" hilip," Lynn called softly. Instantly he was by her side. "I'm lonely."

"Yes madam," he replied, and melted away again.

Slowly Lynn made her way to the solarium, contemplating. Philip would be gone a few days. She would miss him - she always did - but she knew the benefits would outweigh the cost. Philip knew her so well. He knew when she wanted him, and when she did not he was elsewhere. He kept her household running smoothly and ensured that the servants stayed in the background. He was wonderful, and earned every cent of the exorbitant salary she paid him. But Lynn did not understand him.

Philip returned a week later. He found Lynn reading Hemmingway in the library. Lynn looked up at his entrance. He said quietly, "His name is Michael Owens, and he will arrive at 9 o'clock tonight."

"Thank you," Lynn replied, and returned to her book.

An hour east of Tucson, a mile north of the interstate, a stone wall three feet thick and ten feet high rose suddenly out of the wasteland. It completely enclosed 52 acres of desert. There was no discernable difference between the land inside the wall and the land outside; the wall was simply there, an inexplicable boundary dividing the sand.

In the middle of this enclosure stood Lynn MacAlaster's manor. Built in the Victorian style, the manse seemed strangely suited to the barren landscape. The wind whistled through its quiet halls - for the windows were always open - singing the song of the desert, and its dark passages blocked none of the oppressive heat from reaching its occupants.

Just before sunset Lynn left the manor and walked leisurely the hundred yards to the solarium. She allowed no one inside but Philip, and he only to convey messages. Lynn tended her plants lovingly, and at her quiet touch they flourished. She spent millions creating and maintaining a completely controlled climate so that she could grow exactly what she wanted to. Thus in the middle of the desert Lynn had everything from Iceland poppies to wildflowers from the hills around her property.

Lynn walked the moss-grown path slowly, stopping her and there to examine a particular plant or flower. Soon enough the path opened out into a brick court. Here no moss grew, and a simple set of concentric circles was patterned in the brick. At the center stood an ornately wrought iron table and a lone chair. An iron object rose from the center of the table; upon close examination it revealed itself to be a complex candelabra. Lynn lit the candles one by one and sat down, gazing into the waterfall of flame created.

Some time aware Lynn became aware of Philip standing patiently by her side. "Mr. Owens has arrive," he said quietly.

Lynn took a moment to come out of her trance. "Show him to the music room."

"Yes madam." He left. Lynn snuffed the candles and followed slowly.

The music room stood in the northwest corner of the manse, and the roof, north, and west walls were glass. Half of the room was taken up by a raised platform, upon which stood a sleek, black, grand piano. Next to the platform, in a hollow created by its curved edge, stood a music stand and stool. Against the east wall stood other instruments: a violin, viola, cello, flute, acoustic guitar, harp, all manner of pipes; but the piano was the centerpiece of Lynn's collection. It was here that Lynn found Michael Owens sitting, haltingly playing Beethoven's "Fur Elise."

At Lynn's entrance he stood up quickly and moved away, tripping over the piano bench in the process. "I-I'm sorry Ms. MacAlaster," he stammered, "I haven't played in years, and this gorgeous piano was so tempting..."

"Then continue," Lynn said, and sat on the stool, watching. He looked at her a moment, then sat down and began to play again. He wasn't good by any standard; his repertoire was limited to what he could remember; but he felt every note he played, so Lynn applauded when he declared he couldn't remember any more. "Thank you, Mr. Owens."

They sat in silence a few moments, Lynn calmly staring at Owens until he could stand no more and loudly closed the piano. At the sudden noise Lynn was jolted out of her reverie and stood quickly. "I apologize, Mr. Owens. It has been some time since I entertained anyone, so please excuse me if I appear rude. Would you care for anything to eat or drink?" Lynn pulled a silk cord hanging near the door. Philip entered just as Owens protested.

"I'm fine... Wow. That was quick. What, do you have servents waiting outside the door?"

"As a matter of fact, yes" Lynn replied matter of factly.

"Oh."

"What would you care for sir?" Philip broke in quietly.

"Umm, well, what do you have?"

As Philip ran through the selections, Lynn moved into the open part of the room. After taking Owens' order Philip left, and Owens turned back to Lynn. She sat down on the edge of the platform and indicated that he should sit opposite her. He did, and she said, "Well Mr. Owens, at my request Philip has told me nothing about you except your name, so please, introduce yourself."

"Well first, Owens said, "Call me Michael."

"If you wish," Lynn replied. "You must call me Lynn then."

"Fine by me," he said with a smile, and began.

That night was the last time an uncomfortable silence passed between them. Once loosened by wine and gentle probing from Lynn, Owens talked at length on any subject brought up. They talked late into the night, and they had a heated argument about American politics over breakfast. Owens was invited to the manse on many other occasions over the course of the season, and he and Lynn grew close. He confided his deepest desires to Lynn, and Lynn returned the favor by opening up to him. As the summer drew to a close and the monsoon season approached, the old Victorian house came alive with seldom heard laughter.

The two were riding the border of Lynn's property late one afternoon in silence when Owens reined the horse in and said "Lynn."

"Yes Michael?" Lynn asked, stopping beside him.

I... I have a confession to make," he said slowly, looking at the ground. Lynn waited patiently. Suddenly he looked straight into Lynn's eyes and said, "I love you."

Lynn froze, not believing what she heard. But he continued in a burst. "I love you. I love your gentleness, I love your laugh, I love the way your hair curls in and brushes your cheek. I love how happy you make me feel. I just love... you."

The silence after his outburst lasted an eternity, then Lynn visibly pulled herself together and said in a voice colder than ice, "Thank you for your time. Philip will pay you in whatever manner you wish." She rode off.

Lynn walked through her garden calmly, outwardly giving no sign of the pain that was eating away at her. She slowly lit her candles and sat down, but was unable to lose herself in the gentle flames as she often did. Instead she looked through the glass to the east. A storm was approaching; the first of monsoon season, and ominous. This held her attention, and she did not stir as the rain thundered overhead.