Postcards From… Collection. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Only eight years. Perhaps you could—”
“No,” he said, more sharply than he’d intended. “Eight years is a lifetime in dance, Charlie. I’m too old now. Lost my flexibility, my edge.”
And he’d moved on, too. When the call had come through eight years ago that his father had been in a car accident, Max had flown straight from Sydney to Paris in the hope that he’d be able to say goodbye before nature took its course. As it turned out, he’d had eight years to say his goodbyes.
As soon as it became apparent that their father would survive his injuries but be confined to a wheelchair, Max had made the changes necessary to ensure his father’s comfort. He’d resigned from the avant-garde Danceworks company where he’d been earning himself a name in Australia and arranged to have his belongings shipped to Paris. Then he had moved into his father’s apartment in the genteel, refined arrondissement of St. Germain and started the renovations that had made it possible for him to care for his father at home.
It hadn’t been an easy decision and there had been moments—especially at the very beginning when he and his father had been acclimating to their new roles—when Max had bitterly regretted his choices. He’d left so much behind. His career, his dreams, his friends. The woman he loved.
But Alain Laurent had been a generous and affectionate parent. When their mother had died when Max was ten years old and Charlotte just eight, Alain had done everything in his power to ensure they never felt the lack of a mother’s love. He had been a man in a million, and for Max there had never been any doubt that he and Charlotte would do whatever was necessary to make the remainder of his life as rewarding as possible.
“You could have left it to me. Thousands of men would have,” Charlotte said.
“On behalf of my gender, I thank you for your high opinion of us,” he said drily.
“You know what I mean.”
He stopped and faced his sister.
“Let’s put this to bed, once and for all. I did what I wanted to do, okay? He was my father, too. I loved him. I wanted to care for him. I couldn’t have lived with it being any other way. Just as you couldn’t have lived with having to choose between Richard and your children and Dad. End of story.”
Charlotte opened her mouth then shut it again without saying anything.
“Good. Can we move on now?”
Charlotte shrugged. Then, slowly, she smiled. “I’d forgotten how bossy you can be. It’s been a while since you read me the riot act.”
“Admit it, you miss it,” he said, glad she’d dropped the whole gratitude thing.
Of course, willingly supporting his father didn’t stop the what-ifs from leaking out of his subconscious in the unguarded moments before falling asleep at night.
What if he’d been able to follow his dream and dance in London, New York, Moscow, Paris? Would he have made it, achieved soloist status and seen his name in lights?
And what would have happened with Maddy? Would he ever have told her how he felt? How much he loved her—and not just as her reliable friend and sometime dancing partner?
As always when he thought of Maddy, he pictured her on stage, standing in a circle of light, her small, elegant body arched into a perfect arabesque. Then came the memories of her as a woman, laughing with him on the ratty couch in the dump of a house they’d shared with two other dancers, or lounging on the back porch in the hot evening air.
False memories, he knew. Gilded by time and distance. Maddy couldn’t possibly be as funny, as warm and beautiful and sensual as he remembered her. He’d turned her into a symbol of everything he’d given up.
“So, what are you going to do now?” Charlotte asked as she slid a box across the worn parquetry floor to join the others he’d stacked against the wall.
He deliberately misunderstood her.
“Finish packing these boxes, then find someplace warm to have a cold demi of beer,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “I mean next. What are you going to do now that you’ve got your life back?”
He shrugged, even as his thoughts flew to the apartment he’d rented in the Marais district across the river. His sister hadn’t seen it yet. It had been hell holding her off, and he would have to tell her his plans soon, but he wasn’t ready for her disapproval yet. He was still coming to terms with his own audacity himself.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” he lied.
Charlotte dusted her hands on her butt. “Well, you should. You could use Dad’s money to go to university, get a degree. Or put a deposit on a place of your own. Start making a life for yourself. Hell, you could even get a girlfriend. Really shake things up.”
It was Max’s turn to roll his eyes. “Why is it that married people always think that everyone else would be happier in a relationship?”
“Because it’s true. And you’re made to be a husband, Max. If any man should have children, it’s you. They’d be gorgeous, for starters. And talented. And smart and kind.”
“Why does it sound like you’re writing copy for a personals ad?”
“Relax. I haven’t stooped that low. Yet. But I do have some wonderful friends I’d love you to meet.”
“No.”
“Why not? Give me one good reason why you don’t want to meet an attractive, available woman?”
“I’ll find my own woman when I’m ready.” The truth was, the next twelve months were going to be challenging enough without adding a new relationship into the mix.
“For God’s sake. Surely you must want the sex, at the very least? How many years can a man survive on hand relief alone, anyway?” Charlotte asked.
He nearly choked on his own tongue. Half amused, half surprised, he stared at his sister. She was many things, but comfortable with earthy talk was not one of them.
“Hand relief? Are you serious?”
“What’s a better word for it? Happy ending? Spanking the monkey? Choking the chicken?”
He laughed because he couldn’t help himself. “Are you done yet?”
“Max, I’m serious,” Charlotte said.
He saw with surprise that there were tears in her eyes. “Look, your concern for my…um…monkey is sweet. I think. But I’m not going to discuss my sex life with my sister.”
“That’s because you don’t have one. And it’s such a waste, Max. I know women who would crawl over broken glass to get to you. Let me hook you up with one of them.”
He held up a hand. “Spare me the broken-glass crawlers. Please. And take my word for it that I have a sex life.”
He thought of Marie-Helen and Jordan, women he’d slept with on a casual basis over the years. He liked them both, he enjoyed the sex, but he was not compelled by either woman. That lack of engagement had been important in his former life, when all his energy had been focused on his father’s well-being.
“Well. I hope that’s true.” Charlotte studied his face. “I want you to have all the things you’ve missed out on.”
“I get that. Thank you,” he said. “Now, can we talk about something else? Anything else, in fact. Global warming? The extortionate price of tropical fruit?”
Charlotte let the subject go. They spent another two hours boxing up the library. By the time they exited the apartment, they were both dusty and weary.
“What time are you letting the dealer in tomorrow?” he asked.
“Around ten.”
They