Page 78 of Wished

There are five days left in our “anniversary” weeklong holiday. If I wondered what life would be like married to Max, I don’t have to wonder anymore.

One second it’s like being wrapped in a warm hug, my head resting on his shoulder, his arms around me. The next second it’s like flying, or perhaps like falling, a giddy rising of my stomach. And finally, it feels like home. Not the home you’re waiting to leave, but the place you’re meant to stay.

After our breakfast I didn’t broach the subject of my wish or the unreality of our marriage again. Max had plans for the day. Once the tartine was eaten and our coffee cups were empty we did the dishes, and as Max washed and I dried, he regaled me with stories about the inspiration behind the latest line Barone was developing for next winter and his progress on wooing a reclusive visual artist for a new collaboration.

“It’ll be like Picasso, Dali, Koons—they all worked in jewelry,” he said, his enthusiasm sloshing suds over the side of the sink as he scrubbed jam off a plate.

And then, as we walked to a market hand in hand, he asked for my thoughts on whether he should continue working with a diamond supplier out of Canada or shift to Australia. He asked me as if I was intimately familiar with the intricacies of his business and he would take my thoughts on the subject as seriously as his own.

Once he’d picked up fresh cheese, herbs, pasta, and wine I asked what our plans were. He told me this week, the only plans we had involved eating delicious food, strolling the streets of Paris, and making love at least three times a day. After all, we hoped for a baby by next summer.

That was when I knew we couldn’t stay in Paris. First, because if we stayed here it would be increasingly difficult not to give in to Max’s slumberous expressions and take a weeklong tumble into bed. Second, because I would hate myself if I used Max when he didn’t remember the truth. And third, because Max would hate me too.

So.

No sex.

No. Sex.

Which meant I needed a distraction. Away from Paris. Away from the romantic city of love and our secluded love nest.

Back to Geneva?

When I mentioned going back to Geneva Max looked at me as if I’d suggested eating dirt.

But then my mom called and said, “Anna, I hate to ask this, but I don’t know what else to do. Can you come?”

And thank goodness Max already knew I can’t ever refuse when my mom asks for help.

So here we are, here I am, in Saint-Tropez. The place of dreams.

All I have to do is help my mom, avoid making love with Max, and figure out how to reverse my wish.

Easy.

27

The villamy 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 sopretty.

“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.”

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