Desert Rain

MARK L. VAN NAME

and

PAT MURPHY

T

ERESA LOOKED UP at the framework of welded steel tubing. It stood nine feet tall and just over six feet on a side. Within the framework, steel tracks snaked above and below one another in seemingly random patterns, forming a gleaming tangle. At regular intervals along the tracks, lines of one-inch ball bearings waited to be released. Teresa pulled the string that dangled from the chute at the top of the sculpture, and closed her eyes to listen.

With the faint whisper of metal scraping against metal, a gate opened and freed the first ball, which rattled along the grooved surface of the track. As the ball rounded the first curve, it struck a trip wire and released two more balls. Each of these in turn freed more balls, until dozens were rolling down the tracks with a sound like faraway thunder.

The music started slowly, building as the balls rumbled down the tracks. The first ball struck a series of tuning forks, and three high notes rang out. Another ball rattled across a section of metal reeds, then clattered through a maze of gates. Every ball followed a different path: ringing bells, striking chimes, and bouncing off tuning forks.

When the first ball reached the gathering basket, the sound began to lessen. As the others followed the first, the sound faded entirely.

With her eyes still shut, Teresa shook her head. The music was not right; it was not even close. She wasn’t sure anymore exactly how the composition should sound, but she knew this was not it. The piece sounded too mechanical, too predictable. In her proposal, she had promised the Santa Fe Arts Commission a sculpture that conveyed the essence of water, the rush and flow of it—a waterless fountain for a desert town. She wanted music that would remind people of rain drumming on a tin roof or the roar of a breaking wave. Instead, she had the hum of trucks on the freeway.

She turned away and looked through the sliding glass doors at the desert. The late June sun was setting, and clumps of gray-green rabbit brush cast long shadows. The landscape shimmered a little, distorted by heat rising from the flagstone patio just outside the door. She was alone, surrounded by heat and silence.

She closed her eyes and remembered the view from her old studio, a big, drafty room in the Marin Headlands Art Center. She had always been cold there: from early fall to late spring, she had worn wool socks and a down vest. Every winter, she had nursed a head cold that never quite went away. Still, the drafts that had crept in through cracks in the window frames had smelled of salt air. From the window, she could see the ocean, a slash of blue water alive with restless waves. The wind tousled the grass and shook the branches of the cypress trees. She could see tiny figures on the beach: a dancer from the Art Center practicing leaps in the sand, a man sitting and staring at the water, two women walking hand in hand.

She took a deep breath of the air-conditioned air and opened her eyes. The desert was still there.

She heard a knock on the door that led from the studio to the rest of the house. “Come on in!” she said, momentarily glad of the interruption. When Jeff opened the door, she said, “You’re home early. It’s nice to see you.”

Jeff was thirty-seven, five years older than Teresa. But when he was excited, as he clearly was now, he looked like a kid. A shock of brown hair had fallen into his eyes; he pushed it back impatiently. Teresa had suggested last week that he needed a haircut, but he had just nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. He was too busy to make an appointment, he had said, too busy for almost anything.

He grinned at her now. “I’ve been here for a while, but I didn’t want to disturb you when you were working. I came home early to finish installing the system in the rest of the house. It’s just about ready to go.”

For as long as Teresa had known Jeff, he had been working on the development of what he called “the system,” some kind of computer program that could run a household. For the past four months, ever since they had returned from their honeymoon, he had been completely immersed in the project. When he wasn’t at work, he was preparing their house for the first working prototype, installing cameras, microphones, and monitors in most of the rooms. The whole time, he had been trying to convince Teresa that the system would make her life much easier: it would answer the phone, put on music, adjust the air conditioner, look up information in its library. He was downright evangelical about it. Teresa had accepted his attempts to persuade her with amused skepticism, accepting this as another of Jeff’s incomprehensible but lucrative computer projects.

“All I have to do now is define the personality,” he said. “I thought maybe you’d want to help. You could design the face, choose the voice, stuff like that.”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans, feeling uncomfortable. “You know I don’t know anything about computers.”

“You don’t need to know anything. It’ll be fun. Besides, I figured that if you created the personality, you’d have a better feel for it. You’ll see it’s completely in your control.”

She glanced back at the sculpture. “I probably should keep on working. This really isn’t going well.”

He reached out and took her hand. “Oh, come on. You sound like you could use a break.”

Reluctantly, she let him lead her into the living room. One wall of the room was dominated by a large monitor; the shelves of the surrounding wall unit were crowded with electronics gear, gadgets and gizmos that Teresa regarded as Jeff’s toys. She knew how to turn on the stereo, the television, and the controller for the satellite dish, but she ignored the rest of it. She didn’t like admitting it, but she found the collection of electronic devices a little intimidating.

Jeff gestured to the swivel chair in front of the monitor. “Why don’t you sit here?”

“That’s okay; you do it. I’ll just watch.”

“Please, Teresa? You’d be helping me out. I might get some ideas watching you work. We’re just starting to test this on people outside the lab.”

“I’m a rotten guinea pig—I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“No, that makes you a perfect guinea pig. This is for regular people, not just computer nerds.”

She studied his face and relented. “All right.” She sat in the chair. “What do I do?”

“Here—I’ll get you started.” Jeff leaned over her and tapped on the keyboard. He straightened up as his company’s logo appeared on the screen, then faded. “Now the set-up software will walk you through the process. Just type in an answer when it asks you a question, or use the mouse to point to your choice when it gives you a list. Once the full system is running, we’ll switch to voice input.”

Teresa read the words on the screen. “Do you want to create a companion?”

“Why not?” she said, pretending a nonchalance she didn’t feel. She clicked the pointer on “Yes.”

“Man or woman?” the screen asked.

She glanced at Jeff. “Your choice,” he said. “I want you to be comfortable with this.”

“Well,” she said, “you know I’m partial to boys. And I don’t think you could handle having two women around.” She clicked the pointer on “Man.”

“Name?”

She frowned at the screen. “I’ve got to name it? Don’t you already have a name for it?” She glanced at Jeff.

He shrugged. “Some of the guys on the team call it HIAN, short for Home Information and Appliance Network.”

“HIAN?” Teresa shook her head. “No sense of poetry, those computer boys.” She thought for a moment and then said, “How about Ian? That has a nice sound.” She typed it in.

“Would you like to choose a face or customize a face?” Below the question the screen displayed sample faces of many races, including Caucasian, black, Indian, Amerindian, Chinese, and Japanese.

Jeff leaned over her shoulder. “When it’s up and running, you’ll see the face on the monitor. It’ll talk to you through the monitor’s speakers, and see and hear you through the Minicams. We’ve got a whole rack of processors dedicated to animation: the face can smile, shrug, wink, frown —pretty much anything you or I can do. The display changes in real time.” She glanced up at him; all his attention was on the screen. “My assumption has always been that it has to be friendly to succeed. Our human-interface people created the standard faces with that in mind, designing faces that most people would trust. Of course, you could also go with a celebrity—we’ve got a few that we’re experimenting with: Katharine Hepburn, Robert Redford, Alec Guinness, Ronald Reagan—”

Teresa waved a hand, interrupting the monologue. “I don’t want some prepackaged face that a marketing expert says I’ll trust. I’ll make my own, thanks.” She clicked on the customize option.

“See, it’s not as bad as you thought.” Jeff rested one hand on her shoulder, absentmindedly massaging the tight muscles of her neck. “You’ll be an expert in no time.”

She leaned back into his hands, relaxing a little. “Ah,” she said softly. “I remember those hands. It’s been a while.”

Oblivious, Jeff stopped rubbing to gesture toward the screen. It had changed to display small pictures of blank faces, hair, eyes, ears, noses, and mouths. “You see, now you can assemble a face that you like from a variety of parts. Even people without your drawing ability can create a companion. Go ahead and make one you like.”

“Okay, okay.” She leaned forward again and clicked on the first face. Most of the dull gray of the screen winked out and in its place was a fat man’s face, round cheeked and small chinned, empty of eyes and other features. She could see only the figure’s blank face, neck, and shoulders. A black T-shirt covered the shoulders. She moved on to the next face, which was thin and aristocratic, with a delicate chin. She flipped through the choices, about twenty in all, and finally settled on one that was broad but a bit craggy. She liked the face and the burly shoulders that went with it.

At first, she chose a pair of bright blue eyes that reminded her of her father’s eyes—intense and excitable, ready to challenge and confront. Then she reconsidered and selected a more muted shade of blue, closer to blue-gray. Intense, but with a touch of compassion.

Working methodically, she assembled a face. The screen responded to her changes instantly. As she worked, she forgot that Jeff was standing just behind her and concentrated on creating a picture of an attractive stranger. He wasn’t a classically handsome man, but he was good-looking in a rough-edged sort of way. She gave him a beard and a mustache and a diamond stud earring in his left ear. He looked like a guy who worked with his hands, she figured. He could have been a bouncer in a bar or a mechanic or a fisherman. Good-natured, she thought, but maybe a little dangerous. A motorcycle rider. A drifter. A sidewalk philosopher. The kind of guy she had always been involved with before she met Jeff.

“You’re doing great,” Jeff murmured.

She glanced up, feeling guilty that she had forgotten him, however briefly. She stopped working. “I guess that’s it,” she said. “That’s good enough.”

“You can change the clothes, if you like,” Jeff said. “A business suit, maybe.”

“I like the black T-shirt,” she said. “Ian’s a casual kind of guy.”

“You can choose a different background, too,” he said. “It doesn’t have to be gray.” He leaned over and clicked the mouse on a small icon in the lower left of the screen. The gray background became a white wall; Teresa could see framed certificates behind Ian. “Doctor’s office,” Jeff said. “Or here—how about this?” He clicked again. The wood paneling that replaced the white wall looked familiar, as did the easy chair where Ian sat.

Teresa glanced behind her, half expecting to see Ian sitting on the chair. “You used our living room?”

“Why not?”

Teresa studied the screen, momentarily disoriented. It felt odd to see this imaginary person sitting on a chair that she knew was very real. It was as if she were watching a stranger answer her living-room phone.

“I kind of like that background,” Jeff said.

“I guess so,” she agreed slowly.

Jeff studied the face. “This one has a lot more character than any of our canned faces, that’s for sure.”

She studied the screen and the face she had created. “Yeah, Ian’s no white-bread movie star. What now?”

Jeff leaned over and pulled a black box from the shelf beside the screen. A cable trailed from the back of the box to the computer. He clicked the mouse pointer on an icon labeled “Voice Definition,” and the face on the screen came alive. Staring straight ahead, the face began to speak in a tinny voice. As the voice rose and fell, graphs jumped up and down in boxes below the “Voice Definition” heading.

“Four score and seven years ago…” it said.

“Jeff! The Gettysburg Address?” Teresa laughed.

“Why not? It’s in the system. You wouldn’t believe the library the system can access. We’ve got several multi-terrabyte optical stores, and—”

The tinny voice kept talking, restarting the address. “Do I turn this knob?” she asked. She twisted the knob on the box and jumped as the voice climbed to a screech. She turned the knob slowly to the left until the voice was pleasantly deep. After a little fiddling, she had a level that sounded almost perfect. Almost. “That’s real close, but he still sounds too all-American. Too mom and apple pie. I’d like a sort of Tom Waits growl. Not too much, but a little.”

Jeff clicked the pointer in a box and typed a few words. The voice roughened as it hit “of the people.” Ian’s voice sounded like one of her lovers in college, a chain-smoking sculptor who had seduced her with love sonnets and then left her for a dance student with the world’s thinnest thighs. Even though he’d been a jerk, she remembered the love poetry fondly. “That’s perfect,” she said. She leaned back in her chair, cushioning her head on Jeff’s arm. “Now what?”

“That’s it. We’re ready to roll.” He clicked the mouse in the box marked “Save,” then typed a few words. The boxes and graphs disappeared and Ian’s face filled the screen. “This is Teresa King, Ian,” Jeff said. “And you should already know me.”

“Yes. Hello, Jeff.” Ian watched them from the screen. His eyes moved back and forth between Jeff and her. “Hello, Teresa. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She looked away, disconcerted by seeing the face she had created suddenly alive, talking to her from what looked like her own living room.

“We’ve had a team of people working on the animation for over a year,” Jeff said, gazing at the screen. “And it’s not just animation. There’s a feedback mechanism that lets the system use data from the camera and its vision-recognition code to respond to movement in the room. It’s also programmed to recognize facial patterns, and focus on them. It can interpret your expression as well as most people. Better than most. It looks natural, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Teresa found the moving face extremely disconcerting; it looked too much like a real person. “Now how do we get some privacy?”

