The Second World
War was of particular historical interest to her, a subject Alex was all too happy to let
Jack Corbett, Lachlan, Jim, and other Brothers discuss. He remained quiet about much
and fortunately not many pressed him. Alex needed only to close his eyes and see the
images that popped to know that he did not want to verbally relive what he saw; and
they respected that. He’d resisted at first - there was too much going on at the Point.
And what did he think would happen to him if he did visit? That the pain of older
memories would suddenly be all swept away?

Something recent had compelled him to come here, though. Part of it was what all the
others said about the exhibit, part of it because he did want to try, once and for all, to
exorcise the demons. It helped to have others with him too, otherwise he might have
turned around at the door and hitch-hiked back home.

“Hey, man, refreshments in the back room,” Steve mumbled, stepping up next to him, a
cookie in one hand, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other. “Grab some and bring it with
ya.”

“Why?”

“We’re on our way into town,” he added, referring to his significant other, Donna, not but
a few feet away and absorbed in study of one of the cases. “You look like you’ve seen
several ghosts, so I thought we’d buzz outta here.”

“None that aren’t already at home,” Alex murmured, ruefully, and then shrugged it off.
“Tina said I should visit and I’d be a heel if I said I did when I didn’t.”

“Mmm-hmm. Yeah,” Steve mumbled through another bite. “Hate to rush you, but I
promised Donna I’d take her by the craft store before we went home. Got some bug up
her butt to do another baby blanket. If I hear the sound of those fucking needles clacking
together again, I’ll go nutso, so I gotta find something at that store, too, just to drown out
the noise. Come lend some support, man.”

“You go on. I’ll catch a taxi,” Alex replied. As much as he liked his fellow New Yorker,
the last thing he wanted to be was third wheel, even for a domestic trip. He had no
companion of his own to grouse about for the time being, and he didn’t want reminding of
that. After Annabella, the Point’s earlier chef as well as his girlfriend, had left, he’d spent
a little time mourning; then pulled himself up by the bootstraps and got back to work.
Recently, he’d been busy writing promotionals for the Point, for the Tavern, for his
Brothers, not to mention learning how to use the computer and something called
‘blogware,’ which both fascinated and frustrated him. He had an easier time of it than his
Brothers, since investigative reporting didn’t require a lot of face-to-face contact or
Outside involvement. But every once in a while, he needed it.

After Steve and Donna said their good-byes, he wandered a bit more, coming at last to a
corner that specifically concentrated on the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, almost
by accident. Once again this brought to mind the devastation he had been called upon to
photograph, the little bowl he had taken as souvenir, the one he had retrieved from his
movie not long after he arrived at the Point and had decided to put away indefinitely,
some place where he could not let himself get wrapped up in it again. He’d had to do that
for his sanity, especially after Annabelle left.

“…and at seven this evening, we’d like to invite you to join us in the auditorium for our
guest speaker, Charles Evans, who will discuss the attack on Pearl Harbor. He has some
very interesting things to say about the comparisons to September 11.”

Alex turned to look for the owner of the voice, a very feminine and clear voice, and the
images the dulcet tones concocted were not disappointed. She was a stunning figure
standing next to a door leading to the auditorium, talking to a small group of tourists that
had stopped to listen, a lithe woman with striking good looks and a cascading flow of dark
burnished red hair that reached past her shoulders. She was dressed well, looking as if she
had stepped off the covers of some kind of Museum Fashion Quarterly. He discovered he
was responding quickly to the flash in her eye and the way she moved.

He waited until her eyes drifted his way, then he let his own gaze drop down and then up
before turning a quarter of a step away, as if he had really been aiming for the case next to
him. Calculating bastard that he was, Alex was intrigued. As expected, she gave him a
responding stare, flashed shades of surprise and evaluation of her own, and quickly
covered it up as people cornered her for questions.

Now he either had to move in for the kill, or wait and see if she would find the courage to
approach him. He was never sure how it went these days. Women of the 21st century had
lost the ability to chase and be chased and he was still trying to figure out how to gauge
the kind of woman who would do just that...if that kind of woman still existed. All too
often, though, just by hanging around the tavern, the chase lasted all of five minutes,
devolving into a negotiation of where, rather than when. His jaded heart was sure this one
would be no different – a regular ball-buster if she was a career woman – but the rest of
him had already begun a jitter-bug of anticipation.

“I hope you are enjoying the exhibit,” came her voice beside him. He had turned to view
another plexiglass case of artifacts, paraphernalia taken with the men on Enola Gay for
their fateful mission, inching his way towards this particular section of the museum for an
hour now, uncertain he wanted to relive the memories that had been instilled in him so
long time ago. But now that she was here…

“Yes, I am,” Alex said, and met her eyes, every nerve of him leaping in response to her.
She was a bit smaller than he, head held high, as if she could take him square on. Her eyes
were an intriguing olive green. He decided to spend time just looking into them next
chance he got. And now that she was much closer he sensed that her fashionable outfit
hid some serious curves. “I’m finding it….” his eyes dropped to her mouth momentarily,
“educational.”

“I don’t know if you heard the announcement,” she continued, looking slightly ruffled by
his frank stare. “We have some interesting speakers tonight, as well as throughout the
week, and a ceremony tomorrow for the installation of a memorial wall.”

“Actually, I’m just here for the refreshments,” he quipped, and immediately regretted it,
for the corners of her mouth turned down slightly at the joke. “Just kidding,” he told her
quickly. “I saw the flyers for the panel and the memorial. That’s going to be quite an
event.”

“Have you come far?” she asked. “We’re such a small town museum, I’m sometimes
surprised at the visitors we get. Why, just a few days ago, there were people all the way
from Australia!”

Alex suppressed a grin. That would have to have been Terry, Lachlan, Jack
Corbett, and Adalia.

“No, not far, Miss…?” He paused, hoping she would oblige him with her name instead of
pressing for his origins. She pointed to the brass label pinned to her collar. “Deidre
Montgomery,” he repeated, and caught himself mulling that name. “You’re the curator?”

“I am,” she replied, quite proudly. “Been here for three years now.”

“Quite a display,” he told her, but let his eyes say other things.

A gratifying blush stole into her cheeks as she pointed to the Hiroshima display in an
effort to end an awkward silence. “Sobering to think that these ordinary things witnessed
such a horrible day,” she told him.

Alex glanced at the items in the case. Yes. He was familiar with all of that.

“Van Kirk’s sextant, radio headset…and there,” Deidre pointed to a small pedestal where
a single tea cup sat, a numbered pin and label description at its base, its once brilliantly
painted design marred by the vestiges of fire and debris. Alex watched her expression
morph from bland interest to a kind of hunger, as if she wanted to sit and examine every
particle of it, hold it in her fingers, absorb the remnants of the life it used to know.

Somehow, that made sense to him.

“…from the fallout of Hiroshima,” she was saying, and then caught him watching her.
Blushing again, she mumbled something about the obvious placard. He gave her another
smile, thinking he’d much rather flirt with her than review the past.

“We also have cookies and punch in the next room,” she added when he did not reply.
The words followed by a private look of ‘oh crap, I already said that.’

“Yes, I know,” he replied patiently. “And as long as its not sausage and tequila, I’m easy
to please.”

“Oh? Sounds like a personal experience,” she teased.

“You’ve no idea.”

“Anything else?”

“I hear Aussies have some pretty strange things to eat.”

“And here I was going to bring out the Vegemite and cook something on the barbie in case
more of them showed up.”

“Thank God I’m not Aussie.”

