Page 52 of In a Far-Off Land
He put a wedge of cheese and one of apple on a slice of bread and handed it to me. The wind blew his hair into curls over his brow, and the sun, low in the sky now, lit up his eyes.
I took a cautious bite. “This—” and I admit I talked with my mouth full—“is delicious.”
Max looked more than a titch smug. Next, he brought out a lidded pan and nestled it into the coals. He refilled my drink as I nabbed another bread and cheese and watched the waves flow back and forth. It was mesmerizing, the ocean. The breeze smelled of salt and brine. The birds rode the azure sky and coral clouds like tiny black kites.
Max fished the clams off the fire. We ate them hot, with our fingers, dipping them in a tin of melted butter. I couldn’t get enough.Max leaned close, wiping butter from my chin and lips with a kitchen towel we were sharing as a napkin. “I told you,” he said, and for once I didn’t even care.
By the time we washed our buttery fingers, the sun hung above the horizon, setting each wave sparkling like a diamond. Maybe it was the gin, but I was warm and relaxed and not afraid to ask what I’d been wondering since we bumped down the beach road.
“Do you come here a lot?”
He looked down into his drink. “This is the first time since he died.” He gave me a sideways glance. “And I’ve never brought a woman here, if you’re wondering.”
That was exactly what I’d wondered. I blurted out, “Not even Julia?”
“Julia?” he said with jerk of surprise, and then laughed. He seemed ridiculously pleased. “No. Julia doesn’t like the ocean.”
I felt a stab of satisfaction. Whatever moxie Julia had, I had plenty more. “Well, I do. Let’s go swimming.”
He raised a brow. “Do you know how cold that water is this time of year?”
I didn’t tell him that I swam in the lakes while there was still ice floating. I just slipped off my shoes and headed toward the beach. “Come on, slowpoke.”
My feet sunk into the cool, damp sand as I ran to where the water purled and ebbed. Up close, the breaking waves were bigger than they’d looked from the house. I stepped in up to my knees. An oncoming wave met me, ice cold and with more force than I expected. I yelped as the receding water sucked the sand from under my feet.
Max joined me. We went deeper. I lifted my dress to keep it dry, but it was no use. I turned away from the next breaker, laughingalong with the scree of the gulls. Max shouted, and I turned back to see a wave bigger than the rest—much bigger—coming fast. Max grabbed my hand and we started to run, the water dragging us back, the sand moving under our feet. I glanced over my shoulder and let out a screech—or maybe it was a laugh—as the wave crested, the sun glinting through the agate-green curl towering over us.
Icy water crashed over my shoulders, and for a moment, I thought I’d go under. But Max’s grip was firm. He pulled me through the seething water to dry sand, and we both collapsed, laughing breathlessly. “That was freezing!” My whole body tingled with salt and cold. My heart raced.
“You were the one who wanted to swim,” he said, rolling over on his back.
We lay on the sand, our hands intertwined, and watched the sun touch the water on the horizon. I realized for the first time in a long while that I was happy. Partly because of the sun and the sand. Mostly, though, because Max was happy. I’d never seen him like this before—relaxed and easy. I liked having something to do with that.
The cold waves curled around our feet, receding into lacy foam. The birds circled above us, their cries like shouts of laughter ringing against the cliff. And Max smiled at the sky.
Before long, the wind came up, raising goosebumps on my wet legs and arms and making me shiver. It was January, after all. Even in the Golden State, you couldn’t lie around in a wet dress and not get cold. Max heaved himself up from the sand and held out his hand to me. “Let’s get you warmed up.”
He left a trail of water and sand through the house, padding to the small bedroom. His wet trousers clung to him, and his shirtwas flecked with seaweed. I must have looked a mess, but for once I didn’t care.
He pulled open a bureau, empty. “We never kept much here,” he apologized. After a few more tries, he came up with a heavy brocade dressing gown, a pair of worn dungarees, and a single sock. He gave me a grin. “Toss a coin?”
I raised a brow and took the dressing gown. When needs must. Max left the room, and I stripped off my wet dress and underthings. The silk robe had once been red, now faded to a dull pink with worn velvet trim. It smelled faintly of cigars, but when I cinched the wide belt tight around my waist, the hem fell to a respectable length.
Back on the patio, Max was putting more wood on the fire, blowing on the flame, squinting against the smoke. The soft tan dungarees were a size too big, rolled up to his ankles and hanging low around the waist. Traces of sand clung to his back and shoulders. His wet clothes were slung over the railing. I draped my salt-watered dress alongside, arranging my underthings discreetly out of sight.
Max pulled the wide chaise lounge closer to the warmth of the fire, and I curled up on it as he opened a bottle with the squeak of a cork. “This will warm you up,” he said and poured wine into a water glass.
I hadn’t tasted much in the way of wine. It wasn’t something we had cause to drink in Odessa, and all my LA experience was with bootlegged liquor and champagne. It was strong but went down easy with the tang of earth and fruit.
I watched Max add wood to the fire. I’d seen plenty of shirtless men working on the farm—Germans mostly, with freckled shoulders and chests like beer barrels—but I couldn’t help staringat Max. His smooth shoulders were wide but not bulky, his skin a shade darker than tan. His usually well-disciplined hair rebelled into disorderly curls. He stared into the fire, reminding me suddenly of the coyote we’d seen on the road.Inscrutablewas a word I heard once. Penny would call that a ten-cent word, but it fit.
He perched beside me on the chaise, and I was thankful he couldn’t read my sappy thoughts. He fingered my oversized dressing gown. “That’s going to be all the rage next season.”
I took a sip of wine, and maybe that gave me courage to pass up our usual banter. This new Max had me hooked and I wanted more. “Why now?” I asked. What I wanted to know was why me, but if I came too close, I figured he’d bolt. “Why haven’t you been back before?”
He looked into his glass as if it might have the answer, his forehead knit under his dark curls. “My father... he wasn’t easy to be around,” he finally said, directing his words into the flames. There was pain in his voice, and I wondered then about the mother he never spoke of, but I didn’t have the courage to ask him.
He took a deep drink of his wine and looked out over the sea where the stars were starting to glow faintly in the indigo sky. “I had everything you’d think a boy would want. Houses, servants, all the food I could eat.” His dark lashes fanned over his cheeks. “He took me to the studios, the parties. I ran for their drinks, drove his car. I learned how to dress like him, talk like him, drink like him.” He shrugged.
