Wished

Chapter 26

26

What do you do when all your wishes come true?

This is the question I contend with as Max winds through the narrow stone streets of Saint-Tropez. The Mediterranean sun bounces off the seashell-pink, butter-yellow, and sherbet-orange buildings and slides over the red-tile roofs. All the old stone and stucco houses are light and bright against the sharp blue sky. We’re in the center of the town, where the old fishing village and the luxury beach resort come together in a marriage of irresistible charm.

For years my mom wanted to bring my sister and me to the French Riviera. It was her dream holiday. Emme’s too.

The azure water, the pebbled beaches, the sandy ones. Vibrant, wine-deep sunsets spilling over rustic fishing boats bobbing next to sleek yachts. Cool sea breezes blowing through open doors in an old stone house overlooking the harbor. Picnics on the beach. Painting on the boardwalk. Lazy mornings, afternoons that draw out like treacle, and sunsets that last for hours.

Anytime there was a show on television about the French Riviera, my mom would watch it, the remote clutched in her hand, her eyes glued to the screen. She would drink in the panoramas of crescent-shaped beaches and turquoise water, glistening white hotels and rustic villages. The fig and olive trees, the oranges and lemons growing in the bright sun. The villages adorned with flowering pink bougainvillea, fragrant jasmine, and golden mimosa.

Somehow, instead of representing a stretch of beaches and harbors along the coast, the French Riviera began to represent something else.

Freedom.

If we ever made it to the French Riviera, it would mean my dad’s hospital debts were finally paid off. It would mean we had enough money to spare to take a trip to the beach. It would mean my mom had vacation time. I had vacation time. It would mean we’d finally decided that instead of always doing what was practical and right, we would do something impractical and perhaps wrong. Just because we wanted to. Because it was a dream.

If we ever made it to Saint-Tropez, we would know we’d climbed out of what happened after my dad died, we’d discarded what happened after Emme’s dad left, and we were finally free.

It was a years-long dream, and now we’re here.

The car tires vibrate over the cobblestone, and I turn my face to the open window, breathing in the subtle hint of seawater, jasmine, and spring breeze. The sunshine flashes through the tile roofs and the tightly clustered three- and four-story old buildings. The street is narrow, twisting through an old part of town, leading down to the harbor. Even here I can feel the cool air rising off the water, winding through the sunbaked streets. It echoes like the sound of motorbikes, engines, people, and sea birds, all calling out in the late afternoon.

The sun has sunk into the stone and it warms the village like a tight embrace. I let the cool air drift over my face and drag through my hair.

Max squeezes my hand. He has one hand on the steering wheel and his other holds mine, resting on the shifter.

There are five days left in our “anniversary” weeklong holiday. If I wondered what life would be like married to Max, I don’t have to wonder anymore.

One second it’s like being wrapped in a warm hug, my head resting on his shoulder, his arms around me. The next second it’s like flying, or perhaps like falling, a giddy rising of my stomach. And finally, it feels like home. Not the home you’re waiting to leave, but the place you’re meant to stay.

After our breakfast I didn’t broach the subject of my wish or the unreality of our marriage again. Max had plans for the day. Once the tartine was eaten and our coffee cups were empty we did the dishes, and as Max washed and I dried, he regaled me with stories about the inspiration behind the latest line Barone was developing for next winter and his progress on wooing a reclusive visual artist for a new collaboration.

“It’ll be like Picasso, Dali, Koons—they all worked in jewelry,” he said, his enthusiasm sloshing suds over the side of the sink as he scrubbed jam off a plate.

And then, as we walked to a market hand in hand, he asked for my thoughts on whether he should continue working with a diamond supplier out of Canada or shift to Australia. He asked me as if I was intimately familiar with the intricacies of his business and he would take my thoughts on the subject as seriously as his own.

Once he’d picked up fresh cheese, herbs, pasta, and wine I asked what our plans were. He told me this week, the only plans we had involved eating delicious food, strolling the streets of Paris, and making love at least three times a day. After all, we hoped for a baby by next summer.

That was when I knew we couldn’t stay in Paris. First, because if we stayed here it would be increasingly difficult not to give in to Max’s slumberous expressions and take a weeklong tumble into bed. Second, because I would hate myself if I used Max when he didn’t remember the truth. And third, because Max would hate me too.

So.

No sex.

No. Sex.

Which meant I needed a distraction. Away from Paris. Away from the romantic city of love and our secluded love nest.

Back to Geneva?

When I mentioned going back to Geneva Max looked at me as if I’d suggested eating dirt.

But then my mom called and said, “Anna, I hate to ask this, but I don’t know what else to do. Can you come?”

And thank goodness Max already knew I can’t ever refuse when my mom asks for help.

So here we are, here I am, in Saint-Tropez. The place of dreams.

All I have to do is help my mom, avoid making love with Max, and figure out how to reverse my wish.

Easy.