The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [78]
“That sounds…” She trailed off, thinking. “That sounds very normal.”
Max shrugged. “I am willing to be normal, if it will have me. But anyway. I won’t put any pressure on you. I hope I’ll see you again. Maybe soon. But I waited thirty-three years for you the first time. I can wait another thirty-three.”
Fallon nodded, so overcome by gratitude she thought she must be suffocating. Max watched as tearless sobs began to buck her shoulders then he pulled her hard against him, press forgotten.
“You’re strong,” he whispered. “And if you have to fight for this, you will win. You’re a conservationist. You will preserve this woman’s memory. It’s an honor to have helped, in what little way I can.”
“You’ve done so much,” she choked, then gave up trying to speak.
He pulled away. “When you’re done fighting, you come see me. We’ll have a drink and take a walk, and let everyone else struggle in the ways they seem to love so dearly.” He looked down and twisted a thick silver ring off his middle finger. He placed it in Fallon’s palm, folding her fingers over it. “Don’t lose that. It was my father’s wedding band.”
“Max—”
“Hang on to it until we meet again on Cape Breton. I’ll see you soon.” He smiled and walked a few steps toward his cab before Fallon rushed to him, turning him around by the shoulder and catching his mouth with hers, a kiss full of ferocity and gratitude and heartache. And hope. When she pulled away, tears slipped down her face, tasting like the sea.
He smiled again and tipped his hat at her. “See you.”
“I’ll see you soon,” she said, and held the ring so tightly it bit into her skin. She watched Max climb into the cab and drive away. She watched until he was out of sight, and she smiled.
“Very soon.”
Epilogue
Fallon crunched down the gravel drive, travel-weary, dying for a shower but aching for the reunion that awaited her. The studio appeared as the pines thinned. The glint of the late-afternoon sun on the glass coupled with the salt air…so fundamentally Cape Breton. She broke into a jog.
The cat surveyed her lazily through the bay window as she mounted the steps. She touched her fingers to the little brass plaque and pulled the screen door open, its rattle and squeak the sweetest sound she thought she’d ever heard.
“Max?”
She found him slumped comfortably in a chair beside the worktable. By his elbow sat a mug and half-empty French press and a glass ringed with orange juice pulp. His languid smile and heavy lids told her she’d awakened him.
She studied him in the cool light, those seductive eyes and strong arms, tanned skin against the white of his undershirt. Max, elementally.
“Hey,” she whispered. “Don’t get up.”
“Welcome back. T’avons-nous manqué?”
“Of course. Did you guys miss me?” Fallon looked to the mop of curly brown hair tucked under Max’s chin, that fat-cheeked profile, closed eyes, serene face. Such a marvelous little creature. Her father’s dark hair, Fallon’s pale skin. Both of their stubborn dispositions when she was awake.
“Constamment.”
“English for me tonight, please, Max. The flight was bumpy and the drive from Halifax was one huge construction zone. I’m too pooped to translate.” She pulled out a second chair and sat across from him. “Plus you’ve already got a bilingual daughter.” She reached over to brush the child’s hair from her face and ran a finger over that impossibly soft skin. “Dr. Noelle Emery, future Professor of Linguistics. Why not leave your wife to her happy ignorance?”
Max smiled and pressed his lips to the child’s head. When his eyes returned to Fallon’s, it felt like a stiff drink, as always. “How is the Engels Home?”
“Good. The new supervisor’s amazing, and that grant money’s doing wonders. You should see what they’ve done to the basement already. It’s like there’s suddenly a whole new floor to the house. The kids are all obsessed with rec room catalogs. If they don’t get a pool table, there might be a mutiny.”
“And how is old Uncle Donald?”
Fallon made a sputtering