Wished

Chapter 27

27

The villa my mom and Emme are staying in is the light pink color of saltwater taffy. It lines the water, next to a rainbow of pastel buildings adorned with quirkily colored shutters and caps of tile roofs. It’s close enough to the center of town that there are families lounging on the small sandy cove, kids digging in the sand, and a few couples spread out on the flat rocks, lounging in the slanting sun.

The sea is so vibrant, ranging from bright turquoise to deep indigo, that I have to blink a few times to let myself adjust to the vivid colors. It’s almost too much, how pretty it is. Even the sound of the waves breaking against the craggy rocks and the scent of seagrass and sand—it’s all so pretty .

“It’s almost too beautiful,” I say, giving a sigh at a white sailboat sliding past. The boat is a smooth stone, thrown and skimming the surface.

Max holds my hand, pulling me along the road toward the pink villa at the edge of the water, the last in a long line of homes perched above the cove.

“Funny. That’s how I feel about you,” he says, giving me a crooked smile. “The first time I saw you, I thought to myself, ‘She’s so beautiful it hurts to look at her, but it’d hurt even worse to look away.’”

The breeze kicks up and tugs at us, pushing me closer to Max. My cotton dress blows in the wind and Max’s short black hair flips over his forehead, covering his eyes. I reach out and push it back, and when I do, he grabs my wrist. My pulse flutters beneath the warmth of his hand.

On my right is the sea, with its sun-bleached sand, scattering gulls, and gently rocking waves. To my left is the pretty taffy homes standing against the pale blue sky and falling sun. In front of me is Max, looking like all he wants to do is kiss me under the sun to the melody of the sea.

Charming, I called him.

And he said, “Of course I’m charming, I’m a Barone.”

But this is more than charming. My stomach flips and I keep my hand still as he slowly strokes the fluttering pulse in my wrist, his fingers shackling me.

“I don’t want to look away,” he says. “That’s love, isn’t it? When I wake up, you’re the first person I want to see. When I pick up the phone, you’re the person I want to talk to. When the day is done, you’re the person I want to wrap my arms around. If I told myself seven years ago, when I saw you for the first time, that that’s what I would feel today ...” He lifts a shoulder in a small shrug. “I’d call myself the luckiest man in the world.”

He turns my hand until my palm is facing him and presses a hot kiss on the sensitive center. Then he drags his mouth over my wrist, his eyelashes fluttering as his eyelids drift closed. His mouth leaves a hot trail over my skin, sparkling like the sun reflecting in sharp white points off the cool water.

His mouth is soft, wet, and his stubble scrapes me like sand dragging across naked skin. At last he sets his mouth over my pulse and gives a hard suck, leaving behind a wet claiming that burns as his mouth leaves me.

I’m flushed and dizzy. The sea breeze strokes over me, cooling my skin and licking me with salty air and effervescent mist. For a moment I wonder if I should scramble down the rocks and jump into the sea to cool the boiling heat in my blood.

“Are you always like this?” I ask him, dazed by the dazzling effect of his mouth. I struggle for the proper word. “So ... complimentary?”

He flashes me a quick grin, which appears and then recedes as quickly as the waves crashing over the small sandy cove.

“No.”

My shoulders fall.

He laces his fingers with mine and then drops our hands, pulling me along the road again. “Most days I’m worse,” he says, giving a wink.

My face burns, like I’ve been lying on the beach all day and the sun has left me pink and hot.

He takes in the heat in my cheeks and his smile widens. “You love me.” It’s not a question; it’s a happy statement born of confidence and years of intimacy.

“Yes,” I say, not bothering to deny it. It doesn’t matter which reality we’re in, that remains the same.

“It’s a good thing we have five more days. There are so many things I want to do to?—”

“Max! Anna!”

It’s a high-pitched, joyous shout. I turn sharply and watch in wonder as my little sister flies out of the mint-green front door of the villa. She races down the sidewalk, hopping and bouncing like a kid let loose in a toy store.

She looks so happy .

She’s barefoot, beach-tanned and freckled, with sun-streaked brown hair. Her shorts and navy-striped top are the picture of coastal living. I gobble up her appearance, noting the smudge of indigo watercolor on her cheek and the paint on her fingers.

I grin, my heart ready to burst. My baby sister, the artist.

Max knows what she’s going to do before I do, because he releases my hand, and when my sister launches herself in the air he catches her and quickly spins her around. She lets out a delighted shriek and a wild laugh.

Max laughs and then drops her gently to the ground, where she knocks into me, folding her arms around me. I let out a gust of air, and over Emme’s head Max grins at me.

“You’re here,” Emme says, her face buried against my dress, her voice muffled under the waves and the wind. “I missed you and Max. It’s been weeks!”

