36
Max knows me well. And so, when he pulls into the chateau drive on Friday in his red AC Cobra, wearing his “casual Max” gear of jeans and a leather jacket, he takes one look at me and says, “Fi, you missed me.”
He says it with a sideways smile—one full of dry humor and self-deprecation.
Because when he steps out of his car, I’m standing on the weathered stone steps of the chateau, bathed in the gentle evening sun, wearing a short burgundy-red dress. And when he pulls up I realize I haven’t worn a red dress—of any shade—since I was shot. And, even more, after dreaming of Aaron I completely forgot I was ever shot. The ache in my abdomen is gone. The nightmares are gone. The pinched worry that was lodged in my chest is gone. Even the drumming in my mind—Christmas Eve, Christmas Eve—it’s gone.
And that fact stuns me so much that my hands shake, my skin goes clammy, and I draw in a shuddering breath. A tightness grips my throat, and suddenly I’m plunged back into the moment where I was lying beneath Max, warm blood gushing from me, my limbs numb and cold, with the woman’s voice echoing, “Christmas Eve, tell them it’s Christmas Eve!”
So, Max being Max, he smiles at me and says the first thing that comes to mind. “Fi, you missed me.”
“I did,” I say, realizing it’s true. “Of course I missed you.”
He’s my best friend. He’s who I always go to when I need someone to talk to. While Daniel is the extrovert to my introvert, Max is the person I can always count on to give another perspective. While we see the same world, it’s as if we’re viewing it from two different facets of the same diamond. Our angles are different. I appreciate that about him. I’ve always relied on it. Like he relies on me.
Now he looks down at me, taking in the color leaching from my cheeks and my trembling lips, and pulls me into a tight, comforting hug. I go readily, breathing in the warm leather of his coat and the French milled soap he prefers.
“I’d forgotten being shot,” I say into the soft leather of his jacket, “until I looked down at my dress. I forgot. I can’t believe I forgot.”
He rubs a hand over my back in a slow circle, quiet and soothing. He holds me tight until I stop shaking, and then I bury my face against the warmth of his chest.
“If it makes you feel better,” he says, his hand moving gently over my back, “I forgot to pay the parking meter this morning. I got a citation.”
I tilt my head up and smile at him, warmth spreading through me, replacing the chill and the shaking. “It doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Hmm.” He thinks for a moment, looking up at the sky, his winged eyebrows rising. “I forgot my new assistant’s name. Again. So she poured spoiled milk in my coffee. I watched her. How’s that?”
I narrow my eyes. “A little better. What’s her name?”
His lips press together and he shakes his head. “I can’t remember.”
I laugh. “Still no. What else?”
“Hmm.” He considers for another moment, the cool breeze off the lake rustling his glossy black hair. “In Paris a woman asked me to watch her French Bulldog while she went into a café. She was flirting?—”
“Of course.”
“—and I forgot the dog was there. She’d tied it to my café chair. So I started to walk away and the dog sprinted after me, the metal chair dragging behind its leash. It knocked over two café tables, a flower stand, and the easel of an artist painting in watercolors before I caught it. The dog was painted in vermillion and cerulean and chartreuse. It was grotesque. The woman was not impressed. Needless to say, my excuse ‘I forgot it was there’ was not appreciated.”
My eyes widen. “Oh.”
Max nods. Smiles. Then he reaches up and pulls a finger down my cheek. “Better?”
I let out a long sigh, releasing all the worry and fear that suddenly rose to the surface and knotted in my chest. “Yes. Better.”
He smiles and then pulls his arms from me and steps back. The warmth he was offering lingers as the cool lake breeze licks over me. Behind me the chateau rises, formidable and imposing, a stone castle that’s remained for centuries and has withstood much more than a single gunshot. The history of my family behind me and Max in front of me makes my shoulders rise.
He takes me in and nods. “Good.”
I look Max over. He’s had a long week. His trips to Paris are always long—full days and full nights, working all hours. He looks as if he could sleep for a week. But instead of heading home after his trip he came to me.
“I think,” Max says, studying my expression, “we should skip the romantic dinner I had planned. Throw out the champagne, fire the serenading violinists, and burn the roses, and instead we should just . . . see where the evening takes us.”
My mouth twitches, and at the light in Max’s eyes I grin at him. “Serenading violinists?”
“Mm-hmm. All the way from the Rue de Romance.”
I laugh and take his arm. There’s a light breeze dancing over my cheeks, the wood thrushes are singing in the deepening forest shade, and the lake glitters diamond-blue in the evening light. Max’s arm is steady and warm beneath mine.
Is this what my dreams are leading me to? Giving Max a chance? Opening my heart to him?
I take a cautious peek at him as we stride across the drive to his car. He’s the same Max. Sharp nose, high cheekbones, austere and closed-off until he slams you with his dry observations and hidden humor.
