Page 84 of Wished

“What?” Emme asks through the door.

“I’m coming!”

Max laughs again, his shoulders shaking. I throw the pillow I’m holding at him. He catches it, tosses it to the side, and says, “I wish you were coming. You could be. Wouldn’t it be nice?”

Too nice.

That’s the problem.

He looks like a devil, all dark and handsome, sitting in the pristine white bed, his tempting smile illuminated beautifully by the morning sunlight. I have to get out of here before I do something I’ll regret.

I point a finger at him, giving him a “shh” look.

Outside the door Emme bounces up and down, the floorboards squeaking impatiently. Max smiles at the sound, his face softening.

“I can’t wait to have kids with you,” he says, switching from playful to solemn. I’m nearly knocked over when I see how much he means it. “I can’t wait to meet our little girl with your heart or our little boy with your humor.”

The look on his face scares me. It’s that bowled-over-by-love look. The look that says he’s so deep in love he’ll never pull himself out of it.

“Anna?” Emme calls, saving me from responding.

I give Max an apologetic smile and practically sprint out the door.

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.

---