Wished

Chapter 14

14

“Can I ask you a question?”

I study Max leaning back in the white leather club chair across from me. His ankles are crossed, he’s absently twisting the gold signet ring on his finger, and until I spoke, he was contemplating the snowy white clouds outside the jet window.

We’re in the air, soaring above the cloud line. Beneath us is a rolling white expanse of cumulus clouds intermittently broken with quick peeks at green fields stitched up with gray roads and patchwork towns.

I’ve never flown in a private jet before. Max has a number for his business, with three pilots on full-time standby. The larger jets fly between Geneva and New York or Singapore. The smaller, like this one, with only room for six passengers, flies shorter distances.

A flight attendant named Francesca warmly welcomed us on board. There’s a bouquet of red roses on the varnished wood table next to the divan, and the floral scent fills the interior. Wine, cheese, crackers, and grapes are laid out. Francesca and both pilots recognized me, giving a cheery “hello” and “happy anniversary” and “how’s your family?”

Max lifted an eyebrow at their familiarity, and I knew he was thinking, This is mad. It’s the same thing he was thinking when Madame Blinken served us buckwheat crepes with cinnamon apples this morning and warned Max not to forget to take me by the flower market—the Marché aux Fleurs—to buy me freesias for our seventh anniversary.

He’s taking it in stride though. For as many times as his eyes widen, the corner of his mouth twitches, or I see him thinking how? he rolls with it. He’s a lot like this jet. Every time we hit a patch of turbulence it jostles, bumps, and then adjusts and smooths out. We’ve passed through a bit of weather, a few low-pressure areas, but all the same, the jet remains steady.

I’ve always admired that about Max. Over the years, when I’ve heard him on business calls, even in heated negotiations, he’s always remained steady and calm. When someone attacks him or goes in a direction meant to trip him up, he always responds with logic and reasoning. Sometimes, if the situation warrants it, he shuts the caller down, but that’s only after diplomacy fails.

Come to think of it, I’d never seen Max truly angry until he thought I was trying to steal the necklace. All in all, he’s steady and solid, not fire and passion. At least that’s what he strives for.

If what he says is true—that he doesn’t want passion or romance—I might be the only person he’s ever felt any passionate emotion for. Good or bad.

So I have a question for him.

“A question?” Max asks, and in his small smile I know he’s thinking of last night, when he told me he’d rather I didn’t ask him any questions at all. “Go ahead.”

I glance around the cabin. The pilots are behind a closed door. Francesca is in the galley putting together a dessert plate with fresh berries, chocolate mousse, and whipped cream. She has a coffee tray on the wood counter, with a steaming silver pot of fresh coffee, a pitcher of cream, and a bowl of raw sugar cubes.

The engine noise gives a low-level hum, and across from the cushioned divan the news plays at a low volume. We’re as private as can be expected. Still, I lean closer to Max, setting my hands on the smooth surface of the varnished wood table. The large round window lets in a spray of bright sunlight. This high in the sky, past the clouds, the sun is a brilliant white and the windows pull it in so that the light bounces off the white walls.

“This is personal,” I say, giving fair warning. I keep my voice low.

Max leans forward, meeting me over our glasses of wine and plates of half-eaten brie and red grapes. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

I’m surprised at the teasing light in his eyes. I shift in my leather seat and clear my throat, giving myself a moment to tamp down the desire to clasp my hands to my chest and smile at him with hearts in my eyes.

“I was wondering, if you don’t want passion, why did you ask Fiona to marry you? You love her. Wouldn’t you have ...?” I trail off, not wanting to think about what they would have or wouldn’t have done.

Max makes a small noise in his throat and leans back again. He thinks for a moment, considering my question. That’s something I’ve noticed about him. He doesn’t always answer right away. He takes the time to think about a question and then gives his best answer.

When he looks back at me, he says, “We’re friends. That’s all. Nothing more. Nothing less. I knew there would never be a spark. I didn’t expect or want one.”

He didn’t want a spark? Didn’t want the heat of passion?

“Why not?”

He watches me, his eyes a cool, deep brown, as smooth and tranquil as Lake Geneva on a moonless, windless night. “I realized early on that what most people call ‘love’ is just the fire of passion. It burns, sometimes out of control. But the hotter it is, the more quickly it snuffs itself out. When it’s gone, the people are left with . . . ”

He pauses, considering his words. “If they’re lucky, they’re left with third-degree burns, pain, and bitterness. But they’ll have learned a valuable lesson, and hopefully they can move on a little wiser. If they aren’t lucky, they’re left with charred bones, ashes, and hatred for whoever they thought they loved. It’s a terrible thing when the heat of the fire is gone and all that’s left is cold, desolate reality. Passion isn’t love. The point of flames is that they need fuel to burn. Passionate love uses people as kindling, and it consumes them until they have nothing left to give. And then...”