I imagine he’d be easy to love. If I could let myself.
Is that what I’ve been waiting for? Permission to love Max?
Is that what my dreams are teaching me? That I have permission to love? To be loved?
The thought makes me wonder.
Have I ever really given myself permission to be loved—to truly be loved by someone else?
My heart pinches as I remember Aaron gripping me to him, his mouth hot against mine, as he asked between urgent kisses, “Will it hurt much tomorrow when you don’t want me?”
Max opens my door and I slide onto the soft caramel leather, and the cool interior of his car. When he closes his door and starts the engine he turns to me, the space tight and intimate, and says over the purr of the engine, “Ready?”
I smile and nod. “Yes. Let’s see where the night leads.”
The night leads to a tiny medieval village on the shores of the lake, about an hour outside Geneva. Max follows the summer-leafy road winding around the lake, his car rumbling soothingly, the leather warm on my legs and his voice filling the intimate space with stories of Paris—the tight-fisted dealer with his golden monocle, the haughty broker with her two misbehaving diamond-collared toy poodles, the doe-eyed greedy daughter with her nasal accent and trust fund of Australian opal mines—until I’m laughing and out of breath from the caricatures he paints.
Then, as the setting sun sprays lacy, tree-filtered light through the car window and Max reaches over and squeezes my hand, I see it.
The village is like a painting. Or a dream. The sunlight lies golden over the old stone houses and steepled stone churches, the cobblestone streets and the old stone arched gate painted deep plum in the sweeping dusk.
“There,” I say, pointing to the narrow turn-off leading down to the shore of the lake. “I want to go there.”
And so Max turns down the cobbled street and parks just outside the thirty-foot-tall medieval gate leading into the village. He opens my door and then takes my arm.
I’m drunk on laughter and the fear I’m falling in love with a dream and I’ll never be able to undo it. I lean into Max and breathe in the cool evening air.
“Have you ever been here?” he asks, his eyes questing over my flushed cheeks.
“No.” I shake my head.
We pass under the shadow of the gate’s archway and into a narrow stone walkway that jig-jogs us into the village. There are people outside, walking the street carrying groceries, sweeping their front stoops, chatting with neighbors. It’s a busy close-of-day feel, and no one pays us any mind.
“It reminds me a bit of Canterbury,” I say. “My mum would take overnights sometimes. We’d sit in the cathedral at sunset or visit Greyfriars. But I’d get antsy and run off to explore the cobbled alleys. I was always tempted by the flowers hanging from the walls.”
I smile at the vast displays of ivy, pink climbing roses, and wisteria trailing over the gray stone homes. The street is flush with pinks and whites and soft lilac purples, and the soft floral scent teases around us, as soft as the evening breeze.
The village is tiny, cozy, with winding streets only wide enough for two bicycles—certainly no cars. The houses are small, stone, with painted wooden shutters and hanging flower boxes. It sounds as if an entire forest of songbirds has perched on the rooftops. They’re singing to the falling sun.
“Let’s take this one,” I say, pointing down a narrow alley with purple clematis climbing the walls.
“All right,” Max gives me a smile as we plunge into the shadow of the alleyway. There’s a shop at the end, a small boulangerie with the enticing scent of fresh-baked bread, golden and warm.
Max makes a happy noise and then stops to buy two crusty baguettes wrapped in waxy brown paper. He holds them in the crook of his arm, and by unspoken agreement we follow the cobblestones winding down toward the grassy lawn at the edge of lake. On the way Max buys a spread of brie, a carton of just-picked jewel-bright strawberries, and a bottle of Gamay—a red wine from a local vineyard.
We settle in the cool grass at the edge of the lake. It falls in a soft mound toward the glistening blue water. Small waves ripple against the shore and lap against the stone walls. There’s a short wooden dock parallel to the stone wall, where three small white fishing boats knock against the wood. They’re not as big as Aldon’s boat, but then again, they’re on a lake, not the sea.
I cross my legs. The grass mats beneath me and tickles my bare skin. The sun is arching toward the water and sending the final soft yellow rays over the grass. In the water a family of mallards swims close. The green on the male flashes and the brown female speeds past him. Behind her, three fuzzy ducklings paddle to keep up.
“I think they expect dinner,” Max says, lifting an eyebrow.
I smile and breathe in the golden scent of the baguette. I pinch off a crusty bit, crumble it in my hands, and toss it into the water. The mother ruffles her neck feathers, quacks in appreciation, and guides her babies to the treat.
Max follows, tossing small handfuls of breadcrumbs to the ducks. We watch as the sun reflects gold on the water and the bread sends ripples circling about the ducks. Here on the grass the air is cool, the wind is soft, and the floral scent of the town has faded to a soft, forgotten murmur.
