NEW LIFE

A MAX SKINNER STORY

By Christa

After his wife died, Max buried himself in his work. Leaving the chateau and the vineyard in the capable hands of vingeron Francis Duflot, his wife, Ludivine, and his cousin Christie, who now shared ownership of the place with him. He went back to London and started again. Not a new career, he didn't need one, but simply to work as hard as he could in an attempt to forget everything.  This time, not in any way, was there lightness in the money game or humor in the slandering of his fellow sharks.  Oh, he could still play the game of gain with almost no effort, only now it felt like...nothing. For a long time.
 

He continued in this emptiness for a couple of years, hiding his heart deep inside. He was almost 44 now and for him London was comfortable, almost like a shelter.  He called Provence rarely, trusting the others to take care of everything. The 'Coin Perdu', a still mythic wine, was doing great.
 

Always, though, he remembered his wife. She came to him like a melody on the wind, like a scent from the past. He felt better now, not good, not really, and never that happy.  Being a family man, that had made him happy, living his life there, loving his wife.  He smiled slightly, remembering how she had loved him in return.  Two years ago now, when summer was just turning into autumn, she'd fallen ill unexpectedly. Everything had happened so quickly that by the time winter had set in, he had buried her, lost to a an invasive cancer that had spread too far before its discovery.
 

All he had learned of the goodness of home and family was taken away with that grim interjection of fate.  Just as when he'd been a boy and both his parents had died, life had taken everything from him yet another time. And it had been the loss of his Uncle Henry that had brought him back, at last, to Provence after so many years away. But his time there was no safe haven. It was as though all he had loved was lost and in the losing, Provence itself had become polluted.  He had felt he might well drown in his pain and looked for a place where he could forget everything.
 

London was magnificent as always and as the years passed, it gradually felt like home to him again.  His peers in the business world respected him and sometimes even seemed to offer him genuine kindness because of his loss.  He buried himself, mind and heart, in hard work, making lots and lots of money.  He'd always been good a making money. Again, he got himself a ridiculously expensive apartment overlooking the Thames.  It was his habit now to come home very late and stand on the broad balcony, silently watching the night sky over the city.  Few stars were ever actually visible due to the bright lights of London, but the sound of the busy streets below kept him somehow from listening to his own dark thoughts.  Nothing, absolutely nothing, mattered any more.
 

When I came to work for Max Skinner, I was already well aware of his rather stern appearance, of how his handsome features seemed carved like stone.  He frowned often, looking at one with piercing blue-green eyes, making it a somewhat chilling experience to find oneself the object of his gaze. But he never seemed to really see you. He looked straight through you.
 

An extremely intelligent man, his business was booming, despite the word on the street that his drive was not even close to what it had once been. He was still considered somewhat of a legend, the stuff of good stories told in the late hours of parties when people had had too much to drink and spoke too freely of their private lives and feelings.  I was never that drunk, or at least I didn't have many stories I was willing to share.

After leaving my home and job in Amsterdam, I'd settled with a good friend in London. She'd lived there for quite some time already and showed me all the places to go, the shops, coffee bars, nightclubs. Monique worked in advertising and as her company handled some of the promotions for Skinner's office, was the person who pointed out to me the opening at his firm.
 

So it was that in the second week of my new life in London, a business card landed atop the newspaper I was reading with my breakfast. The manager, to whom it belonged, was a club buddy of Monique's and had done some legal work for Skinner. He knew Skinner was looking for a new personal assistant.  He also knew of Skinner's reputation a a terrible boss and that his assistants came and went right along with the seasons.
 

Despite that, I felt an instant draw toward this position.  Filled with new ambition, I was eager to start the next chapter of my life. To me, this was the chance of a lifetime.  After some solid years of experience with my Dutch company on a management level, I felt confident and wanted a good challenge.  I called the lawyer and he got me an appointment with human resources at Skinner's firm.  My resumé was convincing enough, especially when backed by the excellent recommendations supplied by my directors.  A work contract was drafted, and with a few loose ends still to be tied up, I was faced with the actual interview with Mr. Skinner. I was told it was more of a formality than anything.
 