“Thank God I’m not much of a cook.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Well, this is gonna be a beautiful friendship!”

She laughed, a round belly-driven sound that sent a whirr through his bloodstream. He
steeled himself to stand very still – the charge he got from her laugh would have sent him
flying all around the museum.

“Well, I’d better get back to work,” she said then, suddenly shy. “I hope you can make it
to the seminar tonight. The speaker deserves a large audience.”

“I’ll be there with bells on,” he assured her and watched how the shadows caught her
curves as she walked through various spotlights, the light and dark adding emphasis to the
swing that was already in her step. He’d been making plans to meet her after the
evening’s event anyway; now he figured he had to, especially since he recalled where he’d
heard that name before: his answering machine, from the woman who owned the shop
where he’d put up his bowl. He rattled the handful of coins in his pocket, grinning at the
prospects. What serendipity!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

No matter what she tried to do – sit in the front row, check with the docents on the status
of the guests remaining in the exhibit rooms, or fiddle with the stacks of programs,
Deidre always found herself seeking out the man with the aqua-green eyes in the small
ampitheatre adjoining the museum. He sat in the middle, off to the right, in a spot that
seemed to give him as much a view of the room as possible, so that he could see her as
much as she could see him; and Deidre embarrassed herself by imagining he was watching
her, too; even though every time she looked, he was blandly focused on the speaker.
Before long, she was desperate for anything that would keep her from studying Mr.
Fedora (she had to call him that since she, in all her bumbling, had failed to get his name)
instead of paying attention to the room. She gave in when the lights were dimmed to show
slides and found that his face was caught in a back-glow off the screen. She wasn’t
sure if it was the shadows or not, but the merry face that had greeted her in the exhibit
hall now had a melancholy, almost haunted, look.

She became caught up in the mini-battle for nonchalance and busy-ness when the lights
were turned back on, so much so that the call for questions signaling the end of the lecture
startled her. Deidre lifted her head from the stack of pamphlets she had been fidgeting
with and found that the speaker was staring at his audience expectantly. Mr Fedora had
leaned forward, the haunted look harder now, as if he were trying to reassert a particular
mask, and as if he might have a few questions for the speaker.

“Would you say there was a great deal of evidence that Imperial Japan would surrender
after the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima?” Alex asked at last, after a couple of other
people had remarked on the more recent correlations with September 11. His aqua eyes
seemed to glint: Deidre could see a certain danger in them even at her distance. The
tension in the air went up a notch.

“There was...I’d have to say there was much discussed in the days leading up to Pearl
Harbor that...” the speaker began, a youngish man in his mid-thirties, with an odd
assortment of grooming styles: sideburns that suggested a more Victorian sensibility than
someone who took an avid interest in World War II, and a blazer over a polo that he wore
with an uncomfortable air, as if he’d rather be wearing cargo shorts and t-shirts. Deidre’s
gaze slid back to Mr. Fedora – even though the hat was in the chair next to him and his
jacket was off and laid across his lap, he had the air of someone who was very
comfortable in classic attire.

“He didn’t ask about Pearl Harbor, young man.”

The room’s attention swerved for a challenging voice that brooked no trouble, a voice
shaky with age, but still deep and full of authority. An elderly man sat below Mr. Fedora,
white hair sparse upon his head. Next to him was an elderly woman who’s hair was just
as white, but quite thick in comparison. Deidre saw the speaker’s face pale slightly and
heard the rest of the people move in their seats because they sensed an upcoming debate.

“You gave a good speech, son,” the elderly veteran continued, voice softening somewhat
into a grandfatherly tone that practically patted the speaker on the head. “But I think
what the man was trying to get you to answer was some vital information about the
Japanese Empire and their unwillingness to surrender.”

The rest of the exchange became kind of blur to Deidre as she watched a rather testy
discussion – her focus switched to crowd control mode more than listening to the words
of the ensuing debate. What if people really lost their tempers? How would she calm
them down? But to her relief, the elderly gentleman held everyone rapt with a harrowing
tale and the audience asked him more questions than the speaker. Then, as if there were
some kind of signal, the crowd in the amphitheatre began to disperse, laughing and going
by both men to shake their hands and commiserate some more. Even though she got
caught up in saying good-bye to everyone, her gaze drifted once again to see Mr. Fedora
and the veteran salute each other, then pat each other on the backs with a smile.

Then his eyes found hers. Oh, boy.

“Thank you for coming, I hope you enjoyed it,” she recited as he approached. Her
stomach fluttered dangerously close to euphoric nausea.

“Not as much as I would enjoy sharing a cup of coffee with you,” he replied, fedora
balanced on his fingers.

“I...it’s just that...” she stammered, looking around to find the docents going through the
room to pick up stray pamphlets and turn off the projector. How long would it take for
her to shut down the rest of the museum? “I have to close up shop before I can go
anywhere, Mr...?”

“It's Alex. Alex Ross.” He held out his hand to shake and fingers closed around hers,
warm and strong. “And here I was going to whisk you away to my secret lair and dazzle
you with a lead-up to my true identity.”

“Pardon me,” she replied, giving him a stern look, “but words like 'secret lair' and 'come
have coffee' do not go together.”

“Oh, I see. You’re skeptical of my intent,” he rejoined with a return of the merry twinkle.
“Can I change your mind with some coffee?”
She couldn’t help but laugh again.

“If you don’t mind waiting,” she explained, apologetically. It was against her better
judgment, running off into the night with a complete stranger; but she knew if she went on
home, she’d be too keyed up to sleep. All she would do is lie in bed and think about him.
“I’ll run through the usual checks and make sure no one gets locked in. Then, we can go.”

She led him to the foyer of the museum where he could sit on a bench while she talked
briefly with the gift-shop manager, listened to the security guards report their stations,
and walked into the collections room to shut off the lights and retrieve her shawl and
purse. He sat watching with interest and joked with the guards as they hovered about,
standing again to put his coat back on when she returned to the foyer, shawl slung over
her shoulders and purse in hand. Deidre had spritzed some perfume on before reappearing
and the spicy floral fragrance caught on a faint draft as he opened the door for her.

“Where’s your car?” Deidre asked, as she stopped to consider her own sitting in its
reserved space close to the sidewalk. Most of the staff had left already, but the ones that
served to shut down the place and walked with them now scattered to their own cars.
One of the security guards hovered nearby.

“Took a cab into town,” Alex said, one hand fiddling with something in his coat pocket.
He saw the look of alarm cross her face and placed his hat back on his head. “Don’t
worry. I’ve asked that gent over there to drop me off at the Coffee Niche. You’ll meet me
there?”

“Yes, see you there,” Deidre replied, breathing a private sigh of relief. It remained to be
seen whether or not their impromptu meeting would be worth offering him a ride just yet.

******************

Alex held off as long as he could. A cigarette pack was burning a hole in his pocket while
in the lecture, his fingers itching the entire evening to shake one out and light it; but now
that he was at the cafe, he debated whether or not he should. Deidre didn’t seem the type
who cared much for cigarette smoke – why should she, working in a sterile place like a
museum? But they'd been calling to Alex since before the tweedy, gimble-eyed twerp
(finally) finished his lecture, right about the time when Alex felt like he would either deck
the brat or get up and leave. He would have done it, too, he told himself, if he’d not been
acutely aware of the russet beauty that haunted the room. Every once in a while their
glances would cross each other and she always looked quickly away.

Naturally, this meant something; so, the sole possibility of finding out for sure was the
only reason he'd not given up on the entire evening. The pulse of attraction was hard to
ignore.

