Sydney sighed and tried to appreciate the painting of a riotously colored arrangement of fruit in front of her. Francie had dragged her and Will here in hopes of finding some new decoration for her restaurant, but so far nothing had struck her fancy -- or her budget. Usually Sydney enjoyed looking at artwork, but this afternoon she was restless and found it hard to concentrate, in spite of the prospect of the four days' vacation for Independence Day in front of her. It didn't help that Will and Francie were snorting and giggling over a rather ribald sculpture in the background. She turned her attention to the next painting ... and gasped.

It was of a woman with shocking red hair that had fallen forward, obscuring half of her face. In one hand, she held an alabaster mask that hid the rest of her features. All that remained in view was one amazingly lifelike brown eye, which seemed to gaze on the viewer with a heady combination of sadness, desire and determination. For a moment, she simply couldn't breathe.

"Wow, that looks like Amy!" Francie's voice, even though it was practically in her ear, seemed oddly distant. "Will, come here -- doesn't this look just like Amy?"

Sydney barely heard her roommate's final words, transfixed by the image of her one-time self staring back at her. She didn't need to see the small "MCV" signature in the lower right corner to know whose hand had wielded the brush. There was only one person in the world who could have painted that image with such detail and emotion ... and longing.

"Eh, it's just the hair," Will scoffed, coming up to them. "Amy's eyes are blue."

"I guess so," Francie said. "Still, it's really good. It's kind of haunting. She looks so sad. But strong, too, you know?"

"'Unattainable.'" Will read the title of the work off the card beside it. "Well, there you go. Obviously an unrequited love."

"Hmm. Yeah, you can tell. He loves her, but he can't have her. She's hiding from him. God, that's so tragic. But maybe she loves him, too. I can kind of see it in her eyes. Well, eye. What do you think, Syd?"

"I don't believe it," she breathed, shaking her head slowly.

"Aw, you don't think she loves him back? Party pooper! Since when did you become such a cynic?"

But Sydney was no longer listening. "I'm going to buy it," she said.

Will and Francie looked at her strangely. "Sorry, Syd, it's not for sale." Will pointed to the name card.

"No, he wouldn't." She smiled, and a warm giddiness spread throughout her body. She could feel her cheeks flushing, and she turned her head so that Will and Francie wouldn't see. "She means too much to him."

There were a handful of other works by him, smaller landscapes with titles like "Printemps en Fleury" and "Jardin de Grandmere," and a whimsical painting of a chubby white bulldog lying on a colorful, circular rug. That one was called "Dreaming of Duchess."

She stared at them in wonder, each brush stroke a revelation. It amazed her that those hands she had seen so many times, that had held her gently and had killed a man to get to her, had produced these paintings. What other secrets did Vaughn hold?

She imagined him standing before a canvas in an old T-shirt and jeans -- bare feet, definitely -- hair tousled, forearms flecked with paint, as he brought her image to life. She felt as if every atom of her being was on fire. It took all of her self-control not to stroke the surface of the artworks, to touch the paint that he had laid down.

The desire, the *need* to have one of those paintings was overwhelming. Leaving the gallery without one in her possession was unthinkable. There were many things that she had craved in her life, had longed for with a single-minded purpose, but at the moment, they all seemed pointless and unimportant in comparison.

The smaller ones were for sale, and she knew without hesitation which one she wanted the most. The landscapes were lovely and wistful, but the one of his dog contained the most of him, his affection for Donovan obvious. "This one's for sale, though," she said. "So I'm going to buy it instead."

"Syd, what are you, crazy?" Will asked. "Two hundred fifty bucks for a picture of somebody else's dog?"

"Yes. It's adorable." They didn't understand her insistence, of course. They couldn't ever know how much it meant to her to be able to have a part of him in her apartment, a constant reminder of his presence in her life.

Just yesterday, she had been going through her box of pictures, looking for images to put in a new collage frame, and she had found herself instinctively searching for a picture of Vaughn to put with her pictures of Francie and Will and Amy. And then she had remembered with a stab that she didn't have any, *couldn't* have any. The knowledge had filled her with an ineffable ache.