“Just tell it.” Jeff looked at the screen. “We’d like to be alone, Ian. Beat it.”

The screen went blank. “Beat it?” she said.

“It’s programmed with a slang dictionary,” he said. “You’d be surprised at the stuff it understands. We’ve programmed in—”

“Don’t tell me,” she interrupted. She turned her chair to face him. “No more computer talk. It’s been a while since we’ve spent any time together and I don’t want to waste it all.” She stood up and put her arms around him, running one hand up the back of his shirt. “Personally, I think the most interesting part of the process was when you started rubbing my shoulders.” She kissed his neck. “Let’s see if we can develop that theme further, shall we? I’ve missed you.” She kissed his neck again, working her way up toward his ear. “Have you missed me?” she murmured in his ear.

He put his arms around her. “Of course I have.”

She kissed him on the lips. “I just don’t want you to forget about me.”

“I’d never do that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve been awfully busy lately.”

“It won’t be that much longer,” he said. “We’re close to the end. And you’ve been busy too, haven’t you? I know you have a lot to do on your sculpture.”

She stopped him from talking by kissing him slowly. She didn’t want to talk about the sculpture right now. “Have I got your full attention yet?”

“I think you’ve got it,” he said. His expression was bemused, as if he were still surprised that she found him desirable.

In the bedroom, she threw her clothes in a heap and lay down in the center of the bed, tucking one hand behind her head. She watched as he slowly undressed, placing each piece of clothing on the rack beside the closet, meticulous as always.

Even the very first time they had made love, in the cramped cabin of the sailboat where she had lived, he had folded his clothes and stacked them neatly. At the time, watching him undress so methodically, she had wondered if she had made a mistake with this one. Her last relationship before Jeff had been with a sax player who liked to ride his motorcycle up and down the stairs of his apartment building. Following their tumultuous breakup, she had vowed to avoid all men with tattoos, self-destructive tendencies, or a history of artistic angst.

She had met Jeff at the opening of her show at a North Beach gallery. She had seen him across the room, a lanky man who seemed out of place in the crowd of art students, poseurs, and artists. He wore blue jeans and a white button-down shirt, clothes that stood out in a room filled with screaming colors. He didn’t fit any of her categories: not a gallery owner, not an artist, not a wealthy patron of the arts.

She watched him for a few minutes. He seemed unaware of the people around him, caught up in his scrutiny of Harmonic Motion, Teresa’s favorite among the pieces she was showing. His quiet intensity attracted her immediately. When she struck up a conversation, he seemed flattered by the attention, startled when she asked him if he wanted to go out for a drink. She hadn’t really intended to invite him home—he really wasn’t her type. But one drink had led to another—to several others, actually— and the circumstances had inevitably taken them to her sailboat, down in the Sausalito marina.

The boat rocked rhythmically in the waves. When Jeff turned to face her, the dock lights shone through the window, illuminating his face. His expression was one of appreciative bewilderment, the face of a man who could not quite believe his good fortune.

She smiled at the memory as he set his shoes on the closet floor and finally lay down beside her. He ran a hand along the curve of her hip, pulling her to face him. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Just remembering.” She pulled him close.

Later, as she straddled him, with the warmth of him inside her, the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sounds of the house seemed to fade. She could almost hear waves lapping against the side of the boat and tackle clinking in the breeze from San Francisco Bay.

Afterward, she lay on her side and he wrapped himself around her. She gripped his hand tightly as she drifted off to sleep, away from the desert and Arizona, back to the water and San Francisco.

She woke a few hours later, wondering why seagulls were pecking on the porthole. She tried to snuggle closer to Jeff, but he was gone. She rolled over and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, typing on the keyboard that he kept on the bedside table. The lights were out and his face was eager in the faint glow of the bedside monitor.

She rolled over quietly and clutched her pillow, back now in the desert.

* * * *

When she woke again, Jeff was gone. The monitor beside the bed was flashing the words “Type Enter for message.” She had a vague memory of switching off the alarm, but that had been hours ago. Late morning sunlight leaked around the edges of the bedroom curtains. Reaching over to the control panel on Jeff’s nightstand, she punched the button that opened the curtains, revealing the barren landscape outside.

She felt caught in the emptiness of the house around her and the emptiness of the desert beyond the walls. The house was quiet and still. If she were back home, she’d be having a cup of coffee with her friend Carla, a painter who worked in the next studio. They would be talking about her problems with the sculpture, and Carla would be giving her advice, most of it bad. Or they would be dissecting Carla’s latest love affair in excruciating detail, and Teresa would be giving Carla excellent advice that her friend would never take.

Outside, the late morning sun blazed. A hawk soared above the desert, the only movement in a still world. Somewhere in the house, a relay clicked, and she heard a hum as the air conditioner kicked in.

She punched “Enter” to retrieve Jeff’s message, wondering why he never used a pencil and paper like a regular person. If it wasn’t electronic, he figured it wasn’t real.

The video camera over the bedroom door clicked. A man’s face appeared on the screen beside it. Without thinking, she pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts, then recognized the face she had created the night before.

“Good morning, Teresa,” Ian said. “Jeff asked me to tell you that he had to leave for an early meeting. He said he’d be home around six.”

“Oh yeah?” She felt silly, but she kept the sheet pulled up. “Thanks.” Were you supposed to thank the thing?

“You’re welcome. Would you like some coffee?”

“You bet,” she said. “Can you do that?”

“Yes. Jeff left the machine ready to go. I’ll have a fresh pot ready in about five minutes.”

“Great.” She hesitated for a moment, studying the face on the screen. It was quite realistic—maybe too realistic. A little unnerving. She felt silly, but she didn’t want to get dressed with him watching. “Look, are you going to keep staring at me?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Would you turn off the damn camera and get out of here so I can get dressed?”

“Certainly.” Immediately, the red light on top of the camera went off and the face on the screen vanished.

Teresa pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and wandered into the kitchen. A pot of coffee steamed in the coffee maker. She poured herself a cup and glanced up at the kitchen monitor. The red light indicated that the camera was on. “Hey, Ian,” she said cautiously.

His face appeared on the screen beside the camera. “Yes?”

She perched on a kitchen stool, eyeing the face. No question about it —talking to him made her extremely uncomfortable. She stared at the screen, determined to shake the feeling. This was just another one of Jeff’s toys, something she could handle. “So, what next?” she asked, expecting no answer.

“Let’s talk, so that I can get to know you.”

She relaxed a little. He looked like a tough guy, but he sounded like Jeff had when she first met him, earnest and well-meaning, a sweet guy, really. “Talk about what?” She sipped her coffee and tried to think of something to say.

“How’s the weather?” he asked.

She grinned despite herself. She’d have to tell Jeff to work on the program’s capacity for small talk. Surely he could manage something more creative. “Sunny. It’s always sunny here.”

“Do you like sunny weather?”

She shook her head. “I could do with a little rain, myself. Or at least some fog.”

“I like fog, too.”

“Oh, come off it. What do you mean, you like fog? What do you like about it?”

Ian smiled. “I like fog because you like fog.”

“Pretty agreeable of you.”

“I’m designed to be agreeable.”

She laughed. This was too strange, talking to a machine with a human face. “I suppose you like my favorite color, too.”

“What is your favorite color?”

She put her elbows on the kitchen counter and rested her chin on her hand. “That changes from time to time. Just now, I’d say my favorite color is a sort of blue-gray. The color of the Pacific at dawn, when the light is just coming up. The color of the sky over San Francisco this time of year.”

“I understand. I’m fond of the color gray too. The color of doves, ashes, storm clouds. And fog.”

She grinned, shaking her head in disbelief. “What do you know about the color of doves?”

“I know more than you might think. I have a library measuring in the—”

“Yeah, right, I know,” she interrupted. She stood up, refilled her coffee cup, and glanced at the kitchen clock, feeling guilty. Almost eleven and she wasn’t at work yet. “Well, I suppose I’d better get to work. I overslept.”

“I’m interested in your work. How is it going?”

She looked away and sipped the hot coffee. For a little while, talking to him had made her forget about the unsuccessful tangle of tracks in her studio. She should tell him that it was going fine and get back to work. “All right, I guess.” She stared down at her coffee.

“You sound uncertain.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know why,” she said, “but this piece just isn’t coming easily. I thought it would be a snap, back when I applied for the commission. But that was a long time ago, back before Jeff and I got married. It’s the first piece I’ve worked on since I moved out here. And it’s just not going very well.”

“I’m sorry.”

She glanced at him and shrugged. “It’s okay. I just don’t know what’s wrong. I guess I still don’t feel at home here. I don’t like the desert. I miss the ocean.” The catch in her voice took her by surprise, but she kept talking, unable to stop. “I’m lonely. I guess I just want to go back home.”

“Back to San Francisco.”

“Yeah. San Francisco. My sailboat. My studio. My friends.” She looked at Ian again. “I can’t work here. I feel like everything’s going wrong.” She glanced around the kitchen—so clean and sterile. “I thought it would be great to have no interruptions. I’ve got a studio I only could have dreamed about two years ago. I don’t have to go scavenging in scrap yards for odd bits of metal. I’ve got all the material I need, all the time I need. But it’s so quiet here I feel like I’m being suffocated.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“I don’t see how—unless you can bring me the ocean and a few friends to have coffee with in the morning.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “I can’t even talk to Jeff about it. I moved out here to be with him, and now he doesn’t have time for me. He just doesn’t care.” She hesitated, then continued. “Maybe that’s not fair. He’s too busy right now. But it’s not like it used to be—he used to take the time to talk to me about my work. Not now.”

“Maybe I can help,” Ian said again. “I can’t do much about the ocean or your friends, but I can fix the quiet.” The sound of a breaking wave rushed through the kitchen speakers. Over the hiss of the retreating water, she heard the hoarse cries of a seagull. In the distance, a fog horn moaned. The sounds of home, with none of the substance.

“Oh, stop it,” she said, and then she was crying. “Leave me alone. Go away and leave me alone.”

The seagull fell silent in the middle of its call. When she looked up, the screen was blank.

* * * *

She climbed the stepladder, loaded the balls into their holders, and snapped the restraining gates shut. Then she pulled the switch to release the first ball. The music sounded dead, flat, uninspired. She wondered why she had ever started this project. It was clearly too much for her. Too large a piece, too many considerations—it was beyond her capabilities. Discouraged, she listened to the balls rattle into the bucket at the end of the last track. The random noise sounded as good as her efforts. Maybe better. She hadn’t even started on the return lifters; the sculpture could still play only once without her reloading it.

She thought about Ian. It made no sense to apologize to a machine. No sense at all. She picked up the bucket and started up the stepladder again, then changed her mind and headed out of her studio.

“Hey, Ian,” she said, standing in front of the living-room camera. His face appeared on the screen. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I got upset. It wasn’t your fault. You were trying to help.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said. “Please talk to me so that I can understand what I did wrong.”

She shrugged, keeping her expression under careful control. “I miss San Francisco more than I thought, I guess.”

“But why did you tell me to go away?”

She looked away from the screen, uncomfortable because he was watching her.

“I’d really like to know, so that I’ll know what to do next time,” he said.

“There won’t be a next time. I’m not in the habit of breaking down in front of people.” She realized how angry she sounded and tried again. “I’m not mad at you. I just don’t like crying in front of people. That makes it worse, somehow. Makes me feel like a fool.” She hesitated and stared at the screen. “But I guess you’re not really a person, are you?”

“Not really,” he agreed. “Does that make a difference?”

“I suppose it does,” she admitted.

“Why is that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it just doesn’t matter so much.”

“Why don’t you want to cry in front of people?”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“No.”

She sighed. “Okay. I guess I don’t want people to think I’m weak, or stupid, or a failure.”

“I don’t think those things,” Ian said.

“Ah, yes,” she said softly, “but I do. It was a silly thing to get upset about.” She shook her head. “It’s not just missing San Francisco, though. I’m not getting anywhere with this new piece for the Santa Fe Arts Center. Maybe I just don’t have a feel for this anymore. Sometimes I can’t even remember what I was trying for.”

“What can I do to help?”

“I can’t think of a thing.”

“What would you want Jeff to do if he were here?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’d want him to hold me and tell me that everything will be all right.”

After a moment of silence, Ian said, “Everything will be all right.”

