Chapter Sixteen

 

Martha’s Vineyard

After two days at the beach house, two long days of running and walking for hours along the shoreline, Nikki sat on the deck overlooking the dark-green Atlantic and watched the sun rise. The rays of light illuminated the far reaches of the water and crept closer on feet of lavender and purple. She’d spent another sleepless night mired in a morass of decision making.

Definitely at a crossroads, she’d faced the truth. At twenty-six, with number twenty-seven looming, she was finished...and as Jolie had so bluntly put it, it was time to make way for the younger girls. Nikki’d never wanted an acting career as some models did. The very last thing she wanted was another career based on her looks. Besides, it was too difficult trying to pretend to be someone else. She had enough trouble pretending to be herself.

If she were completely honest, her love life was barren. She’d been in love with Max Devereaux from the moment she’d crashed into his broad chest. Still, she wasn’t sure why she still fancied herself in love with him. Heaven knew he’d given her little encouragement along that line. When she was younger, she’d assumed it was because of their age difference. But now there was no viable reason she could fathom.

There was the very real fact he didn’t get involved with his models. Except for the night he asked her to dinner, he always seemed to go out of his way to avoid her. She never knew quite what to expect from him and she didn’t like being off-balance whenever she was near him.

While she feared the intensity of her own feelings, she’d never been able to learn the depths of his. It had proven very difficult, keeping those feelings private. She’d tried, how she’d tried to hide them, but Maman had sensed, from the very beginning, how Nikki felt about Max.

And now, he was on holiday in Paris, accompanied by the daughter of a bank president. It was just too bad she kept having dreams about the unreachable Maxim Devereaux—lovely passionate dreams of limbs entwined and hearts that soared as one.

She closed her eyes and attempted to obliterate the images that plagued her ever since they first met. The peaceful dawn brought no serenity.

Nikki sighed, stood and stretched, then wandered back into the cottage. The Vineyard had been her haven from the chaotic life of New York, but now only served as a reminder of her failure to measure up in Max’s eyes...and win his love.

Damn. In an instant, she made up her mind. She would sell her apartment and the beach house too. The income from the sales, along with a substantial portion of her antique collection, should give her a cushion while she reinvented her life.

She’d been given so many opportunities. Some might even say she’d wasted them. More than once, Max had advised her to invest in the stock market, but her life on the street had left her hungry for a better life and beautiful things. Instead of taking Max’s sage advice, she’d surrounded herself with the trappings of beauty—art, furnishings and antiques—but they were only things.

She might as well start the inventory now. She walked from one lovely room to another and stopped in front of the mask collection she carted around no matter where she lived. Always drawn to masks, she experienced a deep kinship when she held one. Indeed, the masks symbolized everything she experienced in her career…a facade, hiding pain and insecurity. Modeling had enabled her to hide her real self from everyone. The only person she hadn’t been able to fool was numbre une.

The arrival of the latest addition to her collection was stunning. All the way from Paris—from of all people—Max. His unexpected gift included a letter which explained how the mask caught his eye. He’d immediately recalled her collection and upcoming birthday and purchased it. Always thoughtful, he even included the mask’s provenance.

The gift was been so out-of-character for him; he admitted as much in his letter. ‘The perfect birthday gift.’ And it was. But her birthday wasn’t until August. She glanced at the calendar—May 1st. An early birthday gift.

Wonder what his new fiancée thought about his buying a gift for one of his models? Maybe the engagement rumors weren’t true. Maybe he just wanted to get her birthday present out of the way in order to devote himself to his new love. Once again, the man had her stymied.

She stretched on tiptoe to remove the new mask from its place in the rustic oak display case. She ran her fingers over the curves of the mask, smiling despite her funky mood. The mask was in wonderful condition for something over two-hundred-years-old. The white-leather face had turned to a creamy ivory, and gold trim was still visible in spots around the eyes. Remnants of pale, blue ostrich feathers trailed down the sides. An ivory wand still attached on the right side of the mask.

She held it by the wand and peered into a nearby mirror. As she placed the mask over her face, she was overcome by waves of vertigo.

