Wished

Chapter 20

20

The sun is a bright white orb in the bleached blue sky, hanging like a glittering diamond over the Jardin des Tuileries. I blink into the light, letting my eyes adjust to the startling reality that yes, I am in Paris, and yes, it’s as wonderful as I always imagined it would be.

Although I can’t quite decide if it’s wonderful because it’s Paris or if it’s wonderful because I’m here with Max.

Little spots dance in my vision as I take in the sun glittering off stone and statues, and Max takes my hand in a firm, welcome grip. The spring breeze teases us, the cool air kissing my cheeks. The shadows are lengthening beneath the museums and monuments, reaching across the cobblestone and dipping toward the stretch of trees spanning the park.

I shiver as we walk, because although the sun is warm and the air is more temperate than the museum, there is still a bit of late-spring chill in the air. The unfurling red and yellow tulips, the pearl string of pink flowers on the redbud trees, all shout that spring is here and summer is rushing toward us. There’s a soft, subtle floral perfume and green metal chairs are spaced about on the crushed limestone, tempting people to sit, relax, and enjoy the changing of the seasons.

A white-haired couple sit in a pair of green chairs reading a newspaper together under a pink magnolia tree. As Max and I pass, the woman glances up, notes our clasped hands, and gives me a knowing smile, as if to say, “Ah, young love!”

I can practically hear the birds singing and the strains of an accordion playing “La Vie en Rose” while she imagines me and Max gliding into the sunset of dusky pink clouds, fluttering rose petals, and romantic amour.

My chest thuds hollowly and I give a tremulous smile back, feeling somehow as if I’ve lied to a woman I don’t know and I want to apologize for the mistake.

But then we’re past the couple and Max gives my hand a squeeze.

“Thank you,” he says, and when I glance at him in surprise he lets out a sharp laugh at my expression.

“What? Why?” I ask, looking around. We’re in the mecca of tourism, within shouting distance of the Louvre and in the shadow of the the Arc de Triomphe. There’s an odd juxtaposition of serene park and fragile tulips quietly reaching toward the sun, clashing with the thousands of people that hurry through every day on their way to the next monument.

“For today. I’ve had ...” He glances across the short, cushioned grass, the crushed limestone and naked, weathered statues, back toward the Seine and our little island interlude. “A wonderful time.”

“Are you feeling sentimental? Already regretting the end of our marriage?” I ask, trying to keep the mood as light as the candy-pink petunias dotting the flower bed we’re passing.

But who am I kidding? Petunias aren’t light—they’re one of the hardiest flowers around. If you want a flower that survives, you pick a petunia. They barely need any attention; they aren’t fussy at all. Just add sun, some water, and voila, you have a flower that will bloom for you all summer long. Fine, a bit of deadheading is necessary, but don’t we all need to let go of what’s not working every now and then?

“What are you thinking?” Max asks, “You have the strangest expression on your face.”

I wrinkle my nose when I look up at him. “I just realized I’m a petunia.”

“A petunia? The flower?”

I point at the bright pink blooms. “There are some flowers that are fussy. That need coddling. That need constant attention. The soil has to be the perfect pH. They have to be fed composted fish brains, alfalfa meal, or a generous helping of manure ...” I wave my hand, shooing that away.

“So you’re telling me you don’t need to be fed manure?” he asks, his lips twitching.

“No. I’ve never been one to appreciate being fed a load of crap.” I grin. “I’m just ... easy. I don’t need a lot in life. I don’t need a big house or lots of money or constant adoration. It doesn’t take much to make me happy. For instance, for years I loved—” I’m about to say that for years I loved him, and all it took was standing in the partial sun of his presence, the remnants of his life, for me to fall. But I cut myself off just in time and instead say, “The small things. That’s a petunia. Just sun, water, a bit of food, and they bloom beautifully all summer long. But”—I narrow my eyes thoughtfully on the flower bed—“I was only wondering if maybe it’d be better if I was a rose. Or an orchid. Let me tell you, orchids are the worst to care for, but people love them. They’re obsessed. There are clubs for orchids, fan sites, societies. It’s like the harder something is to care for, the fussier it is, the more people love it. Maybe that’s what I’m doing wrong. I’m a petunia when I should’ve been an orchid. People notice orchids. They don’t notice petunias.”

Max stops. Pulls me to the side of the path under the shade of a chestnut tree. The leaves rustle in the wind, whispering above us, and the light dapples over Max’s face, darkening his eyes.

“Let me get this straight,” he says, his mouth tugging down. “I tell you I’ve had a wonderful time today, that I want to make love to you until you’re senseless, and you tell me you think you should be someone you’re not?”

His voice comes out in a rough growl, and I swallow at the hard cast of his jaw and the intensity in his gaze. I try to say something, but the only thing that comes out is a short, surprised puff of air.

