The day had been deceptive from the window. Bright and clear; snow sparkling in the afternoon sun. Shadows of blue danced in wavering patterns over the light dusting of snow. Though he had not been able to see them, Cohen was almost certain that they were inviting him to come outside and experience the day with them. No one ever turned down and invitation from friendly woodland creatures – it was the foundation of practically every Disney movie. As he stepped out clad in nothing more than a light jacket and sneakers, Cohen cursed Disney for their false logic and the birds for being temptresses in trees. The chilled air quickly laced its way through his hair and clothing, leaving behind a trail of gooseflesh. Despite the nip, Cohen was not prepared to allow neither Disney nor the birds to win. Instead he made his way back to his room, donning a thicker, corduroy jacket that was not longer in style but far too comfortable to part with, a blue and gray plaid scarf, and a pair of gray mittens that had a flap to expose the fingers. He hated the gloves because they never quite succeeded in keeping his fingers warm but they were all he had and were better than nothing. With the amendments to his wardrobe complete, Cohen set back out once more.

Not having a schedule to maintain or a thousand demands throughout the course of the day was a novelty that he wasn’t certain he would ever grow accustomed to. All his life he had been a pawn in some form or another – his mother’s need for fame; his agent’s need for continued success; the crew of his sitcom requirement for a pay check. It was a lot of pressure for any one person to deal with but unimaginable to expect a child to. He had come in contact with many child actors throughout his career – both when he was still one himself and later when they became his co-stars. It was never the child that determined their level of success but their parent. They were the gravity, the thing that kept the child from being set adrift in a sea of demands they could not comprehend or begin to meet. Had it not been for his father and brother, Cohen was certain he would have become one of the fame-whores whose star had stopped shining but had nothing left. Rather than do something meaningful with their lives they got trashed in clubs and made sure there was a swarm of photographers there to capture their fall. He may not have much of a career at the moment but at least he had his dignity. Sort of.

His foot connected with a small stone, sending it skittering around a corner. Unable to think of something better to do, Cohen decided to follow it. As he looked up, a bright smile curved upon his lips. Before him was a small park. The sand, cold and frozen, was peaked with small drifts of snow. A group of boys shouted as they ran across the wooden bridge, the hinges groaning beneath their weight. “Surrender yer ship!” one yelled, smacking his friend across the back. “Never!” came the firm reply – their resolve fading into a laugh as they tumbled down the large yellow slide. His gaze traveled across the monkey bars to some large plastic disks that rose from the sand on red metal rods creating step-stones. There were more attached to red chains, swaying lightly in the breeze. To the far side a little girl sat on a merry-go-round, looking dejected and bored. Her right foot was in the process of burying the left with sand when she called out, “Patrick, can I be rescued now? Please? This is boring!” An older boy peered through a red plastic tunnel and shook his head. “You’re a prisoner, Meg. You gotta wait to be saved!”

“But I’ve been waitingforever!” she complained.

“Don’t matter! That’s what happens when you get captured!”

Frowning, Cohen wished he could intervene; tell the little girl that in the center of the merry-go-round was a sword capable of breaking all her chains so she could escape. Instead he shrugged his shoulders against the cold and made his way toward the duck and turtle in at the farthest end of the park. He had never understood the purpose of the large metal creatures sitting on large springs. Kids never rushed toward them. They were the rejects of the playground – a good idea with terrible execution. Maybe if they were like a shark or a dinosaur they would get more action. After all, what kid in their right mind dreamed of riding a duck? Somehow he felt a pang of sympathy for the forgotten pieces. It wasn’t their fault that they weren’t as fun as the tire swing or slide. A soft, breathy laugh curled in a white haze before him. He would set the duck free from its neglect! Before he could think better of it, Cohen had made his way to it and was sitting on it, his knees nearly brushing his chest as he rocked back and forth.

He was a cowboy. A cowboy whose horse had been turned into a duck… but it didn’t matter. He was racing the turtle that had gotten a little too confident thanks to the success of one tortoise who would remain nameless. It was Cohen’s duty to teach it some measure of humility by defeating it in a race… “What are you doing?”

