Page 106 of Fated

The village is like a painting. Or a dream. The sunlight lies golden over the old stone houses and steepled stone churches, the cobblestone streets and the old stone arched gate painted deep plum in the sweeping dusk.

“There,” I say, pointing to the narrow turn-off leading down to the shore of the lake. “I want to go there.”

And so Max turns down the cobbled street and parks just outside the thirty-foot-tall medieval gate leading into the village. He opens my door and then takes my arm.

I’m drunk on laughter and the fear I’m falling in love with a dream and I’ll never be able to undo it. I lean into Max and breathe in the cool evening air.

“Have you ever been here?” he asks, his eyes questing over my flushed cheeks.

“No.” I shake my head.

We pass under the shadow of the gate’s archway and into a narrow stone walkway that jig-jogs us into the village. There are people outside, walking the street carrying groceries, sweeping their front stoops, chatting with neighbors. It’s a busy close-of-day feel, and no one pays us any mind.

“It reminds me a bit of Canterbury,” I say. “My mum would take overnights sometimes. We’d sit in the cathedral at sunset or visit Greyfriars. But I’d get antsy and run off to explore the cobbled alleys. I was always tempted by the flowers hanging from the walls.”

I smile at the vast displays of ivy, pink climbing roses, and wisteria trailing over the gray stone homes. The street is flush with pinks and whites and soft lilac purples, and the soft floral scent teases around us, as soft as the evening breeze.

The village is tiny, cozy, with winding streets only wide enough for two bicycles—certainly no cars. The houses are small, stone, with painted wooden shutters and hanging flower boxes. It sounds as if an entire forest of songbirds has perched on the rooftops. They’re singing to the falling sun.

“Let’s take this one,” I say, pointing down a narrow alley with purple clematis climbing the walls.

“All right,” Max gives me a smile as we plunge into the shadow of the alleyway. There’s a shop at the end, a small boulangerie with the enticing scent of fresh-baked bread, golden and warm.

Max makes a happy noise and then stops to buy two crusty baguettes wrapped in waxy brown paper. He holds them in the crook of his arm, and by unspoken agreement we follow the cobblestones winding down toward the grassy lawn at the edge of lake. On the way Max buys a spread of brie, a carton of just-picked jewel-bright strawberries, and a bottle of Gamay—a red wine from a local vineyard.

We settle in the cool grass at the edge of the lake. It falls in a soft mound toward the glistening blue water. Small waves ripple against the shore and lap against the stone walls. There’s a short wooden dock parallel to the stone wall, where three small white fishing boats knock against the wood. They’re not as big as Aldon’s boat, but then again, they’re on a lake, not the sea.

I cross my legs. The grass mats beneath me and tickles my bare skin. The sun is arching toward the water and sending the final soft yellow rays over the grass. In the water a family of mallards swims close. The green on the male flashes and the brown female speeds past him. Behind her, three fuzzy ducklings paddle to keep up.

“I think they expect dinner,” Max says, lifting an eyebrow.

I smile and breathe in the golden scent of the baguette. I pinch off a crusty bit, crumble it in my hands, and toss it into the water. The mother ruffles her neck feathers, quacks in appreciation, and guides her babies to the treat.

Max follows, tossing small handfuls of breadcrumbs to the ducks. We watch as the sun reflects gold on the water and the bread sends ripples circling about the ducks. Here on the grass the air is cool, the wind is soft, and the floral scent of the town has faded to a soft, forgotten murmur.

There are still the singing birds, the quack of the ducks, and a child’s call every now and then, but otherwise the evening is quiet.

Finally, with a quarter of his baguette shared with the ducks, Max turns to me, and says, “Something’s weighing on you. Is it tonight? Is it this?”

I look into his eyes, at the concern there, and the question. Then, across the lawn, the songbirds stop singing. Their night song drops into silence. And there in the moment of pure quiet, my heart flips over and I’m tugged, literally tugged, away from the moment and back to Aaron when he said, “After.”

I shake my head, pull myself back to Max, and say, “It isn’t you. It’s not this.”

He watches me, the shadows falling over his black hair. He leans back then, settling in the grass, and gives me a searching look. “Is everything all right then? Can I help? Is it work? Mila?”

I shake my head and look down at the blades of grass bending beneath me. After a moment Max reaches over and touches the back of my hand.

“Fiona?”

I look up then, a smile on my lips. “It’s something ... strange. It’s ... You’ll think it’s strange.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “You lit my dead parents’ liquor on fire in a birdbath. Nothing you do can shock me.”

My smile grows at his statement. “That’s fair.”

He opens the brie, sets the strawberries in front of us, and then takes a corkscrew from his pocket and opens the bottle of wine.

“You came prepared.”

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