“If it wasn’t clear before,” he says, “I like you. You’re not a damn petunia. You’re a woman.”

The way he says the last word almost sounds as if he’s saying “you’re my woman.”

“But ...” I pause, licking my lips at the dryness in my mouth. “You don’t want me. Not really . Tomorrow?—”

“Maybe I won’t want you tomorrow,” Max says sharply, gripping my hand tighter. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll go back to being lonely and regretful and wishing I could find a woman who fits me as comfortably as your hand in mine. Who the hell knows what will happen tomorrow? Maybe I’ll forget you and you’ll forget this. You’re right—I didn’t want you before. But you can’t stand there and tell me I don’t want you now.”

Max and I stare at each other underneath the soft shade of the chestnut tree, dozens of people passing by on the path beside us. Yet we’re captured in the shade and the light, breathing heavily, a battle going on between us.

“I know you want me,” I say, and when I do, his eyes flare. “I want you too,” I admit in a whisper, “but I don’t know that it’s real. So tonight ...”

When I trail off, Max steps closer, the heat of him pressing against me. “I know my own mind,” he says. “I may be experiencing more feelings since you walked into my office than I have in years, but I know my own mind. I know what’s real and what isn’t. This is real.” He holds my gaze for a long moment. “This is real.”

Then he drops his mouth to mine, brushing his lips over me. His mouth is featherlight, as gentle as the breeze whispering across a petal in the afternoon light. “Tomorrow,” he says against my lips, “this may not be real.”

He presses another kiss to me, his tongue tasting the seam of my mouth, his lips drifting over mine like an ancient mariner exploring the seas, guided only by his instinct and the stars. “But it’s real today and I’ve always thought the best way to live, is in the moment.”

I sink into his mouth, gripping his jacket. The hard line of the jewelry box knocks against my knuckles. The necklace. The reason for all this.

“You won’t regret it?” I ask. “Tomorrow?”

“Let’s promise each other that whatever happens, neither of us will regret anything.”

I look up at him, my breath shaking. The shadow of the chestnut tree falls over him, painting him dark and tempting.

I have to tell him. I can’t continue down this path without telling him. I can’t promise I won’t regret tonight if I don’t.

I’ve been afraid, worried what he’ll say or think, but the fear of regret is stronger than either of those worries.

“Max. The reason ...” I pause, and he presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I ...”

He traces his mouth over my lips, tasting me.

“The reason I wished on the necklace is because three years ago ...” I pull my mouth from his, setting my hand on his chest.

“Three years ago?” The edge of his mouth lifts.

My cheeks heat and a prickly-hot flush tickles my skin. Behind us, on the path toward the Arc de Triomphe a woman laughs loudly and a group of teenagers shout, shoving each other teasingly. I drop my hand from his chest.

“I met you,” I say finally.

He nods. “Yes. By the way, was it you who left me soups and dinners on occasion? In my refrigerator, with a note on how to reheat?”

I swallow, my heart thudding along painfully. “Yes.”

“Mmm. I always thought it was your partner?—”

“Dorene.”

“Right. Dorene. I like your onion soup. Wine or?—”

“Whiskey,” I say.

He nods. “And the books in the library. Sometimes the one I was reading—I always laid them flat, pages spread—I’d come back and they’d have a slip of paper bookmarking the page instead. It would be cut with crinkle edges.”

“Laying them flat ruins the spine,” I say, indignant on the book’s behalf.

He grins. “It was you. And the scent of chamomile that lingered on my sheets. I thought it was the detergent, but?—”

“It’s aromatherapy. For healthy sleep. If you don’t like it?—”

“I like it.” He takes my hand and places it back on his chest, inside his jacket, so that I can feel the strong beating of his heart and the heat of his skin through his shirt. “The weekly vase of flowers in the entry?”

“Me.” I look to the side, avoiding his eye.

Max takes my chin in his fingers and tilts my face back up. “The fresh cakes of hand-milled soap laid out on freshly laundered towels?”

“Me,” I whisper, my throat raw.

“The hazelnut croissants last Christmas? They weren’t from your company?”

“No,” I admit.

He nods, his thumb brushing over my chin and then lighting on my bottom lip. “I ate them all in one sitting,” he says, smiling. “I glutted myself on them. I devoured them.”

My breath is tight in my chest and it feels as if I’m breathing through a straw. I can’t get quite enough air.

“One last question,” he says, his voice low and melodious. “Did you ever lie in my bed? Strip the sheets, strip yourself, sprawl naked on my mattress and touch yourself?”

“No!” I cry, all the air rushing from my lungs.

“Shame,” Max says, dragging his thumb over my mouth.

“You’re disturbed,” I say, my voice shaking. “I’m a professional. I take my job seriously. Well, I did until I was fired.”

Max grins, and as I keep talking his grin widens even more.

