Читать книгу Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires - Rebecca Winters - Страница 39

THE NEXT MORNING, Maddy rolled over in bed and felt the coolness of empty sheets beside her. Already half-awake, she sat up with a frown and stared at the indentation Max’s head had left in the pillow.

She hadn’t heard him get up. She felt ridiculously cheated. Lingering between the sheets in the morning with her head on his chest, his hands moving in slow circles on her back was one of the highlights of the day. Inevitably they wound up making love—long, slow sex that seemed to last for hours.

She couldn’t think of a better way to start the day.

“Max? Come back to bed and warm my feet,” she hollered.

The profound silence that greeted her confirmed she was alone. She pulled on one of his T-shirts and made her way downstairs.

She found his note propped against the toaster. Her love of all bread-based products after years of self-imposed deprivation had become a running joke between them—the toaster was the one appliance he knew she’d make a beeline for on waking.

Maddy, am helping Richard shift furniture. Back after

lunch.

Max.

She remembered now that Charlotte had asked Max to help move the furniture from their spare bedroom into storage so Richard could set up his new home office, an idea his employer had agreed to try in order to avoid losing Richard’s expertise.

The question was, why hadn’t Max woken her? She could have helped.

She had a sudden mental image of the big bed and the even bigger chest of drawers and bookcase that furnished the guest room. Okay, probably she wouldn’t have been an enormous help. But still. She could at least have stood on the sidelines and cheered and made coffee.

“Pathetic,” she said, shaking her head.

Surely she could survive a few hours without Max.

She straightened her shoulders and reached for the fruit loaf that Max had left for her. After she’d munched her way through three slices, she cleaned up, washing last night’s dinner dishes while she was at it, then straightened the rest of the kitchen. From there she went on to sweep and mop the floors, then put in a load of washing.

It felt good to work. To have a purpose and a goal, even a short-term one. She missed the certainty and order and purpose of her old life.

All the sightseeing and fun with Max, all the indulgences and distractions—she could tap-dance around and paper over the cracks all she liked, but the truth was there was a huge void in her life where her vocation used to be and nothing was going to fill it or make it go away.

Hard on the heels of the acknowledgment came a rush of emotion, the ache of loss rising up inside her like a flash flood, all the feelings she’d banked for the past few weeks swamping her.

Suddenly she was gasping, tears flooding her eyes, her chest aching with grief and anger and a strange kind of resentment.

She was twenty-nine. Most people her age were just starting to hit milestones in their chosen professions, moving up the food chain, getting pay raises, buying bigger cars, bigger houses. She was washed-up. She’d peaked and crashed, and now she was going to be playing catch-up for the rest of her life, trying to make do with a career that paid the rent but didn’t feed her soul.

A great wave of despair hit her and she fought back a childish desire to throw back her head and wail, “Why me?”

She pressed a hand to her chest where it hurt the most, gulping back her sadness.

The worst thing was, she didn’t feel like herself anymore. She’d always been inseparable from her career. Now, she was an empty shell, a doll with her insides all scooped out. Only when she was with Max was it possible for her to feel normal and forget, because he made her laugh and aroused her and challenged her.

She was hyperventilating, in the grip of a panic attack. She snatched up her phone and pressed the first digits of Max’s number.

He would come to her. Or she would go to him. It didn’t matter. Once she was with him, she would be okay.

She was about to press the send button when she realized what she was doing: using Max as a security blanket.

She threw her phone onto the couch and sat beside it, her head in her hands.

She was such a mess. Her career was over, she had no idea what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, and she’d embarked on a hot, breathless love affair with one of her best friends as a bizarre form of coping mechanism.

You can’t keep running. It’s all going to catch up with you eventually.

Maddy sucked in big mouthfuls of air, trying to slow her frantically beating heart. Her body was filled with adrenaline, responding to ancient fight-or-flight instincts triggered by her bone-deep fear of the future and the vast sorrow inside her.

“Get a grip, Maddy. For God’s sake,” she muttered into her hands.

Tears had squeezed out of her eyes but she wiped them from her face and stood, shaking her hands to try to relieve the tension banding her body. She needed to do something, to get out of the apartment, out of her own head. She needed to—

She closed her eyes then as she understood what her body and soul wanted, needed, demanded. She crossed to her dance bag and pulled out her pointe slippers. She found an old leotard in the bottom of the bag.

Calm washed over her as she dressed and tied her slippers and walked to the center of Max’s work space. It was still essentially empty, since he’d begun work on his first piece beside his workbench near the wall. She had room to move. Room to dance.

She didn’t need any music. It was all in her head. Head bowed low, she struck a position and slowly unfurled, arms rising even as she came up en pointe. Eyes closed, she let the music in her head and the memories in her body guide her.

She danced. She spun. She soared. She sweated. She ached. She burned.

It was heaven and hell—the thing she was born to do, but was no longer free to pursue.

MAX ROLLED his aching shoulders as he walked into the kitchen of his sister’s apartment. She was busy making sandwiches, but glanced up.

“You owe me. Big-time,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Excuse me? I thought I was the one who just shifted around fifty tons of antique furniture,” he said.

“I had to stand in line for half an hour for those macaroons you wanted for Maddy,” Charlotte said, indicating a white-paper-wrapped parcel on the bench. “In the cold. With a bunch of desperate macaroon lovers who would have killed me to take my place if they could have got away with it.”

“Maddy will be eternally grateful. I will make sure she knows that sacrifices were made to secure these macaroons,” he said.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Don’t try to charm me. It doesn’t work, I’m your sister.”

Still, she was smiling.

Max checked his phone messages as Charlotte slid a plate his way.

“Thank you for helping out today,” she said as Richard entered the kitchen.

Thin and wiry, Richard stood a full foot and a half taller than his wife. He stopped to drop a kiss onto the crown of her head before leaning over her to snare a sandwich.

Max put his phone away. No messages from Maddy. He felt a ridiculous sense of disappointment. They’d been apart a whole three hours. Unless the apartment had caught fire, there was no reason for her to call.

Unless she missed him the way he missed her.

When he looked up, Charlotte was watching him knowingly.

“What?” he said.

“Have you told her how you feel yet?”

“Charlotte…”

“You might as well answer her,” Richard said around a mouthful of sandwich. “You know what she’s like. She won’t let up until you’ve given her name, rank and serial number and the keys to Fort Knox.”