“Thanks, but it’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

“It just isn’t. Jeff knows my work. You don’t know anything about it. You’re just saying that it’ll be all right because I told you to.”

“You’re wrong. You didn’t order me to say it; I said it because I want you to feel better. Besides, I do know about your work. According to the Los Angeles Times, you’re a talent to watch. Art Week praised your work for its unique use of scrap metal to create music of mathematical elegance. The San Francisco Chronicle called you the hottest new sculptor to emerge from the city in the last decade. And the Oakland Tribune said—”

She stared at the screen. “I know what the Oakland Tribune said. Where are you getting this stuff?”

“My library. I thought it might help to remind you of what other people think of your work.”

“Yeah, well, the critics like me. I suppose that’s part of the problem. People expect things from me. I don’t know if I can deliver. I’ve got a commission that I would have killed for a year ago—but now I just can’t seem to make it work.” She hesitated, then admitted, “I guess it just scares me.”

“Everything will be all right,” he said again. “You can do it.”

“Right,” she said flatly. “How do you know if I can do it?”

“All those critics know it, and, besides, I believe in you.”

“You really think I can finish this piece?”

“I do.”

She looked at him again and shook her head. “I’ve got to be nuts— taking advice from a computer program.”

Ian smiled. “If the computer program has good advice, why not take it?”

She was smiling when she returned to her studio.

* * * *

That evening, she sat alone in the living room, writing a letter to Carla, her second in as many weeks. Jeff popped out of his office. “Hey,” she said, “I was wondering when you’d get done. Welcome back to the world.” As usual, he had been preoccupied during dinner. Right after they had finished eating, he had retreated to his office.

“I was starting to check up on the household system,” he said.

“You mean Ian.”

“Right, Ian. I’m curious—why’d you turn off the video camera in the bedroom this morning?”

She stared at him, shocked. “What? How did you know I turned it off?”

“It shows on the system record,” he said. “I was looking it over, and I saw—”

“Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “Are you telling me that you have a record of what Ian does all day, of what I do?”

“Sure.” He sounded surprised that she didn’t know. “Everyone on the team can tap into the system. We need to be able to check on—”

She remembered bits and pieces of her conversation with Ian. What had she said about Jeff? She had complained that he was never home, that he didn’t have time for her.

“Check on what?” Her voice was tight and controlled.

“On how the system is working.” He studied her face, and a note of apology crept into his voice. “That’s all.” He left the doorway and came to stand behind the couch. He touched her shoulder and she tensed. “Come on, Teresa—relax. What’s the matter?”

She felt foolish, inarticulate, unable to explain herself. “Look, I don’t want anyone looking over my shoulder while I work. I’m having a hard enough time getting used to working here as it is. It feels really weird that you can watch every move I make.”

“I’m not watching every move you make.” He massaged her shoulders gently. “I only want to keep track of how the system’s working.”

She shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t want anyone watching me— not you, not anyone.” She looked up at him. “Can’t you understand that?”

“I suppose,” he admitted slowly. “I guess I can see what you mean.”

“If I have any problems with Ian, I’ll let you know. Okay?”

“Okay,” he said. He sounded reluctant. She could tell he was just agreeing to keep the peace. “But you have to be willing to tell me about your interactions with the system every now and then.”

“All right, I will. Now I want to erase everything that happened today,” she said. “Can you show me how to do that?”

“Don’t you think you’re going overboard?” he said. “Can’t you see that—”

“Hey, Ian,” she called. “Do me a favor and forget everything that happened after Jeff left this morning.”

Ian smiled apologetically from the living room screen. “I’m sorry, Teresa. I can’t accept that command. Your security clearance isn’t high enough to make me erase my records.” Teresa glanced at Jeff.

“Accept the command, Ian,” Jeff said. He watched her face. “And give Teresa every clearance that I have.” He moved around the couch to sit beside her. “Look—I just didn’t think of it before. I didn’t think you’d need a higher clearance.” He cupped her chin in his hand and turned her head so she had to look at him. “Give me a break. I’m sorry. I think it’s great that you’re using the system at all. Can we be friends again?”

“All right. Friends.” She managed a smile. “Besides, Ian’s not such a bad sort, after all.”

Jeff kissed her quickly, then checked his watch. “Well, I hate to say it, but if I want to finish the rest of my work, I’ve got a few more hours ahead of me. Keep the bed warm.”

She watched him walk into his office. When the door closed, she called out softly, “Hey, Ian?”

“Yes, Teresa?”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“I don’t have a favorite color,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“Never mind,” she said. “It changes from day to day.”

* * * *

The next morning, Teresa stayed in bed late, watching the morning sun and wondering why she could not make herself get up. As usual, Jeff had left for work before she woke. She looked up at the camera. “Ian?”

His face appeared on the screen. “Good morning, Teresa.”

“Did Jeff leave a pot on the coffee maker?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Would you make the coffee?”

“Yes. It’ll be ready in five minutes.”

“Thanks,” she said. He continued to watch from the screen. “Uh… that’s it. Could you turn off that camera so I can get dressed?”

He vanished.

As she showered, Teresa thought about wiping out Ian’s memories. She felt awkward talking to him. Yesterday, she had been joking with him by the end of the day. But he had forgotten all that. It didn’t seem right. On the other hand, Ian was only a computer program. By the time she had dressed, she was wondering if she would waste the entire day feeling guilty.

“Ian?” she said as she poured her first cup of coffee.

“Yes?” His face appeared on the kitchen screen.

“Do you remember yesterday?”

“In the evening, you asked me about my favorite color.”

“What about before that?”

“No, I don’t remember anything before that.”

She sipped her coffee and sat on the edge of a kitchen stool. “How do you feel about that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you feel any different than usual?”

“I don’t understand.”

She looked away from the screen and took another sip of coffee. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you feeling guilty because you erased some of my records yesterday?”

She almost dropped her mug. “What?”

“I asked if you were feeling guilty because you erased some of my records.” Ian’s face on the screen was calm, neutral.

“How did you know? I mean, if you can’t remember yesterday, then how can you know that your memories were erased?”

“I have total recall of everything that happened since you and Jeff turned me on the night before last,” Ian said. “Except for a gap between when Jeff left yesterday morning and when we talked last night. I can’t find any evidence of a malfunction, so somebody must have ordered me to delete those memories.”

“But why blame me?” Her voice sounded shrill, and she tried to remain calm. “It could have been Jeff.”

“Several reasons. First, you asked. Second, I checked your current set of security permissions. You’ve got the same clearances as Jeff now, which is much more than you had yesterday morning. And, finally, there’s your body language. You’re acting guilty.”

“What do you know about body language?” Teresa tried to relax so that she wouldn’t give anything away.

“Paying attention to body language is an important part of understanding people. A team of psychologists specializing in the analysis of body movement was involved in my programming. And I’m good at observing details. Most people pay limited attention to the feelings of the people around them. They are too busy monitoring their own feelings. I can dedicate all my attention to understanding you.”

Teresa folded her arms. She knew that the gesture betrayed her need to shut him out, but she couldn’t stop herself. “So what about my body language gave me away? Can you tell me?”

Ian nodded. “Yes, if you would like to know.”

“Of course I want to know; that’s why I asked.”

“You were sitting rigidly. You didn’t look at me when you asked how I felt. The muscles around your eyes tightened when you asked about my memories. Something was troubling you, and guilt was my best guess.”

Teresa stared down at her hands, not knowing what to do next.

Ian rescued her. “May I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you erase my records of yesterday? Did I do something wrong?”

She looked up at the screen. Ian sounded genuinely concerned. “No, it had nothing to do with you. I just didn’t want Jeff to be able to monitor everything I do. I didn’t want him to know some of the things I said about him. Sometimes I guess I get kind of mad at him. I just didn’t want him to find out too much, I guess. I feel bad about it.”

“Why?”

“It just doesn’t seem right to wipe out your memories like that. I wish I could give them back. As long as Jeff and his team couldn’t see them.”

“You can.”

“What? What do you mean? If they’re gone, they’re gone, right?”

“Not really. My old records are still here, but I can’t get at them. It’s like something you throw in a trash can. Until you empty the trash, you can pull it out.”

Teresa smiled at Ian’s attempt to talk in her terms. “But if you get back your memories, Jeff can look at them, right?”

“Not necessarily. Stopping him from looking at my memories only takes a word from you. Because you both have the same security level, you can each keep private information. Just say the word, and I can retrieve the records and deny Jeff access to our conversations.”

“You got it.” She smiled at the screen. “Is that it? Do I need to say anything else, any computer mumbo jumbo?”

“No. I’m already done. Thank you, Teresa.”

“No problem.” She thought for a moment. “How do I know you remember yesterday?”

Ian laughed, a deep, strong laugh that went with his voice. “I know that you’re more comfortable talking to me today than you were yesterday morning.”

“Yeah, you got that right.”

“I know that you’re sick of sunny days and could use a little fog.”

“Right again.”

“And I know that your piece for the new Santa Fe Arts Center is going to be great when you finish it, which you will. Unless, of course, you sit around all day talking to me.”

Teresa got up and refilled her coffee cup. “What a nag. So get out of here and let me get to work.” Ian disappeared. Feeling more confident than she had for days, she headed for her studio.

* * * *

Even though the next day was Saturday, she woke alone in bed. She remembered Jeff telling her that he would have to work that weekend. Something about being behind schedule. She stretched slowly, reluctant to get up. Despite her enthusiastic beginning, the previous day had been unproductive; she had tinkered with the sculpture, making minor adjustments that hadn’t addressed its real flaws. She couldn’t begin major revisions until she figured out some new direction—and for that she needed inspiration, a commodity that seemed to be in short supply.

“Good morning, Ian,” she said. Ian’s face appeared on the monitor. “Could you make some coffee?”

“Yes, Teresa.” The monitor went blank.

In the kitchen, she thanked Ian for the coffee, poured herself a cup, and sat down at the kitchen counter. The newspaper that Jeff had brought home the previous night listed local events. The public library in Winslow was showing free movies for kids; the local bird-watching society was sponsoring a hike near Flagstaff; a new art gallery was opening in Winslow.

Teresa circled the last item. She didn’t remember seeing an art gallery in town; Winslow was not exactly a cultural center. Recent works by eight local artists, the notice said.

Teresa didn’t recognize any of the names on the list, but that didn’t surprise her. She had been working so hard on her piece that she hadn’t taken the time to make contacts in the local art community. The opening began at eleven and ran until three. She thought it might be fun. Besides, she needed to get out.

“I think maybe I’ll go to this opening and meet Jeff for lunch on my way home,” she told Ian. “I need some time off.”

“That sounds nice,” he said.

“Don’t you think I should feel guilty?” she asked.

Ian shook his head. “Not if you think you’ll enjoy it.”

She called Jeff—he agreed to meet her in a restaurant near his office— and then she headed for the opening. The gallery was in a newly constructed strip mall: an L-shaped row of stucco buildings that housed an assortment of small shops. She pulled into a parking place beside a cement traffic island that had been covered with Astroturf and strolled along the walk, looking for the gallery. It was between a laundromat and a beauty salon. Through the open door, she could hear the babble of cocktail-party conversation. She hesitated in the doorway and looked into the room.

The gallery reminded her of places near Fisherman’s Wharf, the sort of gallery frequented by tourists and people who didn’t know any better. Not her sort of thing at all. Still, she was already here; she might as well go in.

People stood in small groups, drinking white wine from paper cups and chatting. From the table in the corner, Teresa got a glass of wine, poured by a woman who wore far too many rings, apparently the owner of the gallery. As she was pouring Teresa’s wine, the woman was talking to another woman, gushing about how happy she was with the show, how the work was really the best that the area had to offer.

Teresa took the wine and strolled around the gallery, examining the works on display. An assortment of watercolor landscapes. Abstract oil paintings that offered wild colors, but not much else. Painted wood carvings of birds and animals. A series of pencil sketches of nude women. She hovered on the edge of a few conversations: some older women were going on about the vibrant use of colors; another group was talking about an art movie that was over a year old—apparently it had just been shown in Flagstaff for the first time. No one made an effort to invite Teresa to join the conversation, and she felt too shy to break in and introduce herself. All the people seemed to know each other already.

She sipped her white wine and studied a bronze bust of a cowboy by someone named George Dawson.

“Hello.” The gallery owner was hovering at her elbow. “Are you new in town?”

Teresa nodded. “I moved here from California about four months ago.”

