FLAWLESS

by Leena Varghese

  Keenly attuned to Max’s changing mood, Giana straightened and rose from his lap like a newly born calf. He rose with her and held her steady until she had found her footing.

  “The tea is burnt,” said Max, to fill in the silence. He turned and switched off the molten kettle.

  Giana limped to the chair and hoisted her heavy bag onto her shoulder. Her bones sagged with the weight. “I should go home. It’s late.”

  His eyes held her sad ones. Her curly hair was completely undone, a sandal broken. The gaping dress was now tucked beneath a balled fist at her shoulder. She looked tired and bedraggled despite her valiant effort at standing straight.

  “You must be hungry. Let me make some fresh tea for you,” offered Max, apologetically.

  She shook her head.

  “Let me drop you home.”

  “No!” She shuddered at the prospect of facing more humiliation in front of Max. She had a firing squad waiting for her at home.

  “I am coming with you, Giana.” His tone was uncompromising.

  “Please, Max, listen...”

  “You heard me, Giana,” he said firmly, relieving her of her bulky handbag and clasped her hand. “Let’s take the backdoor. Shorter distance. Can you walk?”

  She nodded dumbly. He was determined to help her, she realized in despair. She certainly didn’t want her mother to see her being carried by Max. That would be equivalent to sticking her head in a cannon.

  Max’s hand tightened on her arm as they crossed Giana’s garden. She walked slowly, but with the dignified stance of a queen, thought Max in wonder.

  As they came around to the front door, it was flung open by Carol whose countenance changed to fury after one look at her daughter and the man holding her hand.

  “Where have you been?” she hissed angrily as her daughter followed Max into the house.

  “We got...delayed...at the church.”

  “I called on your phone but you didn’t pick up,” accused Carol. It was then that she noticed Giana’s dishevelled state. “What happened to you?” she asked, finally registering the bruises and the torn dress.

  Giana glanced at Max and said with a tiny smile, “Max, thank you for dropping me home. I don’t want to keep you any longer especially when...you are so busy.”

  Max didn’t budge. He just stood, scowling, with a ladies handbag hanging by his side. It should have made him look less masculine and even ridiculous. But it didn’t. He looked gorgeous and as solid as a stone wall. He provided the silent, unexpected support that Giana desperately needed.

  “I asked you a question!”

  Giana looked nervously in her mother’s direction. What was she supposed to say?

  Max was watching her with hooded eyes. Egging her on mentally to defend herself. But he could see that she was afraid of her own mother.

  “Giana?” her mother raised her voice.

  “It was...You see...Benjamin...was...”

  “Benjamin Fernandez assaulted Giana in the basement of the church.” It was Max who provided the explanation.

  “What?” Carol was stunned, her face turning pale with worry. Soon, her worry changed to anger. “What were you doing alone in the basement with him?” she shrieked.

  “I didn’t...Uh...Mamma...the banners...” Giana paused, her speech distracted by Annabel who clattered down the stairs hearing the raised voices. Her sister stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Giana.

  “You seduced a married man!” lashed out Carol, jumping to the dastardly conclusion.

  The sisters gasped at the terrible accusation. It was not just an accusation. It was a slur. Max swore under his breath in sheer outrage and disbelief. He threw the handbag on the couch and stepped forward assertively.

  “Benjamin Fernandez is a vulgar, obnoxious man who assaulted your daughter. She is injured because she withstood his evil intentions and fought him off.” Max stepped in closer and Carol glared at him. “Did you not see the bruises on your daughter’s body? Or are you so blinded by your own prejudice that you cannot see that she is more hurt by your mistrust than by anything else?”

  There was utter silence from the three women. Annabel rushed to Giana’s side and hugged her close as tears ran down her sister’s cheeks.

  “Mr. Martineau,” Carol said, with the iron-clad tone that she had used all her life to discipline her children. “I don’t know what you have been led to believe. But Giana is known to have an impulsive nature. Her irresponsible actions have led her to her own misfortune and now she is paying the price for it.”