Damned if that kid up at the lectern didn’t ruffle a few feathers, though, Alex thought.
After the guard had dropped him off, he'd plunked down at a sidewalk table outside the
Coffee Niche, the kind with an umbrella and little lights strung along the edges. He took a
moment to look around: mostly college kids in various forms of grunge, each looking like
the other, while he sat among them in fedora and coat. The incongruity of this decided the
cigarette. He knew he’d end up feeling the way he always did when venturing outside the
Point: like the throwback he really was. If any of the slobs around him cast him a look, he
stared them down with his usual grin, fedora cocked back from his face.

In waiting for her to show, he thought back to the lecture again. He’d lost count of the
numerous slants the speaker had given the well-known documentation of the two
bombings so he could make points about current events. By the time the floor opened for
questions, Alex was so put out that he’d barely managed to consolidate his thoughts into
one single question. He got a glance at Deidre and was glad the elder vet had taken up the
slack – the young woman’s eyes had widened at the unexpected challenges; but when the
speaker showed he could hold his own under fire, she visibly relaxed. He felt a bit sorry
for her: had to be nerve-wracking to wonder how a controversial subject would be
handled. On the other hand, she should have known: too many people still left who
haven’t fallen for the conventional wisdoms that covered over World War II.

There was, however, the sweet hint of perfume as she sidled past him through the door.
He had watched her every little movement then, and did not refrain from letting his
admiration show. Alex took a drag from his cigarette. He’d sit through several of those
lectures for the look she returned him.

“Sorry I’m late,” he heard her say as she stepped up to the table. Quickly, he took off his
fedora and rose to his feet, ducking somewhat because the fairy lights nearly tangled in his
hair. “Some lunatic decided to get in my lane and play games with the speed limit and my
sanity.” She flashed him a smile as she sat down in the chair he pulled out for her. "Thank
you! I wanted to tell you: it is such a pleasure to see a man wear a hat, much less know to
take it off at the proper time."

"I rescue kittens from trees and obey the Boy Scout law, too," Alex avowed with a
mischievous glint in his eye. “You're not late. What’ll you have?”

“Cafe latte,” she said and began to rummage through her purse. He stopped her. “Its just
a dime or two,” he told her with a wink, and disappeared inside. Minutes later, he brought
out the steaming take-away cups and settled himself back into his chair.

“So...” she began, taking a sip.

He smiled silently at her over his cup. He liked the way her eyes turned a dark shade of
gold in the pale haze of the fairy lights.

“So...” She began again, leaning forward. “You took a cab into town?”

“I did. Listen,” he said, leaning forward himself, “I wanted to tell you how much I
enjoyed the exhibit. Must have been a lotta hard work.”

“Oh, I had the easy part," Deidre shrugged. "Phone calls, getting refreshments, handing
out pamphlets. The other guys setting it up did the hard stuff. The real fun is when the
unexpected happens, like when you and the veteran spoke up...what was his name again?
I was fascinated by the story he told of landing in Guam.” There was a nip in the air and
her hands were grateful for the heat of the coffee. Now that distractions were done away
with, she realized there was also a warmth radiating from him, something that had tugged
at her since she first saw him standing in the exhibit hall. She noticed his long fingers as he
played with the packet of cigarettes on the table, suppressed a smile as she realized Alex
was a bit nervous. She then pointed to them as a means of asking for one and he obliged,
ready with a lighter when she put it to her lips. “I saw you salute him, which makes me
wonder: do you have a story to tell?”

The slight grin blossomed into a sad smile. There was a lot he wanted to say, but he didn't
want to get into it right now. “He's a Marine and I’m a Marine. I wanted to say hello.
That's all.” He paused to light his own cigarette. “What about you? What’s your story?”

“Oh, nothing so illustrious as that,” she replied. The game was on: how to get to know a
person and reveal as little of yourself as possible. Alex gave her the idea that he might
make it fun. Plus, he was damned cute. “Born and raised in Alabama, narrowly escaped
the debutante thing, left home for the musty back rooms of a museum. About the closest
to danger I’ve ever come is crossing paths with a determined bridesmaid at a wedding.
You don’t know battle until the bouquet is thrown.”

“I get the picture,” he replied, chuckling. “But why a museum?”

“As opposed to a corner office on Wall Street, or a doctors office in some huge city?
Heavens above, that would've been a dream come true for my uncle. Or rather, that I
married someone with a corner office on Wall Street. Or a lawyer and set up shop in LA.
No,” she sighed, her eyes following the way the smoke from his cigarette curled around
him. “I wanted to control my own destiny. I’d spent much of my childhood trying to
prove myself to other people. When I hit college, I realized I wanted to prove something
to myself. I like history and somehow, a museum felt like the natural place to be.” She
stopped there, realizing she was pouring out her life’s story when she had been the one to
start the subject. Slightly incredulous – either with him or herself, she wasn’t sure – she
tried again, “...and what do you do, Mr. Ross?”
“Hey, my old man’s called Mr. Ross,” Alex chided, tilting his chin so that she noticed the
slight cleft. She wrapped her hands around her coffee cup to stifle the urge to place both
of her hands on his cheeks and caress in an expression of adoration. “I have friends who
call me several things, but Mr. Ross ain’t one of them.”

“Do they know what you do, Alex? Or is your life a mystery to them as well?” Deidre
teased, resting her chin in her palm.

“Touche,” Alex laughed. He'd been closing the distance between them by leaning more and
more toward her, until his elbows rested on the table and they could look each other
directly in the eye. “I’m a writer. Er...journalist, actually. I freelance a lot of my work.”

“A writer! I thought you had that whole Walter Winchell look about you. I can see you
now, banging away at your typewriter, punching out the next breaking headline."

"Do nothing but phone calls. Like you. Research, contacts, AP wire. And I use a
computer now...erm...like everyone else." He stabbed out the stub of his cigarette to
cover his near slip. It had taken him a while to get used to 20th century technology, the
stuff of science fiction in his time. "Nothing that a word slinger doesn't ordinarily do."

"Mmm-hmm, I see. A Marine and a writer. Okay, okay...I'm getting it now,” she said,
smiling broadly. “Small pictures beginning to form here."

“Pictures?”

“Yeah, you know...hard bitten reporter, jaded by the world, on a quest to tell the world
what he’s seen. ”

Alex lit another cigarette, covering himself again to keep from committing an infraction
that in his day would have not made a dame blink twice. The strong urge to call her “doll”
had to be suppressed. Despite the good will between them at the moment, he’d learned
all too quickly that in the 21st century, forties-era terms of endearment could mean the
kiss of death on a date.

"I like those pictures," she added, shyly, giving him a sweet smile that flipped his heart.

He couldn’t help himself anymore: he shortened the space between them to a few inches
and fixed her with a smoldering gaze. "Can’t be anything like the pictures I'm thinking of,"
he divulged, and then held his breath, wondering how she would react. Even with his
natural impulses, he had surprised himself: he hadn’t spoken to an Outside woman that
way since...well, in a long time.
Deidre didn't reply for several seconds, but he was pleased to see a hot light spring up in
her gold-green eyes. She had the kind of face that belonged on a pinup: bold features in
sexy arches and angles, and a killer smile with just enough of a secret in it to keep a man
wondering what she might tell him, if given the right kind of attention. The way she was
leaning in response to him told him he was doing just fine in that arena.

"What..." she finally began and her voice sounded raspy. She cleared her throat. "What
pictures at the museum did you like?"

Alex withdrew at that question, looking as sad as he felt at the memories that piled back
on.

"Pictures like those don't get much liking from me, I'm afraid," he replied, bluntly.

