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“We could run away,” Max says softly, her head resting underneath Anne’s chin. One of her fingers traces along Anne’s exposed, scarred clavicle, one of the places where the sun has not kissed her skin. One of Max’s places. “With all of that money.” It’s a ridiculous idea, of course. What on earth would they do? How would they live? But surely, Max reasons, with all of that gold…she swallows thickly. She can’t help but think of the irony of this, of her suggesting running away with Anne, just like Eleanor all over again.
Perhaps.
Anne’s silence, however, is not promising. When Max glances up to get a peep of Anne’s expression, it looks contemplative – neither encouraging nor discouraging. In a way, Max knows that Anne could never leave Jack. She owes Jack so much, that’s what she always says. Bullshit. She doesn’t owe Jack shit. She’s done enough for Jack to fill two lifetimes. Max doesn’t say this, simply because she doesn’t want to upset Anne in any way. But perhaps, she thinks, Anne will need to hear it one day.
Max leans up on an elbow, gazing into Anne’s eyes, her head tilted to one side. “Have I upset you?” she inquires. Anne reaches up and, although tentatively, affectionately pushes a lock of hair behind Max’s ear. It’s foolish, not to mention hopeless, but Max’s heart still flutters at the touch. Tenderness is something that Max is—well, not unused to by any means, but still. It’s different.
“Nah.” Anne heaves a sigh and, carefully removing Max from her arms, sits up. She runs a hand through her hair, the back of which is tangled, and Max can’t help but want to brush it out for her. “I’ve got to get back, Max.” Back to Jack? The question hovers on Max’s lips, but she bites her tongue. It wouldn’t do any good. Instead she sits up too, and leans her cheek against the strong plane of Anne’s shoulder blade. Anne stiffens briefly, but it isn’t long before she relaxes again. “We’ll have to talk about this another time.”
Anne stands up, slipping into her trousers and pulling her blouse over her head, but impulsively, Max reaches out and clasps her wrist. “Anne?”
“Yes?” It doesn’t matter how long they’ve been acquainted like this—Anne’s eyes still glitter with suspicion.
“I was only going to say that if you wanted to sleep here tonight, that would be fine.” There’s a pause, the air heavy. Max holds her breath. “Only if you cared to,” Max adds with indifference, lest Anne be scared off by the seriousness of her tone. “It does not matter to me.”
“All right.” Anne sounds hesitant, but she strips out of her trousers. She leaves her blouse on; Max has seen the scars, naturally, but Anne still doesn’t like to show them off. Max turns her back on Anne as she crawls back into the bed, pulling her hair over her shoulder.
“Will you unlace me?” she asks. Anne’s hands are steady on her stays, but Max isn’t fooled by her physical display of confidence. For only a second, Anne’s hand wanders up to the nape of Max’s neck, two of her fingers stroking gently at the skin. Then she snatches it away, as if she’s been burnt. Max pretends not to notice. “A moment, if you will,” Max says, smiling pleasantly. Her heart jumps in her chest when Anne smirks back.
She goes to her vanity-table and picks up her old brush, bringing it back to the bed, not paying much attention to Anne’s look of worry. The sleeve of Max’s thin, white chemise is slipping from her shoulder; Anne scoots a bit closer, draws it back up, admiring how the moonlight casts silvery shadows on Max’s golden-brown skin. Max brushes her own hair, and then turns to Anne with a soft smile on her lips. “Would you like me to brush your hair?”
Anne’s face falters a little, but the curiosity is obvious. “Don’t know,” Anne says, lifting her shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “Never really bother with that stuff.” Anne isn’t looking her in the eye anymore, instead focused on a bit of lint on the coverlet. Not disheartened, Max continues to brush her own hair, gently, starting from the tips and working her way up. There’s a moment of quietness, no one speaking, and then Anne sits back up and clears her throat. “I guess. If you wanted to, you could. Don’t matter to me none.”
“I would like to. I could braid your hair, if that’s all right. It will keep your hair from getting so knotted at night.”
“You’re awfully clever, Max.”
Max laughs at the compliment. “Thank you. I suppose that…” Max trails off, unsure of how much to say. “I suppose you never had anyone to teach you secrets like that, did you?”