He slid his arm around his wife as he spoke, and she leaned into his embrace.

“Maddy and I are fine, thanks,” Max said.

“Perhaps,” Charlotte said.

Max narrowed his eyes. What the hell did that mean? Had Maddy said something to her about him, about them? The two women had gone shopping together the other day. He could only imagine the interrogation his sister would have subjected Maddy to.

He forced himself to take a bite of his sandwich and chew slowly. He’d regressed to high school for a full twenty seconds there as he teetered on the brink of pumping his sister for information. It was vaguely disturbing, but so much of his thinking where Maddy was concerned was off the charts. He loved her more every day, the warmth and size and scope of it expanding never-endingly. He adored her. Worshipped her. Craved her. And his fear of losing her grew exponentially at the same time.

“I’ve been worried about Maddy,” Charlotte said.

He frowned, all his good intentions flying out the window. “What do you mean? Has she said something?”

“No. It’s just that when I’m with her, I always get the sense that she’s covering. She’s smiling and laughing, but I can feel the sadness inside her.”

Max put down his sandwich and pushed the plate away.

“She misses dancing,” he said. “But she’s getting over it. Transition is a hugely difficult time for dancers. That’s why there are counseling services in the U.S. and the U.K. to help dancers come to terms with life after dance, to retrain and find a different path. You’ve got to understand, it’s not just a job Maddy has lost. She’s lost her identity, her community, her routine. It’s going to take time.”

“You sound like a brochure,” Charlotte said.

“I’ve been reading up on it,” he admitted.

“Have you ever thought that this is probably the very worst time that you two could get together?” his sister asked.

Max frowned.

“It’s true, you know it is. She’s a mess. She needs you. You love her. Not exactly the best basis for a relationship.”

“It’s not a relationship,” he forced himself to say.

“You want it to be. Don’t pretend you don’t.”

He reached for the parcel of macaroons. “Thanks for these. I’d better get home.”

Charlotte reached out a hand to stop him leaving.

“Max. I know you think I’m being an interfering cow, but I love you. I want you to be happy more than anything. I think Maddy is great, you know I do. I would love for things to work out between you.”

“But?”

“But she might not be ready. She’s in crisis. In mourning. Confused, anxious about the future.”

“You don’t think she’s with me for the right reasons?” Max asked.

“I don’t think she knows up from down right now. She’s surviving from day to day. So just…I don’t know. Take it easy.”

He laughed humorlessly. “Right. Thanks. I’ll try to remember that.”

He decided to walk home rather than take the Metro. Buds were starting to appear on the trees lining the Seine, and there was a definite hint of warmth in the air. Winter was drawing to a close, and soon it would be spring. The tourists would flood back into the city, and the streets would be full of bikes and pedestrians.

Would Maddy be here to see it?

He wanted to pin her down so badly it hurt. He wanted to declare himself and commit himself and have her do the same, to end the doubt and uncertainty forever. Ten years he’d been waiting for Maddy. Now he had her in his bed, in his life, and he wanted to keep her there.

He stopped on the small pedestrian bridge that joined the Isle de la Cité to the Isle Saint Louis. A busker on a piano accordion played an Edith Piaf tune for the tourists as Max stared down at the rushing gray waters of the Seine.

After long moments his head came up and he turned toward home with renewed purpose.

He would tell her. He would let her know how he felt, how he’d always felt. Then it would be up to her.

A strange mix of anticipation and relief washed over him. Finally, he would know. No more doubt.

He stepped up his pace. Past the Metro stop at St. Paul, into the Jewish quarter. Past the Place des Vosges. Then he was on his street, the peeling red paint of his front door calling him like a beacon.

He balanced the parcel of macaroons on one knee as he fished for his house keys and slid them into the lock.

“Maddy, I’m back,” he called as he walked into the warmth of the apartment. He glanced toward the loft, then the kitchen, then the couch, but Maddy wasn’t anywhere.

“Max.”

His head shot around and he saw Maddy sitting on the floor against the wall, her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She was wearing her pointe slippers and a leotard, and her eyes were so filled with sadness and grief that he felt as though someone had punched him in the gut.

“Maddy,” he said.

He dropped the macaroons onto the nearest table and crossed to her, falling to his knees.

Her skin was covered in gooseflesh and she was shivering. Sweat darkened the fabric of her leotard and her hair was damp. She’d been dancing, he realized. Dancing until she was dripping with sweat and exhausted.

Wordless, he wrapped her in his arms. She clung to him, buried her face in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I was doing okay but once you were gone and I was on my own, I just…fell apart.”

“You don’t need to apologize to me for feeling sad, Maddy,” he said, one hand stroking her hair.

“It’s so big,” she said quietly. “This feeling inside me, this horrible emptiness. I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Maybe you don’t have to do anything with it. Maybe it just is.”

She shivered then, pressed herself closer to him.

“What if it never goes away? What if I feel this sad for the rest of my life? Max, I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do next. I know I need to pull myself together, make some decisions, but there’s nothing I want to do except dance. Nothing.”

She sounded utterly bereft and exhausted. Max closed his eyes and held her tight, wishing he could take away the pain for her.

“Come on, let’s get you into the shower.”

He helped her to her feet and led her into the bathroom, turning on the hot water and kneeling to untie her ribbons. She rested a hand on his head for balance, her fingers in his hair.

“You’re so good to me, Max,” she said.

She peeled off her leotard and stepped into the shower. When he started to draw the curtain across behind her, she caught his hand.

“Aren’t you coming in with me?”

There was a plea in her eyes and he knew what she wanted, needed from him.

Silently he stripped and joined her. Silently he kissed her, his hands sliding onto her breasts. He kissed and caressed and teased her until she was trembling in his arms then he turned off the water and carried her to the loft where he dried her gently and made love to her until she was liquid and lax in his arms.

She fell asleep with a small smile on her lips and a hand curled around his bicep. He lay awake beside her for a long time. Then he slid out from beneath her hand, rolled out of bed and made his way quietly downstairs to his desk.

His address book was there and he picked it up and thumbed through it, thinking of his friends, of past colleagues and contacts. Picking up the phone, he called the first number.