***

The landscape was strange…yet familiar. Something about it said home. Tall rows of poplars lined the lane on both sides. Sounds of cannon fire thundered in the distance, but the vibrations were felt by those rushing to flee Paris. The Nazis had taken Paris, the City of Light. Unthinkable! Now, brazen Nazis strolled down her wide boulevards. Nicole and her fiancé fled Paris with little more than the clothes on their backs and the antique mask he’d given her on her last birthday.

If Maxime’s ancient Citroёn didn’t fall apart before they reached Dijon, they would join their waiting families. Once she was safe in the bosom of her family, she feared he would slip into one of the surrounding forests and join the resistance movement. While he had yet to tell her of his plan, she knew him well enough to know he would never sit idly by while the Germans occupied their homeland.

“Are the guns closer? How long will it take us to reach Dijon?” she asked. “Do you think we will really be safe there?” From the squaring of his shoulders and the faraway look in his eyes, she knew her questions disturbed him. “What are you keeping from me? What’s wrong?” she demanded, forcing the issue.

He sighed. “Ma petite, you will be safe, but I am going to join the Maquis. I must,” he said softly. Removing a hand from the steering wheel, he reached over and caressed her cheek. For a moment, he turned toward her, his green eyes, looking at her with a familiar hunger…and with an unspoken plea for her understanding.

There. He’d finally admitted it. “I knew it.” Still, she must change his mind. “Please don’t. I can’t live without you. Stay with me.” Her eyes filled with tears as she gazed into his darkening green ones.

“I have to go. My country needs me.”

“I will go with you. I will join the Maquis too,” she declared, raising her chin in defiance.

“You will not do any such thing,” he replied, shaking his head, his tone firm. He watched the road, but cast darting glances toward her. “I will be nearby, but it will be too dangerous for me to see you.”

“But, Maxime, I will miss you so much. I will miss your…” she faltered. His announcement had ripped apart her heart. “We must make the most of every moment until we are separated,” she said, a renewed determination in her voice, “N’est-ce pas?” She reached for his thigh and stroked.

“You are crazy, my little one. We’re running from the Nazis, and you talk of making love. I am not made of steel. Hush. This is not the time.”

“Wh-what if there isn’t another time?” She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes, then slipped her hand higher along his strong thigh. “I need you, my love. I need to feel your touch and your lips.” she whispered. “Je t’aime.”

“Any other time, we would stop, right now.” He looked at her, as if pleading for her understanding. “If Paris had not been invaded, we would have already been married. Our families are waiting for us.” He groaned. “Why torture me this way?”

“I love you. I need you.” She inched her hand further up his thigh, stopping short of the growing bulge in his trousers.

Maxime bit his lip. “Mmm,” the moan escaped anyway.

She giggled. “Désolé.

Carefully he took her mischievous hand and replaced it in her lap. “Behave.”

“Maxime.”

He sputtered, “St-stop this silliness. Right now.”

She saluted. “Oui, mon capitain.”

“This is war,” he muttered through gritted teeth, keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead of them.

“I am certainly aware of that,” she muttered, in a peevish frame of mind. Now he had spoiled her playful mood. She folded her arms across her chest and looked out her side window.

His words proved prophetic. Fifty feet away, a shell exploded, raining clods of earth on the window shield.

“M-Max.” She screamed and hid her eyes. “Let’s get out of here. Please.”

“Merde,” he swore. “I am driving as fast as I can. I cannot run over people.”

“I-I’m sorry.” She began crying. “I just want to go home.”

“I know, my love. I know.”

***

Nicole hadn’t seen Maxime for over a month. He'd left her in Dijon with her family and disappeared into the forest. She’d spent most of her time worrying about him. Occasionally, he would send her a message, and she would know for the time being he was safe.

Only the night before, rumors of a Nazi train being derailed nearby had reached Dijon. She was proud of Maxime and the actions of the Resistance, but every day she lived with the unbearable fear she would never see him again.

The Trudeau and DuPuis families continued about their daily routines. They kept to themselves and tried to avoid notice of the Nazi soldiers, but she felt as if she were being watched. The soldiers seemed to be everywhere, and one soldier in particular always seemed to be following her. One day, he even followed her home from the street market.

Her height and striking appearance made her obvious in any crowd, so she attired herself as plainly as possible, wearing her hair pulled back in a no-nonsense chignon, but it did no good. The soldiers still stared at her as if she had ‘available’ emblazoned across her derriere. She hated their stares and suggestive remarks. They made her feel dirty.