  “If you had any sense you would see how much you are hurting your daughter. She needs your trust and support more than anything right now.” He ran a weary hand over his eyes, tired of the futile conversation.

  Upstairs, Toby gave a plaintive cry in his sleep. Giana’s eyes flew up in the direction of the bedroom and then turned to Max, her eyes filled with tears of gratitude. He had put everything into those succinct words...something that she would never have been able to do herself.

  “Goodnight Giana. Take some medication for the pain. And forget everything, OK?” said Max softly, chocolate eyes warm. Then he turned and left.

  *

  Max woke up early with the light of the dawn. The cool sea breeze wafted in through the bedroom window. Tomorrow, he would start a jogging routine, he promised himself. Work had crowded his schedule since the unfortunate Sunday of the fete three days ago. He was exhausted and in no mood for anything after a long night at his workstation. He threw the shutters open wide. The cacophony of morning sounds was rejuvenating. He brushed his teeth and went down to collect the newspaper and then came back and sat on the bed for a while, reading.

  His mind strayed to Giana, as it had done incessantly the past few days. Was she all right? He sorely wanted to call her. She hadn’t replied to his messages except one, saying that she was better. She had looked so defeated. All that grace and beauty wounded. He flung the newspaper away disgusted with the injustice of it and sprawled on the bed again. He had dozed but a few minutes when the phone rang right next to his ear. He groped for it with his eyes still closed and cracked an eyelid to see who it was. It was Giana. He leapt off the pillow and took the call.

  “Max?”

  The tentative word was such a joy to hear. He refused to analyse the reason behind such an enthusiastic reaction from his body and heart.

  “Giana,” he breathed, his voice husky from sleep. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes...Much better.”

  “No need for a doctor?”

  “No. I am fine.”

  “So...” The words petered away. What was he supposed to say next?

  “May I come over for a few minutes?”

  Huh? She was asking his permission to visit! Of course, she could...Any time!

  “Sure, Giana...Give me...”

  “I am standing outside your backyard gates. Could you open it, please?”

  He strode to the bank of bay windows overlooking his backyard and the sea beyond. He saw her standing with a package in her hand. Her hair in a curly bun hastily tied in a green scarf with the tendrils framing her face, her peacock green, floral dress, fluttering around her calves. He nearly forgot that she was waiting for him to let her in with the phone stuck to her ear.

  He raced down the stairs, and whipped the door open, striding across the dead grass to unlock the gates. What was it about her that got his belly into knots? Her bruises were still blue, and the abrasions, pronounced on her satin skin. Awkwardness defined every line of her body as she walked alongside. Shoving a fluttering curl out of her face, her lips wreathed in a tentative smile. She was clutching a packet to her chest as though defending herself. And she was just beautiful!

  “I thought...” Giana cleared her throat, striving to remember what she had come to say. But it became more difficult each time she faced this gorgeous man. A blue-black shadow covered his jaw and his hair was endearingly ruffled from sleep. She was aware of that masculine body more acutel
y, now that she knew how it felt to be wrapped in his steely arms and had known the comfort and safety they could provide. Dressed in a black T and pyjamas, Max Martineau could make ramp models look mediocre.

  “You thought...what Giana?”

  When he talked in that sleep-roughened husky drawl, she could feel every cell in her body vibrate and come alive.

  “May I come inside?”

  “Yes...of course!” Max pulled himself out of the idiotic stupor and pushed the door open wider to allow her in.

  She handed him the packet wordlessly. It was warm and smelt of vanilla and chocolate and something spicy.

  “I brought you something to eat.” She made it sound as though she had committed a sin.

  His mouth watered at the aroma as he opened the parcel. “Looks like you have been busy since dawn. You were supposed to rest.”

  “I usually get up early. Sometimes, I bake. It makes me feel good when I am...depressed,” she finished breathlessly.

  “You were depressed?” he asked, touching her cheek.

  She willed herself to stay calm when one gentle touch was enough to make her heart leap and sing.

  “No. I just want to thank you for everything you did for me, Max.”