Over the next hour he spoke to half a dozen of his old dancing friends. One was in the Netherlands, two in New York, one in Australia, one in London. He told them what he was looking for and why and for whom. Then he rejoined Maddy. She stirred in her sleep, burrowing into him. He put his arms around her and lay with her hair spread across his chest and his shoulder, the scent of her filling his senses. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply and savored the feel and the smell and the sound of Maddy in his arms.

MADDY WOKE LATER that afternoon to find Max standing beside the bed, a tray in hand.

“Hungry?” he asked.

She blinked and pushed the hair from her eyes. Her body felt sore, tired, and her eyes were gritty. She remembered, then, in a rush of self-consciousness.

“God. I’m so sorry. You must think I’m a fruitcake,” she said.

“I’ve got croissants, quiche and a green salad, and a nice glass of pinot noir for you,” he said, ignoring her apology.

She sat up and he lowered the tray onto her lap. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and helped himself to one of the plates he’d prepared.

She watched him, feeling acutely foolish.

She’d arrived on his doorstep out of nowhere after eight years of sporadic contact, thrown herself on his chest, cried on his shoulder, jumped his body and fallen at his feet in despair. She was like an over-the-top ballet, all high notes and melodrama.

“Maddy. Stop thinking, start eating. I swear I don’t think you’re a fruitcake.”

“Maybe I am.” She picked up her fork. “Penelope Karovska had a nervous breakdown when they retired her. Joulet became an alcoholic.”

“If she wasn’t one already. And you’re not like either of them.”

She sliced off a chunk of quiche with the edge of her fork.

“You’re heartbroken,” he said simply. “Something you love has been taken away from you.”

She stared at the food on the end of her fork, then forced herself to put it in her mouth. Max had bought this for her. While she slept off her crazed dancing bout, he’d prepared food and come up here ready to listen and offer yet more advice and patience and wisdom.

She looked at him, her gaze taking in the charming unevenness of his dark hair, growing out from the harsh cropped style now, the elegant blades of his cheekbones, the full sensuousness of his mouth. He hadn’t shaved today and his jaw was shaded with bristle. His clear gray eyes stared back at her, slightly crinkled at the corners, a question in them.

“What did I do to deserve you?” she asked quietly.

For a moment there was a flare of something in Max’s eyes. Then he blinked and shrugged.

“Something really decadent,” he said. “I’m hoping you’ll give me a live action replay of it later.”

He leered so comically that she had to laugh. She ate another piece of quiche and took a sip of her wine. He told her about his morning moving furniture with Richard, showing off his scraped shin and bruised knuckles. They laughed over Charlotte’s bossiness, then he produced a white parcel with an all-too-familiar name on it.

“How did you get these?” she asked, sitting up straighter. “I thought you were working all morning.”

“I have my ways.”

Reverently she peeled the paper from the box. The scent of sugar and vanilla and almonds rose up to greet her and she inhaled deeply.

“Your country truly has a great gift for doing wonderful things with flour and sugar,” she said.

“Don’t forget butter. We’re no slouches there, either.”

He picked up a macaroon and brought it to her lips.

“One bite. Tell me what it is,” he said.

Her teeth crunched through crisp meringue and into a creamy fondant center. She savored the flavors on her tongue for a few seconds before swallowing.

“Easy. Vanilla and pistachio,” she said smugly.

“Humph. What about this one?”

They worked their way through the box and she only got one wrong. As a reward, Max ate the last macaroon off her belly then slid lower for dessert.

As she fisted her hands in the sheets and arched beneath the teasing, enticing ministrations of his hands and mouth, she felt the last of the sadness and grief she’d experienced drift away. Not gone for good, she knew that, but gone for today. Thanks to Max. Beautiful, sexy, strong, kind, patient, funny Max.

“I want you inside me,” she said as she felt her climax rising. “Now, Max, please.”

She felt as though a new understanding was building inside her, keeping pace with her desire, and she welcomed him into her body with greedy need.

The familiar weight of him, the rasp of his hairy, strong chest against her breasts, the slide of his body inside hers. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held on for dear life, held on to Max, as her orgasm hit her.

He came at the same time and she bit her lip as the fierce thrust and shudder of his body in hers pushed her higher and higher.

Afterward, he rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she sprawled across his chest. His hands stroked her hair and her back and she listened to the thundering of his heart as it slowly returned to normal.

A fierce, warm awareness spread through her, a sense of well-being and belonging. This man…she’d thought she’d known him, top to bottom, inside out when she lived with him years ago. But she had never really looked at him or understood him.

He was…She didn’t have the words for it.

No, that was a lie. She had the words. She simply didn’t know how to say them to him yet.

She frowned, smoothing a hand over his arm, tracing the curve of his muscles. It wasn’t what she’d come to Paris to find. But it had happened anyway.

She’d fallen in love with Max.

It was both a terrifying and an exhilarating thought. All her life, she’d held off from intimacy with men because experience had taught her that intimacy always came hand in hand with demands, because she’d never found a man she’d been prepared to compromise her love of dancing for.

But dancing was no longer part of her life. Briefly she wondered if being forced into retirement had allowed her to see Max differently, allowed her to make room in her heart for something other than ballet. Then she remembered the powerful need to see Max she’d felt the day she’d been given the news her career was over. Was it possible that deep down inside she’d always known that Max was the one?

The phone rang and Max stirred beneath her.

“I’d better get that,” he said.

She murmured her protest and he smiled.

“It might be important. I’m expecting a call.”

She let him edge away from her then shifted onto her belly and inhaled his scent from the sheets, a foolish smile on her face.

She was in love. Possibly for the first time in her life, if the feeling in her chest was anything to go by. It literally ached with fullness, with the need to wrap her arms around him and invite him into her body and protect him and adore him and love him. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, feeling as though she was riding a roller coaster of realization and emotion.

Max. After all these years.

She heard his feet on the stairs as he returned from taking the call. She wondered if her love was in her eyes, blazing there for him to see. She felt as though it was radiating from her body, a physical energy pouring from her like light from a lamp.

She wanted to tell him, to declare herself. And yet she was scared, because he had never said anything to her about his feelings. He had been kind. He desired her. He loved her, she had no doubt, as a friend. But was he in love with her? Could she really be that lucky?

She turned and propped herself up on her elbows as Max stopped at the end of the bed. He still had the phone in one hand, and she saw that he’d pulled on a pair of jeans.

“Maddy, I have some great news for you,” he said.