I dressed sharply in a pencil skirt and blouse. Nothing too fancy, but with simple lines and all of good quality.  I had put my long, straight brown hair up and applied my make-up carefully and tastefully, in a natural and feminine way so I'd look the part of a P.A.  The woman at the reception desk assigned me a small, stiff chair in the conference room.  As I sat there waiting, I studied the reflections in the big glass table top.
 

"Miss Engle?"
 

I hadn't heard him enter.
 

"Chris," I replied.  "How do you do?"  I stood and we shook hands.
 

"Max Skinner," he introduced himself.  Then, bluntly, "Why do you want to work for me?"
 

He had immediately made a huge impression of me, especially his eyes and their striking color. I found him very attractive, very manly. He was
dressed in a well-tailored, blue pinstripe suit, a black shirt and no tie.
 

"I want to work for you, Sir," I answered, my blue-grey eyes unflinching in spite of his appraising stare, "because I'd like a job with someone who is as successful as you are.  Only last year your company had a profit of 134%.  I feel I can bring an excellence and dedication, proven in many years of hard work in Amsterdam.  I'm very good at what I do and can give you many years of excellent service as your personal assistant."
 

"Do you know how many assistants I've had in the last year?" he asked.
 

"Six or seven," I answered.
 

"Doesn't that scare you?"
 

I smiled. "If I were a person who scares that easily, I wouldn't have left a very good job and moved to London for a new challenge," I answered rather boldly.  I prayed he'd buy into that because I was already set on working for the man. Meeting him in person was an irresistibly powerful experience.
 

He made his decision quickly. "You're hired," he said with a nod, adding, "You must know this. I am demanding, I'm told I'm not friendly, and I want one hell of a job done without ever having to ask for anything twice.  Okay?"  He looked at me with a smile, though.
 

"Great!" I replied happily. "Thank you."
 

"When can you start?"
 

"Whenever you want," I answered and the deal was sealed.
 

Over the next couple of weeks I hardly ran into him at work.  I got acquainted with his office staff, the managers of the different departments, during meetings I scheduled when I knew Max was out. 

I also tried to make myself at home in my own office, a glass cubicle adjoining his with a door in the smoked-glass wall which almost never opened. For the most part, he demanded things from me over the phone. I made it a habit to always come in early, arranging everything for his day. Sometimes he would already be in and I could hear him talking loudly on his phone. Sometimes I even heard him laugh aloud.  If we met in the hallways, he would merely wave an absent-minded hello and continue on his way to yet another meeting or luncheon appointment. There was always plenty of work for me to do.
 

All the floors of the office had glass walls, giving the place with its comfortable furnishings an open, spacious appearance. There were a few more private rooms, some board rooms and, of course, his office with the smoked glass.  People worked hard and were mostly friendly. But, as in all businesses centered around money, there were also cocky men and some even tougher girls, all with a very competitive attitude.  In general, though, the vibe of the whole company felt good to me,

hard, filled with adrenaline, and familiar.  Accustomed as I was to top governmental departments and organizations with their lawyers and advisors, I felt quite at home.  I liked the business-like, no-nonsense atmosphere, the reason and intellect, intertwining hard work with humor.
 

I had developed good communication skills, talking easily with almost anybody in a relaxed way. Still pretty at 30, the men liked me instantly, though to the young women in their early 20's I was probably viewed

as a bit old, anyway.
 

In my fifth week there, on a Tuesday when Max had been gone for a couple of days, my phone rang and a woman's voice asked me to hold for Mr. Skinner.
 

His voice was angry, stressed. "You've got to get me the Burbanck report right now! The stupid sob's forgot to bring it. I'm in the Ritz, Paris. Be here ASAP!"  It was almost 10 in the morning.
 

Immediately I called my close friend, Jeannette, who worked for a large business travel company back in Amsterdam. "Hang on," she said and I could hear her talking to someone in her office. "I booked you on the Eurotrain that leaves at 11:15. You'll arrive in Paris at 15.47.  The Ritz isn't far from Gare du Nord so I'll book you a room there. Enjoy, Sweetie."
 

I wished I could talk with her a bit longer, but that would obviously have to wait.
 

