The Balfour Legacy

by Various

  In the starlight Zoe could barely make out his face; the moonlight slid over his scar, shadowed his eyes and cheekbones. Neither of them spoke, although she could hear the ragged tear of his breathing. Slowly, hesitantly, and yet with a growing certainty, she reached up to touch his face, her fingers brushing against the stubble, her thumb finding the fullness of his lip. She cupped his cheek with the palm of her hand as she had the other night, when he’d been racked by such a terrible dream. Its memory, Zoe thought, still held him now.

  ‘Max…’ she whispered, the word no more than a breath, yet she still meant it as both a plea and promise. She wanted to know; she wanted him to tell her. ‘Tell me.’

  He moved closer and brought his forehead to rest against hers, their faces close, their breath mingling. Her hands slid down his face, across his shoulders and found his; their fingers entwined.

  A few strains of music could be heard from the open French doors, faint and haunting, and with a little laugh Max said, ‘We could almost be dancing.’

  Tears stung Zoe’s eyes. She’d never felt so achingly close to someone before, and yet still so agonisingly far away. ‘Then let’s dance.’

  He paused, his eyes closed. ‘I told you I didn’t dance.’

  ‘You showed me you did,’ Zoe whispered. ‘Remember?’

  Max gave a little shake of his head. ‘This time I don’t know the steps.’

  She closed her eyes too and swayed her hips, stumbling a bit on the sand, her fingers still threaded with Max’s. ‘Neither do I. We can just make them up. Create a whole new dance.’

  To her surprise—and joy—she felt Max swaying against her, with her. ‘Do you think it would be any good?’ he murmured against her hair.

  ‘I think it would be wonderful,’ Zoe whispered. Her throat was so tight it was hard to get the words out. She felt Max’s fingers tighten on hers. They swayed to the strains of music for a few wonderful minutes, moving almost as one, the waves lapping at their feet and the darkness all around them. Then Max gave her fingers a final squeeze and stepped away so quickly that Zoe was left half stumbling in solitude.

  ‘Max—’

  ‘I’m blind, Zoe.’

  Her mouth opened, but no words came out. Her mind was spinning, struggling to keep up. Blind. She stared at him, his face lit only by the moon, his expression so terribly bleak, and her heart ached. ‘How—’ she began, even though she barely knew what question to frame.

  ‘Stargardt’s disease. It’s genetic, a gradual degeneration of the retina which leads to seriously impaired vision or, as will most likely be the case for me, complete blindness.’ She still could only stare; there were too many questions, too many thoughts, and she knew by the rigidity of Max’s stance that she had to speak carefully. ‘I had no idea I had the disease until my accident,’ Max continued in a dispassionate tone. ‘I blacked out, you see—that’s why I crashed my plane. Sudden blackouts can sometimes be a symptom of the disease, and my diagnosis was confirmed while I was in hospital a little over three months ago.’

  Three months. He’d only known this for three month.? No wonder he looked like a man whose life was over. He’d had so little time to adjust to such devastating news.

  ‘Since then my vision has only gotten worse,’ Max continued, and she heard the strain in his voice, felt the sorrow. ‘I can hardly see anything at all, and the simplest tasks are difficult…impossible—’ He broke off, took a deep breath and continued. ‘Sometimes I catch a glimpse of something—your hair, or the green of your eyes. They’re so very lovely.’

  She felt a tear slide coldly down her cheek and tried to speak, but Max wouldn’t let her. ‘But really I can’t see anything at all. Blurred shapes, patches of darkness, sometimes something out of the corner of my eye. Peripheral vision, apparently, is the last to go. Eventually—’ he swallowed ‘—it will all be dark.’ His voice throbbed with feeling and Zoe dashed at the tear on her face. She would not be weak. Not now, not when this was so important.

  ‘Max—’

  ‘So you see why I was reluctant to have a relationship with you. I’m not—and I never can be—the man you thought I was. The man you want and need me to be.’

  ‘How do you know what I want?’ Zoe asked, her tone raw, her throat aching. Everything was making terrible sense: his careful, deliberate movements, the look of uncertainty she’d seen flash across his features…why he hadn’t looked at the ultrasound screen.