She frowned, because her mind was totally elsewhere.

“Sorry?”

“I called around, spoke to a few old dancing buddies. Remember how you told me Liza was with the Nederlands Dans Theatre?”

Her frown deepened. “Yes.”

She had a sudden horrible thought. Max hadn’t bought them tickets to a performance, had he? Because she wasn’t up to watching other people dance yet. Certainly not someone she had once shared a stage with. One day, she would enjoy being in the audience at a ballet again. But not yet.

“She phoned to let me know that the company is forming a new offshoot, a sort of collaborative partnership, I guess, headed by some of their senior dancers. People like you, Maddy, who’ve been pushed into retirement before they’re ready. Liza wasn’t sure on the details, but she gave me a number and I called. They’re looking for experienced, skilled dancers, people other companies won’t consider because of their age or injuries. The plan is to choreograph to their strengths, to perform ballets that rely more on the advanced skill and technique of the dancers instead of athleticism and flexibility. I just spoke to Gregers Roby. They’d love to meet you and talk to you about dancing with them, Maddy.”

She stared at him, his words ringing in her ears.

“Dance? But I can’t, Max, my knee…” she said, shaking her head.

“They would play to your strengths, Maddy. Shorter sequences, shared responsibility for leads. Whatever it takes to keep someone with your skill and talent onstage for as long as they can.”

She dropped flat onto her back, staring blindly. She felt dizzy, overwhelmed. She could dance again?

She could dance again?

Hard on the heels of a burgeoning, tentative hope came the realization that Max had done this. He’d contacted his friends, asked around, found something for her. Found a way to give her what she most wanted.

Found a way to send her back into her life, her old life. Her life without him.

“Why?” she asked.

She felt the bed dip as Max sat.

“Because you’re an exquisite dancer. Because they’d kill to have you,” Max said.

“No. Why did you call your friends? I don’t understand.”

There was a short pause, as if he considered his response.

“I knew you were unhappy. I thought if maybe there was a teaching role, choreography, even dance notation available, that maybe…I know you didn’t think you wanted to do any of those things, but I thought that at least you would still be a part of the dance world. You wouldn’t have to give it up entirely. But Liza had heard about this new company being formed, and she made some inquiries for me.”

She closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling, whether she could dare to believe in this potential reprieve.

“They know about my knee?” she asked, in case he hadn’t made it clear enough to them and they thought they’d be talking to a whole dancer. “They know about my injury?”

“Yes, of course. And they still want to talk to you.”

She pressed her hands to her face, overwhelmed.

“Are you okay?” Max asked.

“I can’t believe it,” she said.

She sat up then and faced him.

“I don’t know what to say to you. You’ve given me so much already. Max…you’ve saved my life these past few weeks. And now this…”

His expression remained serious before he smiled.

“You were born to dance, Maddy,” he said.

“Yes.”

She flung herself at him and held him so tightly her joints ached with the effort of it.

“Max. Thank you. Thank you,” she said.

“Maddy.” His arms tightened around her just as firmly.

They sat that way for a long moment, holding each other fiercely. Then a horrible thought hit her.

I’ll have to leave him. I’ll have to leave Max to dance.

No.

The single word resounded like a shout in her mind. No. She couldn’t leave Max. She couldn’t possibly walk away from these feelings.

Max’s grip slackened and she sensed he was about to break their embrace. She couldn’t let him go. She wouldn’t let him go, she decided. As he tried to ease away from her, she maintained the embrace. After a few seconds, he relaxed into it again, intuiting her desire—her need—for the contact.

Quickly she made plans in her mind. The company would be based in the Netherlands somewhere, probably Amsterdam, just a short flight from Paris. She could visit Max between tours, and when she had a break from rehearsals. And he could come visit her. They could take turns. She could watch his sculptures come alive. She could still have him in her life.

Only when she’d organized her thoughts and decided she could have it all did she bring herself to release him.

“They want to see you the day after tomorrow,” Max said. “I know it’s late notice, but they’re in the last stages of planning and your availability was a bit of a wild card for them.”

She widened her eyes in shock, a thousand practical consid-erations hitting her like an avalanche.

“My God. I’ll need to book a flight. Shit, I don’t even have a suitcase. What am I talking about? I came here with barely anything. I’ve got nothing to put in a suitcase.” She laughed, feeling a little dizzy with the newness of it all.

He watched her, his gaze intent.

“Happy, Maddy?” he asked. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

She thought of what lay ahead—the opportunity to dance, and the chance to have Max by her side while she did it. Her two great loves, hand in hand.

“Yes, Max. This is what I wanted.”

IT JUST ABOUT KILLED HIM, but he got through the evening and the next day, and he drove Maddy to the airport for her flight to Amsterdam that night.

He thought about flying with her, holding her hand through the interview, but Maddy didn’t need him for any of that. She knew how to dance without him.

He lay awake for a long time that night, aware of the space in the bed beside him.

Better get used to that, he told himself. The sooner the better.

She called from her hotel room the minute she got in from her interview the next day. He wiped the clay off his hands with a towel and held the phone to his ear with his shoulder as she raved about how nice everyone was and how much she loved the ethos of the new company and how excited she was about their ideas for shows and tours.

“They offered you a place, then?” he asked drily when he could get a word in edgeways.

“Yes! Yes! Didn’t I mention that? God, I’m so excited I don’t know whether to sit or do a handstand. Oh, Max, I wish you were here. We could go out and celebrate.”

He dropped the towel and gripped the receiver.

“You’ll have lots of things to sort out. Your apartment in Australia. You’ll need to find a place in Amsterdam,” he said.

“I know. They want to start rehearsals within the month. There’s so much to sort out. Thank God for the Internet.”

He took a deep breath. “I can get your gear together here, send it on. That will save you one trip and a bit of time, anyway,” he said.

“Oh, no, I’ll come back to Paris. I need to say goodbye to Eloise and Charlotte and talk to you. We need to plan your first visit to Amsterdam, Max,” she said.

His grip tightened on the phone. “It’s a nice idea, Maddy, but probably not a good one.”

There was a short pause.

“Me coming back to Paris? Or you coming to Amsterdam?”

He could hear the hurt in her voice. He steeled himself. “Both, I guess.”

“What about—What about us, Max?” she asked. Her voice was quiet and low. He imagined her sitting in her hotel room, her face crumpled with confusion.