Taking the extra copy of the demanded report out of my safe, I put it in my travel bag, a small Samsonite I kept for such occasions. It had the basics for an unexpected overnight stay.  Hurrying out of the building,

I caught a cab for the London Central Station.
 

The Euroliner traveled at super speed under the Channel and we shot through the French countryside as I had a small lunch in the dining car.  I enjoyed looking out the window as we sped along.  France had always been special to me.
 

The lobby of the Ritz was buzzing with activity when I arrived.  As I quickly checked in, the front desk clerk told me Mr. Skinner was in the Louis XIV salon.  I walked through the richly-decorated hallways with their heavy carpets, luxurious drapes and huge crystal chandeliers, then knocked on the door and entered.
 

Max was talking angrily on his cell phone, but when he became aware of my presence, he turned to greet me, smiling as he saw the big stack of papers I was holding.  Finally he ended his conversation and turned to me again and I clearly saw a big smile on his face.
 

"You're right on time. Thank you."
 

It was his first actual sign of personal appreciation. "Thank you, Max," I said, handing him the copy.
 

With a huge sigh of relief, he took it from my hands. "Yes, well, you need a reward for this, Christa.  Drinks at six?"
 

I paused a moment. He wanted to meet me at the bar?  Why not?  It was probably fine, so I nodded, left the room and went back to the lobby.
 

Judging by his smile, I suspected he might also suggest dinner together, maybe with the Burbanck lawyers as well.  I knew this was a big deal he was working on and very important to him.  I hadn't brought an appropriate dress in my small over-night bag, so went into one of the expensive boutiques in the hotel, looking for something to wear.  Just my luck, in a little corner with last season's down-priced items, I found a dress in a lovely shade of midnight blue.  It was perfect for the occasion, sleeveless, with a deep "V" neckline, a fitted waistline with a flowing skirt.  Still quite expensive, but well worth the buy.  Quickly I mentally calculated how to make some shifts in my budget, putting a trip home to the Netherlands to visit my mother, and the books and DVDs I had planned to buy, on hold for a while.
 

Taking a shower in my room, I thanked Jeannette for her excellent choice.  She'd arranged an executive room, with fine linen and a huge bathroom. Switching on the TV, I found a rerun of Star Trek and blow-dried my hair while watching a Borg episode. I was still in my slip when a knock came on the door.  Shutting off the dryer and muting the TV,

I opened the door to find Max standing there.
 

"I'm a bit early, I see," he said, looking me up and down, "though I'm not at all sure I'm really sorry to disturb you. You're quite beautiful, you know." He was looking at me like he'd never really seen me before.
 

"Thanks, Max," I replied, the corner of my mouth twitching in a bit of a smile.
 

Settling in a comfortable chair, he lit a cigar and glanced at the TV. "You like this? I loved this stuff when I was a kid."
 

"Me, too," I said over my shoulder as I went to the bathroom to finish dressing.  I studied my reflection in the mirror. The dress was perfect, hugging my figure with its exquisite, glowing midnight blue.  I applied soft make-up and then, in strategic places, touches of a natural rose perfume from India. Slipping on my high heels, I walked back into the main room.
 

He studied me intently with his marvelous eyes, a slow smile forming on his lips. "You look...magnificent."
 

So do you, I thought, returning his smile.  He was really very handsome sitting there.  "Ready?" I asked, and he rose to his feet.
 

As we waited for the elevator, he was still studying me. "We never spend any time together since you started this job." It seemed that fact had just now occurred to him.
 

"Yes, I was starting to believe it was all a hoax and you didn't really exist," I replied. "You know, the elusive Max Skinner, only a mirage, added just for the reputation of the firm to scare off the competition."
 

"Oh, my job is for real," he grinned, "and I'm damn good at it. And you, you just saved my deal, so you're earning your keep, I'd say."
 

It was really nice. Not only was he realizing I was a person, he was dishing out compliments. "Is there anything else you'll need for me to do while I'm in Paris?" I asked.
 

"Let's celebrate your accomplishment of the day with a drink first," was his rather ambiguous answer as in a very gentlemanly way he escorted me into the hotel's bar.
 