The curious voice broke through his thoughts, and Cohen blinked back at the little girl who had either been set free or abandoned her post. Smiling, he brought his feet down and stopped his race. “Oh, nothing really. Just racing the turtle.” The girl’s head tipped to the side as she considered the turtle beside him. “It’s not moving,” she replied.

“Oh, it is. Just really slow. Thinks it’s going to win.”

“Can I play?”

Cohen pursed his lips. The last thing he wanted was for some crazed mother to come charging at him with claims of pedophilia. He was sure his publicist would love dealing with that one. “I thought you were playing with your friends,” he hedged.

“They’re not my friends. They’re my brothers. Mum said the only way he could come to the park is if he took me and they only let me be the prisoner. Patty says that girls can’t be pirates.”

“Your brother is mistaken. Girls make the most terrible pirates out there!”

“Really?” Her eyes lit up with the thought and she cast a tentative look back to where her brother was still playing with his friends. None of them seemed to notice or care that their prisoner had escaped. Cohen nodded. “Maybe they know that and that’s why they had to hold you prisoner – they were afraid of what you would do to them!”

“I’d be the most terrible pirate ever!” she exclaimed. “Next time I’m going to tell ‘em that. And when they try to make me prisoner I’ll make Patty walk the plank!”

“That’s the spirit!” Cohen cheered.

“Can I race with you now, though?”

Seeing no real alternative and considering that they would not be within touching distance, he nodded in defeat. “But I’m warning you – this duck? It’s turbo-charged!” Giggling, the little girl climbed onto the turtle and the race began.

His weight caused the poor duck’s beak to kiss the ground as he urged it toward victory. Slowly the park melted into a racetrack. There were chipmunks in cheerleading costumes and ducks holding homemade signs. And he was so destroying his opponent despite her shrieks that she was winning. From the corner of his eye he spied someone who didn’t quite belong in his nonsensical scene. Dark hair curled around her face as she regarded them, a laugh escaping as she watched him. Her presence gave the turtle the advantage that it needed as Cohen tumbled to the ground.

Born just as spring was preparing to become summer, Miriam Reed had always considered herself a child of the sun. Its warming rays had greeted her as she entered into the world, and graced her first months with its presence. Summer had, of course, eventually slipped into fall, and later winter, but it seemed symbolic somehow, that Miriam should have been born late in May, as if she had been determined to greet the arrival of her most beloved time of year. Naturally, she and summer had their spats, as lovers often do; days when being caught in a too-tight embrace seemed stifling, and days when she longed for cooling breezes to wipe beads of sweat from her forehead, but whenever they were parted, Miriam knew that they were meant for each other, summer and she.

The winter months, unyielding in their insistence to arrive once more, now had her in their grasp again, though she was fighting it with everything she had. A black woolen coat covered her from neck to mid-thigh, buttoned up tight and belted tighter. She had a scarf on too, a bright red one that her mother had knitted for her, though if anyone asked, her mother didn't engage in such pedestrian activities. No, the scarf was bought and paid for, though let us not discuss the price, because only plebeians talk of money. The matching hat came from the same store, the brightness of the knitted material emphasizing the darkness of her hair; her bangs were swept aside, seemingly effortlessly though they had been carefully arranged to appear careless, peeking out from beneath the red cap. The mittens as well, were purchased at the same location, paid for with hugs (shhh), and never once had Miri regretted this decision, because they were exquisitely warm, without making her hands clammy.

The next weapon in her arsenal was a pair of dark blue jeans, fortified by a pair of dark brown leather boots that ended just below her knee. She loved those boots, as one of the few items in her closet that was actually designer. They'd been on sale, but don't tell anyone that, because she obviously doesn't buy things on sale. Only poor people do that.

However, (relatively) cheap or not, the boots still made foot shaped prints in the snow as she walked along the path, scouting for her little cousins. They had set out from her uncle and aunt's house hours ago, promising by all things sacred, that they would be back in time for their father's birthday dinner, which had been set to start at five o'clock, sharp. That time had come and gone, amidst many angry glances out the window from Aunt Kathy. Some mothers would have been worried about their brood not showing up at the prearranged time, but not Katherine Porter. She was Miri's father's sister, and every bit as stoic as her brother, not to mention used to the misbehavior of Patrick and Caitlin. It certainly wasn't the first time the two had missed a curfew, so the family had simply sat down to eat, the absence of the two children noticeable only through the stern looks thrown in the direction of the grandfather clock in the dining room, and a pair of empty chairs.