Deidre nodded her understanding. He could almost hear her berating herself: stupid,
stupid, stupid...

"Of course not, how silly for me to..." she began, but he took her hand, held it firmly as
he spoke. The air between them had thickened, as if a bomb had gone off; more so,
because something inside him had clicked on as well.

"It's just...I've seen plenty of pictures like that before," he told her, voice thankfully
steady. "My...grandfather had them. In his attic. He didn't talk much about it, but..." he
drifted in thought momentarily. What pictures he had brought with him to the Point were
ones made in the film, and those were about as non-military as they could get; but he'd
found ones in the library that spurred memories the Creator must have instilled, memories
of the utter devastation of Nagasaki, of what little life limped among the ashen splinters,
of picking up the bowl...

He looked down at her hand - soft white skin, pretty fingers, smooth, short nails - he
could see himself cradling it as they danced. "He brought them down one day...I guess he
was feeling his age, and gave them to me. Said I could have them if I wanted, but to
prepare myself. There were a good many that weren't pretty. He was a photographer in
the war, a correspondent," he added, with a return of the jaunty smile. "Guess I'm a chip
off the ol' block."

"That must have been a treasure," she whispered in return. She was thinking she would
either be very reckless if he did anything more than hold her hand, or very cold in bed that
night if she got up and walked away. She was really hoping he would try something. She
was certain that it was the wrong time to forget herself. "Do you still have them?"

"No," he said, and he looked away for a few moments. He'd almost slipped and said
something about his little Nagasaki bowl. That would have tripped things up for sure,
knowing that the woman who had asked to purchase it in the antique store was sitting
right in front of him, glowing with invitation. Maybe I should go back to that shop and get
it... "They were donated...somewhere...before I could get them."

They both fell silent then, gazing at each other - it was clear they were both considering a
number of things. Then, he said, "there's a park just across the road. Nice view of the lake.
Plenty of lighting," he added, with a grin.

"That would be nice," she agreed, and they both stood to gather their things and walk
across the parking lot. He offered his elbow to her as they went, grabbing her hand when
it came time to cross the four lane highway - traffic was considerably less now - and then
pulling it back through the crook of his arm as they reached the grassy lawn edging the
lake on the other side.

"I hope you don't mind my saying," Deidre said as they fell into a slow pace on the
sidewalk. It skirted the shores of the lake, meandering into a broad park with lots of
trees. “But you don't sound like you're from this area. New York, I want to guess?"

"Yeah, born and bred."

"How long have you lived here?"

This caused a strange reaction, too, although it was subtle, a wince of pain, maybe – hard
to tell since they passed out of the glow of a lamplight and shadows took over. "I got here
a decade ago." He then gave a short laugh. "Has it been that long?" His tone sounded
wistful. "Still feels like yesterday sometimes."

"I know what you mean," she told him and leaned against him. "Didn't think I'd end up
here, but now that I am, I'm really beginning to like it. Of course, it helps when I like my
job. I've been in some grand places, and was utterly miserable because I couldn't stand the
company...or the reason for being there."

"Whenever I was someplace miserable, it did a good job of bringing me down with it."

"Have you been happy here, Alex?" Deidre asked, abruptly. She didn't know why she
asked, but this was the third time she'd seen his expression dim and it bothered her.

He stopped in his tracks. They were in a bend in the sidewalk, braced by the huge trunk
of an oak tree, the water's edge lapping just feet away. Lights from the skyscrapers
downtown sparkled on the far edge of the lake, and somewhere a train sounded its horn as
it passed through the city.

"For the most part," he said, and the way he shifted hid his features behind the brim of
his hat hid his face for a moment. She took a step sideways and discovered with a slight
stumble that the trunk of the tree was just centimeters next to her.

"I have been lonely lately," he added softly, turning back to her, eyes refocusing on her
face.

"No girlfriend? No wife?" Deidre asked, nervously. These were questions she usually,
emphatically, insisted on gaining answers to with absolute veracity before she even agreed
to a date. Yet, here was this mystery man, Alex Ross, seducing her... and she'd forgotten
to ask.

"No," he said.

"No significant other?"

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind," she muttered, feeling foolish again. There was no way she was going to ask
if he was gay. There was not one ounce of him that came across that way. But still, one
never knew...

"There's no one," he told her decisively.

"Do you mean, in all that time...." She meant to playfully argue with him, set up a verbal
wall so she could have time to think about what she wanted to happen next. It was a last
defense of restraint she could think of, given the sultry look that had returned to his face;
but Alex left no more chance for comment. Pressing her gently against the trunk, his
mouth came down sweetly upon hers. Only then did Deidre succumb, floating away from
herself in the sensation of an elevator dropping out from under her feet; and when his
tongue probed for willingness, the oscillation of her heart quickened, until all she knew
was the urge to kiss him back.

When the first bright current passed, Alex parted slightly from her, lips grazing, noses
bumping, both of them still very much in the kiss. He held her loosely, aware of her
curves through her clothing, delighting in the way she leaned against him. They stood in a
mold of arms and torsos, gulping slightly as they tried to catch their breath. He didn’t
know about her, but feeling her respond had confirmed the strength of connection. There
couldn’t be any other way to describe it. Every gesture, every look, every laugh shouted
that she was meant to be with him.

Deidre turned her mouth back to his and when she spoke, she sounded breathless. “We
barely know each other,” she whispered in wonder.
“I can change that,” he whispered back, and caught her up in another kiss, renewing the
intensity. She moaned slightly as he pulled her closer, and a fireball shot through him. He
had to have her, somehow, some way…

Brrt-whirrrrr-whirrrrr! A sharp, crass, piercing bleet punched through the haze of their
lovemaking and Alex, practically snarling as he turned to glare at the intruder, saw a sleek
black-and-white pull along the curb not far away from their tree. He realized then that
they must have made a pretty suggestive silhouette in the dim light of the lamp nearby
and he stepped away from Deidre just as the driver rolled down his window and held up a
bright halogen flashlight.

“Everything all right, ma’am?” the policeman behind the wheel called out. “Is that man
harassing you? Sir, step into the light…”

Alex raised his hands and sauntered into a clear space so his face could be seen, while
Deidre followed, looking half-embarrassed, half-amused.

“No, he’s not, officer,” she called back. “We’re both fine.”

The driver turned sharply, looking back towards the passenger side, as if someone there,
had spoken to him, then switched off his flashlight and put the car in park. The door on
the opposite side of the vehicle popped open and a man rose up and turned to face them,
placing his hands on the hood. He was a middle-aged man, with longish hair and a fairly
respectable beard. Deidre heard Alex groan “oh, nooooo…” as the man called out,

“Just checking, ma’am. We’ve had some reports of a subject coming up behind
unsuspecting women and kissing them.”

“Nothing to fear here,” she replied, watching Alex adjust his fedora and shove his hands
into his coat pockets.

“Ross? Is that you?” The man then asked, circling the front of the car and shaking his
head in consternation. “Ross, Ross, Ross…and here I was thinking you were taking care
of that little problem of yours. You told me you were going to be a good boy!”

“I’ll tell you something about problems later, Grant…” Alex growled.

“You know this guy?” Deidre asked him.

“Oh, Mr. Ross and I go waaaay back…don’t we, Alexander?” The man named Grant had
a shit-eating grin on his face.

Alex muttered something between his teeth, turning just in time to muffle it away from
Deidre’s ears.

“You been taking your medication like you’re supposed to, right?” Grant was now close
to them, and she could see that he wore blue jeans and a t-shirt that said ‘Beam me up,
Scotty, there’s no intelligent life here.’