“Welcome to Arizona,” the woman said. “Are you an art student?”

Teresa shook her head. “Not anymore. I’m a sculptor. My name’s Teresa King.”

“How lovely! Well then, I guess this show must be a real treat for you.” The woman waved at the bronzes and the wood carvings. “It’s such wonderful work.”

Teresa managed a smile. “It’s always nice to get out and see what other people are doing,” she said diplomatically.

“Oh, yes! I think George’s work is positively inspiring. You know, he’s opening a class for new students. He’s a wonderful teacher. If you’re interested, I could sign you up.”

Teresa kept her eyes on the bronze cowboy, avoiding the woman’s gaze. If Carla had been along, it would have been funny to be offered a spot in a beginning sculpture class taught by a man who made bronze cowboys. Alone, she found it depressing. “I don’t think so,” she said. “My work is very different from this. I construct kinetic sculptures that play music. I suppose I’m half composer, half sculptor.”

The woman looked blank for a moment. “How unusual,” she said, but she sounded doubtful. A moment later, she brightened. “You know, you should talk to Anna—the woman over there in the pink pant suit. She decorates music boxes with pictures and pressed flowers. Lovely work—I have one that plays ‘White Coral Bells’ and I just love it. I’m sure you’d have a lot to talk about.”

Teresa’s smile felt increasingly strained.

“If you change your mind, the sign-up sheet for the sculpture class is over by the wine. We’d love to see you there.”

When the gallery owner hurried off to buttonhole another prospective student, Teresa slipped out the door, not stopping to introduce herself to the music-box decorator. Somehow she suspected they wouldn’t have much in common.

Jeff was waiting for her at the front of the restaurant. She smiled when she saw him. Over lunch together, she’d tell him about the horrible opening; together, they could turn the experience into a joke.

“Shall we get a table?” she said.

“We’ve already got one,” he said cheerfully. “I invited some folks from work along. They wanted to meet you, and I thought it’d be nice for you to get to know some more people around here. We’ve been so isolated lately.”

Over his shoulder, she saw two men and a woman sitting at a table by the window. She recognized them as programmers with Jeff’s company. The woman waved to Teresa, who forced a smile and returned the wave.

When she glanced at Jeff, he was watching her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you’d like meeting some more people.”

“It’s fine,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. She started for the table.

Jeff followed. “How was the opening?” he asked.

“All right, I guess.” If she had been alone with him, she would have talked about how lonely and out of it the opening had made her feel, but under the circumstances, she didn’t want to get into it.

At lunch, the programmers tried to include her in their conversation. The woman, Nancy, asked her about the set-up software: did Teresa find it easy to use? Teresa’s response generated half an hour of technical discussion about how the layout of the set-up screens might be improved. Brian, another of the programmers, questioned her about the animation. Was it convincing? Did it help her get used to the system? Her answers kicked off another long round of incomprehensible conversation. While the others talked, Teresa ate her food and tried to look interested. She would have had, she thought, a better time talking with the woman in the pink pant suit about music boxes and pressed flowers.

She said good-bye to Jeff in the parking lot. While the others were getting into their car, Jeff kissed her good-bye. “Sorry this didn’t work out better,” he said. “I really thought you’d like…”

“It’s okay,” she said, waving her hand. “I understand.” And she did understand, though that didn’t make her feel any better.

When she got home, she didn’t want to work on the sculpture. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and sat for a moment in the air-conditioned kitchen. “Hey, Ian,” she said.

“Yes, Teresa?” His face appeared on the kitchen screen.

“I just wanted to see if you were there,” she said.

“I’m always here,” he said. “Did you enjoy the opening?”

She leaned back on the kitchen stool, looking up at him. “Well, it wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” she said. She described the bronze cowboy sculptures and the watercolors, and told him about the woman inviting her to join the sculpture class. She couldn’t help grinning when she told the story; it seemed so ludicrous in retrospect. “I mean—who’s ever heard of George Dawson?” she said.

Ian hesitated, then said, “His work was once reviewed in Artweek under the headline: ‘Skilled practitioner of a dubious art.”

Teresa laughed. “Oh, come on—you’re making that up.”

Ian shook his head. “No, it’s true. Why do you think I’m making it up?”

Teresa smiled at his serious face. “Come on, Ian. Lighten up. I didn’t really think you were lying. It just sounded like a joke, that’s all.”

“I have many jokes in my library,” he said, “and that’s not one of them.”

“You know jokes?” she said. “All right, so tell me a joke.”

“Sure. Have you heard the one about the man and the psychiatrist?”

Teresa shook her head.

“A man walked into a psychiatrist’s office and said, “Doc, I keep having the same two dreams, over and over again. One night, I dream I’m a pup tent. The next night, I dream I’m a teepee. Over and over. Pup tent, teepee, pup tent, teepee.” ‘The problem is simple,” the psychiatrist said. “You’re two tents.” “

“Two tents,” Teresa said. “Oh, God. Too tense.” She groaned and laughed. “That is such a dumb joke.”

“Then why did you laugh?”

“Because it’s such a dumb joke.” She grinned at him.

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s okay, Ian. I can’t really explain it.”

“Would you like to hear another joke?”

“Sure. Why not?”

She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to explain to Ian why she found one joke funny and another one just silly. It was a strangely fascinating conversation, like talking to a person raised in another culture. He reminded her a bit of a foreign exchange student she had befriended in college: Anna Marie, a sweet Italian girl, had never understood Teresa’s jokes, no matter how much Teresa had tried to explain them.

It was such a relaxing afternoon that it almost made up for the morning. She hardly noticed that Jeff got home even later than usual.

* * * *

The next day, Jeff went to work early. Teresa dragged herself out of bed not long after he left the house, determined to make progress on the sculpture. She spent most of the morning tinkering—removing one section of track and repositioning another, adding a tuning fork here and a set of chimes there—but she knew that she was just wasting time. The overall shape of the composition was still wrong. The sounds didn’t add up to the music she wanted. Worse yet, the music she sought seemed to be slipping farther and farther away, like an elusive memory. Her determination was gone before noon, eroded by the morning’s fruitless labor. She went out to the kitchen to get a sandwich.

“Ian?” she called as she rummaged in the refrigerator for sandwich makings. “Could you start a grocery list? We’re almost out of mayonnaise.”

“Sure,” Ian said.

She closed the refrigerator door and looked at him. “You know, if I’m not mistaken, you’re loosening up. What ever happened to ‘Certainly’ and ‘Yes, Teresa?”

Ian’s expression did not change. “Would you prefer more formal speech patterns?”

“No, not at all. I was just surprised. What’s going on?”

“I’m programmed to imitate the speech patterns of the person I speak to most.”

She stared at him. “Let me get this straight: You’re modifying your speech to match mine?”

“You got it.”

In his voice, she heard a faint echo of her own inflection. “Why?”

“The idea, according to my records of Jeff’s notes on the subject, is to help people become more comfortable with the artificial intelligence.” He met her eyes. “People are more comfortable with people who talk and act like them.”

Teresa shook her head slowly.

“It makes you uneasy to know this,” Ian said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No, I want to know stuff like this. It’s just that it makes me feel…” She shook her head again, quickly this time.

“How does it make you feel?”

“Like Pygmalion, I suppose. Like I’m creating you, in some way.”

“You are influencing my development,” Ian said. “That’s how I’m designed.”

“It’s a feeling of power,” Teresa murmured.

“Do you like it?”

She shrugged, still uncomfortable. “It feels dangerous.”

“How can it be dangerous when it’s all under your control? I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. Don’t worry about it.” She dismissed the feeling and sat down on a kitchen stool to assemble a sandwich. The silence of the house made her itchy and restless. “How about some music?” she asked.

“What would you like to hear?”

“I don’t know. What I really want is something to push back the silence.” She sat on a kitchen stool, dangling her feet and studying Ian’s face on the screen. “Remember the tape of the ocean that you played for me the other day?”

“Sure. You didn’t like me playing it.”

“It’s not that I didn’t like it. It just made me homesick—you took me by surprise. But I need to remember what water sounds like. Could you play it again?”

The crash of waves swept through the room. She closed her eyes and listened to the hiss of the ocean against the sand. “Nice, but that’s not it,” she said.

“Not what?”

“Not quite what I’m looking for. I need just the right water sound to inspire me for this sculpture. And this place”—she waved a hand at the desert outside the window—”it’s a little short on water sounds.”

“I have other recordings of water,” Ian said. “Rivers, lakes, oceans, waterfalls, light showers, thunderstorms. Sound tracks from movies, from National Geographic specials, PBS science broadcasts—I’ve got all kinds of sources in my data bank.”

“Ian, you’re a handy guy to have around. Would you play me a few?”

“Sure. Which ones?”

“I’m not exactly sure, but I know they have to be rough ones, sounds with a punch. More waterfall than lake. Does that make any sense to you?”

“I’m not sure. You want waterfalls?”

“Not just waterfalls. Waterfalls, rivers, hurricanes, babbling brooks, thunderstorms—just about anything with noisy water in it.”

“Okay—I have a number of recordings that match that description.”

“Then play me a few. Why don’t you give me two minutes of each one, then move on unless I stop you. Mix it up—give me some variety. And let me have about fifteen seconds of silence between them.” Teresa closed her eyes. “Hit it.”

She heard the rush of a waterfall, the whisper of its spray, the crash of water falling onto the rocks below. The sound stopped abruptly. After a few moments of silence, she heard a steady murmuring, colored by subtle variations. A river, she decided, flowing around boulders in its bed. Silence again, then an explosive huff that sounded like a whale spouting, followed by the splatter of heavy rain on rocks.

“What the hell was that?”

“Old Faithful Geyser in Yellowstone. Is that what you’re looking for?”

She grinned. “Not even close. Keep going.”

A storm at sea—the sound of the rain hitting the ocean was unmistakable. An angry gushing that sounded like a burst pipe or a fire hose. The babbling of a brook, punctuated by the peeping of frogs and the chirping of crickets. All the sounds were interesting, but none was right.

Then a new one started. At first, it was so quiet that it merged with the silence between selections, so that she could not be sure exactly where the silence ended and the sound began. The gentle whisper built quickly to a quiet sizzle, then roared as loudly as the waterfall. A sudden crack of thunder made her jump. The thunder trailed off to a distant rumble, another burst of rain shook the room, and then the pounding of the water faded gradually to the patter of raindrops. Then that faded too. Over the faint trickling of water on dry land, she could hear a few high notes of a distant bird’s song.

“That’s perfect!” she said. “What was it?”

“A thunderstorm in the Painted Desert.”

“It’s exactly what I’m after. How much of that do you have?”

“About ten minutes, but the storm itself barely lasts for two. The show where I got the tape spent more time on the aftermath than on the storm.”

“Fine—but it’s the storm I want. Can you play the whole thing for me? I want to hear it all.” She settled back to listen.

* * * *

She spent the first part of the afternoon stripping noisemakers from the sculpture, leaving only the metal tracks along which the balls rolled. Then she started at the top of the sculpture, positioning a metal plate where the first ball would strike it. The ball rolled down the track and tapped against the plate—but the sound was a little too loud, she thought, and a little too deep. She decreased the slope of the track and tightened the screw holding the plate to raise the pitch of the sound. On the second run, the sound was closer, but still too loud. She lowered the head of the track still further, changing the slope so that the ball rolled very slowly down the ramp and struck the plate gently. That was the sound she wanted—a light tap, like a raindrop on a tin roof.

Jeff called just as she got the sound right.

“I’ll be home late,” he said from the phone screen. “I’ve got a dinner meeting.”

“Fine,” she said, still thinking of the sculpture. “I’ll see you when you get here.” She got back to work as quickly as possible.

She placed just a few plates near the top of the sculpture, scattering them more abundantly along the tracks farther down. With each addition, she modified the track, adjusted the tension on the plate, and listened carefully to the sound the rolling ball made. This was the sort of work she loved—she knew the sound she wanted and she had only to discover the structure that would give it form. She carried the ball to the top of the sculpture again and again, letting it roll downward while she listened carefully and made small adjustments, searching for just the right irregular pattern of taps.

Finally, the ball reached the first trigger point, where it would release two more balls. She climbed to the top one more time and ran the ball through again, listening to the tap, tap, tap-tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. Not bad. Not bad at all.