  And hear i., he’d said about the galloping sound of their baby’s heart. Now Zoe understood why that had been so precious.

  Max arched an eyebrow in blatant scepticism. He was distancing himself; she could feel it. He was becoming remote because it was the only way to protect himself from pain, or the possibility of pain. She knew all about that. Max protected himself by withdrawing; she did it by diving into the fray, laughing and flirting and partying her way to forgetfulness. Neither method ever really worked. ‘Are you saying,’ he asked in a voice that was all too cold, ‘that it doesn’t matter?’

  ‘Matter?’ Zoe repeated incredulously. She blinked back the threat of tears and thought of how her own father had told her the circumstances of her birth hadn’t mattered. But they did; she felt it deep inside. It mattered, and it also mattered what she did. How she responded. ‘Of course it matter.—’

  Max took a step back on the sand, his expression turning terribly blank, and Zoe reached out with desperate, empty arms. She’d said the wrong thing—she could see it in his face—and she hadn’t even realised, hadn’t meant…

  ‘Max, no—’

  ‘I knew what kind of woman you were the moment you sidled up to me,’ he said, each word deliberate, cutting, aiming to wound. ‘A

  shallow socialite and an accomplished flirt. That was why I took you to bed—I didn’t want to have to deal with the morning after, and I knew you wouldn’t give me any trouble. That’s all you wanted too, wasn’t it? At least, at first.’

  Zoe shook her head, refusing to listen, to believe. ‘Don’t—’

  ‘But it’s true, Zoe. Remember that Internet search? I found plenty of fodder. Scandal.’

  Zoe felt the blood drain from her face. The spotlight had swung towards her, and she didn’t like its penetrating glare. ‘I’m sure you did,’ she whispered.

  ‘You have quite an interesting history,’ he continued, and now there was no disguising the sneer. ‘Failed out of school at sixteen. You were nearly expelled for sneaking out and partying with local boys.’ Escapades she’d almost forgotten. Now they were thrown at her as judgements, and from the one person in the world she couldn’t bear to know and say such things. ‘And you continued that reputation in London, spending your daddy’s money on having a good time—except he’s not even your daddy, is he? As we both know.’ This was stated with a cold matter-of-factness that left Zoe winded and gasping for air, as if she had been struck. ‘Not,’ Max finished with chilling precision, ‘that any of it matters.’

  ‘Why are you saying this?’ she asked, her arms around herself, her back bent and shoulders hunched as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She felt as if she had, or, worse, stabbed in the heart.

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  Zoe shook her head. ‘No, Max—’

  ‘You’re denying it?’ he asked incredulously, and Zoe gave a little, hiccupping laugh.

  ‘No, I can’t deny it. Everything you said is true.’ She raised her head, met his contemptuous gaze. Perhaps he couldn’t see her, but he could hear the truth in her voice. ‘I came to New York to escape the gossip when the news of my birth broke. I told you that before. And before that I was everything you’ve said I was.’ She gave another little laugh. ‘I admit it, I haven’t done much with my life. I haven’t fought a war or started a business or made millions. I never even thought about doing anything until I learned the truth, that I’m not a Balfour. I’m not who I thought I was.’

  ‘And that’s so important to you?’ Max asked, the question a sneer. ‘Being a Balfour?
’

  ‘It was,’ Zoe confessed quietly. ‘It was everything to me. I felt like if I wasn’t a Balfour, I didn’t know who I was. But now—’

  ‘I know who you are,’ Max cut across her. His voice was icily calm, chilling Zoe to the heart, to the bone. ‘You’re a shallow, vacuous socialite who’s been amusing herself with some pathetic dream of happy families.’

  ‘No—’ Zoe gasped, the word choked from her. She could hardly believe Max was saying these things; it hurt so much more than any newspaper’s rubbish or acquaintance’s sly remark.

  ‘It’s only a matter of time before you get bored,’ Max finished with cutting clarity. ‘Before you walk away and move on to the next amusement.’