“Get lost, Zach,” Alex warned.

“Not until you promise to make it back to the halfway house on your own,” Zack
reasoned with a light tone, and for a few seconds they squared off, gleeful laughter on one
face, irritation and frustration on the other.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Deidre asked to break the moment. Alex gave her
an embarrassed look and motioned to the bearded man. “This is Zach,” and shut his
mouth tight.

“Aaaaand?” Grant asked incredulously when nothing more was forthcoming. “Aw,
c’mon, Alex. You’re not going to introduce me to your lovely friend? Fine. I’ll do it
myself. I’m Zach Grant. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“I’m Deidre Montgomery. Nice to meet you,” she replied and slipped her arm through
the crook in Alex’s. Hands still in pocket, he tucked his elbow close to his body, pressing
her arm to his side in a silent ‘thank you.’

“Seriously, my friend isn’t giving you any trouble, is he? ‘Cause I can run him downtown
if he’s being a pain in the…”

“No, no, that’s okay,” Deidre cut him off hastily. “I’m in good hands.”

Zach’s eyebrows rose until Deidre thought they were going to disappear in his brow line.

“Watch it, Zach,” Alex growled again, as if he knew exactly what his friend was thinking.

“You’ll be in curfew yourself if certain parties were to hear a repeat.”

With a soft whistle, Zach lowered his eyebrows and turned to Deidre. “I think Alex here
is giving me my cue to leave, although he’s not much more subtle than a Glock upside the
head,” he grumbled.

“That’d be about right,” Alex intoned, meaningfully.

“Hey, you got a way home?” Grant went from snickering antagonism to casual inquiry.
“No,” Alex replied, in equal measure, but Deidre could still feel how tense he was.
Probably for the same reason she was. “Was gonna call a cab. You offering?”

“Yeah, man, hop on in. And you, fair lady?”

“Oh…thank you, but I have my own car…Alex, walk me back before you go?”

Alex ignored Grant’s smirk behind Deidre’s back as they moved past the cop-car, where
the driver sat reading a magazine, looking very bored. Grant called out about getting back
on the beat soon, but Alex placed his hand at Deidre’s waist again and crossed the road
with her without acknowledging. The car she drove, a blue Chevrolet sedan, sat facing the
shopping strip where the Coffee Niche was. Fortunately there weren’t any cars by hers
and it was in a relatively dark spot of the parking lot. One more kiss…

“Thank you for the coffee,” Deidre murmured, after she had opened her car door and
thrown her purse in.

“I’d like to have another cup with you some time,” he replied, stepping into the door-
space with her. “Maybe share dinner with you before the coffee?”

She smiled up at him, an echo of the pleasure he had seen on her face while they talked.

“Does that mean I get to learn more about you?” she asked, playing with the collar of his
coat.

“Sure. I keep my medications in a box marked ‘emergencies’ under the bed and there’s a
half-way house around the corner. Sometimes, they let me come back,” he quipped,
playing with one of her stray curls, and she laughed, which was what he wanted.

“He’s…” she began, looking over at the waiting Zach.

“Obnoxious,” he finished.

“A good friend of yours?”

“You might say that. Know more about each other than most people suspect of their own
kin.”

“That’s…kind of scary,” Deidre joked.

“Not really. Not with my bunch,” Alex replied and, with his hand cupping her face, he
bent down to capture her mouth once more in a light kiss, lingering enough to promise a
return of what they’d shared.
“Tell me this isn’t just a one night thing,” Deidre said when they reluctantly broke. Her
golden eyes looked large in the dim light. She bit her lower lip, embarrassed that she had
let that thought slip out.

“Give me your phone number and I’ll tell you tomorrow,” he smiled in return.

She gave him one of her cards and he wrote his number on the back of a separate one.
Alex saw that Zach had opened the back door of the police car and was bending to talk to
the driver. Probably telling him to sound off the siren again. Ah, but it was just as well, he
sighed inwardly. Now that he had cooled some, he realized the tree was the last place he
wanted to lose himself with her. She deserves better than that…

“Tomorrow, then,” she said; kissed him on the cheek and slid into her seat. He waited
until she was locked in and buckled up before turning to re-cross the street. He then saw
her pull out of the parking lot and drive off into the dark street as he plunked himself
down in the back seat of the cop car.

“You’re something else, Ross,” Zach was saying as he closed the door and they drove off.

Alex just grunted in reply, trying to think of a way to settle into the back seat while
examining for unpleasant surprises. He’d heard Zach and Bud talk often enough of the
low-life that had no qualm or reservations in relieving themselves or vomiting all over the
back seat on the way back to the station.

“Tim Childers,” Zach said, pointing to his partner as he answered a call on the police
radio. “My friend, Alex Ross.”

“Don’t worry,” Childers said. “The last guy I had back there was arrested for
shoplifting.”

“Yeah? Thanks. I was wonderin’.”

“Can’t stand it when someone smells up my unit,” the officer added.

“Or worse,” Zach chuckled.

“Ha, don’t remind me,” Childers said. “So how long you know this bum?” he asked Alex,
nodding at his temporary partner.

“A while,” was the non-committal answer. Alex pulled out Deidre’s card and began
examining it in the flickering light that came from passing cars: clean, elegant lettering, the
museum logo in the corner; home, office, cell numbers. Such sparse descriptives of a
woman who was so vibrant in his mind already…

“Didn’t know you were on another ride-along tonight, Zach.” He said, to keep the
conversation going.

“Yeah…well…the release is still good another month…and I enjoy it. I miss a lot of it,
you know.”

Alex just nodded, did not volunteer anything to that. Zach probably avoided mention of
the Point at all possible times…and so did he.

“Too bad you had to get out on disability,” Childers commiserated and Alex realized he
was referring to Zach’s cover story for his FBI background.

“I’m just glad your department doesn’t mind me doing this,” Zach said.

“Hey, anything for another cop.”

They crawled out of the unit when they got to the station – Zach’s shift ended with their
return – and into his truck. Alex had hoped Zach would be too tired or too caught up in
whatever police matters had consumed his undercover work to give him a hard time, but
as soon as the doors slammed shut, discovered he would have no such luck.

“So?”

Alex looked over at Zach, who was slouched in his seat, wrist draped over the top of the
wheel as he steered onto the highway.

“So what?” He wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

“So…what? C’mon, man…this is your brother you’re talking to. Spill.”

“I don’t have anything to spill.”

“Who’s the babe?”

“The ‘babe’ happens to be a lady, and if you didn’t catch her name the first time, you’re
shit out of luck,” Alex informed him.

“Yeah, but where’d you meet her?”

“I don’t think I care for where you’re going with this.”

“Aw, Alex, don’t be an asswipe. Why haven’t we seen her around the Point? And what
the fuck does she see in you?”

Alex chose not answer. He was thinking he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight.

“Tell me what you said to convince her to go out with you.”

“Looks like I’m gonna have to tell Buggy that you’re scoping someone other than her,”
Alex cautioned, which got the desired reaction.

“Hey, I’m faithful, man!” Zach got really agitated now.

“Yep, that’s what you need,” Alex drawled, “a good ass-chewing in Klingonese to keep
you in line.”

“Watch it, Ross!”

Alex chuckled. If Zach had been in the hot seat, he would be putting up just as big a fight
in answering nosy questions.

“So…you like her, huh?” the former FBI agent tried again after several moments of
silence.

