Postcards From…Verses Brides Babies And Billionaires. Rebecca Winters

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,