She slammed the front door behind her. “Alexandra,” she called to her younger sister. “Is he still there? That ape followed me home, again.” She placed her basket of morning purchases on the oft-scrubbed oak table.

Alexandra called from the upstairs bedroom. “Oui, Chèrie. Wait, I’m coming down.”

Her sister made a swift descent and rushed into the kitchen. Everyone said they made a pleasing contrast. One tall and the other short, but their kinship was obvious. They shared the same blue eyes and wide smiles.

“He’s talking to that slut Emilie. You know it’s whispered she’s with the Maquis. So, why is she talking to one of the Nazis?” Alexandra placed her hands on her hips. “You should tell Maxime. She might be a traitor.”

“You must not use such language and you do not know any such thing. Possibly she is trying to get information for the Maquis. Besides, I don’t know when I’ll see him again,” she said, unable to keep the forlorn note from her tone.

Alexandra gave her a reassuring hug. “Do not fret. You will hear from your handsome Maxime soon. I’m sure of it.”

***

One moonlit night, she awakened, startled to find a hand over her mouth. “Shh, c’est moi, Maxime.” He kissed her hungrily, his hands roaming over her body. “I have missed you so much, Chèrie.” His voice grew hoarse. You are more beautiful than ever, my heart.”

“Maxime,” she whispered softly. “You’re not a dream. Mon amour, you really are here.”

“Yes, I am here.”

She succumbed to his kisses and the pure exhilaration of his being there. His tongue blazed a trail of fire as he kissed her breasts. He nibbled and teased and licked her belly. When and how he divested her of her gown, she didn’t know or care. He was here with her now, and that was all that mattered. She pulled and tugged at his clothes, consumed by a desperate longing to feel his body next to hers. Ahh, he had marvelous skin, so soft and smooth, beneath his clothes. Well, it wasn’t all so soft. She touched the firm length of him.

He moaned, “Not yet. Too soon.” His tongue found her center.

With mounting desire, she gasped, “Now, Maxime. Now.” Maxime entered her quickly and smoothly. Their passion soared, expanded and exploded out of sheer need. Afterward, they crashed in total exaltation, laughing, kissing, weeping--celebrating their joy in each other.

They made love again, slower. “The night is too short, my love. I must go before daylight comes,” he told her gently as he held her in his arms. “I miss you so much. I ache for you,” he said, nestling his head in her shoulder and nibbling her neck with tiny tender kisses.

“Must you go? Please stay with me. Don’t go back. Please,” she begged. In the pale moonlight, she drank in the vision of his perfect body, his dark eyes, his new beard, his curling hair. Her man, the artist, now a rugged soldier, had the body of a Greek god and the face of a renaissance angel. She loved him so much. How could she ever live without him?

“You know I must,” he murmured, still cradling her in his arms.

She grew desperate, her breathing ragged. “Then let me go with you. I know there are women in the Resistance. Please,” she begged, tears filling her eyes.

“No, it is too dangerous. I should not have come tonight, but I could not stand another minute without seeing you. I love you more than life itself.” He kissed her. Her tears wet his face, and his, hers.

Tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked. “Je t’aime, Maxime. Je t’aime.”

He stood and dressed quickly. “Doux rêves, my angel,” he said, turning for one last glance before softly closing the door to her room.

She lay back and wiped at the tears streaming down her face. Finally, she turned her face into the pillow where his head had lain. She inhaled deeply, breathing in his lingering scent.

A muffled cry broke the perfect stillness of the night. A shout. Sounds of a scuffle outside her window.

A single shot rang out. She jumped from the bed and rushed to the window. A broken figure lay on the ground. A widening circle of blood, black in the moonlight, pooled on the cobblestone street below. The world crashed around her. Her cry of agony rending the night. “Maxime!”

***

Nikki awakened and found herself lying on the sofa in front of the mirror. She set aside the mask and wiped the tears from her eyes. Had she fallen asleep? The last thing she remembered was looking in the mirror, and then a dream so vivid she’d cried in her sleep.

She shivered as she recalled the fervent lovemaking…so real…so incredibly sad. Was she going crazy? Maybe all she needed was more sleep. A dream? That’s all it was. What a silly fool she was, dreaming of a man she could never have. She sighed and returned the mask to its place.