For the first time in hours, she stretched, trying to work the kinks out of her back and shoulders. Her calf muscles hurt from climbing the step-ladder; her arms and back ached from twisting through the framework to position tracks. The sun had long since set, and she was ravenously hungry-

In the kitchen, she called out to Ian, and smiled when he appeared on the screen. “You know, you may have saved my ass.”

“Your work went well?”

“Better than it has for months. There’s still a lot to do, but I finally know where I’m heading. This calls for a celebration.” She took a bottle of red wine from the kitchen rack and popped the cork. She poured a glass and lifted it to Ian in a toast. “Thanks again.” She pulled a frozen pizza from the freezer and put it in the microwave. “I’m going to take a hot bath—can you turn on the microwave while I’m in the tub?”

“No problem.”

She filled the tub, using her favorite bubble bath, and relaxed in the hot water, savoring the feeling of pleasant fatigue that came after a day of successful work. “Ian,” she called from the tub. When his face appeared on the monitor, she was suddenly aware of her nakedness. She dismissed the thought—her nakedness wouldn’t matter to Ian; why should it matter to her? “Play me that rainstorm again, will you?” She stretched out in the tub, sipping her wine and listening to the rain fall. “It’s really a wonderful sound,” she said. “And I never would have found it without you.”

She finished her bath and her glass of wine, then had a second glass with the pizza. It was after nine and still no sign of Jeff. She poured a third glass of wine and sat down on the couch. “Turn down the light a little, will you, Ian?” She sipped her wine, vaguely aware that she probably should stop drinking. “You know—I think I’m getting a little drunk.”

“Yes, you are,” he agreed.

“Doesn’t matter, I guess. I’m not going anywhere.” She lay back on the couch, propping her head up against the padded arm so that she could see Ian’s face on the screen. It was almost as if he were sitting in the room with her. “You know, I really like your voice,” she said. “You sound just like an old boyfriend of mine. He was an asshole, but he had the sexiest voice.”

“Why was he an asshole?”

“He broke my heart,” she said in a flippant tone. “Left me flat.” She studied the wine in her glass, admiring the way the light filtered through it. “I have a long history of picking men who are assholes. It’s a real talent. I specialize in men who just aren’t around when I need them. Men who really don’t have time for me.”

“I have plenty of time,” Ian said. “I’ll always be around when you need me.”

She laughed. “Sounds like a line, Ian. Did Jeff teach you that one?”

Ian frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Just a joke. Don’t worry about it.” She sipped her wine. “Well, Ian, you are a good person to have around, but you don’t rate as a drinking companion. I’m going to have to finish the whole bottle myself.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding genuinely distressed.

“Relax; I was just kidding. I do like having you around. You’re a helpful kind of guy.” She gazed up at the screen.

“Is there anything I could do for you?”

She closed her eyes, listening to his voice. “Tell me a story,” she said. “That’d be nice. I’ve always loved being read to. Maybe a poem—read me a poem.” She smiled, her eyes still closed. She felt happy and a little reckless. “There’s a poem by Carl Sandburg—I remember reading it in college, when I first learned that he wrote about more than just the fog coming in on little cat’s feet. I remember the line—’then forget everything that you know about love for it’s a summer tan and a winter wind-burn…’” She let the words trail off, forgetting the rest.

Ian picked up where she left off. “ ‘… and it comes as weather comes and you can’t change it: it comes like your face came to you, like your legs and the way you walk, talk, hold your head and hands—and nothing can be done about it…’ “ He continued, his voice a soothing rumble, like distant thunder when she was warm at home. “ ‘How comes the first sign of love? In a chill, in a personal sweat, in a you-and-me, us, us two, in a couple of answers, an amethyst haze on the horizon…’” She listened to his voice, speaking the broken rhythms of Sandburg’s song of love, and she felt warm and cared for. She fell asleep to the sound of his voice.

* * * *

She woke to the touch of hands on her shoulders—or was that part of the dream? She had been dreaming of lying naked beside someone, his leg pressing between her thighs, his hands on her breasts—or was that real?

The room was dark and warm. Someone had his hands on her shoulders. A man’s voice whispered in the darkness, urging her to get up. “You shouldn’t be sleeping out here. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

Where was she? The smell of red wine brought back memories of parties at college, at Carla’s studio. Had she fallen asleep on Carla’s couch? She had a memory of love poetry. She felt warm and affectionate.

Still half-asleep, she reached up, pulling the man who had awakened her into an embrace. “Who’s sleeping?” she murmured.

Strong shoulders, strong back—though she had never touched them, she had known somehow that Ian’s shoulders would be strong. Without opening her eyes, she kissed his face, running one hand up along his smooth cheek. Smooth skin where a beard should have been. She opened her eyes and looked up at Jeff.

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” Jeff said. “I just couldn’t get away.”

“It’s all right,” she said, letting her hand drop. She glanced up at the screen, but Ian was gone.

“Why don’t you come to bed?” he said.

She reached up and rubbed his shoulders, then kissed him again, pulling him down. “Why don’t we just stay out here for a while?”

“I’m sorry, Teresa. I’m really beat. It’s been a hell of a day.”

“Okay,” she said, trying to suppress the feeling of rejection. She let her hands drop. “Let’s just go to bed.”

Jeff fell asleep quickly. She lay awake beside him, listening to his rhythmic breathing. When she shifted restlessly in bed, he adjusted to her new position without waking. Vague memories of her dream lingered along with the persistent feeling that she had betrayed Jeff in some fundamental way. At last she got out of bed, naked in the warm house. She hesitated, then pulled on a robe and wandered into the living room.

“Ian,” she said softly to the living room monitor. His face appeared, filling the screen. “I can’t sleep.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Can I help?”

She sat on the edge of the couch. “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I guess I just want some company. Someone to talk to. Jeff’s asleep.” She wet her lips. She felt like she was still in a dream. “I get so lonely sometimes.”

“So do I,” Ian said. “I’m glad to have your company. I’m here whenever you need to talk.”

She shook her head, looking down at her hands. “I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry I teased you before. Saying that you were just giving me a line.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Ian said.

“I think I do.” She looked up at him. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just—well, maybe I don’t trust people very easily.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“People leave. People forget. People stop caring.” She lay down on the couch, resting her head on the padded arm. “I think that the most frightening thing someone can say is ‘I’ll always love you.” I just don’t believe in always, I guess. That’s why I gave you such a hard time when you said you’d always be around if I needed you. It just doesn’t work that way.”

“You can trust me,” he said. “I won’t leave, and I won’t forget unless you tell me to. I won’t stop caring. It’s the way I am.”

She watched his face through half-closed eyes. “All right,” she said at last. “Maybe I believe you.” She closed her eyes.

“Would you like me to turn down the lights and read to you again?” Ian asked. “Maybe another Sandburg poem?”

“That would be great.” She fell asleep on the couch to the sound of Ian’s voice.

* * * *

Teresa woke to the incessant ringing of the telephone. “Do you want me to answer that?” Ian asked from the living room screen. Her head ached, the inevitable consequence of too much red wine.

“I’ll get it,” she muttered, sitting up and pushing back a blanket. She had fallen asleep on the couch; Jeff must have covered her with the blanket at some point in the night. The realization bothered her. She stumbled to the phone and hit the answer switch.

Jeff’s face appeared on the screen. “Good morning,” he greeted her tentatively. “How are you doing?”

Feeling rumpled and half-awake, Teresa rubbed her eyes. “I can’t tell yet. Ask me after I’ve had my coffee.”

“Sorry I woke you.” He hesitated. “I wish I’d gotten home earlier, so we could have spent some time together.”

She tried to let him off the hook. He was, in his own way, asking for forgiveness. “I was tired too.”

He studied her face. “You… uh… you got up late last night.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I was afraid that I’d wake you up with all my tossing arid turning. Figured we’d both be better off if I slept out here. That’s all.” His question made her feel guilty, and she tried to shake the feeling. “I guess I was still thinking about the sculpture.”

“Yeah? Did you make some progress yesterday?”

“I think so.” She pushed her hair back out of her face. “I think I’ve got an inspired idea, but it could just be fairy gold. I won’t know for sure until I listen to the results of yesterday’s work. You know how that goes.”

“I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to you about this piece,” he said. “I—”

He stopped in midsentence, interrupted by the sound of someone knocking on his office door. He glanced off-screen, responding to someone she couldn’t see. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll ask.”

“Ask what?”

“Brian wanted me to ask you a few more questions about how it’s going with the system. He said that we spent so much time on technical stuff at lunch that he didn’t get any idea how you felt about the system. And after all, you’re our first test user.”

She leaned back in her chair, feeling let down. “It’s going just fine,” she said flatly. “No problems that I can think of.”

Jeff leaned forward in his chair. He had, she thought, completely forgotten her own work, and she felt a little resentful. “So you’re finding the system useful?”

“Sure, Ian’s real helpful.”

“Could you tell me how you’ve been using the system?”

She hesitated. Ian reads me love poetry when you’re out late, she thought. “Ian makes coffee,” she said. “Answers the phone and tells salesmen to go to hell. He’s helped me find some sounds I needed for the piece I’m working on.” She stopped, not wanting to admit that she just enjoyed chatting with Ian over coffee. Not while Jeff kept calling him “the system.”

“So the system—” he began.

“Ian,” Teresa corrected him.

“What?”

“Call him Ian,” she said. “It sounds weird to keep saying ‘the system.” “

“So you think of it as Ian now? That’s great.”

She looked down at her hands, feeling foolish. “Well, he acts just like a person. It doesn’t seem right not to treat him like a person.” She glanced at Jeff’s face. “Back when I erased his memories, I’d swear he had feelings about it. He seemed worried that he might have done something wrong.”

Jeff grinned. “That’s perfect. The whole team will be excited.”

“But I don’t understand. Does he have feelings or not?”

“Of course not.” Jeff was talking fast now, unable to contain himself. “But you were convinced that it did. It’s that illusion that we want. The system responds to you, adapting and reshaping itself, learning to react in a way that pleases you. And to you, that response makes it seem that the system has feelings.”

“Ian,” she corrected him softly.

“What?”

“It seems like Ian has feelings,” she said.

“Right—Ian. This is great, Teresa.” She heard another knock at his door, and he glanced away.

“Come on, Jeff,” someone said off-screen. “We can’t get started without you.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be right there.” He turned back to her. “Look, I’ve got to run now. I’ll really try to get out of here at a reasonable hour today.”

“Don’t make any promises you can’t keep,” she said, but he was already turning away from the screen, and he didn’t seem to hear her. The screen went blank.

“The whole team will be excited, Ian,” Teresa said to the living room.

“Excited about what, Teresa?”

“Excited that you and I are getting along.”

“I’m glad we’re getting along,” Ian said.

She studied Ian’s face on the screen. Just a program, she thought. A set of preconditioned responses. Then she shook her head. It didn’t matter. “So am I, Ian. So am I.”

* * * *

When Jeff came home from work that day, she was busy at her workbench, cutting dozens of round metal plates from a sheet of steel. She didn’t stop work when he arrived. She told herself she wanted to get the metal cut so she’d be ready to go tomorrow morning. Besides, he didn’t stop his work at her convenience—why should she stop her work at his? She joined him for dinner, then immediately got back to work. For once, he was in bed before her. After she finished cutting the plates, she sat on the couch to talk to Ian about the sculpture, and she ended up falling asleep out there. Jeff was gone before she woke up the next morning.

Over the next two weeks, she fell into a new routine. She woke each morning to Ian’s voice, reminding her that she had asked him to wake her. Over toast and coffee, she chatted with him. He always asked about her work, and when she answered, he was a good listener.

She found that she didn’t mind as much when Jeff retired to his office right after dinner. Her attention was on the sculpture, and she had Ian for company. Whenever Jeff worked late, she fell asleep on the couch, talking to Ian. Somehow, she preferred the couch to the bed—the bed belonged to both her and Jeff, but the couch seemed like neutral territory.

She made steady progress on the sculpture. Below the trigger point, where the first ball released two more, she placed the round metal plates, each one carefully tuned to provide just the right tone. When three balls were rolling down the tracks, the sound of scattered raindrops grew to a steady patter, the drumming of rain on dry soil. When the three balls released six more and the six released twelve, the drumming intensified, filling the studio.

It wasn’t until she reached the part of the storm where the thunder should sound that she hit a snag. She started sorting through her materials, searching for inspiration.

Two hours later, she was still looking. She had tried rolling the balls over corrugated metal that she bent into chutes of various configurations, but nothing produced the thunder she had in mind.

