44
The sitting room at the chateau still smells of the popcorn Mila, Max, and I strung on a long thread while we watched “Drei Haselnüsse für Aschenbr?del”—Mila’s favorite Christmas movie. We watch it every year, just in case we’re tempted to forget there’s magic at Christmastime. When the movie was over we draped yards of popcorn garland over our little tilting family tree set in the corner of the sitting room.
Now Mila’s tucked in bed, full of ham-and-cheese crepes, Christmas pudding, Brun de Bale—crumbly chocolate hazelnut cut-outs (beloved by Max)—and Miroir—delicate vanilla cut-out hearts filled with strawberry jam (beloved by Mila).
Outside silver moonlight falls over the hushed quiet of snow falling over bare-limbed trees and watchful pines. The night is black, quiet. The only noise is the pop and crackle of the logs burning in the stone fireplace.
The little fire glows red and orange and gold as it sparks, cheerful and hopeful, in opposition to the cold night and the icy flowers drawn in frost on the tall, lead-paned windows.
I breathe in the smoky popcorn scent and smile over at Max. We’re settled on the thick handwoven rug in front of the fire. I lean against his side, and the gentle heat of the low-burning orange flames curls over us.
He’s in a hunter-green cashmere sweater and dark jeans. The green brings out the gold flecks in his brown eyes, and the fire casts a golden glow over his blue-black hair. In the four months we’ve spent dating we’ve kissed—occasionally—we’ve held hands—often—and we’ve laughed—always.
Max is still my best friend. And by the way he’s been twisting his ring, by the solemn gravity in his eyes, and by the way he wraps his arm around me and pulls me close, I know.
He takes a long breath and then exhales, his chest expanding, the softness of his sweater rubbing against my bare arm. I’m in jeans and a silver silk camisole. I took off my sweater hours ago, when the fire warmed the room so much that I felt like I was back on the island.
Now it’s died down to a low golden heat, but I won’t put my sweater back on.
Max draws his hand down my arm, stroking my skin slowly, absently, as he stares at the fire.
“I have your Christmas present,” he finally says, his voice deep and controlled.
“I know,” I say, and when I do he looks down at me, his eyebrows lifting in that supercilious expression my mum said she’d recognize anywhere. “You said so earlier,” I tell him with a smile.
His expression clears and he nods. “That’s right.”
My chest tightens, and the watch still nestled around my wrist grows heavy and pulsing. I look down at it, at the face of my dreams.
Max reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls an object free. His hand closes around it.
“I thought I might take you to Paris, ask you at the Eiffel Tower. Or take you sailing and ask you at sunset. But”—he shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—“I’m me and you’re you, and it felt right to ask you like this.”
He leans forward, his warmth curling around me, as comfortable as the fire. He opens his hand and the glow of the flames reflects and glimmers on a large red ruby surrounded by diamonds, cradled by a double ring of yellow gold.
“Marry me, Fiona,” he says then, his expression questioning, hopeful.
He holds the ring between us and an overwhelming love wends its way through my chest. The ruby gleams in the firelight and it reminds me of Max’s love. The first time we met, the unselfish support he gave me when I was a new mom, the years of summer picnics in the country, the business advice exchanged, the dry wit and the comforting shoulder, the time I pulled him from the brink, and the days he carried me across a cliff. I love him so much.
But I don’t love him in the right way. I still don’t.
Perhaps yesterday I would’ve said yes. I would’ve said yes right away.
Yes.
I could see myself spending my life with Max and being perfectly, acceptably content. Happy.
But I know too that I have to be honest with myself.
You can love someone wholly, completely, and it doesn’t mean that they’re the one for you. You can love someone and they can still be the wrong someone.
I didn’t want to acknowledge that.
Or maybe it’s that the weight of the watch on my wrist is reminding me I haven’t truly let go. That I still love a dream so much I’ve not let myself love real life.
“It’s a no, isn’t it?” Max asks, searching my expression.
“I love you,” I tell him, “but not, I think, in the right way.”
“Is there a right way to love?”
I let out a breath. “I don’t know.”
“Still no sparks?”
I lean into him, breathing in the smoky wood, the piney scent of the Christmas tree, the popcorn and chocolate and hazelnut sweets. Outside the snow falls heavier, flickering in the moonlight in fat, slow-falling flakes.
“What happens to us if I say yes?”
He tugs me close, the fabric of the rug scraping against my jeans, the cashmere of his sweater soft and warm.
“Then we get married and I move out of my dismal family home and join you and Mila in your delightfully drafty chateau. And you bake terribly burned bread and brick-hard porridge, and I bring home takeout. You’ll make watches and I’ll make jewelry, and sometimes we’ll make things together. We’ll continue on as we are, except we’ll have agreed to do it for life. I’ll be here for you and you’ll be here for me. And, if you like, we’ll have children. Or we’ll decide that we’re happy just the three of us.” He still holds the ring between us, and it glints with the promise of his words.
I’m hot now, and cold, and my chest aches, and that phantom limb, the ghost of my dreams, it hurts.
“And what happens to us if I say no?”
Max’s hand curls and he nearly closes his fingers around the ring. The firelight plays over the angled lines of his face, the sharp cheekbones, the straight nose, his high, dark eyebrows. He’s austere, hawklike Max—the one determined to succeed in whatever he sets his mind to.
“Then we’ll be friends. We’ll always be friends, Fi. It’s the price you pay for saving a degenerate like me.”
“You’re not a degenerate.”
He smiles. “Anymore.”
I touch his hand, my fingers light against the dry warmth of his skin. He opens his palm, the ring there between us.
“Will anything change?”
“Everything and nothing,” he says, his face tilted toward mine, the smoky scent of the fire drifting between us. “Whichever you choose. Everything and nothing.”
I nod. “I need to think about it.”
He takes my hand then, turns my palm up, and brushes his thumb over the soft, sensitive spot in the middle of my hand. “Here.”
He places the ring in my palm. It’s warm and solid.
“I haven’t said yes.”
“It’s a gift either way. I made it for you. It reminds me . . . do you remember the night you came to my place, burned up all that liquor?”
“This ring reminds you of that fire?”
“No,” he says. “It reminds me of your heart.”
I close my fingers around the ring. The diamonds and the cut of the ruby prick my skin. “My heart?”
“You think you can’t love, but I’ve never met someone who loves so much.” He smiles then and says, “I’m honored to be your friend. I’d be honored to be more.”
I hug him then. I wrap my arms around him, my right hand clenching the ring he made for me. After a moment he tugs me close and I lay my head against his shoulder.
“I hope you say yes,” he murmurs into my hair, his hand feathering over my back.
I should say yes.
I could say yes.
Only.
The watch wrapped around my wrist calls to me. It whispers . . . You still love him.
I’m still in love with Aaron.
Which means before I can answer Max, I need to know why.
Why did Adolphus Abry’s watch show me a man, a dream, that I could never have but also could never let go?