  ‘That’s not fair—’

  ‘Just true.’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘Why are you saying these things?’

  ‘Because it’s better to end this now,’ Max said. ‘Before anyone could get attached.’

  ‘Attached?’. Zoe repeated, her voice somewhere between a sob and a squawk. ‘I was falling in love with you—’

  ‘Well, then.’ The curling of Max’s lip wasn’t a smile; it was too cold, too cruel, for that. ‘It’s a good thing you stopped.’

  Zoe closed her eyes. She felt dizzy and sick, as if she’d been physically attacked. She fel. attacked, violated, stripped bare. She could handle anyone else saying such terrible things about her, she realised; she expected it now. She’d endured it enough. She’d almost—almost—got over it. Yet coming from Max—Max, who she’d seen at his most vulnerable, and perhaps hers, who had let her hold him, who had held her—it hurt beyond bearing.

  She lifted her head and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. ‘It’s a good thing I did,’ she finally said, her voice ragged, and then she turned and walked away.

  Max watched Zoe disappear into the darkness; it swallowed her up and when he breathed in he couldn’t smell roses any more. He felt winded, stunned, his mind and heart both shattered.

  It was better this way, he knew. Better to have her leave on his terms, rather than hers. Better to fail her now, rather than later, when he couldn’t be what she wanted, or give her what she needed. It was easier now, even if it didn’t feel like it.

  It felt like hell.

  He’d only experienced this futile rage and hopeless desperation once before, when he’d been blindfolded, gagged and tied, a prisoner of war listening to the screams of his comrades and unable even to move. Even though he had no such binds now, he still felt as powerless. Still—and always—a prisoner.

  Chapter Nine

  ZOE called a taxi from the party, climbing in and letting it speed her away, down the sandy track to Max’s beach house, now no more than a darkened hulk huddled against the shore.

  She would leave tomorrow, she decided, too numb to consider the practicalities, the implications. She’d hire a car, or a bus—something—to take her back to New York.

  And then what?

  She lay on her bed, her eyes closed, unable to think about the next step…if there even was a next step. Every word Max had said was like a knife wound, her mind and heart lacerated and throbbing with pain.

  You’re a shallow, vacuous socialite who’s been amusing herself with some pathetic dream of happy families.

  It hurt, she knew, because she believed him. He was right. She was shallow and frightened, afraid she’d fail herself. Fail Max. Fail their child. She’d run away when the rumours started over her birth; she’d deflected Max’s confidences just yesterday; tonight she’d walked away from him because she’d been too hurt, too frightened, to fight.

  Afraid. Always afraid and weak.

  You’re stronger than you think.

  She rolled onto her side, drawing her knees up to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her knees. No, I’m not, Dadd., she thought, her eyes closed. I wish I was. I wish I was as strong as you believed me to be.

  It’s only a matter of time before you get bored. A scathing indictment, and so unfair. So untrue. And yet Max had believed it, had said it with such chilling finality, and the fact that he believed it—thought so little of her—hurt her more than she knew it should. More than she should let it.

  She’d believed Max might think more of her, because she’d thought more of him. She’d wondered about and hoped for something deeper, something hidden underneath his haughty demeanour, his chilling scorn. She’d seen it…felt it, tasted it, when she’d lain in his arms, when he’d let her comfort him, when he’d smiled, when they’d danced…

  Why, then, had he driven her away with such terrible words, scathing indictments?

  I’m not…the man you want and need me to be. Zoe opened her eyes, staring into the darkness, dry-eyed, her heart suddenly thudding in her ears. She’d known Max was distancing himself for his own protection; she’d felt it, yet she’d forgotten in the onslaught of personal accusations and judgements. She’d only been thinking about herself, and her own weakness.

  Had Max been thinking about his? Was he driving her away because he was afraid she would leave him when she learned he was blind? Could he really think she was that shallow?

  Or was he simply afraid…as she was?

  Zoe knew she had to discover the truth. She had to know just why Max had driven her away like he did. She had to confront him.