There are still the singing birds, the quack of the ducks, and a child’s call every now and then, but otherwise the evening is quiet.
Finally, with a quarter of his baguette shared with the ducks, Max turns to me, and says, “Something’s weighing on you. Is it tonight? Is it this?”
I look into his eyes, at the concern there, and the question. Then, across the lawn, the songbirds stop singing. Their night song drops into silence. And there in the moment of pure quiet, my heart flips over and I’m tugged, literally tugged, away from the moment and back to Aaron when he said, “After.”
I shake my head, pull myself back to Max, and say, “It isn’t you. It’s not this.”
He watches me, the shadows falling over his black hair. He leans back then, settling in the grass, and gives me a searching look. “Is everything all right then? Can I help? Is it work? Mila?”
I shake my head and look down at the blades of grass bending beneath me. After a moment Max reaches over and touches the back of my hand.
“Fiona?”
I look up then, a smile on my lips. “It’s something . . . strange. It’s . . . You’ll think it’s strange.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “You lit my dead parents’ liquor on fire in a birdbath. Nothing you do can shock me.”
My smile grows at his statement. “That’s fair.”
He opens the brie, sets the strawberries in front of us, and then takes a corkscrew from his pocket and opens the bottle of wine.
“You came prepared.”
“I’m always prepared, for anything.”
I nod. It’s true. Max’s childhood made him dislike surprises and taught him to be prepared for any inevitability so that surprises couldn’t knock him out.
I reach forward and pick a glossy strawberry from the top of the pile. I grasp the leafy top and then pull the fruit free. It’s sun-warmed, sweet and tart, and the flavor reminds me of the sweet, earthy mango at Sue’s, of the sun shining down on me as Aaron took my hand and pulled me to him and took my mouth. Cherry-bright and sweetly tart.
“I’ve been dreaming,” I say, licking the strawberry juice from my fingers.
“Of what? Goals? Plans?” Max spreads a bit of baguette through the soft, herby brie.
“No.” I smile. “I mean I’ve been dreaming. I’ve been having vivid dreams. As if . . .” I wrinkle my forehead and stare out over the lake, the sun diving toward the water. “As if they’re real. And the people there are real.” I look over at Max and ask, “Have you ever had a dream like that?”
“I don’t remember my dreams.”
“Ever?”
He shakes his head and takes a long swallow of the wine, drinking from the bottle. “I used to. I’d have nightmares as a kid. Finally, I told myself, ‘You have to dream, but you don’t have to remember them.’ And after that I never remembered another one.”
I take the bottle of red wine from him and take a long swig. The cool red sweeps over my mouth, tasting of wild cherry and red currant. It’s uncomplicated and sweet. I hand Max the wine bottle and smile.
“Well, I have the opposite situation. I’m dreaming about an island every night, and it feels real. And there’s a man there.” I look over at Max and my cheeks burn under his gaze.
I take another bit of baguette and throw it into the water. The ducks, though, have left, and it sits on top of the water, until it finally sinks.
“And?” Max asks finally, after the bread has disappeared beneath the surface.
I shrug. “I’m falling for him.” I look over at Max, my skin prickling. “It sounds mad, I know. But I’m falling for a man in my dreams. I see him everywhere. In everything.”
I don’t want to look at Max. I’m almost scared to. But this is Max and I tell him everything. And he’s never judged me—not for anything. And I want his perspective.
“What do you think?” I ask, reaching for the bottle of wine.
I hold the cool neck of the bottle in my grip as Max considers my question. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t teasing. He’s taking it seriously.
Finally, he tilts his head, and my heart picks up speed because he’s come to a conclusion. “I think,” he says slowly, “that sometimes we dream what we wish we had in life. Or we dream what we’re afraid of in life. Dreaming something lets us live it without actually having to live it. If you can convince yourself you’ve fallen in love in a dream, then you won’t have to fall in love in real life. Perhaps you’re trying to protect yourself. Or perhaps you’re denying yourself what you really want.”
I consider his words. Let them settle over me. My mum said the watch would let me live my dreams, that I’d see what I wanted most. Max says we dream what we wish we had. Or what we’re afraid of.
Maybe they’re both right. What I’m most afraid of is also what I want the most.
“It feels real though,” I tell Max. “It feels . . .” I touch my hand to my heart, settling my palm over the soft chiffon of my red dress. “I feel it, right here.”
He smiles then and his brown eyes grow dark. “Like the wind?” he asks with an ironic twist to his lips.
A surprised smile flashes across my mouth. He’s referring to when I asked how he knew he loved me and he said it was like the wind. He knew it was real even though he couldn’t see it.
“Yes,” I admit. “It feels just like the wind.”
“Hmm.” His eyes flicker over the water. The boats thunk against the dock, and across the lake a gull lets out a lone call, sailing on the wind toward land. “Which is it, do you think? Do you want love, or are you afraid of it?”