There was a definite lightness in his face I'd not seen before. I thought

it was probably to do with the job well done, with the papers ready and all. He was showing a good-humored nature I hadn't anticipated.
 

"It's nice to get to know you a bit," I said with care.
 

He gave me a quick glance that lasted just more than a second, some emotion coming over him I couldn't put a name to. But, then, he looked away and handed me a glass of wine.
 

We sat at a table near a lighted fireplace, the glow from it warm and soft in the half-full bar.  A band on the small stage played a tango as a few couples danced and conversations in many languages murmured around us.  A bottle of a good red wine sat on our table, with a cognac for him and a bouquet of crimson roses gracing the far end.
 

"Now, tell me about you," he asked, his face amber in the fire's glow.
 

So I told him about my visits to India, which had become an important part of my life. I told him of the place between two foothill of the Himalayas, where the river is cool to bathe in in the hot summer and where I go for retreat to an ashram.  He was listening attentively and with a bit of a surprised expression on his face, not having expected me to answer his question as I was doing. "Do you have such a place?" I asked.
 

"An ashram, no," he replied.  "You must know I own a place in France?"
 

I nodded. "I also know you never talk about this place...or go there."
 

He took a long swallow of cognac.  "I grew up there. Later, I lived there with my wife." His voice was quiet, almost somber. "She died."
 

He wasn't trying to hide his emotions, and I could see the pain in his eyes. "I'm sorry," I breathed in not more than a whisper.
 

"Don't," he said. "I was in heaven then," he added softly.  "For a while."
 

After a short silence, he forced a smile. "Sorry, it wasn't my intention

to be this 'cheerful.'  Let's order another drink. I definitely need one more."
 

The conversation turned to mild office gossip, nothing really new or harmful, but very safe after his inadvertent openness a moment before. He did some impressions of his staff, really good ones that made me laugh.  Despite trying not to, I got a little drunk. It was impossible to resist him when he suggested yet another glass. The little magic personal moment was gone, but I'd had a glimpse of...something. Now, though, he was charming, smooth, and full of humor and his eyes twinkled, the firelight reflecting in them as well.  He'd taken off his jacket and my eyes secretly admired his arms.
 

"Well, Chris," he said with a chuckle, giving me his famous stern look from under his brow, his radiant blue-green eyes piercing as if seeing right through me, "you're checking me out, I see."  It came out as a flirtatious remark.
 

Ooops, I thought, smiling back at him, a gust of warmth sweeping over me.
 

Leaning closer, he gave me yet another look, this one taking my breath away. "You look magnificent, darling," he said softly.
 

"Isn't it a bit soon to call me 'darling'?" I asked, flirtatious myself in the face of his own continuous flirtation.  He was obviously a man used to getting what he wanted when he wanted.  I didn't plan on being that easy, but, dammit, inside myself I was beginning to hear a song and my heart melted as I looked again into his eyes.  With effort, I looked away and he laughed softly.
 

"You ARE a terrible boss, you know," I said, meeting his eyes again. But my thoughts were running far ahead and I was already thinking what a great lover he'd be.
 

Ever so lightly, he touched my hand, then bent to kiss the back of it. My breath was taken away but I gently withdrew my hand. He reluctantly let go as his eyes met mine.  "Am I to be another of your conquests?" I asked soberly.
 

He looked at me, attentive and quiet. "That's not what I have in mind." I caught a note of genuine tenderness in his voice. "I don't put my heart at risk usually," he added. "Not any more."
 

"I know," I whispered.  "Your armor is always up."
 

"You noticed?"
 

I nodded. "Putting it mildly, you are a difficult man to approach. You're brilliant, even charismatic, but very...distant."
 

Reaching out, he gently brushed a strand of hair back from my face. "It's been a long time since I've let any woman get this close."
 

My hand curved around his. "If you could feel how my heart is racing now...," I said, catching my breath.
 

Standing, he led me to the open dance floor near the little stage, drawing me close. "Your mouth is made to be kissed," he whispered, his lips lingering just above mine.
 

The tango was playing again and we danced, a perfect symbol of pulling closer and pulling away, a lovers' play in music. The masculine scent of him wafted around me, manly and strong, as he twirled me around and pulled me back in his arms. Every second his eyes were locked onto mine.
 