But any hurt she was feeling would soon pass. She had a second chance at her career. The few weeks they’d had together would soon fade into insignificance as she lost herself in her craft again. If they’d ever had any significance in the first place. As Charlotte had so eloquently pointed out, Maddy needing him while he loved her was not a recipe for success. One of these things was definitely not like the other.

“I’ll never forget it, Maddy. But we both know it only happened between us because of what was going on in your life. Let’s quit while we’re ahead,” he said.

There was a long silence. He could hear her breathing on the other end of the phone.

“What about your sculptures? I mean, I’d like to know how you do with everything.”

“Of course. I’ll let you know if I ever get a show, send you pictures. You’re my friend, Maddy. We’ll always be friends.”

Except it would kill him to see her, to talk to her, to hear about her life and how she was getting on without him. He’d do it, because he didn’t want to hurt her and she would be hurt if he cut all contact. But he needed some time between now and whenever he next saw her to get his shit together. To find a way of surviving the next little while with this ache in his chest.

“I’ll get your stuff together tomorrow and send it to you at the hotel,” he said.

“Okay. Thanks.”

She sounded as though she was crying. He closed his eyes and swore silently.

“I’ll miss you, Max,” she said.

“I’ll miss you, too, Maddy.”

There was nothing much else to say. He’d found a way for Maddy to continue living her dream. Now he had to work out how to live his life without her in it.

He ended the call and stood staring at the phone for a long time. Then he walked to the kitchen and dug out the last bottle of cognac from his father’s collection.

He poured himself a drink and took the bottle and the glass with him to the couch. Then he sat down and proceeded to get ball-tearingly wasted.

MADDY DIDN’T KNOW what to do with herself. She sat listening to the dial tone in her hotel room for a full five minutes before it occurred to her to hang up.

Max didn’t want to see her again. He didn’t even want her to come back to Paris to say goodbye properly. He’d just neatly excised her out of his life and waved au revoir without a backward glance.

She stood, then realized she had nowhere to go and sat again.

She simply hadn’t expected it. She’d thought—she’d assumed that what she’d been feeling had been mutual. How could it not be, when her own feelings had been so all-encompassing and compelling?

But apparently not. Apparently Max had decided that their little fling had run its course. He’d found her this opportunity, and now he was going to pack her bags and send her off into the world, their liaison a thing of the past.

Was that all it had been, all it had meant? A liaison? A few weeks of sex between friends, no strings, no emotions, no consequences?

She put her head in her hands and pressed her fingertips to her forehead. How was it possible to feel so happy and so sad all at the same time? Max had found a way for her to dance again, but he’d also gently nudged her out of his apartment and out of his life. Time to move on, Maddy, he’d said in all but words.

I’ll never forget it, Maddy. But we both know it only happened between us because of what was going on in your life.

What did that mean? That he’d been sleeping with her because she needed him? Because she’d been upset? Because she’d turned to him for comfort and, ever her friend, he’d given it?

Nausea swirled in her stomach as her memories of the past month were viewed through this new prism.

Max as her lover out of compassion. Max as her lover out of consideration and concern for a friend.

A sour taste filled her mouth. Surely not? Surely she hadn’t fallen for him while he’d been comforting her?

Then she remembered the look in his eyes when he’d walked toward her sometimes, all hard body and harder erection, ready to claim what he wanted. And the times he’d thrown her onto the bed and made love to her with a greedy passion that had made her knees tremble and her insides melt.

Not a man acting out of friendship or concern. Max had wanted her. He’d said it himself, hadn’t he? He’d always found her attractive. Always wanted to sleep with her.

Now he had. And, for him, their attraction had run its course. While for her, it had burgeoned into something far more profound and life-changing than mere sexual attraction.

She’d fallen in love with him, after ten years.

And he considered her nothing more than a friend.

She huffed out a humorless laugh. It figured that the only time she’d ever really, truly fallen in love she’d fallen for the one man who didn’t want to make demands on her or wrest her away from her career. Far from it. Max didn’t even care enough to make demands.

Like a child releasing a balloon, she let go of the idea, the hope that had been forming in her heart: a life with Max, good times shared with his family, standing proudly by Max’s side as he sent his art out into the world, dancing knowing he was in the audience, watching her.

None of it would happen. She would never again have a chance to hold Eloise’s warm, sweaty hands and look down into her joy-filled face as they danced together. She’d never again exasperate Charlotte with her failure to grasp the intricacies of handmade pastry. And she’d never wake up in Max’s arms again, his body warm and hard against hers.

Dry-eyed, she crawled beneath the covers and pulled the blankets tight around herself.

Thank God she had her dancing, because she honestly did not know what she would do without it.

MAX FROWNED in irritation as he registered the knocking at his front door. He sighed heavily and abandoned the chisel and file he’d been working with to answer the summons.

Charlotte glowered at him when he flung it open.

“I’ve been knocking for ten minutes.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

It was true. He’d been so absorbed in his work that he’d only registered the noise when he’d stepped back to check his progress.

Charlotte trailed after him as he returned to the five-foot-two-inch bronze figure poised beside his workbench. He was removing the marks from the sprues, the channels where the bronze had been poured into the mold made from his original clay sculpture. Two more bronze figures waited beside the first in various stages of completion.

He picked up his file, eyeing the shoulder he’d been working on. It still wasn’t quite right…

Charlotte was huffing and puffing beside him as she surveyed his apartment. He didn’t need to look to know what she was seeing: clothes piled on chairs, dishes overflowing the sink, newspapers in stacks near the door, take-out food containers and empty bottles of wine stacked beside the couch.

“You have to stop living like this. You’re like a caveman. You only come out to get enough food to survive then you hole up back here in your apartment. When was the last time you shaved or did a load of laundry or changed your sheets?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” he said, moving in to work on a molding mark.

“Will you stop that damned noise for five seconds and talk to me? I’m worried about you,” Charlotte said.

He glanced across at her and saw how pale and tense she was.

“There’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine. I’m working. I have a show in two weeks’ time, in case you’d forgotten.”

He still couldn’t believe his luck. He’d been at the foundry supervising the casting of his second figure when Celeste Renou had seen his work. She owned a gallery in the exclusive Place des Vosges and had offered him a show on the spot.