  “I thought we have gone beyond such formalities,” he said, moving to the dining hall to set the plates.

  Giana didn’t want to admit that they had gone beyond formalities. To admit that would mean they were more than mere acquaintances...or even friends...perhaps much more than that, she thought. It would have been safer to be just acquaintances. She turned away to hide her embarrassment at the sudden memory of two occasions that they had breached the boundaries.

  They understood each other perfectly. Although in her short, eventful life, she had come to the distressing conclusion that perfection was a myth and that no one ever understood anyone at all. Not even family members.

  “These look delicious. Feast for a king!” Max took out the buttered croissants oozing with chocolate and vanilla flavoured cream. He broke a Chausson aux Pommes and popped it into his mouth, relishing the cinnamon scented applesauce filling on his tongue. It was warm and crisp and went straight to his heart! There were stuffed vegetable sandwiches too, hot off the grill, typically Creole, an enticing mix of Indian spices and French flavouring. “Good enough to give me a prosperous paunch!” he quipped with a chuckle, licking off a blob of vanilla flavoured icing from the croissants. He sobered suddenly. “Thank you. I had forgotten what home cooked food tastes like.”

  “If you wish to have fresh food sent to you in the mornings I can arrange for it. I know that you are busy and sometimes cooking is not a priority.”

  He shook his head and placed everything on the plates, setting the table for two. He didn’t want to tell her that it was not because he couldn’t cook. He had simply lost his appetite because there was no one to share his meals with him.

  He shut that thought immediately. “Where’s Toby?”

  “At home with Annabel.”

  “You told Carol that you are coming here?”

  She gave a sad smile. “No. She left for the cafe early.”

  “Was there any problem that day?”

  “No. She was...quiet. Annabel said that she came to my room late after I had slept and cried for a long time.”

  “I am sorry I was harsh with her.”

  “I guess she felt bad later,” said Giana softly. “The past few years have been very painful for all of us.” Her mother was a hardened woman. But Giana knew why she had become like that. She couldn’t blame her.

  “How are you? Hope you took some medication? I had a message from Fr Da’Cunha asking me about you. I told him that you were better and resting.”

  “I am good. It took me some time to sleep that night though,” she said, remembering how she had tossed in pain and finally taken a painkiller for the bodily aches. But the nightmare she had gone through had kept her awake for a long time. Even through Annabel’s comforting presence and Toby’s innocent embrace.

  “You were injured badly and exhausted, among other things.”

  She shrugged her delicate shoulders. Yes, the day had been one of the ugliest in her life.

  She looked around pretending interest in the decor as he put the kettle on for coffee. The limited furniture surprised her. There was hardly anything in the beautiful, vintage house. The mandatory dining table and a plush, ivory couch in the large marble-tiled hall were the only modern things to be seen. The entire layout was late eighteenth century, renovated to suit the era. A three-legged, squat, wooden stool and a delicate cerulean vase, mounted on ormolu, a tad chipped at the edge, told its story in hand-painted porcelain. The shaded veranda overlooked the dry shrubs in the garden outside.

  She looked at one wall which was painted sunlight yellow and white and saw the traditional vissri or panka hanging from a pulley, at the corner of the ceiling. She let out an audible gasp of surprise, charmed by the huge Prussian blue, silk fan with golden tassels hanging from it. She could easily imagine a scrawny servant boy, pulling the strings from the veranda, to keep the inmates of the villa cool in the sultry afternoons.

  “It was one of the few items that could be salvaged when I bought the villa.”

  “It’s beautiful!” she said touching the tassels, a relic from the colonial past, that existed much before electric ceiling fans had made their appearance.

  He watched her animated face, pleased to have her in his home.

  She moved on to look at a painting of the sea in a flux under a stormy sky, her finger trailing on the side table. The dresser was antique she suspected. Before she could admire the elegant carvings on it, her eyes settled on the silver photo frame on top of it.