After dinner, they had eaten dessert, also without the appearance of the Porter children, and finally, Katherine had admitted defeat and mentioned going out to discover where her children had been hiding out all day. Miriam, feeling the need for a little space, had volunteered to go, thinking that she could grab a bus back to the farm, rather than going in the car with her parents and sister. Her uncle had suggested the park as the most likely hiding place for the little rascals, and so here she was, making her way deeper into this refuge from urbanity.

She didn't know how long she had walked for when she at last spotted a familiar face, but her knees and thighs were wishing for more warmth than what her jeans were providing them with.

"Patrick!"

Her shout caught the attention of one of the boys playing nearby, stopping him dead in his tracks. It was almost comical to watch as he slowly spun around to face her, his eyes searching the path for someone he had surely expected to be his mother. When the vision that met him was instead Miriam, his shoulders relaxed visibly, though he was still quick to make his way towards her. The other boys also ceased their game, standing around awkwardly in the snow now that their playmate had been called away.

"Do you have any idea what time it is, young man?" Miriam asked, placing her hands on her hips and conjuring up her sternest face. The boy shook his head, clearly a little perturbed by the confrontation. Miriam couldn't help but smile at his expression, shaking her head and laughing. "It's time for you to go home and face the music, that's what time it is! Where's your sister?" She looked over his head to see if she could spot Caitlin, but the girl was nowhere to be seen.

"I don't know," said Patrick weakly, after he, too, had taken a quick survey of their location, starting at the abandoned merry-go-round a stone's throw away from where they were standing.

"You don't know?" Miriam asked, frowning. "Oh well, you run along home, and I'll see if I can find her." She patted her cousin's hat-clad head, finishing the caress by pushing him in the right direction.

"Is mum very angry?" His voice was small, the prospect of facing his mother apparently very clear in his mind now, and more formidable than it had been when he had been caught up in games with his friends.

"Livid," Miriam said, winking at him. "You hurry home before she bursts a blood vessel. I'll send Caitlin home too when I find her."

They went their separate ways, Patrick heading home, and Miriam heading further into the park, her ears perked for any sounds that might indicate the location of her youngest cousin. After a few minutes, girlish squeals finally tipped her off, and she veered in the direction of the sound, her eyes searching the terrain ahead of her. A mismatched couple came into view, one of them her sugar-and-spice-faced cousin, the other a grown man. Miriam's eyebrows drew together at the sight, forming a slack V shape as she approached them. Then she realized that her cousin's was not the only familiar face in the landscape. The man looked familiar as well, now that a few steps had brought her closer to them. A few more, and she was close enough to recognize him. She'd know him anywhere. How many nights hadn't she studied his face on her television screen, and awed girlishly at imaginary love stories with like-minded girlfriends? Yes, she'd definitely know him anywhere, though she wouldn't have expected to actually see him anywhere. Yet, there he was, sitting astride a large duck with her cousin by his side, perched atop an equally large turtle. The scene that unfolded in front of her seemed nothing short of absurd. So absurd, in fact, that she could stop the laughter from bubbling over.

That was, however, not her smartest move, because it alerted Cohen - it was Cohen, wasn't it? - to her presence, and her being there was obviously unexpected, because their eyes connected for a rapid moment, before he tumbled backwards off his steed... err, duck, and into the snow.

"Miri! Caitlin exclaimed, she too having seen the newcomer now. Miriam gave a half-hearted little wave to the younger girl, her eyes going from her to the man in the snow, and back again.

"Your mother is not impressed," she said dryly, deciding to focus entirely on the girl instead of the man. Caitlin's face fell in the exact same fashion that Patrick's had fallen.

"Is she angry?"

Miriam raised an eyebrow in response, and the girl screwed her eyes shut. "You better run along. I already sent Patrick home, so if you run, maybe you can catch up with him."

The younger girl did as she said immediately, quickly bidding her unlikely companion farewell, before setting off. Miriam watched her go, a soft smile teasing her features, before she turned to the man. She regarding him silently, taking a few steps towards him, so that she was standing next to the turtle that her cousin had been sitting on just a few moments ago. Gingerly, she sat down on it - though with both legs safely on the same side, rather than astride. She crossed her arms, hiding her mittened fingers under them.