I lean forward, waiting for him to continue. My hands are curled around my thighs, my fingers pressing into my skin.

He shrugs. “My parents had two years of passionate bliss. Which is quite something, considering. Two years of passion, twenty-eight years of loathing. Was it worth it? They shouldn’t ever have married. If my mother had stopped to consider that my father was a closet alcoholic with a penchant for violence, and if my father had stopped to consider that my mother was a raging narcissist with a penchant for lying, the mess of their lives would’ve been avoided.”

“But then you wouldn’t be here,” I say. “If they didn’t marry, you wouldn’t exist.”

He smiles, leaning forward again. “I suppose passion is good for something then.”

I’m caught by the sunlight from the window reflecting off the deep pools of his eyes, catching the sparks of gold. We’re close. Our hands rest on the table, inches apart. The cool, dry air from the overhead vent tickles my heated skin.

Beneath the table our legs are so close. All I’d have to do is move another few inches and I’d be able to run my calf along the line of his leg.

Max’s eyes darken as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Maybe he does. He has seven years of memories. Maybe I’ve done something like that to him before.

“Ready for dessert?”

I break away from Max’s gaze and give Francesca an overly bright smile. I make appreciative noises and thank her as she clears away the cheese and wine and then places the chocolate mousse and coffee in front of us.

Once she’s gone I pick up my spoon, aware that Max has been watching me the whole time. I glance back at him, and when I do, he smiles.

I dip my spoon into the chocolate, skimming it over the surface. A little curl of chocolate balls on the spoon. Max stirs a sugar cube and then another into his coffee, and as he does, a lovely coffee-and-cream smell enfolds us.

“You have such a sweet tooth,” I say, popping the chocolate mousse into my mouth.

Oh.

That’s good .

My eyelashes flutter at the creamy, smooth richness.

Max smiles at the noise I make. “How do you know I have a sweet tooth? I was under the impression you don’t have any memories of me.”

“Oh.” I dip my spoon back into the mousse. “Well. I don’t. I just . . .”

Max tilts his head, taking in the way I shift uncomfortably in my chair and look around the brightly lit cabin. He lets out a surprised huff of air. “You don’t want to tell me something. I know this.” He points his finger at me. “I recognize this. Tell me.”

I sit still and frown at him. “I’d rather not.”

“Please.” He waves a hand. “Get it off your chest.”

I scoff. I don’t want to get it off my chest. I don’t want Max to know how much I noticed him.

Finally, I shrug. “It’s no big deal. It’s just when you clean someone’s house for years, you learn a lot about them.”

He blinks as if this wasn’t at all what he thought I was going to say. Then his expression takes on an interested light. “Really?”

I nod. Take a spoonful of mousse and shove it into my mouth. It’s smooth and decadent and so good .

“What do you know about me? What have you learned?” he asks, staring at my mouth.

I lift my fingers to my lips.

“Let me.” He reaches across the table and presses his thumb to the edge of my mouth, watching me as he slowly drags it across my lip. A hot tingle runs across my mouth, and I clench my thighs together when a tight, needy insistence coils inside me.

Max pulls his thumb from my mouth. There’s chocolate mousse on his skin. He takes it and slowly sucks the chocolate free.

“That is good.” And then, as if nothing at all just happened, he says, “You were about to tell me everything you know about me.”

“I was?”

He grins.

I set my spoon down, unable to eat while he’s smiling at me like that. “Fine. As long as you remember I’ve been cleaning your house for years. Anyone would notice these things.”

“Sure.” He takes a sip of coffee and then places his cup back on its saucer.

“Well, you have a sweet tooth.”

He nods and relaxes back into his chair.

I continue. “You love hazelnut and chocolate.”

His eyes light with surprise.

“I clean your refrigerator.”

“Ah.” He nods.

“You drink coffee with cream and sugar”—I gesture to his cup—“and you rarely stop at one cup. You like to have a French press next to you while you read. You read a lot of books at the same time because you get bored easily and you like to keep your mind active.”

He smiles at that, then he nods. “Go on.”

“You enjoy British crime dramas, and although I can’t be sure, I suspect you always know whodunnit before the show ends.”

“Almost always. I’m not perfect.”

I grin at that, and then I get carried away, because the way he’s looking at me makes a warm, happy glow light in my chest.