  Walking closer to it, her smile faltered at the sight of the man-woman-child photo, undoubtedly a happy family. Max stood behind the elegant, stylish woman who held a baby in her arms. The babe was beautiful; perhaps six-months old, with dark, curly hair like his father’s, and a sweet, heart-melting smile. But what caught her attention was Max...the happy grin on his face, his hands behind the babe’s head and the woman’s shoulder, gathering them close under his care.

  Her heart tore with inexplicable grief. What she saw in the photo could never be hers. Not just the man in the picture but what the photo represented.

  The despair that hit her had no explanation. Max was married! She turned around to clutch at the table’s edge. She didn’t want to believe that he was like Benjamin. The thought urged her to escape as fast as possible.

  But Max had been watching her all the while. Even as she turned, he was right behind her with the steaming coffee mugs. He knew what she was thinking. It was there in her beautiful, shimmering eyes.

  “You...are married?” she blurted, without intending to.

  “I was...”

  Max’s dark, unfathomable gaze slid to the photo. On bad days he would keep the frame turned away. Today was a good day. At least, it had begun well. Until now.

  Giana waited for the confirmation. “What happened?” She breathed hard, struggling to locate her heart that had sunken to her stomach.

  “They...died in an accident three years ago,” intoned Max flatly.

  She didn’t know how to react. It was too terrible to comprehend the death of a child.

  “That toy you gave Toby...Peppy...Was that...?”

  “It was my son’s favourite,” finished Max, his throat closing convulsively.

  “Tell me about it,” she asked, empathy softening her features. She knew how it felt to lose loved ones.

  Max shrugged dismissively and handed her the steaming mug. “There is nothing to say.” He turned around and walked to the table. “Come and eat.”

  She knew that the conversation was over and was reluctant to pry into it.

  They drank coffee enveloped by their disturbing thoughts in the hushed silence. Taking quick sips of the coffee, she said, “I have to go back. Toby gets fretful when he doesn’t see me.” She pushed the em
pty cup away and rose to leave.

  “Giana, wait...” He clasped her wrist and everything blew up in his face. He was unable to control the shot of desire that went through him like a bolt of lightning. Without warning, his finger traced the fine skin on her wrist. He felt her tremble in reaction, her face turning scarlet. “You promised that you would have dinner with me,” he reminded her, quietly, unwilling to let her go. He hated himself for wanting her.

  “Maybe...some other time,” she promised, seeing the desolate look in his eyes.

  She would consider it, when she had more control over herself. She trusted him. But she didn’t want any more complications in her life. She wanted a simpler equation with Max. Not this...uncontrolled reaction...all silky heat pouring through her veins even at the most delicate touch.

  “Whenever you are free,” he said, softly.

  But he didn’t release her. Max pulled her towards him, gently, until she stood so close that he could see the dark lashes framing her champagne eyes and the glinting gold in her glossy, brown curls. She stood, caught in a trance, waiting with bated breath. He bent and kissed her cheek where the traces of bruises marred her perfect skin. It was a feathery touch and it caused enough havoc in her brain for her to step away, trembling.

  Max stepped back as a huge wave of intense hunger assaulted him. He wanted to drag her into his arms and sate that hunger. It was the first time they were touching each other without any impediments. He was not drunk, nor was she injured. On both the previous occasions the touch had been more out of a need to protect and soothe and support. This was pure desire. They were both acutely aware of the pitfalls of such a desire.

  It sobered her that she could want Max’s touch so deeply that she had allowed him to breach the boundaries of mere friendship. She had swayed towards him hoping that he would kiss her more intimately.

  “Have a good day, Max,” she whispered, her voice strange to her own ear as she came to the unpleasant conclusion that she was indeed the tart that her mother kept accusing her of being.

  “You too, my dear.”

  He released her hand and she turned away, walking briskly to the door. It closed behind her, leaving her feminine scent in the air, mingled with the aroma of French pastry. He sat at the table stiffly, and his head sank into his hands. He wanted her so badly that it was like being submerged in it head down. But he couldn’t have her. He shouldn’t even be thinking about it. He reached for the photo frame set on the dresser. A groan of pure anguish left his throat. He laid it face down, unable to look at it anymore.