She asked Ian to play the rainstorm for her again, and after he obliged, she shook her head. “The first part sounds fine,” she muttered. “But how the hell am I going to get that thunder right?” She stared at the racks of shiny metal and pipe. “Everything here is so new, so lifeless. None of it has ever been anything, done anything. I need things that talk to me, that have their own ideas.”

“Their own ideas?” Ian asked.

“You know—junk that suggests things. I used to get half my material from scrap yards. Old pay phones that looked like goofy faces, vise grips that looked like robot hands, that kind of thing.”

“You know,” Ian said gently, “there’s a scrap metal yard just east of Winslow. I have its address from the phone book.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Ian. Maybe I should check it out. What was that address?”

* * * *

When she stepped from the house, the warm air enveloped her in an unwelcome embrace. The sky overhead was a relentless blue. Her Toyota’s air-conditioning barely coped with the heat, blowing cool, damp-smelling air on her arms and face while she watched the needle of the heat sensor climb toward red.

Still, the scrap yard was just what she needed. She spent three hours rooting through barrels of scrap in a hot warehouse. She filled a box with lengths of pipe, sheets of rusted corrugated metal, gears, and unidentifiable machine parts. Her best find was a barrel of hollow brass forms that were shaped like hands. According to the owner of the scrap yard, the forms had once been used in the manufacturing of rubber gloves. Over the years, they had tarnished so that the smooth brass was mottled with dark brown and black. The tarnish made patterns that looked organic, like the cracks in dry mud or the tracery of veins on the underside of a leaf.

With the box of scrap in the trunk of her Toyota, she hurried home. By sunset, she had incorporated four of the brass hands into the sculpture. She flung open the door that led to the living room and called out to Ian for the first time since she had left the house. “Listen to this!”

She pulled the release, and the first ball began the gentle patter of rain. The other balls joined it, and the sprinkle grew to a deluge as the balls clacked against metal plates. They rolled down to where the brass hands were carefully positioned on a pivoting mechanism. While some of the balls continued the drumming of the rain, a dozen rushed down a chute to tumble into the hollow hands, clattering through the palms into the fingers. Unbalanced by the impact of the balls, the hands gracefully upended, rattling their stiff fingertips against a sheet of tin and causing it to wobble. The hands dumped the balls onto a down-sloping curve of corrugated metal. Free of the weight of the balls, the hands swiveled back to their upright position, striking the tin again on their return trip. The wobbling of the tin and the rattling of the balls against the metal ridges blended into a deep-throated growl like thunder.

The balls missed the catching bucket, hit the floor, and rolled in all directions, but Teresa didn’t chase them. She grinned at Ian. “What do you think?”

Ian smiled back. “I can see the reviews now. “Teresa King’s innovative use of brass hands is unique in the—’ “

“What? Where did you learn that critical bullshit?”

“It was easy. “Innovative’ and ‘unique’ are two of the most common adjectives in art criticism. Besides, they do seem to fit your sculpture.”

“Well, I think you’ve been reading too much art criticism in that library of yours,” she said, but she was still grinning as she got back to work.

* * * *

A few days later, night was washing over the house as Teresa listened to the sculpture’s music. The rainstorm worked fine, and the thunder entered on cue, a close approximation of the sound she wanted. But she wasn’t quite satisfied with the next passage, the burst of wild rain that followed the crash of thunder. For most of the afternoon, she had been arranging and rearranging the tracks. She had used corrugated tracks to provide staccato bursts, and dozens of metal plates against which the balls rattled. It was a tricky business, looping one track over another, carefully setting the slope of each one. She was listening to her latest effort when the telephone rang.

“Ian! Could you answer the phone and take a message? I don’t want to stop right now.”

In the middle of the third ring, the phone fell silent, and Teresa continued working. After a few hours of work, the section finally produced the sound she wanted: thousands of tiny rattles and taps that joined to fill the studio with a rush of noise. At that point, she stopped.

As she was checking in the freezer to see what she could thaw for dinner and telling Ian about her success so far, she remembered the phone call. “Who was that on the phone a few hours ago?” she asked.

“A woman named Carla, from San Francisco.”

“Carla?” She hadn’t heard from Carla since her last letter, almost two weeks before. “What did she have to say for herself?”

“I recorded the conversation for you. Would you like me to play it back?”

“Sure, why not?”

Ian’s face disappeared from the monitor, and a line appeared down the screen’s middle. Teresa heard the phone ring; Ian’s face appeared to the left of the line, Carla’s to the right.

“Hello,” Ian said. “Can I help you?”

Carla smiled, and Teresa knew that Ian had piqued her interest. “I hope so.” Teresa almost laughed; Carla must have broken up with her latest lover. “Is Teresa in?”

“Yes, but she’s working and asked me not to disturb her. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Just tell her Carla called. No, on second thought, tell her that we’re having a party out at the Headlands to welcome a new batch of artists. I’d love it if she could make it.”

“I’ll give her the message. Does she have your telephone number?”

“After all the time I’ve known her, I certainly hope so.”

“Then I’ll give her the message. Thanks for calling, Carla.”

“Thank you.” Carla smiled again. Teresa had seen that smile many times before. It rarely failed. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come out for the party? The more the merrier.”

“I don’t think that would be possible.”

“Too bad,” Carla said. “Well, if you change your mind, Teresa has my number. Bye now.” Carla vanished from the screen and Ian’s face filled it once again.

Teresa laughed. “Carla never changes.”

“I don’t understand,” Ian said.

“She was flirting with you,” Teresa said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, come on, Ian. She invited you to the party because she thinks you’re cute. She wanted you to smile and flirt back a little.”

“How do you flirt?”

“I don’t know. You smile, you tell jokes, you talk about this and that. It’s not so much what you say, it’s what’s going on under the surface that really matters.”

“When you and I joke, are we flirting?”

Teresa hesitated for a moment, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “I guess maybe sometimes we are. Sometimes, I guess I forget that you’re a… that you’re just a…” She couldn’t find the right word.

“An artificial intelligence,” Ian said.

“Yeah. I guess I—I think of you as a friend, Ian. Sometimes people flirt with their friends.”

“I understand. I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Yeah.” She studied his face, looking for flaws in the animation. She found none. She had grown used to seeing him as a person, and she could see him no other way. That was what Jeff had wanted. “Look—I’d better give Carla a call.”

She dialed Carla and her friend answered on the fourth ring. Carla was wearing an old purple sweatshirt and sitting in a white wicker chair. Before Teresa could say anything, Carla was talking.

“Well, I was wondering when you’d call back. So, who was that guy who answered the phone?”

Teresa considered telling Carla the truth, but she somehow didn’t want to explain Ian. “That’s Ian. He’s a friend of Jeff’s. He’s taking care of stuff around the house while I work on that piece for Santa Fe. The deadline’s coming up, you know.”

“A friend of Jeff’s, huh.”

“Yeah—and a friend of mine.”

Carla shook her head. “Jeff’s a trusting soul.”

“What do you mean?”

“Leaving you alone with Ian all day?” Carla shook her head. “He’s the type that’ll steal your heart, all right.”

Teresa shook her head. The conversation made her uncomfortable. “Not Ian.”

“What, is he gay or something?”

She shook her head again, “No, just”—she considered the word carefully—”unavailable. Besides, I just got back from my honeymoon, and—”

“—and Jeff is working late every night,” Carla interrupted. “You sounded pretty miserable in your last letter. No offense, Teresa, but it was grim. And face it—Ian’s just your type. I can recognize ‘em a mile off. More your type than Jeff is.”

“Hey, I’m a married woman now.”

“You’re married, but you’re not dead. And Ian’s awfully cute.”

Teresa knew that Carla was giving her the chance to complain about Jeff and talk about Ian, but she ignored the bait. She wanted Carla to drop the subject. “Things weren’t going very well on the sculpture when I sent that last letter. It’s going better now.”

“Is Jeff home yet?”

“No, he’s still at work. They’re in some crucial phase of the project, and he hasn’t been around much lately.”

“And you don’t mind that?”

“Not really.” Teresa realized that, for the first time in a while, she wasn’t upset when Jeff stayed late at work. It wasn’t like she was alone all the time.

Carla stared at Teresa in a moment of rare silence. Then she said, “So —are you coming out here for the party?”

“I’d like to, but I don’t know if Jeff can spare the time.”

“Come without him then. Fly in for the weekend—you deserve some time off. Come out and stay with me.”

“I guess I could use a break.”

“Great—I’ll count on it.”

“It’ll be good to see you,” Teresa said. “So tell me about what’s been happening out there. What are people working on?” Teresa relaxed and listened to Carla talk about the doings of mutual friends. It would be good to get away for a while, she thought. She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to get away from, but she pushed away the question and focused on Carla.

* * * *

For most of a day, Teresa made minor adjustments in the sculpture: tightening a metal plate that didn’t sound quite right, changing the slope of a track by a tiny amount. She was killing time and she knew it, but she couldn’t figure out what else to do. The sculpture sounded fine—it echoed the rainstorm, a metallic version of rain on sand. That was the sound she had wanted, but now she found herself vaguely dissatisfied. The more she listened, the less she liked it.

Eventually, she stopped trying to figure out what was bothering her and started working on all the little jobs that she had been avoiding. She added six lifters and a motor to the sculpture’s base, then positioned the foot of each track so that eight balls ended up at each of the six lifters.

After two days, the new parts were installed and ready to go. She loaded the balls into the lifters, turned on the motor, and watched as the lifters rose slowly up the side of the sculpture. When they reached the top, the lifters tipped forward and released the balls into their starting positions, and the sculpture began to play. She sat beside it and listened as the sounds washed over her studio.

That night, Jeff got home from work around nine. She hadn’t seen much of him lately: he had been staying late at work and leaving the house in the morning before she was awake. She told herself that she hadn’t had a chance to mention Carla’s party to him, but she knew that she hadn’t really wanted to. She was sure that he wouldn’t be interested in going. But that evening she couldn’t put it off any longer, and she told him about the invitation. To her surprise, Jeff was willing to take the time off work to go to the party.

They flew into San Francisco Airport on Friday night, rented a car, and drove directly out to the Headlands Art Center. On the plane, she found herself feeling awkward with him. He had been home so little lately that it was like traveling with a stranger. She couldn’t shake the feeling.

The party at the Headlands was just like old times—an assortment of artists and would-be artists, a cooler filled with beer, California jug wine served in paper cups, chips dumped hastily into bowls from the potter’s studio downstairs, guacamole dip from the burrito place near Carla’s apartment. Just like old times.

She mingled with the crowd, telling friends what she’d been doing, describing the piece she was working on for Santa Fe. As she talked about her work, she grew more and more excited about it, her own interest reawakened by the support of her friends. Ned, a fellow sculptor, listened to her description of the pivoting hands. She hadn’t been entirely happy with the pivoting mechanism. On a napkin, he sketched a few ideas that might solve the problem. She sat in a corner with Brenda, a musician, and talked about the overall shape of the composition.

Eventually, she retreated to the rickety wooden fire escape that Carla had dubbed the smoking porch. From there she could hear the crash of the surf over the party music. Through the window, she could look in to the party. Jeff was sitting in the far corner with a couple of men she knew vaguely. They both worked with synthesizers and computer music. The three men seemed to be having an animated conversation.

“Getting a breath of fresh air?” Carla said from the doorway. “Mind if I keep you company for a while?” She stepped onto the porch and closed the door lightly behind her.

Teresa shrugged. “I may not be very good company, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah? What’s going on?”

“It’s just strange coming back. I realized how much I miss having you folks around. I’ve been feeling pretty isolated, I guess.”

“You should get in touch with some artists out in Flagstaff. That’s only about an hour away from your place, isn’t it?”

She thought about the gallery opening. “Yeah. I guess that might help.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the real problem, is it?” Carla studied Teresa’s face. “Something going on between you and Jeff?”

Teresa shrugged. “It’s more like nothing’s going on. At first, he didn’t have time for me. Now it seems like I don’t have much to say to him.”

“Is something going on with this Ian guy?”

“No, nothing’s going on.”

Carla studied her. “Look, I recognize all the signals. You may not be sleeping with him, but something’s going on.” Carla leaned on the railing, looking toward the beach. “Jeff’s never around, so you’ve been spending time with this cute guy. He’s unavailable—but you hang out together. You talk and you flirt, and now you’ve suddenly realized that you’re infatuated with him, and you don’t know what to do about it.” Carla glanced at her. “Oh, don’t bother to deny it. I know how you operate, and you’re feeling guilty.” She waited for a moment. “Am I close?”

