Wished

Epilogue

Max

5 years later

I wake up from the strangest dream. For a short time I was back in that place where I was alone, certain I didn’t want love or a life full of passion. I reach across the bed and pull Anna close, brushing a kiss over her neck and breathing in the scent of her.

She’s sand and saltwater and jasmine, echoing the day we spent at the beach. The curtain nearby flutters, and the sound of the waves crashing over the sand is its own lullaby. Anna stirs, shifting closer, pressing her curves into me.

I wrap my arms around her and she murmurs, “Love you,” in her sleepy, husky voice.

“I love you,” I whisper, but she’s already back asleep. I smile into the pale light.

It’s hours before dawn and the stars and moon reflect off the sea, casting that magical, silvery illumination you only find on the C?te d'Azur.

I settle back into the warmth of the bed, the soft breeze drifting over the sheets, and I’m starting to count all the things I’m grateful for?—

When a soft cry breaks through the sound of the waves.

Anna sits up, immediately awake. That’s what moms do.

“What? Oh,” she says, blinking, starting to kick aside the sheets.

“I’ll get her,” I say, stroking back her hair and pressing a kiss to her mouth.

“You’re sure?”

I nod and give her a final kiss. “Get some rest.”

Then I’m out of the bedroom and across the hall, lifting Madeleine (named for her mom) out of her crib. She kicks out her feet and waves her arms, letting out another unhappy cry.

A change and a bottle later, we’re settled in a rocking chair.

As she wraps a hand around my finger, watching me with wide blue eyes, I’m almost overwhelmed by the expanse of love I have for her. The first time I saw her I almost fell to my knees, that’s how hard I was hit. It hasn’t lessened—I’ve just learned to hold it in better. Those first few weeks I was a gushing father of the worst variety.

But I don’t have to hold it in here. So I begin. “Before you woke up, I was about to list all the things I’m grateful for.”

Madeleine watches me with sleepy eyes, drinking from her bottle.

“Exactly,” I say. “There’s a lot to be thankful for. You. Your mom. Don’t tell her, but tomorrow all our friends and family are coming for a surprise birthday party. Your grandma. Be prepared for spoiling. Dorene, who is a terrible influence. Do not listen to her Paris stories. Your Aunt Emme, she tells me she’s going to paint a wall for you. What would you like? Boats? A beach?” When Madeleine makes a little noise, I nod. “The beach. Good choice. Let’s see. Who else? Fiona, Aaron, all their kids, of course. Daniel and Jillian, their son Beau, who has a penchant for tossing off his clothes and jumping into the sea every chance he gets. You haven’t met Serena and Henry, but you’ll like them. They have two corgis named Higgs and Boson and three-year-old twins who are already reading Tolkien. It’s quite frightening, but I think they’ll read to you if you ask.”

I smile at Madeleine and she squeezes my fingers, her eyelashes fluttering. At six months she has her mom’s eyes, my black hair, and all our love. Her eyes slide closed and her hand loosens, falling away. I pull the bottle from her mouth and set it on the nightstand nearby.

Then I rock her a little longer, making certain she’s deep asleep. “I’m grateful,” I tell her, “for our home here on the water, where we can be together. I’m grateful for our home in Geneva. It’s not cold anymore—your mom made it beautiful. She does that. You’ve seen her kitchens all over the country? She has a big heart. I’m grateful for that. It was big enough to love me. I’m lucky. Did you know, I made a wish and I was lucky because it came true?”

I look up at a noise from the door. Anna’s there, her nightgown whispering against her legs as she steps into the soft glow of the night-light.

“Hi,” she says, her eyes sleepy, her hair messy, a pillow crease on her cheek.

A wave of love nearly knocks me over at the sight of her. I don’t know how I got so lucky.

“Is she asleep?” Anna whispers, smiling at Madeleine snuggled in my arms.

I nod and lift her back into her crib, settling my hand on her belly as she stretches, kicks, and then falls back to sleep.

Anna moves next to me and brushes her fingers over Madeleine’s hair. I know, just like me, her wish is that Madeleine’s life is full of as much love as ours has been.

But when I look over at Anna, there’s something else in her eyes.

I take in a sharp breath and my body lights up.

“I wanted to ask,” Anna says.

I nod, spanning my hands over her hips, the silk of her nightgown whispering under my fingers. “Yes?”

“If you’d like to come back to bed.”

I nod.

She takes my hand, links her fingers with mine, and pulls me toward our bedroom.

“Anything else?” I ask.

She folds herself into me, pressing her mouth to mine. “Love me.”

“And then?”

“Love me some more.”

So I do. I love her until the sun comes up, shining over the water, sending bright light over the sheets of our bed. It reflects over us, bringing in a new day.

And when she settles against me in the soft whisper of morning, before our daughter wakes, before our friends and family arrive, in that quiet moment where it’s just us, I hold her close, and I love her.

I love.