Max reaches over and rumples Emme’s hair. “Hello, Emmeline. What sort of plans do you have for us today?”

Emme releases the tight hold she has on me and turns to Max, her face glowing with anticipation. “Everything! Now that you’re here, we’re going to do everything! Oh! I want to show you my watercolors. Mom says they’re my best ever, but she’s?—”

She grabs Max’s hand and drags him back toward the front door, her excited chatter snatched away by the wind. Max shoots me a look over his shoulder—a happy grin and a quick wink.

My heart sort of tumbles out of my chest at that grin.

I hadn’t thought for a moment about what it would mean for my sister if Max and I were married for seven years. But here in this world, that means Max has known Emme since she was a baby. She’s grown up with Max in her life. Clearly, they love each other.

I stare after them. Emme scrambles onto Max’s back for a piggyback ride. Her laughter carries over the sea breeze, and I smile as she tugs on his shoulders, pointing toward the citadel, an ancient fortress over the city, and then at the sea, where a rustic fishing boat bobs in the water, and finally, toward a pretty medieval bell tower rising over the village.

My mom finally makes her way outside. She carefully picks across the concrete, hobbling on crutches in an unpracticed gait. I study her carefully. Even though her right leg is in an air cast, she looks healthier and happier than I’ve seen her in years. The deep wrinkles and signs of fatigue she held in Geneva are gone. Instead the stress lines have transformed to laugh lines and she has an air of energy blended with contentment. She’s a bit like the birds wheeling through the sky, floating effortlessly then diving lightning-quick to the water.

“That man is going to make a wonderful father,” she says by way of greeting. She stares after Max and Emme picking their way down the rocks toward the little cove beach. It looks like they’re taking a beach detour before Emme’s watercolor tour.

My mom reaches out and wraps me in a hug, the crutches knocking against me. She laughs as we both wobble on the pavement, then I hold her tight.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, my lower lip wobbling. All of a sudden, everything hits me. My mom is happy. Emme is happy.

My mom finally has her dream.

Yet ...

We pull apart and she studies my expression. She catches the wobble in my lip.

“What’s wrong?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. I’m just really, really happy to see you.”

She smiles, the wind blowing her short, curly hair about. “I’d hug you again, but I’d probably fall over. These crutches aren’t as easy as they look.”

At that I wave to Max and Emme and then usher my mom back inside to find somewhere for her to elevate her ankle.

“I tripped, slipped, fell backward off a boulder, and landed in a patch of prickly pear,” my mom says once she’s settled on a padded chair on the balcony, her foot raised on an ottoman. “I’m more embarrassed about the prickly pear than the broken leg. Did you know, the nurse had to remove thirty-two prickers from my derriere?”

I restrain a smile.

“Thirty-two,” she reiterates. “And then, bless him, he asked me out for a glass of wine.”

I snort. “Love is in the air.”

She waves that away. Then she looks out over the cove, where Emme is directing Max in building a sandcastle with a moat. He’s pulled off his shoes and rolled up his jeans, but even so, the bottoms of his jeans are soaked with seawater.

When he sees me looking he holds a hand up in a wave. Emme shields her eyes with her hand, squinting through the sun, and then she jumps up and down and points to the sandcastle. I hold up both hands in a thumbs-up.

“So,” my mom says, picking up a glass of iced fizzy water.

I do the same. The glass is cold and the condensation runs in rivulets over my fingers. The fizz hisses and sparkles and little bits of peach and raspberry float in the water, mixing with mint sprigs. I take a drink, and the sweet of the fruit and the bite of the mint perfectly match the smooth sea breaking against the rocky shoreline.

The cold drink bubbles over my tongue, and then I swallow the sweet juice.

“So?” I ask, smiling.

“What’s happened with you and Max?” my mom asks, setting her glass back on the little balcony table.

I nearly drop my own glass, but then, after giving my mom a quick look and clutching the glass more tightly, I carefully set it on the table.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice a little too high.

My mom gives me a considering look. She’s in the sun. It splashes over her and paints her in bright Mediterranean colors. I hold still under her inspection, but every now and then I glance back toward the beach, where Max is piling sand in a barricade to stop the sea from destroying their fledgling sandcastle.

“You forget I’m an expert in marital discord and marital harmony. I’ve had both. There’s something worrying you. And it’s not something small. I know marriage, and I know you.”

“Mom—” I shake my head.

“I thought you were too young when you got married. I was proven wrong. I thought you were from two different worlds and that it would never work. I was proven wrong again. I thought he didn’t truly love you, that you were just a fling. I was proven wrong again and again. You’ve had your share of rough patches, but you two have always made it through.” She nods, a firm jerk of her chin. “You have what your dad called a true connection. So”—she turns to me—“what is it? What’s bothering you? Whatever it is, you’ll work it out.”

