Page 25 of Flight of Dreams

“I should like to think so.”

“And you don’t think that perhaps you’re taking liberties?”

“Not at all.” Max seats himself on the edge of the bed and pats the space next to him. He seems unconcerned by the fact that her personal items are strewn all over the blanket. “Let me explain.”

Damn it, she thinks, how does he do that? But she only hesitates for a moment before settling next to him on the heavy knit blanket. “This I need to hear.”

“It’s really quite simple,” he says. “We’ve just spent the evening together—or some of it, at any rate. And now I’m sitting in your private quarters kissing you good night. I think that puts us on a permanent first-name basis.”

She looks up at him in surprise. Max catches her face in his hands. He gives her a smile that is so mischievous, so pleased with himself, that she cannot help but return it.

It has been ten years since Emilie kissed her husband good-bye. Ten years since he left for work one morning and never returned. And in those years she has forgotten the profound, blood-warming pleasure of being kissed. Of course he would be good at this, she thinks. He begins with a tender brushing of his lips against hers, and when she tilts her head and softens beneath him he pulls her close and earnestly goes to work. There is no uncertainty with Max, and when her lips part he finds her tongue with his. He tastes of white wine and fresh melon, and she thinks that there is truly no better combination.

She is not ready for him to pull away, but he does anyway.

Max straightens his collar and smoothes his hair. Oh God, did I do that? she wonders briefly, and is certain that she did, in fact, twist her fingers through his hair. She cannot remember doing so. Ten years of widowhood and this is what one brief kiss does to her?

Emilie has no idea what expressions are running over her face in rapid succession, but Max laughs at her.

“You don’t have to look so bereft,” he says, bending closer and playing with the curls at the base of her neck. “I’m not ready to stop either. I just thought I’d better make sure you wanted to keep going.”

“So now you ask my permission?”

“Easier to ask forgiveness.”

“So you’re sorry?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Emilie is certain now that she did indeed muss his hair a moment ago. Because it’s between her hands again and this time she notices how smoothly it slides between her fingers.

“Mein Gott, that feels good,” he mutters against her lips. “Don’t stop.”

Max lays his palm against her neck. His hand is soft and warm, and she shivers just a bit as he slides it downward. It stops at the base of her throat when his fingers meet the chain that she wears around her neck. He pulls away to look at her and then at the chain. Max tucks one finger under the edge of her robe so that he can lift the chain out.

“A key?”

Slowly, slowly she realizes what is puddled in the palm of his hand and she jerks back, taking the necklace with her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“My husband gave it to me,” she says. “On our wedding night.”

Max knows she is widowed. Everyone knows this. But the words have a corrosive effect nonetheless. The heat that charged the air only seconds ago vanishes completely, and they are left sitting on the bed staring at one another in silence.

After a few seconds he manages to speak. “And you still carry it?”

“It’s all I have left of him.”

“What was his name?” Max whispers.

“Hans.”

“And you miss him?”

“Every day.”

“You love him still?”