Lily stood on the rough garage tiles until the growling rumble faded into the distance. The scent of motorcycle exhaust grew pale and thin, overwhelmed by the fragrance of spring. She stepped back into the house, seeking refuge from the chill that lingered in the air.

The gorgeous old house paired charming rustic pioneer sturdiness with sleek modern comfort and convenience. In every room, light streamed through enormous windows. Trees, heavy with red buds, stretched their limbs heavenward. Earth, laid bare and ready to be sown stretched in every direction beyond them. A blanket of birds spread across the field, flapping up into the air in gentle waves and settling, only to rise up once more.

She stepped up to the mantel to examine the framed photographs--familiar Ansel Adams prints she had seen in a book on her mother's coffee table. A stunning oil portrait of an extraordinary beauty taking refuge by standing on a rumpled bed while water poured into the room through the window captured her attention. The light danced off the water with ghostly tendrils that seemed to be pulling at the girl. Her face gave the impression of one weary from refusing the advances of a lover her heart longed to be with. It was easy to imagine the girl embracing the rising flood, her hair floating in an ethereal crown like that of poor, drowned Ophelia's.

A shadow fell, darkening the room.

Lily shivered, laughing a little at the goosebumps that had burst out all over her body. "Way to creep yourself out." She said it aloud to dispel the sense of unease that had settled on her, but the strange, flat sound of the words in the high-ceilinged room had the opposite effect. Her nakedness suddenly seemed far too vulnerable and she rushed to pull her jeans and t-shirt on, glancing repeatedly at the window that showed the road and the river on the other side.

As far as she knew, no one had passed the entire time she'd been in the house. It would be just her luck some hunter would pop out from between the trees now and see her nude.

The wind kicked up outdoors and strange, thick shadows with oddly humanoid forms slid across the polished wooden floors.

She pulled her shoes on and tied them. "There. You're dressed now. Stop being such a baby." Her voice was louder this time; a defiance of her irrational fear. "You live here now. You just have to get used to being in the country."

One door led to the dining room and on to the kitchen, where she had already been. The other stood open, revealing a glimpse of a small, comfortable library. She strolled the circumference of the room, trailing her fingers along the spines of the books: Chaucer, Evanovich, King, Shakespeare, Euclid, Bronte, Poe, Verne, Brown, Rowling. There wasn't a well-known author of this century or any other she could think of who wasn't represented on the shelves that covered every inch of the walls. A copy of Tolstoy's, "A Confession," with a battered and worn cover in hideous green and gold brought a smile to her face. In the center of the room, facing the small marble fireplace was an overstuffed chair and a massive ottoman. A wooden side-table held a pipe stand and a lamp.

She lifted one of the pipes. A Pegasus flying through an elaborate forest of intricate leaves decorated the ivory bowl. No tobacco fell out. Max wasn't the smoking type.

Something hissed in the room she'd come from.

The pipe fell from her fingers and hit the table. "Crap!" She tucked it back into its place, giving thanks it hadn't broken. Three deep breaths slowed her pulse and stilled her trembling hands. Moving slowly, arms held relaxed and slightly out from her body, she stepped through the door.

Sunlight shone through the window, the strange shadows having lifted. Dust motes danced in the air, tiny fairies ready to bestow their blessing on this new life if only she could accept their existence.

The hissing again. Closer now. Behind her.

She spun, in full defense position.

A radiator. She hadn't even noticed it. It hissed again before giving a strange clunk that she took to mean it had either just turned on or just turned off.

The shadow crossed the floor once more and disappeared, no doubt cast by a bird flying up out of the forest across the street.

"Good grief, Lils. You're turning flaky."

She switched on the radio she'd noticed earlier. It looked old but had ports for all the latest electronic gadgets. A spin of the dial led her to the local classic rock station and, to the tune of the Beatles singing about coming together, she passed through the front entrance area, lit up like Christmas from the sun shining through the gorgeous stained-glass at the top, and found herself in Max's home office. A MacBook sat closed on the tidy desktop, a single dim green light on the side indicating that it was fully charged.