"Hi."

For a moment Cohen sat on the frozen ground, his legs growing numb as the snow melted against his knees and further robbed him of warmth. There was something about the rawness of a bitter winter day that he loved. The way his legs burned and his denim grew stiff; the way his breath curled into thin, visible wisps as he exhaled – it all showed that he was alive. There were so many people who pretended to know what was best for him that Cohen often wondered if he only existed and was no longer living. Despite this he knew he couldn’t sit on the ground forever.

He was certain how the whole thing looked to any passersby. People were more apt to be suspicious than accepting. Here he was, a grown man, playing with a little girl in the park. Like that didn’t have Dateline Special written all over it. He could practically hear Anderson Cooper and Barbara Walters finagling for their exclusive interviews. He wondered if they would get a bonus should he actually cry on camera. After all, everyone loved a good fallen star story – it made everyone else feel better about their own lives. If anyone got a hold of his sordid family history it would cause the tabloids to have a field day. That was the problem with so many people scripting his life – Cohen no longer remembered what part he was meant to be playing.

He rose to his feet, brushing the snow off his legs before he turned to face the girl. She was young enough to recognise him. Even though Cohen had known that by the sound of the voice he had secretly hoped she’d be an old woman whose voice didn’t age or Amish or one of those weird religious nuts who wore prom dresses to the mall. He wasn’t sure if such people existed in Brighton, but if they did the young woman before him clearly wasn’t a member. He held his breath and waited for the shrill scream that was supposed to resemble his name. He was well-acquainted with the whole process by now. It didn’t matter how pretty the girl was, celebrity recognition turned them into screaming fools who wanted pictures. And babies. Cohen had been asked more than once to father a child with a fan. Like that was ever going to happen.

It was unfortunate that the young woman was so blatantly attractive. She had the sort of look that he always fell victim toward. The bright red of her winter accessories highlighted the soft dusting of rose along her cheeks and nose where the chilled air had kissed her. Her dark hair fell, glossy and straight, across her shoulders. She looked real, not plastic. Hollywood girls tended to have that fresh-off-the shelf, Barbie doll look. Cohen couldn’t understand why they were so adamant about nonsense like candlelit dinners when it was entirely possible that their noses could melt if they got too close to the flame. Then again, women had never made much sense to him. They liked the god-awful movies he had starred in, and that was befuddling enough. As he looked at her, waiting, Cohen was certain that he saw the flash of recognition in her eyes. Either that or years of listening to his agent and mother had rendered him paranoid and delusional because when she spoke, it was not what he had been expecting to hear. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he replied with a non-committal nod. Maybe he was in luck and she didn’t recognise him at all. Perhaps she was raised in a place where it was perfectly normal for grown men to race giant ducks and turtles in the park. Doubtful.

The smart thing to do would be walk away. Pretend he was nobody worth remembering and life would continue. He knew this even as his mouth opened to speak. “You made me lose, you know. I was just about to take the lead and everything.” He stopped himself and stared down at his shoes. His hands shoved deep into the back pockets of his jeans, and he rocked back on his heels before sneaking a glimpse at her once more. “It’s not what it looked like, I swear. She came up to me. I’m not some creeper who goes to the park … and I am going to shut up before this hole I’m digging gets any bigger.”

He was fairly certain that hole was about the same size as the Grand Canyon.

The voice was right too, she decided, though it was difficult to judge from the one word that he had uttered. In the pause that followed, she kept her eyes on him, trying her best to study him without appearing to stare, though she was, in fact staring at him while mentally conjuring up the hero of her beloved romantic comedies and comparing him the face in front of her. It was a little strange how hard it was to be certain; you'd think that the features of a man she had entertained a silly celebrity crush on for years would have been stamped into her memory, vivid like a fresh tattoo. But no. She couldn't be sure that the boy in front of her wasn't just some fortunate looking Brightonian instead of a movie star.