He smiled grimly as he reflected that only Maddy’s absence from his life had made it possible for him to come even close to making her deadline. He’d worked like a madman since the day Maddy left—morning, noon and night—channeling all his energy and regret and anger and frustration and lust and hurt and resentment into his art.

Three months. She’d been gone three months and he still woke to thoughts of her. He still smelled her perfume in his apartment, on his sheets and towels and shirts. He still found long strands of brown hair on his coat, his scarf.

He still loved her.

He was starting to wonder if that would ever change. Perhaps the best he could hope for was that his feelings would become dormant, as they had before. Lie down and play dead—until the next contact with Maddy, the next time he saw her or heard her voice.

“Max, this isn’t about your show or your art or anything except for you. Have you looked in the mirror lately? You look like shit. You’ve lost weight. The homeless man on the corner has better personal hygiene. Talk to me.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re not over Maddy. You’re not even close to being over Maddy, and I’m worried about what it’s doing to you.”

“I’ll survive. The show will be over soon. I promise I’ll shower before then.”

She didn’t smile. She looked as though she was struggling to contain herself.

“Okay, I’m going to say this because I think it needs to be said. You know I loved Maddy. I adored her. But the fact remains that she took off the moment she had a whiff of her career being resuscitated, and she didn’t even bother to say goodbye to any of us. Including you. I’m sure she’s had to learn to be so self-centered to survive in her profession, but it’s not so great for everyone else in her life. Is she worth it, Max? I guess that’s what I’m trying to ask you. Is Maddy worth all this angst and isolation?”

“Leave it, Charlotte.”

“No. I think you need to hear this. While you’re turning into a smelly crazy man, she’s off dancing the light fantastic somewhere. Can’t you see the imbalance? Can’t you see—”

“It wasn’t Maddy’s fault, okay?” he snapped, unable to listen to his sister rail at Maddy when he knew the truth. He’d held his tongue through Charlotte’s shock at Maddy’s abrupt departure and Eloise’s disappointment at losing her dancing teacher. He hadn’t said a word. But for some reason, the closer the date for the opening of his show came, the more it chafed on him that he’d let his sister assume the worst about Maddy.

“Maddy didn’t get a job offer and just take off. I found the opportunity for her through an old friend, set up an interview for her, encouraged her to go. And she wanted to come back to Paris to say goodbye, but I told her not to. So don’t blame her if you’re upset. Blame me.”

Charlotte was openmouthed with shock.

“You sent Maddy away?” she said, her voice rising on a high note of incredulity.

“I found a way for her to dance again.”

“In another country. And then you told her not to come back?” Charlotte’s face was creased with confusion. “Why would you do that to yourself when you love her so much?”

He threw the file onto his workbench.

“You saw what she was like. She was brokenhearted about having to retire. I found her a second chance to do something she loved.”

Charlotte sank into a chair. “My God. I always knew you had a Sir Galahad complex, but this takes the cake.”

“I wanted her to be happy,” he said defensively.

“I got that, you noble idiot. Did you at least tell her how you felt before she left?”

He looked at her but said nothing.

Charlotte swore loud and long. “Max! Are you telling me you packed Maddy off and you never said a word to her about how you feel?”

His continued silence was answer enough. Charlotte shot to her feet, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation.

“All this time I’ve been angry with Maddy for abandoning you, and she was the one I should have felt sorry for. Why didn’t you say something to her before she left, Max?”

“There was no point.”

“Why?”

“Because I know how she feels. I’ve always known how she feels.”

Charlotte closed her eyes and made a sound like a kettle boiling.

“You are such a…man!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have no idea how Maddy feels.”

“I’ve known her for ten years. I know exactly how she feels.”

“No, you don’t. You think you know, but you don’t, because you never asked her. You never told her how you feel, and you never asked her how she feels.”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said stubbornly.

Charlotte stepped close and grabbed his arm, her eyes intense as they bored into him. “You don’t know that.”

He stared at her, and she shook his arm.

“You sent her to Amsterdam without telling her you didn’t want her to go. How do you think she must have felt, Max? First you find her a job thousands of miles away, then you drive her to the airport and tell her not to bother coming back. My God. Even if she didn’t love you she must have felt as though she’d overstayed her welcome.”

For the first time he considered what had happened from Maddy’s point of view. She’d been thrilled about the new role with the Nederlands Dans Theatre. He knew he was right about that. But she’d spoken about him visiting her in Amsterdam. And she’d wanted to come back to Paris to sort things out with him.

What if his sister was right? What if he’d pushed Maddy away when he should have been pulling her close? What if he’d been so busy giving her what he thought she wanted and protecting himself that he’d destroyed his one chance at happiness?

“I’ve spent so long believing it would never happen between us I couldn’t see any other way forward,” he finally admitted.

“Call her.”

He shook his head. There were things he needed to say that couldn’t be said over a phone. He needed to see her in person, to look into her eyes.

“She’s coming for the show at the end of the month,” he said.

“You could fly over and see her before then. After you spend about a week in the shower detoxing and de-fleaing yourself.”

“No.”

An idea was forming. He reached for his diary, flicking through the pages. There was almost enough time. Hell, he’d make the time if he had to.

“Max…”

“No. There’s something I want to do first. Something I need to do,” he said.

It was an idea he’d had for a while, something that had been tickling at the back of his mind ever since he finished the last model for his full-size bronzes. A smaller piece. An intensely personal, private piece to complete the series.

He crossed to his workbench, started assembling the materials he’d need.

“Here we go. The mad genius at work,” Charlotte said.

He barely heard her. He was too gripped by what he needed to do. Somehow, he needed to show Maddy how he felt, to make her understand. If he was going to declare himself, he was going to do it right.

MADDY CHECKED her lipstick for the fourth time as the taxi turned into the narrow streets leading to Place de Vosges. She was nervous. No point kidding herself. She had no idea how she was going to handle seeing Max again.

She’d spoken to him exactly three times since the night he’d told her not to return to Paris. He’d called to let her know when her things would be arriving, then she’d called him to ask about Eloise, concerned the little girl was missing her dancing lessons. She needn’t have bothered—Max had already stepped in to take her place and he’d reported Eloise was thriving.

The last time they’d spoken he’d invited her to his show. It had been awkward between them. She hadn’t known what to ask, where to start. The same question kept bubbling up inside her, begging for release.