An extraordinary oil canvas dominated the room. A man knelt at the side of a bed, hands clasped in a position of desperate prayer while a beautiful young woman, looking serene and perhaps even a bit relieved was born away by a shadowed being with enormous wings.

Someone is watching me.

Pivoting, she, examined every corner of the unoccupied room.

Keep it together, girl!

She ascended the wide wooden staircase toward the rest of the rooms. Beneath her hand, the railing gleamed, smooth as satin.

The stairs opened onto a central hall with seven doors; three on each side and one on the end. The first two appeared to be storage, full of antique furniture, tarnished candlesticks, and stacks upon stacks of boxes full of books. The third was a bathroom. One room was entirely empty, save for a lamp stand in one corner.

She discovered Max's bedroom, a sumptuous study in luxurious texture and design. A down duvet and a mountain of thick pillows turned the enormous bed into a cozy-looking nest of warmth and comfort.

It's our bed, now.

Her body warmed at the memory of his hands on her, his lips against her neck, her breasts, her stomach...

Behind her, the floorboard creaked.

She spun around. "Ugh! Seriously! Enough! Listen up all you ghosts and goblins. I live here now, so you're going to need to get used to me. Give me a little space, will you?"

Going back to her explorations, determined not to give in to irrational fear, she peeked in his drawer: neatly folded stacks of predictable clothes. On top of the dresser, a little tray holding a handful of change. On the table next to the bed, a copy of Anne Rice's "Christ the King," and Gandhi's autobiography.

More landscapes, these in bright colors by a photographer unknown to her. Had Max taken them? She thought of his shaggy hair and sun-browned skin. It wasn't hard to imagine him standing on a ridge top, peering over the rugged desert through a lens.

She rubbed her arms as she passed into a dressing room he'd created out of the bedroom next door. Everything was very comfortable, beautiful, even welcoming, but she couldn't help but compare it to her parents' home where family photos and heirlooms covered every surface. An entire gallery of her childhood had been set up along the staircase wall. This house more closely resembled a lovely hotel full of exquisite art.

Exquisite art focused on death, she thought, staring at an image of Lazarus, wrapped in the grave with his weeping sisters and Jesus standing at the entrance to his tomb.

Maybe it was understandable that Max didn't have many personal belongings. If he was some sort of... what? What was he? A spy? An assassin? A witness to a heinous crime, kept under federal protection? She'd thought of every logical possibility and several dozens that were completely absurd. After all, he clearly wasn't a vampire if he was out riding his motorcycle in the middle of the day.

The unmistakable low rumble of the Harley carried through the old, wavy glass.

"Oh, thank God." She hadn't realized how oppressive the feeling of being haunted was until it suddenly lifted with the knowledge of Max's return. She jogged down the stairs just in time to see him coming through the back door.

"Honey, I'm home," he called out.

She laughed. "And me, with no supper on the table."

He slid his arms around her. With her heart pressed against his, it didn't matter if the stupid old house was haunted. She'd married him because when she was with him, for the first time in her life, she truly felt like she was home.

"There's something I really need to tell you," she whispered against his ear.

"You're already married? Three kids, living in Florida? You have a warrant out for your arrest in Canada?" He pulled away and held her by the shoulders. "Dear God. Don't tell me you're a Republican!"

She laughed. "I am an independent."

"I should have guessed," he said, lifting her hand to his lips and making a trail of kisses up her arm.

For the second time in a matter of minutes, she broke out in goosebumps. This time was much more pleasant. "I just wanted to say that I love you, too."

He held her palm against his stubbled cheek and studied her with his dark eyes. "Say it again."

She offered it up, the only gift she could give him with any true value. "I love you."

His voice was low and husky. "No one has ever said that to me."

What a horrible thought! No one? No wonder he was the liaison for alien-human contact or the president's ears and eyes on the ground for middle America. "I'll tell you a hundred times a day," she vowed.

"I'll never tire of it." His slow and deep kiss softened her like sinking into hot, fragrant water. It washed away everything but the very core of her. His touch stripped away all falsehood and left only the real Lily Menaker behind.

Metit, she corrected herself. I'm Lily Metit now.