Alex watched the sequence of lights dwindle as they left the city limits, rolled down the
window and let the cool of the night flow over his face. Something had occurred back
there at the café table. He was baffled by it. It was more than attraction: it was the kind of
feeling that occurred only inside the bounds of the Point…or was supposed to, at any
rate.

Was Deidre a connection? Did the Magic reach that far away from the Point? In all his
years in that place, it was something he had not heard of happening at all with his
Brothers.

All the more reason to keep the cards close to the vest, he thought.

“Yeah. I do,” he finally replied, not trusting Zack to understand.

Tell me this isn’t just a one night thing…

Nope. Definitely wouldn’t get any sleep tonight.

Three

In his dreams, the Nagasaki bomb never ended. It was as black and white as the pictures
he took, his feet slowly tread through piles of debris, trying to find common
ground…burnt wood, charred metal, blackened bone…gray gray gray…endless…and
silence…except for his footsteps, and his heart, and the click of his camera. What could
he not look at and feel? He sensed fellow Marines stalking the devastation with him, but
when he looked, he was all alone; and the wreckage went on and on, into a long valley of
death…

A spot of blue caught his eye…yes, this always happened…he bent down to pick it up
and something blew across his hand…a card, with the queen of hearts…he stood and
watched it flutter away, down a path into the ruins. Even though he wanted to go back to
the bit of blue, he followed it, feet tripping…the gray around him turned to rust…

“So is this the way you’re going to handle it?”

“Myra!” Alex stood stock-still, blinking at the woman in yellow in front of him. Her
mouth was a pert red apostrophe in the light. When was the last time he’d seen her? He
didn’t know whether to be pleased or concerned. For a moment, he fretted: had she seen
the valley? Protection warred with a desire to show her – maybe then she’d understand…

“Is this the way you’re going to handle it?” She repeated, one arm akimbo, and a look of
cool disgust on her face.

“Handle what? I’m fine,” he retorted, offended by the implication that he couldn’t handle
‘it’ – whatever ‘it’ was…the dream? The nightmares? The perpetual vision of blasted
bones, bones of buildings, bones of a life before, bones of children…

They were now facing each other across a round table, littered with junk, and items Alex
did not want to guess at.

“I’m not a part of this anymore, you know,” he said, as Myra sat down in a chair.

“Part of what? Its only me,” she said, shuffling cards on the table.

“This.” He sat his own weary bones down in the other chair, steeling himself for a huge
fight. They were in the little Mexican hotel, the cantina, again, as if he and she had
stayed up well beyond the dancing and singing of the others, the Doc nowhere to be
found. “I’m not here anymore. Not…” he looked around, thinking of the Crowe’s
Tavern, “in the same place.”

Myra indulged him with a knowing smile.

“Don’t guess you want to pick a card, then, do you?” she asked.
“No.” Alex began to feel antsy. One thing was clear: Myra wasn’t her usual self, either.
Before, when he dreamt of her, longing clung to her like a favorite perfume. Now, she
seemed so distant, as if she had stepped beyond her role, into a different world…like he
had. He wanted to ask her where she had been, but she had other things on her mind.

“Or…are you here to ask for my permission?” She leaned forward and challenged him
with Lauren Bacall eyes.

“Permission for what?” Alex huffed. “I told you, I’m not…”

“You left it there for a reason.”

In a flash, he knew she was speaking of the Nagasaki cup, the one he managed to rescue
before she destroyed it in the film, had taken back to his apartment at the Tavern. The
one he deposited in that little antique store, in a bid for peace, to disperse the nightmares
that had inexplicably returned after years of silence. If he got rid of the items that
haunted him…his own bit of magic…or anti-magic…then he’d end it for sure. It wasn’t
as if he couldn’t go and get another one…he could flood the market with little cups like
that, it made no difference to him, not if it helped him stop the nightmares…

He got the distinct impression that this Myra was here to keep him from doing just that.

“Its not serendipity if you’re looking for it,” Myra said, before he could counter.

“Who says I’m lookin’ for anything?” Alex’s thoughts returned to the valley of death, of
the horror of a city laid to waste, and how he would always, always, always walk it. How
he would always look for some sign of hope, some sign of life…and how that little touch
of blue seemed to be it…

With a sigh, he had to admit: “lookin’ for a way out, Myra…”

She held up a card.

“Ace of Cups. It’s not only a container from which something flows, but can be used to
capture something, collect it, hold it.”

Alex watched it flutter across the table towards him, wondering what she was getting at.

“I’m not a part of this anymore,” he repeated, as if getting it across to her depended on
how emphatically he stated it.

“No…not here, not this place. Not even Nagasaki. Yet you keep coming back. Why?”

“I dunno.” Alex felt truly abashed and flummoxed. From the first few days of living at
the Point, he’d been coming to terms with the fact that what he had known was not ‘real’,
not in the sense that he’d ever imagined it…but then the whole experience with Myra had
been something of a contorted dream as well, fragments of who she was confronting him,
challenging him. He’d been simply grateful she’d returned to his arms, but now…

He took a deep breath to steady himself. It had taken time to grow accustomed to a new
dream, one in which others looked like just like him, but were drawn from disparate
dreams themselves. This had created new, unsettling truths, ones he’d found some way
or another of pushing aside…but it always came back to that cup…always…

“Its the magic.” Myra whispered the answer to an unspoken question, looking very
pleased with herself. “You carried it with you and its what drew her to you.”

Her. There could be no mistaking the reference Myra made to the woman at the
museum…Deidre, with a tousled abandon of russet hair and a brilliant smile that could
fuel him all the way into next week. Nothing like Myra at all. Myra, who had slinked
her way into his life, cast her spell…

He felt like a jerk…why hadn’t he gone back?

“Look, Myra, I didn’t...” he began, feeling pangs of remorse.

“…come here to reminisce,” she finished for him. She was good at that. “No. And you
shouldn’t. That’s a magic separate from this now, a…cup of yesterday, one you and I
don’t share anymore. Not when you have a cup of tomorrow.”

Alex just looked at her, unable to reply. She was paraphrasing a favorite World War II
poem to him, a poem written and published on the internet by a veteran.

With an expression on her face that brooked no further discussion, she continued, “setting
out an empty cup and then ignoring what it collects is the worst thing you can do.”

“You’re not making sense, Slim,” he complained. He was tired of this dream now. He
didn’t want to go back to the shattered gray landscape of Nagasaki, but he felt a certain
desperation, as if the clue to where he was…who he was…lay there. Myra was just
confusing him. She was good at that, too.

“I’m saying…,” Myra intoned, standing up suddenly, and Alex saw she was dressed in
Huichol robes, a shaman’s belt, and hat. An owl hooted in the corner. “If you want what
the bowl has to offer, go get it. You don’t need me to tell you what to do with it. It’s
your magic. Drink it.”

She pointed to the playing suite of cards she’d left on the table. The pictures had
changed: a man on a chair with a cup, a woman beneath a star, a man with a knapsack, a
card of lovers embracing.

“What are those?” he asked, but Myra only reached out her hand and brushed his cheek
with her fingertips.
“Good-bye, Alex,” she said, smiling at him. “Don’t ignore it. Drink it.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Deidre put a lot of credence in the philosophy of a former professor’s advice. He claimed
that gluing fragments of bone or pottery to reconstruct their original shape was good
therapy for whatever ailed the soul. And it was true: she came to value the exercise as a
means of sorting out and filing away those issues in her mind that refused to resolve
themselves. It was those hours of ‘therapy’ that had ultimately landed her job as an
assistant to the curator in Abner Grove; those hours centered her, helped her focus on
concrete tasks.

At least, it had always worked before.