My face goes cold even with the sun beating down on me. What’s wrong? That’s easy.

“He loves me,” I say, my voice coming out in a rough whisper. “That’s what wrong. He really, really loves me.”

My mom frowns, and over the water a lone white gull lets out a harsh cry. “And you don’t love him anymore?”

“I do,” I say. “I love him too.”

She gives me a look then—one that tells me I’m not making any sense. I rub my hand along the rim of my cup, my finger sliding over the cold, wet surface. A bit of ice clinks as it shifts in the sparkling water.

“That doesn’t sound like a problem.”

“It will be,” I say, “when he realizes he doesn’t love me. That he never did. Or maybe he loved me a little bit, but that little bit was ruined by something I did.”

“What did you do?”

I look out over the rugged coastline, the secluded cove, and the sparks of blue sea shining like a dream.

“I made a wish.” I turn to her then. “Do you remember when I was little, how I always wanted to be a genie?”

Her eyes crinkle when she smiles, and she brushes her short hair back from her face. “You refused to believe me when I said humans couldn’t grow up to be genies.” Her expression softens. “You always wanted to make others happy. Your dad. Me. Your friends. Even strangers.” She shakes her head and shifts her ankle on the padded ottoman. “I’m not surprised you feel guilty about making a wish for yourself.”

“What?” I look at her in surprise. “I don’t feel ...”

Okay. Maybe I do.

Isn’t that just what Max said?

“One of the most wonderful things about you is how much you care. But sometimes, as your mother, I’d like you to be selfish. To take the biggest piece of cake. To take the first place in line for the slide. Do you remember at the playground, all the kids would shove ahead of you, and you’d wait, sometimes for ten minutes, until no one was there to step in front of you? I never understood why you didn’t feel deserving. Or was it that you felt others were more deserving?” She reaches out, taking my hand. My fingers are cold from the icy condensation of my glass. “Anna, you deserve love.”

“I know,” I say.

She squeezes my hand. “You may know here,”—she points to my head—“but maybe you haven’t figured it out here.” She points to my heart. “Let Max love you.”

“But ... he doesn’t ... he won’t ...”

“Let him love you. What’s wrong with wishing for love?”

“I suppose I don’t want him to love me if it wasn’t his choice. I don’t want to force him to love me.”

She laughs and nods toward the beach. “No one can force that man to do anything he doesn’t want.”

I look toward Max again. He and Emme have finished building the sandcastle and are now knocking the sand from their feet as they climb back up the rocks. They’ll be here soon, and then it’ll be time for dinner and then bed.

“Adversity,” my mom says, “either breaks people or makes them strong. Your husband had more adversity in his first twenty years than many people have in a lifetime. He’s strong. Nothing could make him love you if he didn’t want to.”

“Not even magic?”

After all, that magic is what made my mom appear in Saint-Tropez, happy and well-rested even with a broken leg.

“I don’t believe in magic,” my mom says. “And if I remember correctly, neither does Max. In fact, didn’t he say at your wedding that he didn’t even believe in love until you came along?”

I don’t know.

I don’t know what he said at our wedding.

But instead of admitting that, I say, “That’s right. He did say that.”

She nods and takes a long drink of her peach and raspberry fizz. Down below, Max opens the front door and Emme shouts up to us, “We’re back! Come see my watercolors, Anna!”

My mom smiles at me. “Thanks for coming. I only need two days. By then, I should be a little more mobile.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve always wanted to come to the French Riviera.”

She gives me a strange look, then she shrugs and smiles. “Haven’t we all?”

When Emme bursts onto the balcony I turn to find Max trailing after her. His hair is mussed from the wind and he smells like sand and salt. He gives me an intimate smile that makes a soft, sweet humming start in my belly and spread all through me with a luxurious warm glow.

He leans down and brushes his lips across mine in greeting. “You taste like summer,” he says against my mouth.

Then we’re pulled to Emme’s art room, where we view dozens of paintings of sailboats, sunsets, and turquoise-studded seas. There’s a boisterous dinner on the balcony, a sunset walk through old town, and finally, Max and I wish my mom and Emme good night.

In bed Max pulls me into him, my back curving into his front. He kisses my neck, his warm breath whispering over my skin and the sheets gliding over my legs. He’s warm, the bed is soft, the curtains stir in the breeze, and through the open window the waves crash against the shore.

“Love you,” Max says, his voice a low rumble in the dark, sea-lit night.

Everywhere his mouth touches shimmers like a star lighting in the sky. I close my eyes and fall into his whispered love.

The night is heavy with jasmine and the sweet perfume of flowering mimosa. Max brushes a hand over my hip, the sheets rustling, his mouth pressing a kiss behind my ear. Then he reaches out and clasps my hand.

I fall asleep in his arms, hoping that tomorrow all of this is gone.