Did it mean so little to you? Do I mean so little to you?

She tightened her grip on her purse as the cab rolled to a stop. She’d already pulled a twenty-euro note from her wallet and she handed it over then slid from the car.

Warm spring air danced around her calves as she slowly walked along the elegant, covered walkway of Place des Vosges. More than any other part of Paris it reminded her of the Hollywood ideal of a European setting—a huge square bordered on four sides by identical brick buildings, all uniformly five stories high, all in red brick. The square in the middle had been nothing but gravel and stark, bare trees when she left. Tonight, it was filled with Parisians enjoying the warm weather, picnicking on the grass, studying, kissing, laughing beneath arching green trees.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed Paris until the taxi had hit the old center and she’d caught her first glimpse of cobblestones. Max lived here. That was why she loved it. Paris was the city where she’d fallen in love.

There were several galleries facing the Place des Vosges, but only one was filled with elegantly dressed people sipping champagne.

Max’s opening. She was full of so many different emotions she felt she might overflow. Pride, love, hurt—she didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

Her high heels tapped on the stone walkway as she made her way to the gallery entrance. She couldn’t see anyone she knew—Charlotte, Richard, Max—and she tried to calm herself. The gallery interior was stark white with high arched ceilings, all the better to show off the art, she guessed. There were so many people present she couldn’t see Max’s work, and she started to move into the crowd, determined to see at last the fruits of their time together.

She’d sat for him for hours in the end. When he told her he’d been offered a show, she’d wondered what his work would be like. If he had used her as his model, or if he’d found someone else. Yvette, or another dancer.

“Maddy. There you are!”

She turned to see Charlotte bearing down on her, arms wide, a glass of champagne in one hand.

“You look gorgeous, as always,” Charlotte said, holding Maddy’s hands out to the side so she could inspect her deep red velvet sheath.

“That can only be French,” she said with a knowing eye.

Maddy smiled. “Actually, it’s Italian,” she said.

Charlotte pulled a face. “We’ll keep it quiet, no one will know.”

Maddy’s eyes slid over her shoulder, searching the crowd.

“He’s toward the back. We both saw you arrive but he’s stuck with some boring arts patron who keeps fondling Max’s arm like a pet dog or something,” Charlotte said.

“Oh.”

“Ah. Here he is now.”

Maddy swiveled on her heel, her heart in her throat, her palms suddenly sweaty.

Her eyes ate him up, taking in his elegantly messy hair, the sharp lines of his face, the crispness of his white shirt and midnight-navy suit. Cuff links glinted at his wrists and his shoulders looked impossibly wide.

“Maddy,” he said.

His gaze scanned her face intently before finally his eyes locked with hers and they were staring at each other for the first time in three months.

A deluge of memories hit her: Max looking into her eyes as he made love to her in the shower, Max laughing at her disastrous attempts at cooking, the solemn watchfulness on his face as he’d told her about the opportunity in Amsterdam.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

Heat raced up her spine as his gaze skimmed over her breasts and down her waist. She still found him enormously attractive, even though they were only supposed to be friends now.

Not for the first time, she wondered how she would survive tonight with her pride intact. How was she going to stop herself from telling him how she felt, what she wanted?

“This is a wonderful turnout,” she said because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You must be pleased.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been waiting for you to get here.”

Another wave of heat raced up her spine.

Don’t get carried away, Maddy. He’s just being friendly.

But there was something in his manner, the way he reached for her hand, the way he hesitated before threading his fingers through hers.

“There’s something I want to show you,” he said.

He led her deeper into the gallery, towing her behind him. She studied the strong column of his neck, the white collar of his shirt. Her gaze dipped to his backside, remembering the flex and contract of his hard muscles as he pumped into her. Her breath caught in her throat and her hand twitched in his.

Suddenly she was filled with an intense longing. She wanted things to be the way they had been during those magical few weeks in Max’s apartment. Even in the midst of her grief over losing her career, she’d never been happier. And now she had her career but no Max. She knew which state she preferred, which grief was surmountable and which was not.

The crowd parted before Max, people smiling and watching him avidly as he passed. Without even seeing his work Maddy understood that he was a hit. People watched him as if he was a star, a somebody.

Then a man stepped to one side and she saw the first sculpture—a ballerina arching forward in a perfect arabesque, the muscles of her slim frame straining. Her face was lifted, her expression serene, as though she was exactly where she needed to be.

The detail in the piece was extraordinary—the curve of the dancer’s naked breasts, the texture of curls between her thighs, the hollow beneath her armpit, the lines around her mouth and eyes. For a second Maddy fell victim to a wave of acute self-consciousness. This was her naked body, her face, depicted so faithfully, in such detail. This was so much more than what she’d imagined when she’d agreed to model for Max. He’d captured her forever. And then the self-consciousness was washed away as awe at his skill, at his power, swept over her.

“She’s beautiful,” she said, overwhelmed by Max’s talent. “I almost feel as though she’s about to move.”

“She’s you, Maddy,” he said quietly. He tugged on her hand. “There’s more.”

He led her to the next dancer, caught forever in the middle of a pirouette. Maddy looked into her own face, cast in bronze, the expression there a mixture of pain and joy.

“Do I really look like that when I dance?” she asked him.

“Yes. When you danced for me.”

The next figure was a dying swan, the dancer languishing at their feet in despair. Then there was a dancer executing a grand plié, and finally a seated posture, the ballerina contemplating her sore feet as she slipped off her shoes in a quiet moment.

“Well, those are definitely my bent toes,” she said drily. “When did you do this sketch?”

“When you weren’t looking. I wanted a quiet, private moment.”

He’d found it. She was blown away by the beauty and energy and fineness of his work. Blown away, also, by the fact that all the dancers were her. He hadn’t used Yvette or anyone else.

Max was watching her expectantly and she realized that there was one last sculpture remaining, a smaller figure placed beyond the adult dancers.

She took a step forward. Then her hand went to her mouth as she understood what she was looking at.

A little girl stood there, one hand on the barre, her feet turned out, the other hand raised over her head in a graceful arc. The little girl’s head was tilted so she could follow the line of her raised hand with her eyes, and the look on her face was pure joy, the expression of a little soul who had found her calling in life.

Maddy’s eyes filled with tears.

“I thought I was finished when I’d cast the first six. But then I realized that I wasn’t,” he said.