“Girl, I do not know what cloud you’re on, but if you get any higher, I’m gonna have to
launch a balloon party. You are gone!”

Deidre looked up from a haze of reminiscing, of reliving her first meeting with Alex, the
memory of his closeness, down to the warmth of him as he held her, blanking out all
surroundings. Her assistant, Tracey, stood on the other side of the table and watched her
with amusement. She held in her arms a stack of binders that could only mean
submissions for new exhibits. Deidre felt color flood her cheeks and nearly dropped the
pottery piece she had been stippling with glue.

“I…I’m sorry…I don’t know what’s come over me,” she stammered with
embarrassment. “Have a million things on my mind…”

“Seems to me those million things have everything to do with that man you went out
with,” Tracey hedged with a meaningful look.

“Oh, you think so?”

“Uh huh…when do I get to meet him?”

“Um…I’m not sure…”

“When was the last time you heard from him?”

“Not long ago…a few days…almost a week…”

“Oh dear,” Tracey sighed, then wisely changed the subject. “Brought the Board
proposals. Any guesses on what they’re about?” She watched as Deidre began to flip
through them in half-hearted interest.

“Well, I recall one of them being a collection of masks,” Deidre replied, concern
morphing to more immediate matters. It had taken a year to convince the members, (a
deeply conservative group of custodians, if ever there was one) that she knew what she
was doing when she pressed for the Pacific Theatre exhibit to take a detour to Abner
Grove. Even now, when she was raking in the kudos, she knew the stack of proposals
before her would not have the nostalgia of the World War II exhibit. She would have to
spend the next week or so second-guessing the Board’s willingness to try new things.
Deidre would not buck their need for tradition and restraint: she hated controversy for
controversy’s sake. It was just she also chafed at the idea of simply being a custodian of
the same-old-same-old. A successful museum survived on the creativity of its
presentation and that was the purpose for which she was hired. Or so they had said.

“Masks? As in costume masks?” Tracey had proved remarkably efficient and

supportive, but museums were the last career of choice for the twenty-something co-ed.
She began as a front desk greeter, selling tickets and directing traffic, then inquired for a
higher paying position to help fund college. Any interest in history was purely for the
sake of getting the job done. “I still say it would be neat to have one of those Hollywood
film exhibits, like they did for Star Wars, or Lord of the Rings…”

Deidre grinned. “It would, but the day Mr. Crossier agrees to it is the day some of those
characters come to life and walk around...and even then, I’m not so sure it would go over
very well.”

Tracey was tickled by that idea. “Mmm-mmm, have Mark Ruffalo walk my way…”

When she sat down at her desk, Deidre shoved aside the clutter of artifacts and binders
and began to go through the folders, hoping to put her mind in order through distraction.
But thoughts of Alex still intruded: a game of phone tag had commenced the day after
their first meeting… and then, nothing. She was no ingénue when it came to men, no
school-girl ready to throw herself into a deep depression after an hour of silence. She
understood the game, understood how touchy men and women could be in the first blush
of a connection. But Alex had felt so different…like he was from a different time and
would at least be a gentleman about his intentions.

Should she wait a little longer before calling again? Maybe she was being too
pushy…maybe he had woken up the next morning and realized it was going too fast.
Had he panicked? Maybe he just decided he wasn’t that into her after all…

“So…ya think he might come by again?” Tracey asked, carefully unwrapping a sandwich
for lunch. She sat at her own worktable, looking as innocent as a gossip columnist.

Deidre buried her face in her hands.

“Am I doing it again?”

“Yes!”
“God, I’m pathetic!” Deidre growled in frustration.

“Oh, Dee…don’t be so hard on yourself…” Tracey crooned, turning serious at last.

“He’s probably busy.”

“I guess...” Deidre straightened up in her chair, squared her shoulders. If worse came to
worse, she’d just have to chalk it up as bad judgement on her part and learn not to look
for openings among the strangers that came to the museum. “His loss, if he doesn’t show
up, right?”

“Right,” Tracey said around a bite of her sandwich. “I’m gonna to miss you,” she added,
wistfully.

At first Deidre accepted her statement face value: Tracey would be going back to school
soon, and the hours may compete with her work schedule. But something in her tone
made the curator look up and watch her assistant’s expression.

“Something wrong?”

Tracey took several long minutes to finish swallowing and wash it down with juice; took
a deep breath before replying. “I’m pregnant.”

Deidre felt her eyes grow wide as Tracey went on, “I’m okay with it…y’know? Matt’s
gonna be supportive…might even get married…but, you know…I’m…we’re both in
shock, and I may have to wait to go back to school, or try to shove in as much school as I
can before the baby comes. Anyway,” Tracey concluded with a slightly soggy laugh,
“your plans to make me a Museum Sidekick have been foiled again!”

Deidre was out of her seat before Tracey finished her speech and threw her arms around
the girl, who sat quietly for a moment, patting her arm, sniffing.

“I don’t want you to go!” Deidre told her, pulling another chair closer. “We can work
something out! I know we can. It’s quiet back here, and you can bring the baby, set it up
in a little bouncy chair. When we get bored, we can put on the masks and dance for it…”

“Matt’s talking of moving,” Tracey mumbled through reluctant giggles, giving up on her
sandwich for the moment to wipe away tears with her napkin. “Since he got out of the
military, he’s been trying to find a job, and he’s not having luck here. Says he might go
home to Kansas City…says he knows more people there…which means I’ll go with
him…”

Deidre heard footsteps echo in the open doorway of the collections room and straightened
in her seat, a small gasp escaping her lips. The door was not supposed to be left open, but
the required temperatures for conservation often made the two of them feel they were in a
glorified refrigerator locker. Leaving it open allowed some of the air to flow outside and
provide relief from cold noses and fingers. Usually no one said anything, not even the
Lead Curator, but one glance at the man’s face told her that, for today, every infraction
was going to count against the person in his path.

“Mr. Crossier, I thought you were out of town,” she said, wondering belatedly if she had
her calendar all wrong. “We were just…”

“I was, but I…needed to come back,” the Lead Curator replied in a distracted manner.
Arlen Crossier was on the far end of middle age, sliding quickly into elderly status, only a
few years away from retirement. A shock of white hair in an old-fashioned cut, usually
neatly combed and oiled back from his face, hung on his forehead as if he had spent the
last hour pulling at it in anxiety. He usually dressed in middle-grade business suits
complete with vests and always smelled of Aqua Velva and peppermint. “I have…some
new items for our inventory,” he added, indicating the large box in his arms. He added,
“don’t worry. I’ve already had them appraised. They just need cataloguing
and…storage.”

“Well, this is a pleasure,” Deidre exclaimed as she took the box from him and took it to
an empty shelf to wait with two other boxes he had delivered. “Someone’s been a busy
bee.”

“You should get on it as soon as possible, Ms. Montgomery.” Arlen’s voice returned to
its crisp, no-nonsense tone as he straightened up himself, as if he had unloaded more than
just a box. “I have reports I need to fill out for next month’s meeting.”

“Yes, sir,” Deidre replied humbly, watching the man turn briskly on his heel and
disappear into the hallway.

“Ya think he’s in a hurry?” Tracey quipped with a slight sneer. She didn’t think much of
the stuffy old man.

