The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [19]
“I haven’t had a chance to explore yet,” she said, willing to engage. “But I like Pettiplaise. It’s amazing to be on the coast, but have it be so quiet and open. Where I’m from, every last square inch of this place would be somebody’s beachfront property. It’s nicer here.”
“Indeed. It is a pleasant town.”
“It must be handy that everyone speaks French,” Fallon added. Most of the people in the little seaside village addressed her first as “mademoiselle” before switching dutifully to “miss” once they caught her hesitation.
Max laughed. “I suspect I understand Acadian about as well as you do. Do you speak regular French?”
“I took it in high school but I’ve forgotten most of it now.”
“Do you know what Pettiplaise means?” He handed her a helping of pasta and a predictably large glass of wine.
“Um, not really. Little pleasure?” she guessed, dredging her memory for fragments of French II. “Little place?”
He shook his head. “Petites plaies,” he said with careful enunciation. “Another Acadian mangling. ‘Little wounds.’ For the scars the coal mining left on the mountains.” He sat and pointed his fork out the windows toward the black streaks that marred the hills in the distance.
“Ah.” Fallon looked him in the eye pointedly. “How apropos.”
He smiled, that grin making his striking face turn patently seductive. “Yes, I suppose.” He abandoned the conversation in favor of the food.
When he ate, Max had a habit of resting his elbows casually on the table and leaning forward. He held his fork upside down and the way his lips slid each bite of food from the tines struck Fallon as downright obscene. After several minutes of this culinary striptease, he set his bowl aside and took a deep draught of wine.
“So,” he said upon swallowing. “You live in New York?”
“Yes. I own a house there with my best friend. A little ranch house.”
“On the water?”
“Ha—no way. I can walk there but Metro waterfront is insanely overpriced.”
“It’s not so expensive here.” He refilled her glass and Fallon wondered why she allowed it.
“No, probably not,” she said.
“Did you grow up in New York?”
“I grew up all over the region. Connecticut mostly. Not the ritzy part, but on the coast.”
“Why New York, then?” He leaned back as if he expected this interrogation to go on for quite some time.
“Well, as you guessed, I studied biology. In New York. I’m a conservationist, half-time, and an environmental advocate, half-time.” She moved her food around in its bowl. “The Hudson and Long Island Sound need my help more than a lot of other places. I probably couldn’t make a living doing what I do unless I was near a big city, with big problems. It was there or Boston, and my friend wanted to go in on a mortgage with me, and her job’s there. Plus it meant I was near my aunt. It made sense.”
“I see. And this friend—this is not some code word for lover?”
Fallon laughed, almost spilling her wine. “No, just my best friend. She’s quite happy with her boyfriend, thanks.”
“All right. I am going to ask you for this friend’s phone number.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because if something happens to you, I can call her,” Max said, sounding very much as if this wasn’t the real reason.
“I guess. But don’t think for a minute I believe that. You don’t even seem to own a phone.”
Max found a pen and pad and weaseled the digits out of her.
“Why are you here, then?” Fallon took a drink, staring at him over the glass, succumbing to that familiar, alcohol-fueled sensation of boldness. “Why didn’t you go back to France, after you stopped being…famous, or whatever?”
He made a face, looking as though he’d never considered this before. “France would be too painful. I think here is as close as I can get to that, without all the bad memories. It’s quiet here. People leave me alone for the most part. Canada is a very fine country, ice-hockey obsessions aside, and Cape Breton is an excellent place to be a has-been. There is very little pretension.”
Fallon smirked, trying