He spoke a few more words - accusatory this time - and his voice still seemed to tickle her eardrums the right way. Was it possible to both look and sound like Cohen Scott without actually being Cohen Scott? Either way, it was important for her not to make a fool of herself, so she simply smiled - a tiny twitch of the lips - and raised an eyebrow without saying a word. It was safer to be silent, until she knew for sure, one way or the other. It didn't have quite the desired effect though, she realized, when the man looked down at his shoes instead of at her, giving her nothing but odd angles to study.

She was about to speak when he started to explain. There was a touch of desperation in his voice, she thought as she listened to his promise that he wasn't a pedophile. That had not crossed her mind for even a moment, she realized. He certainly didn't look like a child molester, but then again, what do child molesters look like? It would be naive to think that they had 'uncle creepy' stamped across their foreheads, along with greasy thin hair and evil eyes.

She couldn't help but laugh, though it was a muted chuckle of amusement rather than one that echoed through the park. "I believe you," she said as the laughter trailed off. "Don't worry. That cousin of mine is just the type to forget all lessons about stranger danger as soon as a stranger appears. She's too adventurous for her own good." She paused for a second, biting the inside of her lip, before adding: "Her and her brother both."

Glancing over her shoulder, she could still see her cousin scrambling along the path in her attempt to catch up with her brother. She was still running, though from this far away, her movements seemed slow. Miri smiled at the sight, shaking her head softly, before turning her attention back to Cohen. Or the person she hoped was Cohen, at least.

She smiled, hesitating a little, then held out a mittened hand for him to shake.

"I'm Miriam,"

Cohen was six the first time he had been recognized. He had been at the grocery store, snacking on a complimentary cookie as some pimple-faced teenager bagged the Lucky Charms and bananas when a large woman came up to him. She had worn a black felt hat with red crocheted cherries on it - something he only recalled because he loved cherries. His parents had been diligent in teaching their sons the stranger-danger philosophy, but she had known his name and his brothers name. In hindsight, the fact that she had been unable to tell which Scott boy was which should have been indicative that she was not some long-lost family friend. But Cohen was six and outgoing, and she had been exceptionally nice, so he had chatted with her until his dad noticed and chased the woman off. Afterwards, on the drive home, his dad had explained that Cohen and his brother were on TV so people felt like they knew them, but if he had never met the person before Cohen should call for either his mom or dad to talk to the person first. Just because someone knew your name didn’t mean that they were safe.

When they had arrived home, Cohen had chatted his mother's ear off about the lady and her cherry hat. He also told her about the free cookie but she didn't care, fans were far more exciting. She had thought the whole incident was fantastic, and was furious that her her husband had the audacity to chase a fan off. It reflected poorly on them, she had said, to not allow the boys to shine. Most parents would kill for the opportunities afforded to Cohen and Tristan... As their voices gave way to shouting, Tristan grabbed his brother's hand and led him to their room, closing the door behind them.

As he grew, Cohen discovered that there were merits to both of his parents’ views. Without fans he would not have his career. (Although at this particular moment he could argue that it was because of them that he didn't have a career.) It was important to let them know that he valued them, but keep them at a distance. Fans, while necessary, could be absolutely insane and terrifying. Especially his. He didn’t understand the screaming of his name or the tears. Seriously, he was just human: he used a toilet, too, and sometimes was too lazy to buy groceries so his dinner consisted of crackers and processed cheese. He wasn’t that big of a deal – at least according to the people who really knew him.

As he stood there, he could see hesitant recognition spark in the girl’s eyes as she regarded him. He’d seen the look countless times: what was a movie star doing at fill-in-the-blank. Granted Cohen was fairly certain that Brad Pitt didn’t ride toy ducks in the park. Of course Brad also slept with Angelina on a regular basis so he had much better things to do with his spare time. “I’m Miriam,” she said softly, and for a moment Cohen considered lying and donning a different persona. I’m Donald. Like the duck. Except the girl wasn’t screaming or crying or fainting; she was just standing there looking adorable with her mittened hand outstretched. Her cheeks were a soft pink from the cold, her eyes bright with curiosity.