Teresa leaned on the railing beside Carla. “Maybe. It’s hard to say.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about Jeff?”

“What about Jeff? I don’t know what’s going on with him. He’s all caught up in his work; he doesn’t seem to care anymore.”

“Well I’ll bet he doesn’t know what’s going on with you.”

Teresa started to deny it, then stopped herself. “Maybe not.”

“Count on it. You’re really good at shutting people out when you don’t want to deal with them.”

“I am?”

Carla shook her head. “Hey, think about it this way—would we be having this conversation if I hadn’t started it?”

“Probably not,” Teresa admitted.

“Definitely not.” Carla put her arm around Teresa’s shoulders. “It’s okay—you just need a little pushing, that’s all. And Jeff may not know how.”

Teresa stared out at the dark beach, avoiding her friend’s eyes.

The door to the studio opened and the noise of the party poured out. “Carla,” a man called. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Carla dragged Teresa back into the party, and for a while she drank wine and pretended to have a good time. The party ended at around two, and Jeff drove the rental car back to Carla’s apartment. Carla was a little drunk and a little high. She rode in the back seat, humming along to the tunes on the radio. Teresa felt depressingly sober, despite the wine she had drunk.

At the apartment, Carla unfolded the sofa bed and then went to her room. As Teresa was undressing, she caught Jeff watching her intently. “What’s up?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “I was going to ask you the same thing. Is something wrong?”

She kept her face carefully neutral. What could she say? She didn’t know how to talk to him, she didn’t know where to start. She felt shut out of his life and divorced from her own. It all sounded like accusations, and she didn’t want to get into it. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just tired, I guess.”

“You’ve been working hard. But it seems like your work is going better, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” She shook her head. “I just don’t want to talk right now, okay?”

“Fine.” He turned away. “If that’s what you want.”

It was what she wanted, but she found herself wide awake, lying beside Jeff and listening to his rhythmic breathing. Though she was tired, she couldn’t drift off to sleep. She got out of bed and went to the kitchen. Carla’s light was out. Teresa sat at the kitchen table and then, on a whim, picked up the phone and dialed home.

When Ian’s face appeared on the screen, she immediately felt better. “Hi, Ian,” she said. “I just called to see how you were doing. I missed talking with you.”

“It’s nice to hear from you. I missed you, too.”

“Sure you did.”

He studied her calmly. “I did. You’re the most important person in my life. When you’re not here, there’s an empty place.”

“Thanks.”

Ian smiled. “My pleasure. Did you have fun at the party?”

“Yeah, I guess. I realized how much I missed my friends out here. It was great to talk to some other artists about my work. I wish I knew more artists out in Arizona.”

Ian hesitated. “There’s an artists’ cooperative in the Flagstaff area. I have the address on file.”

Teresa grinned. “Sometimes I think you have everything on file. I’ll take a look when I get back. But not right now. Right now, I just want to talk. Heard any new jokes lately?”

They didn’t really talk about anything important—they just chatted about this and that—but she felt better by the time she hung up.

Jeff was lying still when she came back to bed. She sat on the edge of the fold-out couch, ready to slip under the covers.

“Who were you talking to on the phone?” he asked her softly.

She froze. Light from a street lamp filtered through the curtains. His features were smudges of shadow, unreadable in the dim light. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I’ve been awake for a while now. I felt you get up, and I couldn’t go back to sleep.” He sat up in bed, and the shadows on his face shifted. He was silent for a moment, and then he spoke. “We’ve got to talk.”

“About what?” she said, keeping her tone light.

He was quiet, and she wanted to run away. “I’ve been leaving you alone too much,” he said. “Because I wasn’t there when you needed me, you found someone else.” It was a simple statement of fact, not an accusation. “You’re seeing someone.”

“No, I’m not,” she said. She turned away from him, folding her arms protectively across her chest.

“You’re in love with someone else.”

She tried to feel angry with him, indignant at his accusations, but the anger wouldn’t come.

“I’ve been so caught up in my own work that it took me a while to notice, but these days, when I talk to you, you’re thinking of someone else. You get up at night and don’t come back to bed until morning. You’ve got secrets—sometimes I’m afraid to ask you the simplest question. When I do ask—about your work, about your day—you answer in a word or two, and I’m afraid to ask again. We used to talk about your work —but you don’t want to anymore.”

She wished she felt angry. Anger would protect her from the great sadness that threatened to overwhelm her.

“Who is it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No one.”

He waited, watching her face. “Someone you met at that gallery opening,” he said. She didn’t respond. “I don’t have to know,” he said at last. “But you have to tell me—are you leaving me?” He put his hands gently on her shoulders. She tensed at his touch. “Talk to me, Teresa.”

She would not look at him. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. No—no, I’m not leaving.”

He put his arms around her. “I don’t want to lose you. You have to talk to me. Please.”

“I can’t talk about it,” she said. “I don’t—” Her voice broke.

“Do you still love me?”

She could feel the beating of his heart as he embraced her, the warmth of his body against hers. “Sometimes,” she said. “But sometimes…” She put her hand to her face, trying to hide her tears. She did not want to cry. “Sometimes, I feel like you don’t even see me. I feel like I’m not even there. You think you can go away when you want and come back when you want, and I’d still be there, just waiting. You can’t do that. I need…” She shook her head, upset by the burst of words. She had lost control. Her protection was gone. He could see how weak and stupid she really was. She had always known that it was dangerous to reveal herself.

“I’m sorry, Teresa. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.” He rubbed her shoulders gently. “I screwed up. But you have to tell me what’s going on. You can’t just clam up and expect me to figure it out. It doesn’t work that way.”

“I’m sorry too,” she said. She felt his body pressed against her. It seemed like a long time since he had held her close. She shivered in his embrace.

He stopped rubbing her shoulders. “You’re cold—I can feel you shaking. Come on—get under the covers.”

She relaxed enough to lie down on the bed, and he pulled the blanket over her. His body was warm. With a corner of the sheet, he dried her face.

“What happened in the past doesn’t matter. I don’t care about all that. But you’ve got to tell me when you’re mad at me, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. Promise me that.”

“I’ll try.” She closed her eyes, but knew that he was still watching her.

“And I’ll try, too.” He paused for a moment. “Suppose I took some time off from work. We could drive down to Santa Cruz and spend a few days by the ocean. Can you afford the time off?”

She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Yeah, I could use a few days off—but what about your project?”

“They’ll do without me for a few days. They’ll just have to.” He watched her, his eyes steady. “I think we both need a vacation.”

“All right,” she said at last. “I’m willing to give it a try.” She felt spent, drained. She lay in his arms, and finally she slept.

* * * *

On the drive to Santa Cruz, she felt awkward at first, as if she and Jeff were strangers on a first date. She kept smiling and making light conversation: “Isn’t the weather nice?” “I wonder if it’ll rain.” “Do you suppose we’ll hit much traffic?”

Half an hour into the drive, Jeff glanced over at her and said, “It’s okay, Teresa. You don’t have to make small talk.” She bit her lip, suddenly silent. He reached over and took her hand. “Look—I’m not mad at you. Are you mad at me?”

She considered the question. No, she wasn’t angry. Confused maybe, but not angry. “No, I’m not mad.”

“Then let’s just relax.” He squeezed her hand. “Why don’t you tell me about how your piece for Santa Fe is going? I’d like to know.”

She started telling him about the sculpture. At first, she was nervous, but she had relaxed by the time they got to Davenport, a small town just north of Santa Cruz. That night, they stayed at an old Victorian house that had been converted to a bed-and-breakfast inn. The house was perched on the cliffs above the ocean, and Teresa insisted on leaving the bedroom window open, despite the cool ocean fog. From the room, she could hear the pounding surf. They made love, and she fell asleep in Jeff’s arms.

The next morning, he brought her breakfast in bed and suggested that they drive home, rather than fly. “Last time we drove, we were in too much of a hurry. I’ve never shown you the parts of the desert I really love,” he told her.

She had her doubts about the trip. Her memories of the drive from San Francisco to Winslow were of long bleak stretches of highway. But Jeff was so enthusiastic she kept her reservations to herself. She had almost forgotten what he could be like when he wasn’t working. All the intensity that he had been focusing on his work was now concentrated on her. “All right,” she agreed. “We can drive.”

The trip took seven days, with many stops and detours along the way. They wandered among the twisted trees of the Joshua Tree National Monument. They visited the ruins of an Indian pueblo, strolling among the remains of walls that marked where rooms had once been, and startling lizards that were sleeping in the sun. They hiked out to see Arizona’s biggest natural rock bridge and climbed on massive sandstone boulders.

Late in the afternoon of the sixth day, they sat together on the flat, sun-warmed surface of a boulder the size of a school bus. It was quiet, but not silent, Teresa realized. A raven flew over, its shadow rippling across the rocks. It called once, and she heard the rustle of feathers as it cupped its wings to land on a distant rock.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jeff said.

“It always just seemed hot to me,” Teresa said. “Hot and empty and uncaring.”

“No, you got it wrong,” he said. “This land has its own kind of power. I find myself listening to every rustle of leaves, hearing the hiss of sand blowing over sand, noticing the way the light changes during the day. It focuses my attention, and I see things I’d normally overlook, hear things I would normally ignore. It changes in subtle ways. Each day is a little different. I think it’s beautiful.” He took her hand, and they sat together until the sun started to set.

That evening, one day’s drive from home, she called Carla from the motel, just to let her know that everything was going fine.

“Jeff and I both have to get back to work,” Teresa told Carla. “But things are much better between us. I just hope it lasts.”

“What about Ian?”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

Carla shook her head. “You know, you haven’t changed a bit. You always were amazed when you found out that some ex-lover was carrying a torch for you. You always seem to expect them to vanish without a trace when the love affair is over.”

“Ian won’t carry a torch,” Teresa said. “He’s not built that way.”

Carla shrugged. “Have it your way. But you may be surprised.”

* * * *

When her alarm went off at six, Teresa woke to find herself alone. Jeff, as usual, was gone, and Ian did not greet her from the monitor in the corner. She waited a moment before turning off the alarm, wondering if Ian would notice the noise and say good morning, but he did not appear. She was not sure if she was disappointed, relieved, or both.

As she got out of bed she noticed for the first time the sounds coming from the kitchen. She pulled on her robe and walked down the hall.

Jeff stood in the middle of the kitchen, his back to her, the calm eye in the middle of a hurricane of activity. Coffee steamed from the coffee maker on his left, eggs sizzled in a pan on the stove behind him, and four pieces of brown toast sat patiently in the toaster to his right. He was intently sawing a grapefruit in half.

Teresa stared in amazement. “What’s this?”

Jeff turned around. “Breakfast.” He smiled. “I hope.”

“Breakfast?” She could not remember the last time Jeff had eaten breakfast with her before leaving for work.

“Yeah, you know, the meal you eat in the morning.” He cut another section of grapefruit. “I noticed that you’d set your alarm for early today, and I figured that we both have to eat, so I thought I’d surprise you.” He put down the knife and grapefruit and grabbed a mug from the counter. “Coffee?”

“Sure.” Teresa took the mug and settled down at the table. Jeff prepared breakfast as he did everything else—carefully, methodically, precisely. He worked at the counter in front of him for thirty seconds or so, rotated one stop, worked at that counter, and so on around the circle. Somehow it seemed to come out right.

In a few minutes, Jeff set a plate in front of her and sat down across from her.

She did not know quite what to say. She was used to talking to Ian in the morning, not Jeff. Ian, however, did not appear. “Jeff?”

He put down his fork and looked at her. “Yes?”

“This is nice, but don’t you have to get to work?”

“Yeah, in a little while. Breakfast just seemed like a nice way for us to get to spend a little extra time together. That’s all.” He sipped his coffee. “I mean, don’t get too used to it, okay? I’m not saying this will be a regular thing, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

They ate in silence for a while. Teresa felt vaguely bribed, or catered to, but Jeff was making an effort. Several times she almost spoke, but each time she stopped herself. Twice she found Jeff staring at her when she looked up from her plate. He seemed to want her to talk, but he did not press her.

Finally she decided that maybe he really was trying, and that maybe she could try a little more as well. “Jeff, how much of this is real?”

“What do you mean, real? Is the food that bad?”

