Postcards From… Collection. Maisey YatesЧитать онлайн книгу.
you miss it?” she asked.
The apartment had been in their family for two generations. He could remember his grandmother serving Sunday meals in the dining room, the family gathered around. But he could remember more clearly his father’s pain and suffering.
“No. You?”
She shook her head. “Too many sad memories.”
He locked up for the last time and handed the key to his sister. They parted ways in the street and he walked two blocks to the Metro. After changing lines twice, he climbed the stairs of the St. Paul station and emerged into the weak afternoon sunlight.
It was early February, and he could see his breath in the air. He stopped to buy a bottle of wine and some fresh-baked bread on his way home. Then he let himself into the former shop that he’d leased on a cobblestoned side street of Le Marais.
His footsteps echoed as he made his way across a wide expanse of floorboards to the kitchen.
Normally a place the size of his loft would cost a mint to rent, but he’d managed to discover the last shitty, unrenovated hole in the upwardly mobile third arrondissement. What it lacked in ambience, hygiene and plumbing it gained in space. More than enough to accommodate his bed, a couch, an armchair, a kitchen table and all his workshop materials and leave him with plenty of room to fill with his art.
His art.
He studied the handful of small sculptures and the one full-size figure in bronze that stood next to his workbench.
For a long time he’d fooled himself into thinking that his sketches and small-scale sculptures were a hobby, mindless doodling to chew up the time between tending to his father’s needs and fill the hole that losing dancing had left. He’d always drawn and experimented with clay, ever since he was a kid. It was harmless, he’d figured, pointless.
But as his skill had increased, so had his drive to capture more and more of his ideas in clay, plaster, bronze—each time bigger and better than the time before. He’d pushed away the urge as it became more insistent, but when his father’s health had deteriorated a few months ago, he’d found himself thinking about what would happen after his father had found his peace. Max’s hands had itched as he imagined what he could do with his art if he had more time, more space, more energy.
The past eight years had taught him that life was never predictable, often cruel, and even more often capricious. Men plan and God laughs—he’d often thought the quote should be men dream and God laughs.
But he’d had a gutful of what-ifs. He’d had eight years of being on hold, in limbo, living for someone else.
He and Charlotte had inherited a small sum of money from their father’s estate. There would be a little more when the apartment sale was finalized—but not much since they’d taken out a mortgage to fund their father’s care—and Max had decided to recklessly, perhaps foolishly, use his share to give himself a year to prove himself. The rent paid, food supplied, his materials purchased. And if he had nothing to show for it at the end of it all, so be it. At least he would have followed one of his dreams through to its conclusion.
His hands and face felt grubby from the hours amongst dusty books. He stripped and took a quick shower. His hair damp, clad in a pair of faded jeans and a cashmere sweater that had seen better days, he slit the seal on the merlot he’d bought and placed a single glass on the counter.
The sound of his doorbell echoed around the loft. He eyed the distant front door cautiously.
He wouldn’t put it past Charlotte to pay a sneak visit after the conversation they’d had today, trying to catch him in the act of having a sex life so she could truly rest easy.
He ran his hands through his hair. His sister was going to find out her brother was chasing a rainbow sometime. Might as well be today.
His bare feet were silent as he made his way to the white-painted glass front door. He could see a small silhouette on the other side of the glass and he frowned. Too short for Charlotte. And too slight for either Jordan or Marie-Helen.
He twisted the lock and pulled the door open.
And froze when he saw who was standing on his doorstep.
“Maddy.”
“Max,” she said.
Then she threw herself into his arms.
MADDY PUSHED HERSELF away from Max’s embrace and brushed the tears from the corners of her eyes. He appeared utterly blown away to see her. She suddenly realized how stupid she must seem, arriving on his doorstep unannounced and crying all over him.
She was feeling kind of blown-away herself. It had been eight years since she’d last seen his face, and she was surprised at how much older and grown-up he seemed. He was thirty-one now, of course. No longer a young man. She hadn’t expected him to remain untouched by time, but the reality of him was astonishing. He almost looked like a stranger, with new lines around his mouth and eyes. His formerly long, tousled hair was cut short in a utilitarian buzz cut. His body was different, too. As a dancer, he’d been all lean muscle and fluid grace, but the man standing before her seemed bigger, wider, taller than the friend she remembered.
She laughed self-consciously as she realized they were both simply staring at each other.
“Always knew how to make an entrance, didn’t I?” she said.
“It’s great to see you,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were in town. Where are you dancing? Or perhaps I should ask who’s trying to steal the great Maddy Green away from the SDC?”
She opened her mouth to tell him her news, but nothing came out. Instead, a sob rose up from deep inside and she felt her face crumple.
“Hey,” Max said. He moved closer, one hand reaching out to catch her elbow. “What’s going on? Who’s got you so upset?”
She pressed her face into the palms of her hands. She couldn’t look at him when she said it. God, she could barely make herself say the words.
“They retired me. I had a knee reconstruction in July after I tore my anterior cruciate ligament. It’s been coming along well, getting stronger, but the company’s surgeon won’t clear me to dance. So it’s all over,” she said, the words slipping between her fingers.
“Maddy. I’m so sorry,” Max said.
She dropped her hands. “I didn’t know what to do, where to go. And then I thought of you. And I caught the first plane to Paris. Didn’t even bother to pack,” she said. She tried to laugh at her own crazy impulsiveness, but the only sound that came out was an odd little hiccup.
Max’s eyebrows arched upward and his gaze flicked to her dance bag, lying on the ground at her feet where she’d dropped it when he opened the door.
She understood his surprise. What kind of person took off around the world on the spur of the moment and lobbed on the doorstep of a man she hadn’t seen in over eight years?
“Guess I wasn’t really thinking straight,” she said.
An icy breeze raced down the alley, rattling windows and cutting through the thin wool of her sweater. She shivered and Max shook his head.
“You’re freezing.” He tugged her through the doorway as he spoke, reaching to grab her bag at the same time.
“Merde. This thing is still as heavy as I remember,” he said as he hefted the black suede bag.
The ghost of a smile curved her lips. Max used to give her a lot of grief about all the rubbish she hauled around. He always wondered how someone as small as she needed so much stuff. One time he’d even tipped the entire contents