What the hell, he thought as he reached for her hand. If she turned out to be a freak, he could take a picture of them with her phone and she could sell the mittens on E-bay. “Cohen,” he said cautiously lest he unleash the screaming beast that lived in most women. He was positive he’d be deaf by the time he was forty. Perhaps if he diverted her attention from his name she wouldn’t scream… If she was a fan she'd be expecting the lame guys he played on screen. There was a possibility if he maintained his less smooth appearance she might think the entire thing was a coincidence. “So… I’m guessing you’re from around here? Any tips on good things to do? I mean, when the duck races aren’t in session. ‘Cause Mr. Quacks here is totally going for gold.”

"Cohen," he said as he took her hand and shook it. A shiver ran down her spine at the realization that she had been right. This wasn't just some fortunate Joe Schmoe who just happened to be blessed with movie star good looks. This was a real life, honest to goodness movie star. And not just any movie star either. THis was Cohen Scott, hero of so many of her silly girlhood dreams, and, if she were to be completely honest with herself, quite a few of her current fancies as well.

She hardly knew what to do with herself, standing there face to face with - and touching - this fantasy made flesh. A few years ago, maybe she would have screamed. At the very least she would have blushed an unattractive shade of burgundy, but a lady never lets her emotion rule her, and Miri wanted more than anything to be a proper lady, so she smiled and let go of his hand at the appropriate moment.

"Nice to meet you," she said, taking her mittened hands and sticking them into her pockets. From far away, she could hear a bird screeching, and she glanced up the path as if to look for it. It was, of course, nowhere to be seen, but it gave the illusion of something to do while waiting - hoping - for him to take the lead and continue the conversation. As much as she longed for it to go on, she didn't trust herself with the power of speech just yet, at least not when it came to deciding where, exactly, the conversation would go.

"Yeah, I'm from Brighton," she replied when he asked. "Born and raised." On a pig farm just outside of town, she added silently to herself.

She looked down on the ground, kicking at the snow.

"There's always horseback riding," she said when she lifted her eyes to his. She grinned and her left eyebrow was quirked just a fraction as she pronounced the words. "If you don't want the changes to be too sudden, I mean. I'm sure it won't quite compare with..."

She paused, glancing at the giant plastic duck behind him. "... Mr. Quacks there, but it could be worth a shot."

Another pause, before she added wryly: "If not, the pubs and nightclubs do have liquor licences."

Cohen’s chuckle quickly gave way to a more boisterous laugh at her words. He glanced over his shoulder to where the metal duck stood, stoic once more. Its beak was curved into a painted smile that Cohen was certain could actually be deemed a smirk, as though it was still mocking his previous attempt to ride into the sunset upon its back. “You know, I think I’m good,” he said, still chuckling. “Given my dismount we’re likely all better off if I just stick to duck races. They’re lower to the ground – less chance of personal injury.” Even as he spoke, Cohen couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes sparked with amusement, a smile teasing at the corners of her lips. Cute and sane. Cohen could deal with this pleasant turn of events, present company included.

“If not, the pubs and nightclubs do have liquor licences,” she offered. He shrugged in response. “Can’t say I’m much into the whole club scene,” he confessed. “You’ve already seen my coordination – my dancing is actually a public hazard.” Truthfully, his inability to dance anything other than a highly choreographed slow shuffle was a moot point. Cohen didn’t go to clubs because he didn’t understand them. It seemed absurd to pay money – not that he had ever been charged a cover fee in his life – to sweat and gyrate with a bunch of strangers. Perhaps it would be different if he could remain anonymous within the crowd, but even then he doubted he would enjoy the experience much more. His brother, Tristan, was a fan. More than once he had pretended to be Cohen to bait a girl or skip a line, and as a result most people assumed that Cohen was a frequent partier. Given the fact that the girl before him appeared to be sane – and cute – he didn’t care to dispel any delusions she might have about him and the nightlife scene. She could believe whatever she wanted as long as they could keep chatting a while longer. “Pubs, though. I don’t mind a good pub.”

He sounded like a complete idiot, he thought to himself as he stuffed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels.

“Y’know, I think you’re probably way more knowledgeable than the guidebook I bought at the second-hand bookshop. Granted it was also written in the eighties so that might be part of the problem, but the guy on the back cover had an amazing fro, and I felt like I needed to buy the book out of respect for his hair. But, if you don’t have any plans or anything, maybe you’d be interested in being my tour guide sometime.”

It was likely the lamest offer she had ever received, yet Cohen was still hoping she’d go for it.