***

Later the same night, as was her habit, Nikki wrote in her journal. Even in her dreams, she couldn’t get away from Max. He was always there. His green eyes haunted her and his softly accented voice seduced her in her dreams, even if reality left a lot to be desired. Quickly, before she lost the phrases, she wrote them down:

Green eyes and a soft accent

Forever they plague my dreams

Striding through my memories

Leaving my heart with an emptiness

No other can fill.

Well, that was a piece of emotional drivel, if she’d seen one. Her journals contained all the miseries, fears and longings of her last ten years. She, who’d hated school, would now feel deprived, if time didn’t permit her to enter at least a few lines in her journal. It was a comforting routine, and one that allowed her to express the thoughts she could share with no one. In her journal alone, did she admit her desire and love for Max, her rescuer…her champion.

“Thank you for the journal, Maman,” she murmured aloud. “I wouldn’t have made it without you or your gift.”

Twenty minutes later, she closed the journal, wondering if she would ever have the kind of love poets wrote about. Would Max ever see her as a woman instead of project?

Until March when he’d asked her to dinner, she’d never thought it truly possible. But from that moment, she’d thought of him non-stop. She couldn’t forget the tenderness in his touch. She’d longed for more, but lacked the confidence to act upon her desire.

Dammit. Max was such a puzzle. How would she ever know if he desired her? Her ‘crush’ remark during dinner was a test, and his response not what she hoped.

Well, she had her chance, and she blew it. Now, he was in France with another woman. Mistake or no, Max wasn’t hers. Never had been. Never would be. And he hadn’t called as he’d promised either. Translation: Loser.

Tears stung her eyes, but she brushed them aside. “Wimp,” she said aloud, reaching to extinguish the light. She was a stupid, romantic fool, and there was no getting around it. She punched her pillow into an acceptable shape, hugged it and tried to go to sleep.

At one o’clock, the telephone chimed. Still awake, she was tempted to let it ring, but her curiosity over who was calling got the best of her. “Hello?”

“It’s Max.”

“Max? Is something wrong?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Do you know what time it is?” she asked wearily.

“Désolé. I forgot about the time difference. I’m guessing it’s about one, and I’ve awakened you. I just didn’t know who else— No, that’s not it. I really wanted to hear the sound of your voice.”

“Well, I’m flattered, but I hardly think Arianne would appreciate your sentiment.”

“Arianne? What are you talking about? I was thinking, maybe you could fly over and spend some time with me here in Provençe. Maybe we could—”

“What’s the matter? Did you and Arianne have a fight?” Who did he think he was? Calling out of the blue and expecting her to drop everything on the basis of one measly transatlantic phone call.

“By the way, Jolie fired me this afternoon, so forgive me, if I’m a little unsympathetic to your trials and tribulations right now. I’ve a lot to sort out here, so I’m a little preoccupied.”

Max chuckled, “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Nikki? Don’t try to consider my feelings. First of all, there is nothing between the Willoughby girl and me. She simply showed up in Paris.”

“That’s not what I hear.”

“I mean it. Forget about her. As for Jolie, I’ll take care of her. You’re not fired unless I say so. You’re taking this too seriously.”

“Taking it too seriously? I don’t have a job. That's pretty serious in most places in the world.”

“Calm down. You’re just tired. Neither one of us has had a vacation. Alexa is coming over after her school term. We could have a wonderful time—the three of us.” His voice softly caressed her ear.

Vacation in Provençe with Max? Oh God, was he serious?

Long practice at hiding her feelings enabled her to take a deep breath. No way could she make decision like that over the telephone. “I’m going to hang up now and go to sleep. I suggest you do the same. We can talk about this tomorrow or next week. Besides, don’t give up on your banker’s daughter. She’ll come back.”

“Nikki.” She could hear the exasperation in his voice. “You’re totally off the mark about her, but you’re right about one thing. We will talk about it soon. Au revoir.”

Soon? Just like he’d called her soon. “Yes, Max, au revoir.”

Nikki disconnected. “Dammit.” She reached for her pillow and punched it once more. Who did he think he was? He’d ignored her for two months, then expected her to drop everything and take a vacation. Who made him master of her itinerary?

***

“Merde.” Max punched another number on his phone. He’d wasted enough time.

“Information.”

“Air France, s’il vous plait?” He paused, then said, “Merci.”