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“I felt that the first time. In your library,” I say.
He presses his mouth to the top of my head, feathering his lips over my temple. We’ve touched each other so much tonight, explored everything, yet this intimate, casually gentle kiss makes my chest squeeze tight.
“Tired?” Max asks.
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, pressing my face into the pillow of his chest.
“Tomorrow, in case I don’t remember you ...”
I nod, my cheek scraping against the hair on his chest.
“I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone. If you tell me this, I’ll listen. All right?”
I lift my head and look into his eyes. They’re shadowed by the muted dark, barely catching the glimmer of the lights outside. But still there’s a warmth there, and the knowledge that tomorrow he might not know me or remember this. He might not like me. In fact, he might dislike me. Quite intensely.
“Okay,” I say, my voice raw from the night of crying out in his arms.
He shifts me so we’re sitting up, leaning against the dark wood headboard. The room is just as opulent as his home in Geneva. Lots of antique, elegantly carved wood, brass and gilt, and sumptuous fabrics. I know for a fact the interior design and the furniture was passed down and Max, being Max, left it as it was. He’s a traditionalist in a lot of ways, and he values family and history and consistency. Even, I suppose, when family and history and consistency let you down.
“You know my father drank?”
I nod and he looks away, out the window, over the city.
“Living with an alcoholic, as a kid, it’s like this nightmare where you’re walking across a field full of landmines. Every day you wake up and you’re shoved into this field, forced to walk across it, and you can tiptoe, or you can run, but either way, you have to do it. Sometimes you make it across with no explosion. Other times you step on a mine and it doesn’t detonate. But then some days the explosion is violent, and you break an arm or blacken an eye, and your ears are still ringing days later. But it’s not the landmines that are the worst. It’s the fact that every day you have to stand at the edge of that field and walk across it. There’s no escaping it. You have to keep walking, keep living it, over and over and over. And every day, you don’t know what’s going to happen. You have no control. You have no idea which step will set a landmine off.”
He stops, his jaw tight, the muscles in his chest hard. I press my hand to his heart, feeling the slow, steady beat. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t have walked it with you.”
He smiles down at me, the hardness in his eyes softening. “I’m glad you didn’t. I’m glad you weren’t there. I hated so much. The only thing that matched how much I hated was how much I loved. Can you imagine? Loving so intensely, hating so much. It was too much for a kid. All those emotions bottled up inside. I promised myself every day that when I was eighteen I’d escape. I’d make my own way.” He shrugs. “I didn’t. It turns out I loved my family more than I thought. Love, even in small portions, is enough to defeat an ocean of hate. So that little light, it took me back. After university I returned home, the dutiful son to my father, the loyal younger brother, the loving son to my mother. And then, on a ski trip I was meant to be part of, all three of them were caught in an avalanche. They died.”
He shakes his head, his expression a mask concealing his heart. “I was never afraid of the violent outbursts, my parents’ passion, my brother’s cruelty. What I was afraid of was that I saw myself in them. I saw that if I wasn’t careful I could be just as violent, just as cruel. Every one of us has the capacity for cruelty—it’s there inside us all. Every day we choose whether we’ll live in the shadows or the light. I saw that more than most, because in myself I saw my father, and I saw my brother. So when I decided to let my family rest in peace, when I decided to let them go, I made myself a promise.”
I look into his eyes. His steady, direct gaze.This is important,his dark eyes say.I’ve never told anyone,his expression says.
“I wrote a letter and buried it in a cognac bottle under a pile of rocks at the folly. I’m meant to break it if I ever falter. Read it and remember.”
“Falter in what?” I ask, my hand curling against his chest.
The air between us is thick, heavy and full of the yearning memory of last night.
“I promised myself I would never love so deeply that I could hate in equal measure. I told myself that if I ever found myself embroiled in passion, I would step back. I would walk away. I reminded myself of all the good things in life—all the constant, pure,goodthings that didn’t involve a field full of landmines or a love that was like a wooden boat crashing against a rocky shore, over, and over, and over again. The letter is there. I want you to remind me. And then I want you to tell me that I was wrong. Love isn’t the opposite of hate. It doesn’t have room for hate. It’s pure and compassionate and forgiving and full of grace. It’s constant. It’s quiet. It’s loud. It’s steady. It’s the night sky full of a million blazing stars. It’s the first snowflake landing on your outstretched palm. It’s a hand gripping yours in the dark, holding on when you’re certain you’re all alone. And passion? It isn’t anything to be afraid of when it’s rooted in love. Tell me that, Anna. Please? Will you promise to tell me?”
I lean forward and rest my forehead to his, looking into his eyes. I can see stars there now, the reflection of Paris’s lights in the deep brown. The warmth of him sinks into me. The fear that tomorrow, all this will be forgotten.
I may have wished to be married to Max, I may have wished for his love, but I could never have wished for this. Because while I thought I knew him—while I thought I loved him—I never knew that I was only sitting at the shore of this love. After today, I’m sailing on an ocean of love and it spans as far as I can see. I could spend a lifetime exploring; a lifetime sailing this sea.
“I promise,” I whisper. Then louder, “I promise.”
He smiles, relief flooding his eyes. Then he pulls me down to the bed, the sheets rustling beneath us, the mattress rolling, and gently kisses me, quietly loves me, until we fall asleep to the soft, seeking, golden light of dawn.
24
I waketo bright mid-morning light shining over the bed, once again tapping insistently at my eyelids. I’m floating in a blissful state of half-sleep, half-waking and I squeeze my eyes tighter, burying my face against the soft pillow.
The plush bed is warm and cozy, the sheets wrapped around my legs. There’s the sound of a dove outside, cooing to the morning. I smile at the familiar scent of Max on the sheets, mixed with our night of lovemaking and ...
I open my eyes.
The white silk canopy is above me.