I lost track of everything that was around us, lost entirely in his eyes. I couldn't quite remember how  we'd gotten to his room.  His lips had been on mine almost all the way there.  Then his hands were on me, unzipping my dress as he kissed every inch of newly-revealed skin. His arms were strong as he held me ever closer and I bathed in his warmth, drank deeply of the honey of his lips.  Our faces close together, his breath grew heavy with desire and I loved him with all my heart, my body opening towards him.  With a soft, loving laugh, I returned his tenderness.
 

When I woke the next morning, he was propped on his elbow, looking

at me.  Immediately, he took me in his arms and kissed me. "Good morning, sweetness," he whispered in my ear, then kissed me again.
 

"I could get used to this, Max," I said, tracing down the lines of his face with my fingers, lingering at his mouth.
 

"I hope you will come to me, Christa, over and over...for I will be thirsty when you're not around and I will find no rest until you are in my arms again."  He was feeling poetic this morning, and smiled at his own words.
 

He wasn't holding back from me, and my heart began to spill over in tenderness for him, this wonderful man who was letting me into his heart.
 

"You are everything, Max," I whispered, kissing him again, "everything I've ever wanted."
 

He had the Burbanck meeting to attend to, so got up, showered and dressed, his attention shifting to the work facing him.  Almost matter-of-factly he asked me to handle some communications with the office and the press later that morning.  I felt confused for a moment by his manner, but then he added with a smoldering look, "This won't take long, Christa. I should be done with business by four then we can take a little tour of Paris before flying back to London this evening." His eyes were intent on me again.  "I'd like to kiss you know."
 

"I know," I replied, and still unclothed walked toward him.  He growled under his breath, covering my neck and breasts in kisses.
 

After he left, I lay on the bed a while, all flustered and dreamy.  I showered, dressed, and went back to my own room to change into daytime clothes and tend to business.  I made a quick half-dozen phone calls to the office, connected my laptop and read my e-mail while eating a light breakfast I'd had room service bring up. Reading Max's mail, I replied to some of it, forwarding most of it to the usual departments for handling. My attention, though, was drawn to one particular item. It was from his cousin, Christie, in Provence.
 

His personal e-mails were not many, and they came in right along with his business ones so I always read them, too. This was an alarming message, though, and my concern grew as I read it.  She wrote of problems that had arisen with the vineyard that Max needed to attend to in person and immediately.  She gave a cell phone number where she could be reached.
 

Phoning to the Paris office of Burbancks, I asked for Max, having already forwarded the message to his palm pilot. When he called back a little later, his voice had that old distant sound to it.  He said he'd leave for Provence right after the meeting and had no idea how long he'd be gone. "Cancel the London flight.  I'll call you tonight," he added and hung up.
 

I spent the afternoon arranging to clear Max's schedule for at least a couple of days into the next week.  If any problems arose, I'd have to handle them.  Some clients I called personally, explaining that Max had been called away on a personal, private matter. After Max left for his flight to Lyon, I met with the secretary at Burbancks to handle the paperwork follow-up from the meeting, sending the signed contracts by special delivery back to the board members and lawyers both in Paris and London.  That was followed by a working dinner with the legal people and we went for drinks afterwards.  I kept my cell phone close in case Max called.  It was already late when I returned to my room at the Ritz, but no calls had come in there, either so I left a note at the front desk that if Max should call, I could be reached at all hours.

 

Max arrived at the chateau in Provence late in the afternoon, to find Christie crying as she sat at the kitchen table, the late sunlight still coming in, providing the only light in the room.  Springing to her feet

at the sight of him, she ran and embraced him tightly.
 

"My dear," he asked gently, sitting her down with him, "what's the matter?"
 

"It's Francis...his heart," she explained, pouring a glass of the good Coin Perdu from a wine bottle on the table.  The vingeron had been taken to the hospital and was now in the ICU, with no visitors allowed still.  He'd suffered a severe heart attack right after the secret of the famous wine had been discovered, followed directly by an enormous tax claim.  It had been a huge shock for him and the amount of money owed was huge. A media frenzy had started right away as well, and everything had become some huge circus.  "His heart couldn't take it," she sighed.
 

