Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

      She could hear Max laughing ruefully behind her. She had a smile on her face, too, as she hastily pulled on underwear, a black turtleneck and jeans. She secured her hair in a low bun on the back of her neck and decided she was presentable.

      “Let me guess. You were busy ‘working,’” Charlotte was saying as Maddy joined them.

      “Something like that.”

      Max was making coffee and Charlotte stabbed a sisterly finger into his chest.

      “I don’t know what’s worse—worrying about you being single or worrying about you and Maddy wearing each other out.”

      Max laughed. “You’ll be the first person I call from the hospital.”

      “How delightful for me,” Charlotte said.

      She caught sight of Maddy and her face lit up.

      “Maddy!” She drew Maddy into a hug, kissing both her cheeks warmly.

      After a rocky start, she and Charlotte had decided they liked each other. Maddy had had several more dancing sessions with Eloise, and Charlotte was warmly grateful for the pleasure her daughter found in the experience. Underneath all the stress and tiredness of managing two children on her own, Max’s sister was as charming as Max himself, and Maddy had quickly discovered she liked having a female friend who discussed more than the freshest gossip from the ballet world or the effectiveness of the latest diuretic tablet or corn pads.

      As Charlotte began to regale them with an update on Richard’s search for a new job, Maddy felt the weight of Max’s stare. She glanced over, and sure enough he was watching her, one hip propped against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest. He looked very serious—brooding, almost. As soon as she made eye contact with him he smiled and the moment of intensity was gone, leaving her wondering if she’d imagined it.

      “I can’t believe I’m going to voluntarily subject myself to this, but tell me what you two are up to this afternoon,” Charlotte said, crossing her legs and raising an eyebrow in inquiry.

      Over the past weeks, Maddy and Max had developed a routine of sorts. Most mornings she sat for him, then he worked on his sketches and other projects until midafternoon. After that he took her out into the city, showing her his Paris. So far they had toured Père Lachaise, explored the tangled streets of Montmartre, visited the Picasso museum and wound their way through the city via the secret covered corridors that made it possible for a pedestrian to walk under cover from Montmartre all the way across the city to the Palais Royal.

      She didn’t kid herself that their excursions were for any other reason than to entertain and distract her from her evercircling thoughts. Max shared a bed with her—he knew she woke in the night sometimes, grief welling up inside her for the life she used to live. She never let herself cry, because it never made her feel any better. Still she couldn’t stop herself from remembering and regretting and mourning.

      Pointless. A huge waste of time. But she couldn’t stop it. She’d spent almost her whole life wanting to be a ballerina, striving, enduring—and now it was all over. It was going to take some time to adjust. She kept thinking that if only she had known, consciously, that this was going to happen, she could have savored her last season, stored up memories, made each moment on stage count. But she hadn’t. And she couldn’t go back and change anything. It was what it was.

      Maddy looked to Max. “We haven’t decided yet.”

      “I was thinking the Rodin museum,” he said.

      “I find it hard to believe that there won’t be a picnic associated with this expedition,” Charlotte said archly. “Or at least a visit to a bonbon shop or a patisserie.”

      Maddy laughed. “Max, you see how predictable we are?”

      “I can live with it,” he said.

      “You’re going to make me fat.”

      He loved feeding her all the things she’d denied herself for so many years. Chocolates. Éclairs. Macaroons. She’d nearly cried when she tasted her first passion fruit and chocolate macaroon from Pierre Hermé in St. Germain last week. Max had bought one for her every day since.

      Charlotte stood and collected her handbag.

      “Before I forget—Richard wants to go back to Côte d’Azur again this summer, and it looks as though we can get the same house,” she said to Max. “What about you? Do you have plans to go away?”

      “Not yet,” Max said.

      Maddy knew that the city basically shut down for the month of August as Parisians headed for the coast for their summer holidays. Charlotte had already told her that good holiday houses were as scarce as hens’ teeth, so it didn’t surprise Maddy that she was planning ahead.

      “You and Maddy should come with us. There’s a private apartment attached to the back of the house—it would be perfect for you two,” Charlotte said.

      Maddy looked at Max, not sure how to handle the question. August was months away. She didn’t even know if she would be here next week. More importantly, she didn’t know if Max wanted her to be here, either. It was one thing to have great sex, as often as possible, but it was another thing entirely to start making plans together.

      “I don’t think so,” he said. “But thanks for thinking of us.”

      Charlotte started to say more then shrugged. “Fine. But if you change your mind, the offer is still there.”

      She kissed them both goodbye then left, letting in a blast of chilly air before the door closed behind her.

      Maddy found herself focusing on the hem of her sweater, fiddling with a stray thread there rather than risking eye contact with Max. She was hurt by Max’s easy rejection of his sister’s offer. Was he so certain she would be gone from his life by summer?

      Even as the thought circled her mind, Maddy kicked herself. She couldn’t hang around Max’s apartment, existing on the fringes of his life for six months, even if he wanted her to. She had her own life to live—whatever that might turn out to be.

      “If you keep picking at that, it’s going to fall apart.”

      She glanced up to find Max standing close to her, his gray eyes unreadable.

      “I know.” She released her grip on her sweater.

      Something of what she’d been thinking must have shown on her face, because he cocked his head to one side as he studied her.

      “You didn’t want to go to Côte d’Azur, did you?” he asked lightly.

      “Of course not. It’s ages away. I’ll probably be teaching Pilates at Bondi Beach by then,” she said.

      There was a small pause before he smiled. “I thought you were going to be a personal trainer.”

      Over the weeks, they’d made a game out of cycling through the various professions most dancers wound up in once they’d retired. So far, they’d toyed with Maddy becoming a ballet mistress, an arts administrator and a personal trainer.

      “That’s so last week,” she said with mock disdain.

      The moment of odd tension was gone as they bantered back and forth. Max helped her into her coat and she wound his scarf around his neck, ensuring he’d be well protected from the wind.

      Hats and gloves on, they walked to Rue de Rivoli, stopping along the way to buy a bottle of wine, a baguette, some cheese and a bag of grapes. Max led her to what had become her favorite picnic place, the small park at the very tip of the Isle de la Cité, the home of Notre Dame. Despite the fact that the garden had been reduced to a bunch of twigs sticking out of gravel at this time of year, Maddy loved it and dragged Max to it as often as possible.

      “It’s a terrible cliché, coming here, you know,” he told her as they sat on a bench and tore their bread into chunks. “Perhaps the most clichéd picnic venue