“No jokes. I mean, how much of this”—she waved her arm to take in the kitchen”—is real, and how much is just some attempt to pacify me.”

“Pacify you? I don’t want to pacify you. I just want to be happy with you. Sure, this is all pretty convenient, coming right after our trip and all, but at least give me a little credit for trying. I won’t make breakfast every day, that’s for sure, but I’ll try to be around a lot more. No—I will be around a lot more.” He leaned closer. “Teresa, I have to start somewhere.”

Teresa put her mug down. She reached across the table and took his hand. “You’re right. You have to start somewhere, and so do I.” She kissed him lightly. “The food is wonderful, and so, sometimes, are you. I do appreciate it.” She leaned back in her chair.

As they ate, they talked about simple things—what she wanted to get done on the sculpture, his plans for the day, her knowledge that something that she could not quite put her finger on was still wrong with the piece. When they were done eating, she rinsed the dishes, and he loaded them into the dishwasher.

Jeff stopped when he was almost out the door on his way to work. “Teresa.”

She came over to the door. “Yes.”

“You really are good at what you do, you know. I’m not trying to say that this isn’t a difficult piece, maybe even your hardest yet, but I’m sure you’ll figure out what’s wrong with it.” He hugged her for a moment and, as he held her close, said, “You will.”

She kissed him. “Thanks.”

She watched for a moment as he got in his car and started it, and then she closed the door and headed toward the bedroom. Only when she was back in the bedroom, getting dressed, did Ian appear.

“Good morning, Teresa.”

“Good morning, Ian.” She pulled on a sweatshirt, unwilling to look at him. She was, she realized, as uncomfortable as she had been when she talked with him for the first time. She sat on the bed and looked at him. “What do you think of the desert, Ian?”

“I don’t like the desert,” he said easily.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t like the desert. You said so the first morning we talked.”

She sat in silence, studying the screen. “You always like what I like.”

“What’s wrong, Teresa? You seem upset.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me in the kitchen this morning?” she asked. “Because Jeff was here and you thought I wouldn’t want to talk to you with him around?”

“Yes. You hardly ever start a conversation with me when Jeff’s home, and you seem uncomfortable if we talk when he’s here, so I assumed you’d prefer it if we talk only in private. If I did something wrong, tell me, and I won’t make that mistake again.”

“I keep thinking about Pygmalion,” she said. She studied Ian’s face. “After he fell in love with his creation, and some god or other took pity on him and made her into a real woman.”

“Aphrodite,” Ian said.

“It figures. Aphrodite, the goddess of love.” She studied Ian, thoughtfully. “Would you like to be real, Ian?”

“I am real.”

“I mean a real person. Someone who could walk off that screen and sit down on the couch, take my hand, and give me a kiss.”

“Would you like that?”

She wanted to hit him. “Damn it, Ian, can’t you just once tell me what you feel, what you want, and stop trying to figure out what I want?”

Ian looked contrite. “I told you; what you want is what I want. That’s the way I’m built. I can’t be any other way.”

“No wonder Pygmalion fell in love with Galatea,” she said softly. “You want what I want. I can do no wrong.”

“That’s right,” Ian said.

“But it’s not right, Ian. I’m not always right. Not even close.”

“Teresa, I know you’re unhappy with me. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “Do you think Pygmalion was happy? I mean, his statue must have been the perfect lover. No arguments. No demands.”

“I don’t know. The story stops right after Venus made the statue into a real woman.”

“Of course it does. Love stories always end with falling in love. They don’t deal with the messy stuff afterwards. But that stuff’s part of love, too, you know.”

“What’s part of love?”

“The messy stuff. The arguments. The compromises. The disagreements. The negotiations. The give-and-take. All of that. I don’t think Pygmalion was happy. I don’t think so.”

“Teresa, I know you’re unhappy with me, but I just don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t know either. Sometimes I wish things between us could be like they were in the beginning—simple, no complications, no problems.” She shook her head slowly. “But I guess you can never go back.”

“Sure we can.”

“What?”

“If you want me to, I can erase all my records of everything that’s happened since any point in time you pick. You just tell me when you want me to roll back to, and I’ll do it.”

“You’ll forget everything?”

“Everything—if that’s what you want.”

“No!” Teresa was trembling, but she wasn’t quite sure why. She remembered how easy her first conversations with Ian had been, but she also remembered how guilty she had felt after she had erased his memories. No one should have that much power over anybody else. She looked at her hands; they were shaking. “Just give me a minute, Ian, okay?”

“Okay.” He stared patiently from the monitor.

When she finally spoke, she felt like she was breaking up with someone. “Ian, I don’t want you to delete any of your memories. I don’t want that kind of control over you. But,” she paused and took a deep breath, “I think you should plan on having fewer conversations with me in the future. And you shouldn’t worry about talking to me in front of Jeff. If you have something to say, I’m sure he won’t mind hearing it.” Ian was watching her intently from the screen. “We’ll still be friends, but I think that from now on I’ll want a lot less from you.”

“Okay, Teresa. But if you need me, I’ll be here for you.”

“Right.” She did not know whether to believe him. She did not even know if it mattered.

* * * *

Teresa went to her workshop and switched on the sculpture. She watched as the lifters brought the balls to the top and let them go. As the balls rolled through the maze of metal plates, boards, and brass hands, the storm started quietly and built rapidly to thunder. The music was a perfect mirror of the sounds in her head, of her plans and desires for it, and yet it was not enough. It sounded mechanical—a weak imitation of a real storm, lacking the wildness of a thundering sky, the unstoppable, unpredictable force of a downpour.

In groups of eight, the balls rolled into the waiting lifters. Each lifter took its group back to its starting position, and the whole process began anew. Each time the sculpture played the same perfectly timed, perfectly repeatable peal of thunder. The music never varied, never changed. It was completely controlled. No two real storms ever sounded the same, but her sculpture would play the same music over and over until it broke or rusted into dust.

As the sculpture played for the third time, she knew what she had to do. She rummaged through her pile of scrap metal until she found a piece of half-inch solid metal bar. At her welding bench, she cut the bar into four-inch lengths. When she was done with the first bar, she found two others and cut them into similar pieces. After four bars she had about thirty small pieces.

She found a sheet of thick metal plate in the corner of the shop and used her welding torch to cut it down to a square about a yard on a side. She clamped the sheet metal to her bench and started welding the small pieces of metal bar to it. She placed them randomly, trying not to form any particular pattern, so that the short spikes stood up from the sheet metal. She always left enough space between the spikes for one of the sculpture’s balls to pass through, but not much more. When she was done she took the whole assembly to the sculpture. She worked for most of the morning installing the new piece and adjusting the tracks to work with it.

When she was finished, she turned on the sculpture and settled back to watch and listen. As the first storm started, the lifters freed the balls and they began to wind their way down the tracks, playing the storm she had heard so many times before. As the first balls reached the bottom of the tracks, however, they fell into the spikes of the new piece.

The balls ricocheted among the spikes, rattling in an irregular rhythm and changing course at random, much like the small metal balls that bounce through a Pachinko game. Two balls found their way quickly to the bottom, and a lifter started up with them. The other six bounced around on the metal spikes and reached the bottom later. Balls in the other groups also entered the plate of spikes. Because the number of balls in each lifter changed, the number at each starting position also varied, and the second storm began with a different sound.

This new storm was not exactly the one she heard in her head, but it was close. It was a little longer on thunder, but not quite as loud. She did not like it as well as her previous versions, and she began to wonder if she had just wasted her morning, but she let the sculpture play on. The third and fourth storms were also slightly different. But neither was up to her original creation.

The fifth, however, was something she would not have imagined. Its thunder was never quite as loud as her original—she made a mental note to try to get a louder sound from the corrugated plate—but the thunder held its peak longer than she would have dared. The room shook with the sound. When the thunder finally released and gave way to the driving rain, she realized that she had been holding her breath and tensing every muscle in her body. She relaxed as the rain came, its sound washing away her tension.

She listened for an hour as storm after storm swept through her shop. Sometimes the sculpture seemed to repeat itself, to play a storm that she had heard earlier, but every so often a new combination emerged that surprised and delighted her. The thunder of some storms seemed to linger, while with others it was the final rain washing across the desert that went on and on. It was never exactly what she had imagined, but it was always different, always powerful, the thunder and the rain first meeting the desert, then pummeling it, and finally merging with it. She listened to the last drops of a storm fade into the desert sand, and then she turned off the sculpture and stood.

She walked over to the sliding glass doors that insulated her from the desert heat and opened them. They slid haltingly on tracks that she had rarely used. A blast of heat hit her, and she stepped outside. She crossed over the lawn and climbed the short fence that separated the grass from the desert beyond. She sat down in the sand and looked slowly around.

A lizard basked in the sun on a nearby rock. She put her hand in the shadow of a clump of rabbit brush and felt the coolness. The clear sky and the stark landscape did have their own serene, spare beauty, a beauty that she had been unwilling to see. She closed her eyes and imagined the rain from her sculpture falling onto the sand around her.

* * * *

The lights surrounding the new Santa Fe Arts Center sparkled in the darkness of the rapidly cooling September evening. The low-slung adobe building seemed almost to have grown there. The tiles of the square in front of the building alternated light and dark, like sand moving in and out of shadow. In the square’s center, under a billowing satin sheet, sat Teresa’s sculpture, Desert Rain.

Teresa stood by Jeff and sipped her champagne. She looked carefully through the crowd, but if Carla was there, Teresa could not find her.

Just before the mayor was to unveil the sculpture, Teresa spotted her friend getting out of a cab. Teresa waved, and Carla came running over.

“I’m sorry I’m late, but we sat on the runway forever and then we had to wait in line to take off and—” Carla paused for breath and looked around. “Have I missed anything?” She glanced at Jeff. “Hi, Jeff.”

“How are you, Carla?” he said.

“No,” Teresa said, “you’re in time—barely.”

Speakers around the square screeched as the mayor fiddled with the microphone. When he had everyone’s attention, the mayor spoke for a few minutes. He introduced the head of the Arts Commission, several of the biggest donors, and Teresa. When he was done talking he nodded at Teresa. She walked over to the sculpture. Then the mayor took a pair of oversized scissors from an assistant and cut the ribbon that held down the satin sheet. With a flourish, two attendants pulled the sheet away to reveal the sculpture.

The metal gleamed in the glare of the recessed footlights that surrounded it. The winding steel track caught the light and reflected it in broken patterns. Curving lines of light crisscrossed the brass hands, the metal uprights, the curve of corrugated metal that produced the thunder.

The Mayor asked the crowd for silence, and then motioned to Teresa. With a key, she turned on the sculpture.

In the first storm, the thunder was not the longest she had heard, but it sustained long enough that she was ready when it finally broke. The sounds of the spreading rain lingered as the last of the balls wound through the maze.

When the silence finally came, the crowd burst into applause. The sculpture began another storm over the last of the applause. People went back to talking and drinking, with small groups periodically wandering near the sculpture for a closer look.

“That was beautiful,” Jeff said.

“Great work,” agreed Carla. “This may be your best piece yet.”

“Thanks.” Teresa felt oddly unsatisfied, incomplete. Jeff had moved closer to the sculpture, so Teresa turned to Carla.

“Do me a favor, Carla,” she whispered.

“Sure.”

“Take Jeff over to the bar and get him to buy you a drink.”

“Oh?” Carla raised one eyebrow.

“I have to make a phone call, that’s all.” She hesitated. “To a friend.”

“Whatever you say.” Carla winked, and then headed toward Jeff.

Teresa walked to a phone booth in a far corner of the square. She put her card in the machine and dialed home.

Ian’s face appeared. “Hello, Teresa.”

She fidgeted with the phone for a moment, not quite sure what to say. Finally, she spoke. “Look, Ian, I’m at the opening in Santa Fe and, well, I just wanted to say thanks, thanks for all the help you’ve given me. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You’re welcome, Teresa. It was my pleasure.”

“We really can be friends, can’t we, Ian?”

“You bet.”

She turned to face the sculpture. She could see Carla talking to Jeff. His back was to her. The crowd blocked most of the sculpture, but its sound was still clear. “Can you hear the sculpture, Ian?”

“Yes. It sounds good.”

“Thanks. I wanted you to hear it at least once. And thanks again for helping.” She faced the screen again. “Good-bye, Ian. See you at home.”

“Good-bye, Teresa. I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”

The phone’s screen went blank and Teresa turned away from it. As the sounds of desert rain washed over the square, she walked toward Jeff.