"Where's Ludivine?" Max asked.
 

"At  the hospital with him," Christie replied. "She's simply a wreck!"
 

"Why didn't you call me sooner?"
 

"I knew," she whispered, sipping her glass, "that you would have come right away, Max.  But...well...you haven't been here, not since...well.  And I just didn't have the heart to call you to come back."
 

"All of you are my family," he said, taking her hand. "Don't ever leave me out of things like this. Please?"
 

He took a glass of cognac and lit a cigar.  I'm the co-owner of this place, he thought. Why hadn't the media latched onto that right away? Another typically French mystery.  Later, he called his London lawyers to arrange for matters to be handled with the French authorities.

The sun was setting as he took a walk alone around the estate, its long fingers of amber light highlighting the natural warm hues of rock walls and leafy trees.  The serenity of it all got to him and he had to sit down.  He was on the broad terrace where he'd spent so many happy moments and all of it came flooding back to him.  It had been...how long now...too long, but the memory of her was right there with him. Fanny.  His fingers caressed the cold marble bench.  Broken inside, he sat there for the longest of times, wrapped in his memories, tears tracking down his cheeks as he drank his cognac.
 

In the morning, he woke to the sound of Tati barking fiercely.  Opening his bedroom window, he looked outside.  A group of reporters flashed their cameras at him and fired rapid questions in French.  "Get the hell out of here!" he shouted. He'd fallen asleep in his clothes, so he wasted no time and quickly dashed down the stairs, storming outside, hollering angrily at the unwelcome gathering to get the fuck off his property.
 

Christie ran out to join him, bodily pushing away some of the reporters, explaining in French that a press release would be issued later in the day. Reluctantly, they returned to their vehicles and left.

Max, though, exploded with fury when one of them managed to photograph him yet again, and threw an empty bottle at the man, missing his head by less than an inch. "Here's your precious wine!" he shouted. "I'll sue the hell out of all of you if I catch you trespassing again!"
 

Christie calmed him a bit by conjuring up a simple breakfast of strong coffee and toast. He phone London again, issuing a press release right away. The firm stated in a short item that Mr. Skinner was in France on a private matter and all news regarding the Coin Perdu and the chateau would by handled by the London office.  No one was to contact him personally or visit the chateau unauthorized.
 

I got the call from London myself that morning and promptly contacted the law department, which asked if I could schedule a meeting with the income tax office in Paris.  Christie would arrive there the following morning as the legal representative of the chateau. I spent the morning on my laptop and the phone,  going back and forth with the department in Provence, the lawyers in London, and the state department in Paris. In the afternoon, I personally took the paperwork to La Grand Arche Parisian district, where I had a pre-meeting with the office of the secretary of the department of finance and made everything ready for Christie's arrival the next day.  Our senior lawyer had flown in from London for his own meeting with the secretary.  The 'big machine' was working smoothly.
 

As everything was somewhat spur of the moment, Max's firm had to do some major French ass-kissing to set it all up so quickly, but everything finally was sorted out.  Papers were ready to be signed, protecting the rights of the Coin Perdu, legally set up under an association linked with London, with Christie as director of its board in conjunction with and under the supervision of the French Ministerie of Agriculture, a requirement of French law that was inevitable at this moment.  The tax was linked to the association, taking the money out of all personal dealings.  Max paid a huge fine instantly from his own account, a large loss, but not one that he couldn't overcome, actually, with a fair amount of ease due to his success in business.
 

The day ran along in its busy fashion, with me managing to grab only a moment's rest. I felt quite emotionally drained, not having heard a word from Max personally.  I kept up the hectic pace of work with a worried heart.  On Friday morning, I went to the airport and picked up Christie. She looked young and so very tired, her eyes underlined with heavy shadows from too little sleep for too long. We greeted each other warmly, smiling over the similarities in our names.  On the way to the meeting in the cab, I asked how Max was doing.
 