“You like to listen to classical music while working. You never lose your temper, although you don’t mind when other people do. You like Charles Dickens before bed, although I could never figure out if it’s because you love how he spins worlds or because he puts you to sleep?—”

“I like his honesty,” Max says, watching me with increasing interest. “He was honest in his portrayals of people.”

“That makes sense. I should’ve known. I always thought Freud was one of the worst things to ever happen to western literature. Before he came along, characters were living and breathing. They were flesh and blood on the page, you know? What they did, what they said— there were so many layers. And then along comes Freud, and people were no longer acting out of their own will or their own choices. Instead everyone was a puppet on the strings of past trauma. It scarred western literature. Truly. People aren’t marionettes, jerked about by their mother’s neglect or their father’s abuse. We have free will. We have the ability to reason and choose and react or not react. By winnowing a human being’s choices down to his past? Maybe that’s a comforting view for some. Oh, he hurts others because he was hurt. Or she’s scared to love because her husband died. One and one makes two. Red and blue makes purple. But don’t you agree that one thing we should never forget is that people are infinitely more complex and our motivations are immeasurably more nuanced than any of us can ever know or explain even after the fact? Subsequent explanations can never do a human justice, and wrapping them up in a nice neat explanation, like “Oh, his mother was negligent,” is a failing of modern times?”

I look at Max. He holds his coffee cup halfway between his saucer and his lips. I don’t think he realizes he’s still holding his cup upright. We hit an air pocket and the plane lurches. The coffee sloshes over the side and spills on his hand.

Max swears and sets his cup back on the saucer. I grab my napkin from my lap and dab at his hand.

“Thank you,” he says.

I nod, dabbing at the coffee on his shirtsleeve.

When I’m done I fold my napkin into a square and set it on the table. “I got carried away.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “It’s my fault. I was so involved in what you were saying that I forgot to set my cup down. I’ve often wondered why I like his characters so much. Now I know. I suppose I wish I was them, unburdened by Freud’s specter.”

He grins at me then, and I smile back.

“Don’t worry, I won’t think the only reason you don’t want passion is because of your parents. I know there are plenty of other reasons.”

“Oh?”

I nod, picking up my spoon again and taking another bite. “You like neatness. You like order. I’ve never cleaned another house where a bachelor makes his bed every morning with perfectly tucked corners. Where he hangs his towels, always puts his laundry in the hamper, stacks his dishes perfectly, and puts his fruit and vegetables in the proper drawers. You prefer things to be tidy. Passion isn’t tidy.”

“I’d agree with you, except I have a host of memories telling me I like untidy things very, very much.”

“There’s also the guilt you feel over your family’s deaths,” I say at the same time.

He glances at me quickly, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What?”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

The plane dips a bit, and we fly through the wispy confines of a white-gray cloud.

“No. Tell me what you mean. How you gathered that when we never spoke.”

I look out at the fingers of the thin cloud leaving strands of condensation on the window. The chill air from the overhead vent licks across my skin. Max watches me, waiting for my response.

“Well. They died more than a decade ago. But the house ...” I pause, trying to think of how to explain it. “It could be so full of life, but instead it’s in this half-life stasis, as if living fully isn’t allowed. Most of the rooms are covered in dustcloths and gloom. When you walk the empty halls, it almost feels like you should apologize for your footsteps making noise. The wine cellar, which clearly was once full to the brim, is entirely empty. In your brother’s room there’s a photograph of the two of you and the frame is shattered, and he looks like such a?—”

“What?”

“Unfriendly sort.”

Max’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Yeah. I never met your family. Never saw them. I only know I’m not going to pretend that they’re the reason you are the way you are. I’d like to give you more credit. I expect you can make your own choices.”

“Unless a woman comes along and wishes me into marriage,” he says.

“Even then. I’ve always thought no matter what happens in your life, you’ll always be you. And you’ll always have the freedom to choose.”

The plane dips again, and my stomach rises and falls.

Max considers me, weighing my expression and my words. “I remember when I was twelve. It was my first year away at school. My brother and his friends, they were fourteen. I hung around them. They were already drinking, beating up weaker kids, breaking into the school after-hours, stealing things. I was sitting outside in the commons and my brother came by and said, ‘Let’s go. We’re going to beat the crap out of this kid for showing us up in maths. You can help.’ I remember that moment clearly because I knew without a doubt there were two paths in front of me. If I said yes, I’d be just like my brother. I’d become my dad. And if I said no,”—he lifts his shoulder in a small shrug—“they would hate me. But I wouldn’t hate myself.”