“No.” Anne says it so quietly that Max has to strain to hear her. Max’s nimble hands make easy work of Anne’s hair—she had fully anticipated it to be painful, what with the size of the tangles, but Max is either an expert at it or she’s immune to pain. Could be either one.
“Now let me see,” Max murmurs after finishing the braid off. “I must make certain I’ve done a satisfactory job.”
“I can tell you have, and I ain’t even looking at it.” Max wants to say, you’re so sweet, but she doesn’t want to offend. So instead she simply smiles in response and inspects her work.
“Hm. I suppose you’re right.”
“Ain’t you cheeky.” It fills Max with warmth to see Anne’s smile, to hear the playful edge in her voice. Unexpectedly, Anne grabs her about the waist and pulls her down, laughing while Max squeals. They lay there for a minute, Anne looking down at her, and then Anne leans down and presses a kiss to Max’s forehead. She stretches out on her side, while Max rolls onto hers, and then, slowly, she allows Max to wrap her arms around her. It’s a few seconds before Anne reciprocates, but then she, too, throws her arms around Max.
It isn’t very often that Anne allows Max to hold her. When she does, Max always, always treasures it. She locks the moment away, keeps it hidden in her heart. There is an intimacy in simply holding one another that feels extraordinary to Max. Making love is something that she’s used to; it’s common; it’s a currency, in a way. And of course, Max enjoys making love, especially with Anne. Yet there is a comfort, a happiness, which suffuses Max only at times like this. She hasn’t felt this since—
No, she thinks, cutting herself off abruptly. She won’t think of that. Nothing matters now, she decides, but being with Anne. That is, she realizes, enough. It’s enough.
As Max drifts off to sleep, Anne notices that the smallest of smiles is present on her kindly face.
———————
They’re sitting on Max’s bed. Max hasn’t seen Anne in a week, and truth be told, it’s been worrying at her constantly. Max knows that these kinds of fancies are foolish, and do nothing but get you hurt. She knows that. So why on earth does she keep thinking about leaving this place, about being with Anne?
She reasons with herself that it’s only natural, after all. Her heart has been broken, so of course she latches onto someone else in her time of mourning. It doesn’t mean anything, not really.
But it doesn’t matter now, because they’re sitting here together in silence, and it’s clear that Anne has something to say. She brushes her hair back behind her ear, chewing on the inside of her lip, her face thoughtful. She looks absolutely lovely, but Max has other things to worry about now. Max is preparing herself for the worst—another goodbye. Another refusal. Perhaps Anne has decided that their relationship is not beneficial, that it is no longer a necessary part of Anne’s growth or her burgeoning freedom. It’s Anne’s choice; Max will not argue with it. That doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“If you have something to say,” Max says coaxingly, “I wish you would go ahead. You’re worrying me.”
“I’m sorry.” Anne shakes her head, and then straightens up. “I’d best get it out now.”
“You best.” Max’s voice was low.
“I’ve been thinking,” she mumbles, looking away, at the trees that sway in the mid-afternoon sunlight. Max’s room is a beacon of light, her shutters thrown open, spacy, filled with the salty air that wafts from the shore. It reminds Anne of Max: all brightness and freshness. Radiance. She tries to think about the task at hand, what she’s come here to say. “About what you said, a while back. About running away.”
“And have you come to a decision?”
“Don’t know yet, really. But I’ve been thinking, and I’m…it’s a possibility, Max.”
“Oh, Anne,” Max says, her breath catching in her throat. “I care for you.” She runs her thumb along the top of Anne’s cheekbone, and to her immense surprise and relief, Anne does not shrink away.
“I care for you too, Max. You know that.”
“All the same, it is good to hear.”
“The only problem…” Anne trails off. Max knows what she’s going to say without her having to say it.
“Jack.”
“I owe everything to Jack, much as I hate to say it. Don’t like owing anything to anyone. Suppose I owe you now, in some way.” She looks up from underneath her brow, screwing her mouth to one side.