When Max looks at me, I feel as if his question is stripping me bare.
“Both,” I admit.
He nods.
“Are you upset?” I ask.
He shakes his head and looks over at me. “Not at all. If you can fall for a dream, you can fall for me.”
I nudge my shoulder against his. “Arrogant.”
“Practical.”
“Persistent.”
“Loyal.”
“Idiot.”
“Friend.”
“Friend,” I agree.
Then we eat the rest of the baguettes smeared in herby brie, devour the pile of sweetly ripe strawberries, and take greedy sips of wine straight from the bottle, passing it back and forth.
As the sun slips like a golden coin beneath the indigo waters I smile at Max, tipsy and warm.
I’m full and happy, and my head is muzzily sweet. The first star winks bright as we sit under the purple sky.
Max glances over at me. I perch against his shoulder, leaning close.
“I’d like to kiss you,” Max says, his mouth close to mine.
This feels like a dream. The sky is expansive, the mountains are shrouded in night, the stars are winking to life. Behind us a centuries-old medieval village falls asleep.
“May I, Fi?” he asks, a soft question in his voice.
My heart gallops and my stomach clenches nervously.
I think of Aaron. Of the way he looks at me. Of the way he holds me. Of the way he asks if it’ll hurt when I don’t want him anymore. Of the way he tells me he’s falling.
He’s a dream.
This isn’t a dream.
This is me.
And this is Max.
“Yes,” I whisper.
And then Max leans forward, careful, slow. His hand rests against my cheek and then he brushes his lips over mine. There’s strawberry on his mouth, the soft cherry of wine, the sharpness of fresh-baked bread.
His mouth is warm. His lips are soft. And as he runs his mouth over mine my heart breaks, just a little.
Because while it’s nice, his lips caressing mine, his hand stroking through my hair—while it’s all perfectly nice, it’s not . . . it doesn’t feel as if the world has stopped spinning on its axis. It doesn’t feel as if time has stood still just so I can press my mouth to his.
He pulls back then, opening his eyes, his hand still on my cheek.
He gives a smile and then says, “Well, they didn’t make it to the moon on the first trip either. It took . . . how many tries?”
“It was Apollo 11,” I whisper.
“Ah. So another ten tries.”
“You didn’t feel a spark?”
“I’m not looking for a spark. I just realized you are.”
“Mm-hmm,” I nod and Max pulls his hand back. “Why aren’t you?”
He shrugs, settles back again, and pulls me to his side. I rest against his warmth. “Sparks are overrated. Fire and passion are overrated. I don’t want the kind of love that makes you crazy or makes you feel like you’ll die if you can’t be together. I don’t want to be so consumed by love that I’m crazed with it. By all accounts, that’s what my parents had before my brother and I came along. I don’t want that. Who would want that? I don’t.”
I lean my head against his shoulder. “You might someday. You might regret not finding it.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “The way I love you, it’s like sipping from a bottle of wine holding hands under a purple sky.” He tips his chin toward the sky. “It isn’t sparks or flames. It’s the cool breeze of lying under the stars. With my friend. With the person I trust. That’s what’s important to me. But if you want sparks, I’ll try to give you sparks.”
I study Max’s face—the firm line of his jaw, his hawkish, determined look.
“It’s not something you can force,” I say, thinking back to how the second Aaron touches me sparks light up. They’re just there. They just are.
“Maybe. Maybe they don’t even exist.”
“They do in my dream.”
He laughs. “Well, that’s why it’s a dream. Dreams and movies, the land of sparks.”
“You think you should try again? Another ten times? I have to be honest, I didn’t feel anything.”
“Right,” he says, taking it in stride, “I know. Neither did I.”
“Well!”
He smiles over at me. “It was a bit like kissing a friend, not a lover.”
“I am a friend.”
“But if you want sparks, well, the space program—what did it cost them to get to the moon? Twenty-five billion? I’m not that wealthy, but I am quite rich.”
“Quite rich” doesn’t cover it. Max’s fortune puts Abry to shame.
“I’ll spend mountains of money, I’ll take the time, and I’ll find a way to give you sparks. That way, when I propose, you’ll say yes.”
I think about this. “If you propose and I love you as more than a friend, and there are sparks, I’ll say yes.”
He grins then—a happy, contented smile that spreads over his familiar face—and reaches out to me, inviting me to smile back.
“I don’t know why you want to marry someone like me. I think I’m falling for a dream man.”
“Yes,” Max says. “But when you realize he isn’t real, then you’ll settle for me. I’m perfectly fine being your second choice.”
I laugh and shove him, and then he gathers me in his arms and we end up laughing and rolling to the grass and lying on our backs staring up at the starry night sky.
And if I realize that while we lie there the hours are passing and the night is ticking away, well . . . it only hurts a little bit.