Wished

Chapter 29

29

The “beach” is actually a long turquoise ribbon of hidden coves, secret beaches, and sandy isthmuses accessible only by foot or boat. Leaving the busy center of Saint-Tropez with its bustling harbor, throngs of tourists, and lively charm, I never would’ve imagined the string of quiet beaches hidden at the end of the peninsula.

The coast is raw, undeveloped, and untouched by the glitz and glamour only minutes away. It’s like finding a raw gemstone, unpolished and uncut, and all the more beautiful because of it. If I could, I’d hold this stretch of coast in my hand like a pear-size sapphire and watch in wonder as the sun sets it alight.

Instead I have to be content with drinking in the way the light hits the shallow water, coloring it indigo, turquoise, and sea-green. I’m dazzled by the sea. Dazzled and dizzy. I feel almost like the coast is wooing me. The sea is a kiss, the soft mist spraying over my sun-heated skin. The murmur of the waves crashing against rocky coves is the teasing whisper of a lover tempting me to bed. The humid, heady fragrance of salt, windswept wildflowers, and seagrass is a perfume that plants memories of sweat-slicked nights spent making love.

Every rocky cove, every alabaster-sanded secluded beach, every spill of rollicking, wildflower-covered hill falling into rocky shore and smooth sand, has me tumbling a bit more in love.

If Max was stark and stoic in Geneva, a reflection of the barren nature of his estate, then here he’s as wild and unpredictable as the white-capped waves rolling over the craggy rocks and playfully splashing anyone who ventures too close. He’s shed all of the restraint he had in Geneva and is showering me with a sort of constant, open, unreserved love.

He’s loose-limbed, athletic, as we climb over rocks, scrabble over outcroppings, and wind further along the coastal trail to more isolated stretches of sand. When we reach tall, jagged rocks he lifts Emme over them or helps her down, then he takes my hand, helping me over uneven ground. Sometimes he lets my hand go as soon as I’m back on even footing; other times he holds onto me a bit longer.

Now Emme runs ahead, the pack she’s carrying full with tubes of watercolor, brushes, a palette, and her watercolor pad. It thumps against her back as she skips down the narrow trail, leafed by spiky plants, windswept grass, and an abundance of bright yellow and purple wildflowers.

Max runs his thumb in a circle over my palm, matching the rhythm of the waves. A delicious shiver travels up my arm and then settles in my middle.

“I’ve fallen in love,” I say, and when I do, Max turns to me, his eyes crinkling and a questioning smile in his gaze.

“With Cap Taillat,” I say.

I gesture at the giant sand-colored rocks extending into the sea, their surfaces smoothed and rounded. Earlier we passed the Plage de l’Amour, the love beach, where the rocks extending into the sea almost looked like a giant’s hand reaching out to his lover. We passed coves with rustic driftwood structures built by families, and quiet beaches with sailboats bobbing just off the shore. We trundled over a narrow wooden bridge hung between two steep rocks, the turquoise sea sweeping out beside us.

“It’s no wonder my mom always wanted to come here. I can’t imagine anywhere more beautiful in the whole world.”

Max looks out over the coast, toward Emme running ahead, excitedly pointing at the isthmus. It’s a long, thin stretch of white sand nestled between two shores. On one side the water is sheltered and quiet, a smooth, tranquil sea. On the other, white-capped waves crash playfully against the shore. At the end of the wide strip of sand, a green-studded dune rises into the cloudless blue sky. The breeze tugs at my cotton dress and whistles around us, cooling the flush riding over my skin at Max’s smile.

“More beautiful than Paris?” he asks, and in his question I see the memories of our first week there together, before we were married.

I don’t remember that Paris, but I can see the reflection of it in his eyes.

“I think,” I say, breathing in the humid, sea-mist air, “they’re hard to compare. Paris is like a sapphire, round-cut, all fifty-eight facets sparkling and reflecting every bit of light?—”

Max lifts my hand, kissing the tips of each of my fingers. He smiles as he works.

“—and Cap Taillat, I was just thinking, is like an uncut sapphire. Corundum,” I say, naming the mineral that both sapphire and rubies come from. “It’s rugged and raw and beautiful without any cut or any polish. It just is.”

I flush as Max presses a final kiss to my hand. He doesn’t let me go; he just tucks our bound hands next to his side.

“I love it here too,” he finally says.

We both watch Emme for a moment as she runs out onto the strip of white sand and then dashes to the clear, shallow water on the calm side. She dips a toe into the water and then splashes, sending the water into the air in a wide, sparkling arc.

“I think,” he says as we start down to the empty beach, “I like it here because it lets me forget all the polish, like you say.” He smiles over at me. “I can go back to being unpolished. There is something to be said for Paris, Geneva, New York. Yet sometimes it’s exhausting always doing or going or being. I like coming here, where the hardest decision is which beach we’ll go to and which wine we’ll have with dinner. It always seems here, in this place, we’re allowed to love without reservation, because that’s what a sea like this, a coast like this—what a place like this—expects. In Paris or back home, you can hide. There isn’t any hiding here.” The corner of his mouth lifts, and then he shrugs. “Is that what you meant?”