“How did you…?” The resemblance to her four-year-old self was uncanny.

“You had a picture in your room a long time ago,” he said.

“And you remembered?”

He nodded. She studied the figure and a slow understanding dawned on her.

She saw the deep, abiding love that was evident in every line of the figure and the hollowness that she’d carried inside her for three months evaporated as she turned to look at Max. He couldn’t have made this sculpture and not feel something more than friendship for her. It simply wasn’t possible. Surely…?

He was holding something in his hands, and she frowned as she recognized it.

“My scarf,” she said stupidly.

“Maddy, I’ve been wanting to say this to you for a long time. Ten years, in fact. I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I met you. I’ve loved you every minute since. This scarf…well, frankly, I stole it so I could have something to remember you by. But I’m giving it back tonight because I’d rather have you.”

For a moment all she could do was stare at him. What he was saying changed her world. Changed everything. Their shared history. Her present. Her future. She blinked, trying to come to terms with what she’d just heard.

Max had always loved her. Always. When they were living together. When they were dancing together. When he was offering her comfort and solace.

All that time he’d loved her.

Suddenly she noticed how tight his jaw was, how square his shoulders were. Tension emanated from every muscle. He was waiting for her, waiting for her reaction. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry she was so touched by how uncertain he was.

“Max,” she said. She had no words for the feeling expanding in her chest. Shaking her head at her inability to articulate her emotions, she settled for reaching up and holding his face as she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. His hands found her face, and they pressed their mouths together in an intense, fierce meeting of souls.

Finally she broke the kiss and looked up into his face, just inches from hers.

“Max, I love you, too. I’ve spent the past three months living without you and I never want to be that unhappy again in my life.”

For a heartbeat Max stared into her face. She saw how deep the doubt went in him, and it almost broke her heart as she understood how hard it must have been for him to love her for so long without any acknowledgment from her.

Then his eyes cleared and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Maddy,” he said. He kissed her, his tongue sliding into her mouth, his body pressing against hers, his hands sliding into her hair to hold her steady so he could drink his fill of her.

They broke the kiss to stare at each other again. Maddy found herself smiling the same goofy, slightly bemused smile that Max was smiling.

“I thought you sent me away because you were sick of me,” she said.

“I sent you away because I wanted you to be happy, to have what you wanted,” he said.

“I wanted you. Only you. The chance to dance again was a nice surprise, a lovely chance for me to say goodbye to a part of my life. But you’re my future, Max.”

His smile broadened into a grin as he absorbed her words and he pulled her into his arms, lifted her and spun her in a circle. He was about to kiss her again when the sound of a clearing throat alerted them to the fact that they had an audience.

They glanced up, registering for the first time the circle of interested art lovers surrounding them. Charlotte stepped forward, one eyebrow raised.

“I think the Americans have a phrase for this, yes?” she said. “Get a room? Is that it?”

Max threw back his head and laughed. It was the best sound Maddy had ever heard in her life, but suddenly tears were squeezing from beneath her eyelids and running down her face. Max’s smile faded and he reached out to cup her cheek.

“Maddy, don’t cry,” he said, his face a picture of dismay.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry for not understanding sooner. For not seeing. All those times I climbed into your bed. All those times I bitched to you about my boyfriends…”

He shook his head and pressed his fingers to her lips.

“No. No looking back.”

“But—”

“No. From this moment on there is only now, and tomorrow. Nothing else matters.”

He started pulling her toward the front of the gallery. A tall white-haired woman intercepted them.

“Max! Where are you going?” she asked, eyebrows disappearing into her white hair.

“I need to consult with my muse,” he said.

The woman looked outraged. “Now? You need to consult with your muse now?”

Max shot Maddy a dirty, dirty look.

“Definitely. And at great length.”

He pulled Maddy out into the street.

“Who was that?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Gallery owner.”

“Oh my God.”

She pulled her hand free and raced back to the gallery entrance. “We’ll be back. Half an hour.” She thought again, remembering what it was like when she and Max were skin to skin, how crazy they got. “An hour, tops.”

Max slid his arms around her and kissed her soundly when she rejoined him. She could feel how hard he was, his erection pressing against her belly. She was so ready for him she wanted to pull him into a doorway and have her wicked way with him on the spot.

“An hour?” he said. “I’m going to need more than an hour to show you how much I love you, Maddy.”

“I know. But we’ve got the rest of our lives, right?”

He stared into her face, his fingers curling possessively into her hips.

“Yes. We have forever.”

Then he took her home.

SIX MONTHS LATER, Maddy stood in the wings and waited for her musical cue. Through a gap in the curtain she could see a sliver of the audience in the stalls and the dim shadow of the dress circle in the background. She lifted her gaze to Chagall’s roof, savoring the sight, the moment.

It felt absolutely right that her last performance as a prima ballerina should be here at the Opera Garnier. Paris was her home now. And this was a special place, a fitting place to draw the line under her career.

She would miss performances like this one. A part of her would always grieve the end of her career. But she had new things to look forward to in life. Dancing wasn’t her earth, moon and stars anymore.

She smiled as she thought of Max, her husband now for all of a month. His would be one of the first faces she saw when she took to the stage, sitting front row center.

She took a deep breath. She loved him so much. More every day.

He’d sold every piece from his debut exhibition and was working on a second show. They’d moved to a new apartment two months ago, hanging on to his old one so he could convert it into his atelier. It was going to be tough for the next few years, financially speaking, but she had every confidence that Max was going to have a great art career.

She was looking forward to modeling for him again, in between her new studies at the Sorbonne. She was training to become a dance therapist. Her work with Eloise had shown her that there were many different ways to weave dancing into her life and she planned to specialize in working with autistic children if she could. The idea of going back to school after so many years away was frankly terrifying, but she was determined to rise to the occasion. She knew how to work hard, after all. Hopefully the rest would follow.

She stepped back from the curtain as the music swelled. It was time to say goodbye.

She found her starting point, took a deep belly breath…

And then she was on the stage, defying gravity, doing the thing she loved, had always loved. She savored each pirouette, every arabesque. Her last performance. Her swan song, her goodbye to her first love.

In the audience, she caught sight of Max’s face. She could see his pride, see the tears shimmering in his eyes.

Her heart lifting, she gave herself over to the music and danced.