Highlander - Donna Lettow [46]
“Home, sweet home,” MacLeod announced, helping her remove her coat. “Be it ever so humble…”
“I think it’s wonderful,” she said. She moved to the porthole overlooking the Seine and watched a boatload of tourists drift past on a moonlight cruise, so close she could almost touch them. “How incredibly free you must feel here.” She turned back to him glowing with delight. “How I envy you.”
“Well, there are still docking fees and taxes, but there is something about the water.” He walked past her and into the tiny galley area. “You hungry?”
Now that she thought about it, “Famished. Is this what adventure does to you?”
“I find that a little adventure stirs up all sorts of appetites.” She thought she could detect a delicious twinkle in his eye before his head disappeared into the small refrigerator beneath the counter. “Make yourself at home, and I’ll see what I can rustle up.”
As he rattled and clanged in the galley, Maral wandered around the barge, picking up hand-carved chess pieces, running a hand along the burnished chrome of an intricate piece of sculpture, trying to get a feel for this man Duncan MacLeod and how he chose to live. At the antique writing desk, she studied the few framed photos he kept there, and the stunning blonde who dominated them all.
She felt his hand on her shoulder. “Château MacLeod, our very best year,” he said, handing her a crystal champagne flute of chilled water. “Dinner is served, madame.”
“Who is she?” Maral asked, and she thought she might lose her breath at the bittersweet look that passed across his noble face. Whoever she was, God, how he still loved her.
“That’s Tessa,” he said quietly. “She’s gone now.”
In those simple words, she could feel it—his grief, his loneliness. All the days he’d screamed at the earth to stop turning because it was empty and meaningless. All the nights he’d begged his heart to stop beating so he could be with her and stop the pain. And finally the acceptance, that he could go on in spite of the pain that would never leave, that somehow he had to go on. She could feel it, and in that moment she could feel their souls touch, both wounded, both lonely, both needing.
And then she pulled away. Maybe she wasn’t ready after all.
“Maral?”
She moved to the table. “So what’s this I hear about dinner?” Then she stopped and stared at the feast he’d laid on. Chilled gazpacho, a full color wheel of patés, smoked goose, a delicate carpacho of Parmesaned greens and cold veal. “Duncan, you can’t tell me these were odds and ends you found in the back of the fridge,” she accused. “Did you make all this?”
“Of course not, I’m not Superman.” He laughed. “White knight on even numbered days, gourmet chef on the odd ones. But I have friends.” He pulled her chair out with a flourish. “Shall we?”
As they dined on their cold supper, she told him about the day that had finally led up to her call for help. How the Israeli foreign minister had pulled a key plank from the impending agreement, claiming that he was unaware of it and that his negotiators had had no authority to include it. About how Arafat had staged a walkout to bring what he called deception in front of the international press. How she hated the press, the posturing, the half-truths. It felt so good to have someone to talk to, honestly and without the negotiation games. And he had seemed willing to listen to her talk all night if that’s what she needed.
Later, after he’d lowered the lights on the barge a bit and started a cheery fire glowing in the fireplace, they sat on the sofa with pastry and strong dark coffee. Kicking off her shoes, she pulled her bare feet up under her and nestled back into the sofa’s soothing folds, luxuriating in the warmth of the fire, at peace for the first time in weeks. During a lull in the conversation, MacLeod reached out and took her left hand in his.
“Tell me about him.” He softly rubbed her wedding