“I have been needing to get to those boxes,” Deidre sighed, returning to her work-table,
her mind swirling back to earlier troubles. Maybe it was a good thing Alex had not been
more forthcoming. From the looks of things, she wasn’t going to have much time for
socialization anyway. She gave the phone one more longing glance, wanting nothing
more than to luxuriate in the excitement of newfound romance. “Well, then,
Tracey…shall we get back to our favorite brand of torture and catalogue these
suckers…?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alex clicked off the monitor of his computer and sat back in the rickety wood roller
chair, stretching his legs until the chair tilted back, its cogs emitting a long high-pitched
squeal. He felt energized in a way he had not been for some time. The burgeoning
success of a lead on a story he had been chasing around cyberspace for some time now
was opening doors in ways he had never anticipated. Nothing was more satisfying to a
newshound like him than a juicy story.
Damned if all that had not kept him with his nose to the keyboard or his ear to the phone
call of someone without Deidre’s voice. He’d tried a few times to call her at the
museum, but he had lousy timing, it seemed. Since that time, he’d become so caught up
in the several projects, that by the time he could take a breath to call her, it was too late in
the day. He would have to make it a point to go over there, he mused, stretching a bit
more. That is, if she’ll still speak to me. It was going to be hard to explain away the
silence – he could hardly explain it to himself. It had felt so right to hold her and be with
her, and yet here he was three days later and they hadn’t talked.

It was his fault, he decided. He had to tell her how he thought of her a million times a
day, tonight. Had to tell her there were a hundred conversations he wanted to have with
her, quite a lot of those the kind one shared in bed…but there would be time enough for
that.

If only the dreams he had been having didn’t keep creeping back into his thoughts. They
had changed somehow, as if a message imparted was trying worm its way into his
conscience. As if something had yet to let go before he could really step up to Deidre
and ask for her attention.

Whatever valleys his thoughts might delve, he was brought sharply back to the present
because of the chime of his clock, reminding him of a meeting with a contact that could
prove very productive for his current investigation. Launching himself out of the chair,
he buzzed around his flat to spiffy up, checking buttons, combing his hair. Then he
slipped on his jacket, plopped the ever-trusty fedora on his head, swept up a notebook
and pen and breezed out the door to the Tavern below.

His spotted his contact, Jordan, sitting in an isolated booth, ramrod straight, hand
gripping a scotch and soda with tight control, watching the scene outside the window
overlooking the wide bay of the Point. He didn’t look away as Alex moved through the
Tavern and greeted Andy at the bar, Jeff Wigand and Bud at another table, Jim Braddock
with a few of his boxing students, and Adalia as she conferred with one of her suppliers.
Aside from them, the Tavern was relatively empty, as it normally was on a Friday
afternoon, the calm before the storm. Everyone knew where everyone else was at this
time: the Captain and Maddy out on the Surprise, Cort and Chloe at the Retreat, John
beetling around the Point; Johnny, Hando, Çolin, and several others in various stages of
car maintenance at the garage. God only knew where Terry was. Max Skinner was
probably trying to impress the new librarian, Laurie Drake – when he wasn’t harassing
Maximus about the vagaries of winemaking; and no one ever really wanted to keep up
with SID…but so far, Lacey had been doing a damn good job at keeping him at
acceptable levels of borishness with her new programming. He also knew Tina was
helping prepare for the impending arrival of two new Brothers later this fall: Ben Wade
and Richie Roberts, something that seemed to take up more and more of her time lately.

At the tableside, he grinned at Jordan as the man extended his hand in greeting. “I see
you’ve made yourself comfortable.”
“Yeah…interesting spot you got here. They have surf-boarding? Look at those waves!”
Jordan asked, admiration for the beach view outside the window. He had a surfer’s look,
too, Alex mused privately – a well-baked-in bronzing of his features and hair. But he
was more interested in what the man had gleaned from his reconnaissance than sharing
what he knew about the Point.

“Come out any time,” he told the man. “Drinks on me, by the way. I know several
people who’d love to have a new surfer to compete against.”

“That’d be cool. Do you…?”

“No,” Alex laughed. “I’ve got an aversion to sand in my shorts and dents in my head.”
He motioned to the waitress to bring him a drink as well and pulled out his notebook.

“I’d have never known you were out here,” Jordan went on in awe. “Not if you hadn’t
told me about it. I thought I came out this way all the time and knew the area, but I took
that turn you gave me and here I am!”

Alex grinned at him again, hoping his next words didn’t sound too rote – explaining or
excusing the Point was second nature now. “We’re just a little resort with a privacy
clause. People find us when they want to…and if not, then we’re not what they’re
looking for.” Clearing his throat, he clicked his pen to indicate he was ready to do his
part of the meeting and write down the pertinent facts he came for. “I take it you have
the wire on something I’m interested in.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jordan said, reverie broken at last. “Look, man…I don’t do this often, okay?
I don’t meet with someone in public very often. I like the secrecy of the Net. Still
relative, you know? I’m good at blocking out my identity and what I have to share.
There’s a reason I don’t have my picture anywhere on the grid, ‘cause if I did, someone
would see it or find it and the next thing you know, I’m being chased down a back alley
or something. And I have other contacts to protect. So don’t look me up. Jordan’s not
even my real name.”

Alex nodded, kept his expression serious. Hell, this wasn’t James Bond, but there were
careers at stake and he knew all too well how one misplaced word, one unfounded
assertion could ruin someone for life. If he was going to bring anyone down, it had to be
those that were cruising for a bruising anyway.

“You needn’t worry about these people,” he said, indicating the others in the room. “I
chose this place and time for a reason – I know them and they aren’t snoops. And it’s
because this place is so…unknown…to a majority of people, you’ve got anonymity in a
way you won’t find anywhere else. If it’s the Internet you want to use, that’s fine by me.
You don’t even have to let me know its Jordan or Mike or Donald Duck. Just as long as
the sources you give me check out. And that’s my job to verify. We can have the
hushest of friendships as long as your sources are valid. Otherwise, we can both move on
and no one will be the wiser.”

Jordan nodded, looking slightly abashed and respectful of Alex’s stand.

“You ever go to museums, Alex?” he asked, shifting into a more studious posture. His
eyes glinted with keen interest.

“Sometimes.” He couldn’t stop the image of a laughing Deidre from looming up in his
mind. It was his turn to shift uncomfortably. Damn, the mere thought of her made his
blood rush!

“You ever wonder how they acquire all those artifacts?”

The corner of Alex’s mouth quirked upwards. Ever wonder? “Sometimes.”

“You’d be shocked.”

“That some bone collector somewhere likes to shell out the bucks for a dried piece of
pharaoh?” Alex sounded bored. Wonder if I should mention the potion Doc was after?

“Money has a lot to do with it, but not the way you think.”

“Drugs?” Alex interrupted, thinking it would certainly be a blazing angle on a story.

“No!” Jordan replied, impatiently. “We’re talking big players here. But some of those
big players get into unexpected places because it’s harder to trace, harder to keep track,
and easier to entice willing souls to help them hide the evidence. Museum funding’s not
exactly an American past-time, you know?”

Alex frowned thoughtfully. Unless one had big bucks to spend, most communities found
other things to spend their money on, cultural riches being the last. He’d talked with
Deidre often enough by now to get the gist of it.

“So the Smithsonian may not be as firm in their standing in the community after all, eh?”
His mind was rushing already with the potential – his big newsbreak, one that would get
his name out in the world and make it less hard for him to scrabble as a journalist
cloistered in a place like the Point. Jordan must have some serious dirt on some higher-
ups to be this worried about losing his cover.

“Oh, it’s not the Smithsonian we’re talking about,” Jordan scowled. “It’s a little place,
like I told you. One of the worst cases of theft and fraud you’ll ever see.”

“Spill it.”

“You’ve probably’ve never even heard of it. Museum called Abner Grove.”