“How could you even ask something like that? How could you think that?—?”

“And did you or did you not watch my crime-show episodes and leave the playback a good ten seconds after where I’d left them?”

“What?” I say, struck dumb.

He gives me a wolfish smile. “Admit it. You piggybacked on my streaming.”

“Did not!”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I ...” I frown, giving him a no-nonsense look. “Maybe once.”

He quirks an eyebrow.

“Twice.”

His eyebrow rises higher.

“Fine. At most, six times. I had to watch until I found out how Sean escaped from?—”

He starts to laugh, his chest vibrating with mirth under my palm. I push at him and he pulls me close, wrapping his arm around me and holding me tightly.

I stand stiffly. “It’s not funny.”

“It isn’t at all,” he agrees. “All these years, you were an essential part of my life, and I didn’t even know it. You were wrapped in every part of my day and I didn’t even know your name. It’s not funny at all.”

He brushes a kiss across the top of my head and I relax against the solid wall of his chest.

“All those years I thought I was alone, and all along, there you were, making sure I ate well, saving my books from neglect, leaving bookmarks and flowers and scents to make sure I had a good night’s sleep. I thought I was alone, but I never was. Not for a minute.”

I bury my face against the leather of Max’s jacket, breathing in the soft scent, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. His hand tangles in my hair, scraping against the back of my neck. A warm thrumming hums through me like the awakening of the soil in spring. I feel as if I’m ready to bloom under the sunshine of Max’s words.

I stretch up to him, raising my face to his, and admit, “When I first saw you, I thought it was love at first sight.”

He stares at me for a moment, searching my gaze, feeling the weight of my words. “You didn’t know me. You knew nothing about me.”

“It didn’t matter.”

He nods and then asks, “You don’t feel that way any longer?”

“No.”

I don’t think it was love at first sight. I know it was love at first sight. I don’t think I loved him. I know I love him.

“Love at first sight is a fickle thing,” he says, acknowledging its loss. “It’s a lot like passion. Here today, gone tomorrow.” He plays with my hair, the long curls sliding through his fingers and catching the dappled light. “Is that why you made your wish?” he asks, releasing my hair to let it fall back to my breast. “It wasn’t to live in my wretched house or have a vault of jewelry at your disposal. It was for the idea of love?”

“You think I’m a fool.”

He shakes his head. “I think I’m a fool.”

“Why?”

“Because even knowing you’re as constant as the north star, I’m still scared of how much I want you. I still want out of this upside-down world where I’m seven years married.”

My stomach falls to the crushed limestone and flops around in the leaf-laced shade at our feet. I watch it gasp for breath and then die a slow death.

“We still have today,” I tell him. “Tonight. You can be as passionate as you like. Tomorrow it’ll all be wiped away. You’ll be alone again. I’ll be on my own. We might not ever meet again.”

He shakes his head and reaches up to grip my wrist. “Don’t. Promise me that when this is over, if I don’t remember, you’ll come to me and?—”

“What if I don’t remember either? Besides, you’ll think I’m crazy. You’ll kick me out of your house. You’ll call the police?—”

“Make me listen,” he says.

“I can’t make you do anything.”

“You can make me do whatever you want. I’d ...” He trails off, his gaze landing on my mouth. “I want to know you in our other life. I want the chance to get to know you there. To kiss you. To bring you flowers. To take you out to dinner. To meet your mom and sister. I want the chance to see if you are the choice I would make. I’d like to give you the sun and the rain and the ...”

“Composted fish brains and alfalfa sprouts,” I say.

“Exactly.” He restrains a smile. “I’d start a fan site. A club. But I wouldn’t let anyone else be a member, because I don’t like to share.”

I smile at that. “Are you saying that even though I wished you into a topsy-turvy marriage in an upside-down world, you still like me? You still want to know me?”

He dips his chin, and when he looks at me, his lips soften and he smiles. He holds up the crinkled bouquet of freesias. “Do you see these flowers?”

I nod. “Getting a bit sad, aren’t they?”

“They’re our timer,” he says, eying the drooping petals. “While they’re still limping along, we’re going to enjoy the hell out of ourselves. Come morning . . .” He shrugs. “Who knows? But meanwhile, you’ve never been to Paris. I’m going to take you on a whirlwind tour of all the romantic places—Montmartre, Sacré-Coeur, the Eiffel Tower?—”

“But—”

“—kissing you in each spot. Imprinting a memory, so that even if our minds forget, our bodies and our souls will remember. So that the next time I see you I’ll have a choice. And hopefully I’ll make the right one.”

I blink at Max, dizzy and stunned at his announcement, the scent of freesia swimming around us.

“Where to first?” he asks.

I’m swept away by the fire in his eyes. “Not the bedroom?”

He laughs and pulls me out from under the chestnut tree, back into the sun.