In her frank, American way, she shared how she had looked out the doorway that evening of the day he'd arrived and seen him sitting on the bench by the terrace wall.  Shattered was the word she used to describe how he'd seemed to her. "He hadn't visited Provence since the death of his wife," she added sadly.  "I felt so guilty calling him with such bad news, asking him to return.  I knew it would be so hard for him." She shook her head wearily. "And then Francis was still in the ICU, and the press had come, even following Max as he'd taken the motorcycle to visit the town. He wanted to see her restaurant again... and visit her grave.  When he returned," she sighed, "he was so quiet ...so sad...and went straight to his room without eating. It was only

when I was getting ready to leave for Paris this morning that he came out again.  He looked like he hadn't slept all night.  But he handed me

a letter to give you."
 

Christie looked at me as she said that, examining my expression carefully and saying that something in the tone of his voice as he spoke my name had made her...wonder.  She reached into her purse and handed me the note, sealed in an envelope.  I quickly opened the letter, reading the words written in his familiar green ink that he used for all his personal messages.
 

"Dear Chris," the note read, "I find I am so sad.  I cannot bear to be here or not to be here, for that matter. I can't think of anything, not right now. I'll return to London when I'm ready.  I hope, no, I know

you will understand this.  You have my thanks for...everything. With love, Max."
 

That evening I returned home, the train coming into London Central Station in a pouring rain.  The air was cold and I went home immediately, soaking for a long time in a hot bath.  Monique had told me earlier on the phone she wouldn't be in.  That was fine with me as I wouldn't have been able to talk much with her in my present mood.  Idly playing with the large, foamy bubbles in my bath, I thought back

to what Christie had said when I finished reading Max's note. "Do you love him?" she asked, quietly frank again.  I had turned to her, tears in my eyes, able only to nod in reply.
 

"It's not hard to love him, not really," she'd said then.  "In his way, he's as endearing as his Uncle Henry, at least from what I've come to know about my father."  She knew Henry only from stories Max and other people there in Provence had told her, but felt she'd come to a pretty good understanding of the man who had loved his life of simple pleasures, good wine, good food, and loving all women.
 

"Let Max be...for a while," she'd said with soft reassurance, taking my hand.  "There are many memories he must deal with now, memories he hasn't really faced until he came back home to the chateau.  But knowing Max for who he is, if what he feels for you is real, he won't let it pass by."  She gave me the kindest hug then. I was already fond of her, her honesty and her obvious love and care for the vineyard and for her cousin, Max.  We parted in a friendly, not at all a business sort of way.  I was glad for that and asked her to give my love to Max and to tell him I'd be back in London this evening.
 

Life returned to its usual routine.  Christie called me a couple of times during that week on business matters, but always included reports on how Max was doing.  On Thursday I got a short text message from her stating that to everyone's relief,  Duflot had been transferred from the ICU to a normal care unit.  It was a very hopeful sign.  The week went by with work during the day and evenings alone on my own as I declined almost all invitations. I had a lot to think about and felt I needed time just to let everything settle down inside.  My only exceptions were one dinner with Monique and a long phone call with Jeannette in Amsterdam.
 

On Saturday, as I opened a bottle of wine for another dinner alone in my place, my cell phone stirred quietly. I had put it on vibrate as I didn't wish to be disturbed.  It was Max, and my heart did a little floppy jump in my chest. "What are you doing home on Saturday night?" he texted.
 

"Where ARE you?" My hand was suddenly so unsteady I could hardly text him back.
 

"Open your door," he answered.
 

I ran to the front door, unlocking it with fumbling fingers, and found him standing in the hallway, looking tired yet ever so beautiful.  He looked back at me under lowered brows, his eyes magnificent and penetrating, and gave me a little, pleased smile.  I couldn't speak. I just simply could not form words.
 

"God, come here!"  He pulled me almost roughly into his arms, pressing me close to himself.  Locked in a deep kiss, we sort of slowly pirouetted inside and he pushed the door closed behind us with his foot, pulling me even closer.  Then his hands moved up, surrounding my face, stroking through my hair and he bent, kissing my neck hungrily.  His hands moved downward along my body as he continued to kiss me, his passion now completely unrestrained.  As he guided me toward the bed, I knew I was completely, utterly lost in the wonder of his love and yet, somehow, completely and utterly...found."

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