I had only ever really loved three things; my sister Ann, my painting and my privacy. I always thought that was enough, love, sex and such seemed to confusing and messy - to disruptive. After my sister passed away our large New England house was suddenly a lonely place, until the handsome younger stranger appeared out of the starry night. I had followed his mysterious flute playing into the old cemetery across the lane and discovered him batter and with a broken leg. Deliriously he claimed to have flown and fallen from the stars. I took Russell into my home to recover from his broken leg. I began to paint him and fall in love for the first time in my life. As weeks went by I was frightened by my new emotions. I also found myself frightened and fascinated by the youths belief he was an angel. Was he perhaps a bit mad? Would I have to send him away for help? Would I lose Rus before I had really found him?