“No, no,” Max interjects quickly, grasping Anne’s hand in hers, squeezing her fingers tenderly. “You owe me nothing, Anne. Everything between us is mutual. If you ever decide that you do not want me, Anne, you must tell me. I would not have you stay with me only because you felt you had to.”
“I don’t,” Anne admits. It’s hard for her, but she has to tell the truth. Honesty is something that she cannot afford to leave out of her relationship with Max. “I care for you, as I said. I would want you to let me go, too, if you didn’t care for me no more.”
“Then I suppose we should make a promise. I promise you, Anne.”
“And I promise you.”
Max smiles. “We should get back onto the topic. About leaving.”
“Yes. I need time, Max. I need time to think it all through. I don’t know how…I worry about how we’d get by, without Jack. He’s intelligent, you know. I ain’t so good with words, with getting people to agree with me.” She frowns deeply. “As you know.”
“You are intelligent, Anne. Perhaps just not sociable.” Max smiles to show that she’s only teasing, and Anne gives her the ghost of a smile in return. “And weren’t you saying only recently how clever I was?”
“I suppose I was.”
“We ain’t men. And I don’t know that I could give up pirating, Max.”
“You wouldn’t have to. With all of that gold, do you think anyone will care a whit if we are women? Perhaps at first. It will take time for them to warm up to the idea. But they respect you, Anne. More than they respect Jack. It is evident to anyone who has eyes.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I truly do.” Max cups Anne’s cheek, her eyes never leaving Anne’s. “I want you to think about it, Anne. There is no rush to make a decision. Take your time. I will stay here with you, if you decide to stay.”
“Thank you.” Max thinks she might see tears standing in Anne’s eyes, but Anne turns her face away. “I’ll come and see you tonight, if you don’t mind it.”
“That would make me very happy, Anne.”
Anne gets up to go, but Max stands up too, and throws her arms around Anne’s neck. Anne stands there awkwardly, her arms hanging at her sides, before she gradually puts her hands on Max’s waist. “You do not owe anything to Jack, Anne. You have more than repaid him.”
“I needed to hear that.”
“I thought you might.”
———————
It has been three nights since her last encounter with Anne. Max is curled up in her bed, in the dead of night, wondering if her lover has finally come to a conclusion. The room is awash with moonlight, and over the ruckus of customers downstairs, she can faintly hear the ocean rolling in. The day was unmercifully hot, but the night is cool, and people and animals alike are out to play. She has been too busy dealing with business to really think about Anne, but when she is alone, Anne is on her mind.
A soft knock at the French doors jolts Max from her relative ease. She throws on her dressing gown and hurries over, presses her ear to the door. “Who is it?” she asks, already exhausted. But she has a duty to her girls, and any time that they beckon her, she will come.
“It’s Anne.”
Max does not pause. She opens the doors and welcomes her in, kissing Anne’s cheeks, the edge of her jaw. “I have missed you, mon amour.”
“What does that mean?”
“My love.”
God, Anne thinks. She practically collapses in Max’s arms. She has spent so, so long hating that Max is able to produce this kind of weakness in her, but in the last few months, she has come to love it. It is a part of her, as surely as her anger is, her deeply buried fear. It’s a gift. The only regrettable part is that it’s taken her so long to realize it. “This is our last week, Max.”
“Pardon? What do you mean?” Max’s heart has frozen in terror. Our last week?
“I mean on this damn island, Max. We’re going to leave this godforsaken place. I don’t know how the fuck we’ll do it, Max, but we’re sure as hell going to try.”
“Anne!” Max cries out in delight, and then softly, so softly, she kisses Anne. “I have a few things to get in order, of course. I will do it quickly.”
“So do I.”
“Anne. Anne, Anne. Je t’aime.”
“And what does that mean?”
“It means I love you.”
“Je t’aime, Max.”
———————
It’s early morning. The sun is not even up yet. Anne wakes up to find Max sitting up halfway, her back leaned up against the headboard. “What are you thinking about?”
“Names.”
Anne’s brow has furrowed in confusion. “Why the hell are you thinking about names?”
Max smiles brightly, turning so that she can better see Anne’s reaction. “What do you think of Mark? Mark Read?”