My heart trips over itself, crashing about, and I take in a rough breath. Without thinking about it I throw my arms around his middle and press my face to his chest. He lets out a surprised huff of air and then wraps his arms around me, pulling me close.

He’s warm from the sun and he smells like fresh sea air. I listen to the steady thud of his heart thumping against my cheek. He presses a kiss to my temple, then to the edge of my eye, and finally, he leans down to press a soft kiss to the edge of my lips.

“All right?” he asks.

I nod. “I’m okay. It just hit me. I had to hug you.”

He lets out a low laugh and presses another kiss to my mouth.

On the beach Emme has opened her pack and is pulling out her watercolor pad and paint tray.

“How long do you think she’ll paint?” Max asks, looking at the sun, nearing the zenith of the cloudless sky.

“Hours.”

Max nods, a humor-filled light in his eyes. “I should’ve brought more food. More drinks.”

He tucks me against his side, and then we start down the path for the last little bit until we reach the soft, sun-warmed sand. The wind whistles over it, leaving patterns that look like waves, and the grass bows beneath the breeze. A pair of gulls swoops overhead, and a few sailboats are moored far out in the shallows, but otherwise we’re alone. The three of us have a strip of sand, a little Eden to lounge in and be grateful for. Uncut and unspoiled.

“Now that’s a happy kid,” Max says, nodding at Emme.

She’s cracked open her paint and is stretched out on her belly, lying on the sand with a paintbrush in her hand and her pad in front of her. She’s eying the sailboats, preparing to imprint their likeness on paper.

“I was wondering,” I say, hesitant but asking anyway, “do you ever worry that you won’t be a good dad?”

Max stops. Pulls me up short. We’re only a few long shadows away from Emme, but the waves and the wind keep our words quiet.

It’s interesting standing in the middle of the sea like this. The strip of beach is narrow; within seconds you could choose to jump into rough foaming waves, or instead dip into cool, serene waters. I’ve never been anywhere where two opposite choices are so immediate and apparent.

“No,” Max says.

“No?”

He shakes his head. “No. I never worry. My father ...” He shrugs. “You know this. He often told me, even when I was four, five, that he wished he’d stopped with my brother. He’d rather I hadn’t been born. To him I was a mistake, a sort of representation of the prison of all his choices. My parents ...” He looks down at me, his brown eyes solemn. “Some parents don’t love their children. My parents certainly didn’t. So no. I never worry that I won’t be a good dad. Because whatever mistakes I make, whatever I don’t know and have to learn along the way, it’ll be okay, because every day I’ll let my child know I love them. I’ll say it, because a lot of the time, people don’t know you love them unless you tell them. So I’ll say it. And I’ll show it. So no. I don’t worry. I learned early on that not much else but loving mattered.”

He gives me a small smile, and then, as the wind tugs at my hair, he reaches up and tucks a loose strand behind my ear. “Is that what’s been bothering you?” he asks, lowering his hand. “Are you worried about me?”

I shake my head no and then change my mind and nod yes.

Max gives a surprised laugh and then grins. “Don’t. Don’t worry, love.” Then he grips my hand, gestures at the wide expanse of the beach and the sea and asks, “Ready?”

To my right is the choppy water and the jagged rocks rising from the foaming waves. To my left is the calm, tranquil, turquoise sea. I have to step forward. I have to keep going. We all do. But I’m not sure if loving Max will lead to the heartbreak of a turbulent sea or the gentle love of tranquil waters.

If I keep on, will he hate me, or will he love me again?

“Ready,” I say.

We spend the day in a sun-bleached, salt-soaked haze of soft sand and cool water and lapping sea. Sandcastles are built and destroyed. Paintings are created and pinned to the sand with sea rocks so they can dry in the sun. Cold bottles of Orangina and slices of baguette, creamy Brousse de Rove—the local goat’s milk cheese—and small, juicy, jewel-red tomatoes are greedily consumed. Max soaks in the sun, turning sun-bronzed. Emme and I pinken and freckle. The sand tickles, the salt dries, and the breeze whips my hair into curly tendrils.

Max and I lie in the soft sand holding hands, the cool water tickling our bare feet, held at the edge of the tide.

“I love you,” he says, staring into my eyes, his head turned to me, his cheek pressed into the sand.

Will he regret this?

Will he remember this?

Will he wish I’d never come along and wished this into being?

Like he said earlier, even for all the mistakes you’re bound to make, you can still say, “I love you too.”

That night, exhausted from a day in the sun hiking over the rugged, untamed coast, I fall into bed. I barely notice Max’s arms come around me as I pray that somehow everything will be set right. This time I scour out that secret place in my heart, and I wish ...