“You said no?” I ask, thinking about twelve-year-old Max, away from home for the first time.

Max nods. “I said no. My brother and his friends beat the crap out of me instead of the boy who showed them up in maths. They kept it up for years. But once I made that choice, I realized I had more choices in life than I’d ever realized. It wasn’t inevitable that I’d be just like my father. Sometimes when I walk past a mirror and see the line of my nose or the tilt of my jaw, I see my father. I mistake myself for him. Years ago it always brought up an immediate self-loathing, but then I thought, ‘Well, what can I do?’ You can’t change genetics. I’ll always look like him. But I don’t have to be him. That you can see that too,”—he gives me a swift smile—“I’m glad. I know our past influences us—you can’t deny that. But we have a trump card, don’t we? We have choice. I like that you see that.”

I’m warmed by the light in his eyes, and I settle into the glow. “I’ve seen too many people come out of terrible circumstances and choose to be kind or do good to not believe it. Doing wrong is easy. Blaming someone or something else is easy. Choosing to do right? That’s not always easy. Taking responsibility for your own life? That’s not easy either. Most people would rather give that responsibility away to someone else.”

Max tilts his head, considering me. “Is that what you’ve surmised from Dickens?”

I laugh. “It’s what I’ve surmised from twenty-five years of living. But also Dickens. I started reading him after I saw all his books on your nightstand and I—” I cut myself off and a prickly heat stings my cheeks.

“What?” Max asks. “You ...?”

I swallow. “I wanted to know more about you.”

Max studies me, his expression searching.

In the silence Francesca strides to our table. She stops at my side, unaware of the currents running between Max and me. “We’ll be landing soon. I’ll clear this, shall I?”

“Thank you,” Max says, handing her his coffee, his gaze still on me.

Soon our plates and cups are cleared and the large table is folded away. As the plane descends into the white mass of clouds, the cabin dims, the sun disappears, and I rub my arms in the sudden chill.

Max shifts in his seat, pulls his jacket free, and then hands it to me. “Here.”

I take his jacket and rub my hands over the soft black leather. It’s warm and smooth, and it smells like soft leather and Max’s fresh-air scent. I slide my arms through the warm sleeves and pull it tight around my dress.

“Thank you.”

“Anna?”

“Hmm?” I tug the jacket closer.

“Why didn’t you ever speak to me?”

I glance quickly down at my hands folded in my lap. “I suppose . . .”—I look back at Max—“I was waiting for you to see me.”

“How could I see you when you were hiding?”

I’m struck by his question, and then the plane is freed from the clouds. We’re soaring above the outskirts of Paris. I let out a surprised puff of air.

We’re north of the city, and it’s spread out below us in shades of beige and sand and gray. From above the roads dart like arteries toward the heart of the city. It’s a crisscrossing web of roads, old buildings, sinuous strips of water, and green parks. And there, standing regally in the afternoon blue, is the Eiffel Tower. My first view of Paris has taken my breath away. I think I’m in love.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I look back at Max. “Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

Max’s lips curve into a smile and he nods. “Yes.”

I think about his question— How could I see you if you were hiding? —and I wonder, was I hiding? Is that what I was doing all those years? When I tied my hair back beneath my handkerchief, wore baggy clothes and big-framed glasses, kept my headphones at full volume, and never, ever, ever spoke to Max. Was I hiding? Would he have seen me if I’d asked him about Dickens or told him how much I liked his winter jewelry line with the emeralds and rubies, or if I’d told him I’d searched the city for the best hazelnut croissant and I’d found it at a little patisserie on the cobblestone paths outside the Saint Pierre Cathedral?

Is the reason Max never saw me because I never showed myself to him? All along I thought I was pressed up against the window of his life, never allowed inside. Maybe it wasn’t a window. Maybe it was a door.

I lean forward and press my hand against the cool surface of the jet’s window. As we fly lower to the ground I make out the outlines of roofs, the slow crawl of traffic, and soon the long line of the runway.

The jet kisses the ground, bumps, then settles. The buildings fly past in a blur, then the jet slows and smoothly pulls to a stop. I wait for my body to catch on to the fact that we’re no longer moving.

After a moment I turn back to Max, pulling his jacket tight around my shoulders.

I’m in Paris.

We’re in Paris.

I’m in Paris with Max.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “Even if we’re only here to reverse my wish. Thank you for bringing me to Paris. I won’t ever forget it.”

He smiles at me, a slow curl of his lips. “I expect that I won’t either.”

And with that, we’ve arrived.