Free Phoenix Heart by Carolyn Nash Page B

is really the best time of year. The
weather is perfect; the summer crowds are all gone.”
    The limo changed lanes and hit a bump and his finger just
barely brushed against my shoulder.
    Fire.
    “You practically have the whole city to yourself, to do
anything at all that you want.” He smiled a slow, languid smile.
    Beyond the balcony the Golden
Gate Bridge peeks through the fog. Andrew walks across to where she stands near
the railing, grabs her by the shoulders, and presses his lips on hers. Her
knees give out, as her heart thumps madly. One of his arms comes around her
back, the other under her knees, and he sweeps her off her feet. “I’ve waited
all my life for a woman like you,” he growls as he heads out of the cold San
Francisco night toward the bedroom.
    I shivered and quickly shifted in my seat to try to hide it.
“I am looking forward to seeing the city,” I said. “The museums, the aquarium,
Muir Woods, Fort Point; in fact, just about every site worth seeing in a
fifty-mile radius has been included in the itinerary. I thoroughly enjoy such
things.”
    “Oh. Well, that sounds just fine.” He smiled, and his finger
stroked my shoulder lightly, and I knew I hadn’t fooled him with my pompous act.
    The limo crawled past a sign: Los Angeles International
Airport, Next Exit. Thank god! I was so out of my depth I couldn’t see
sunlight.
    “I don’t know much about art, I’m ashamed to say,” he said, “but
I am hooked on the De Young Museum. There is something magical about that
place. My dad was always on me about being culturally deprived having gone
through school with a concentration in the sciences. So, when I came up here
for grad school, nothing would satisfy him except my promising to go at least
once to the De Young. I figured, get there, run through a couple of rooms,
memorize a few paintings, and get out. So, one Saturday morning, it’s pouring
rain, I’m already pissed that I was going, pissed that I was wet, pissed that I
was going to miss the first hour of a football and beer marathon at one of my
friend’s. You know, just pretty much...”
    “Pissed?” I asked.
    “Uh, yeah.” He laughed. “I guess you could say that. Anyway,
I get there right when the doors open and start my run. European masters. Check.
Early American. Check. Greek something-gold. Okay. But then, I started to slow,
just for a second because one of the Greek things was really pretty
interesting. Beaten gold, intricate filigree design, a mask with eyes of some
sort of stone, dark and sort of mysterious. But, hey! Beer and football were
waiting.”
    “So, I headed for the last lap: Ancient Egypt. When I walked
in, there was no one else there. It was eerily quiet. There I was, wet, in a
hurry, and completely surrounded by statues, plates, tablets, paintings,
tombs--all of these things that had survived thousands of years, that had
traveled thousands of miles, and all of us had ended up in this room together
at the same point in time. All that was left of the lives of dozens of
artisans, and me.”
    He paused for a moment, thinking back. I could see him
standing in that room, the glow of the exhibit lights; the only sound that of
his breathing.
    “Each of those objects was a tie to that past life, a line
reaching back through centuries. And just for a second, just for the briefest
moment, I felt the connection, like all the lines were running through time to
me.”
    He opened his eyes and looked at me, and I swear he blushed.
He laughed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to go all metaphysical on you.”
    “It’s all right,” I said and smiled. “You make me want to go
see it.”
    “You know,” he said, “I spent the rest of that day there,
but I could stand to see it again. Won’t you reconsider? Instead of dinner, maybe
we could go to lunch, and go see the De Young first.”
    “Well, I...”
    He smiled. “Don’t worry; I’d step out so you could have the
Egyptian room to yourself. But then it’s my