  The thought left her dry-mouthed with fear. She’d faced too many rejections, too many cold stares. She couldn’t bear the thought of facing that again, of feeling so empty and alone again, with no choice but to walk away, humiliated and hurting. Yet what was the alternative? Life without Max—without the possibility of Max—was too bleak even to contemplate. It was no choice at all.

  You’re stronger than you think.

  ‘I’m trying, Daddy,’ she whispered, and slipped off her bed to search for Max.

  The beach house was silent and silvered with moonlight, every room she slipped through quiet and empty. Zoe realised she didn’t even know if Max had returned. Was he still at the party, forgetting his cares—forgetting her—with some socialite who really wa. as vacuous as he’d claimed she was?

  Still, Zoe searched, slipping through the moonlit rooms on silent cat’s feet, wanting only to find him, yet having no idea what she might say, what he might be willing to hear.

  She finally found him in the first place she realised she should have looked—on the beach. She walked down the slatted wooden path between the dunes and saw Max near the shore. He was seated on the sand, his elbows braced on his knees, the waves lapping his feet. A thousand stars spangled the sky above him, and the surface of the sound glittered with their light. Zoe hesitated by the softly rolling dunes, unsure what to say.

  She tried to imagine what Max must be feeling now; she wondered how much of the awesome star-filled sky he could see. Her heart twisted, not with pity, but with admiration. He was a brave man.

  She walked forward, the sand cool under her feet, and sat down next to Max. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.

  ‘I came to find you because I don’t believe you meant all those things you said,’ Zoe said quietly. Max didn’t answer for a long moment, and she clasped her knees, her fingers digging into her palms as the silence went on and on—too long. Finally he spoke.

  ‘Which things?’ His voice was low, aching, and Zoe ached too.

  ‘The bit about being a shallow, vacuous socialite who is going to get bored,’ she reminded him. The words still hurt even though she tried to keep her voice light. ‘Remember?’

  ‘I remember.’

  Zoe took a deep breath. This was harder than she thought; Max was giving her nothing. In the moonlit darkness his profile was hard, the line of his cheek and jaw harsh and unyielding. ‘I won’t, you know,’ she said softly. ‘I wouldn’t, if you gave me the chance.’ Still, Max said nothing and Zoe looked down at the sand, blinking hard. ‘When you said those things, it hurt so much because—because I’ve always believed them about myself. I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else believin
g them too—someone I loved.’

  Max let out a ragged sound, something torn from him, something between a laugh and a sob. ‘Don’t, Zoe—’

  ‘I have to,’ she said simply. ‘I’m trying to change, to be strong, and I’m not going to walk away without trying, Max. Without telling you everything.’

  He shook his head. ‘It will just make it harder.’

  ‘Why?’ She reached out a hand and touched his arm; his skin was warm and her fingers curled around his forearm, craving the touch. The connection, no matter how small. ‘Why does it have to be hard? I love you, Max. I love the man I’ve come to know, when you let your guard down, when you stop trying to hold yourself apart—’

  He shook his head again, more forcefully. ‘Don’t—’.

  ‘And in those moments,’ Zoe continued, her voice no more than a whisper, ‘I believe you love me too.’ She stopped, her hand still on his arm, and he didn’t respond. She felt the tide shush around her feet, lapping over her toes, warm and salty, like tears. Her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘Am I wrong?’

  He just shook his head, his throat working, yet he didn’t speak. Couldn’t, Zoe thought, and she didn’t know whether that gave her hope or sorrow. ‘Tell me, Max,’ she commanded, her voice soft yet strong. ‘Tell me you don’t love me. Tell me you meant all those things you said before, that I’m shallow and…and vacuous.’ Her voice broke, just a little bit. This was so scary. This was more of a risk than she’d ever taken before, more of a risk than when she’d faced her biological father. This was her heart, life, love, everything, on the line. She waited, watching him; he didn’t move.

  Please don’t turn away.

  Max covered his face with his hands, his long, tapered fingers pressed against his temples. ‘I can’t,’ he said in a voice so low Zoe almost didn’t hear it. Her breath came out in a surprised, grateful rush, and Max dropped his hands to look at her, his expression so bleak it chilled and saddened her, even as hope bloomed deep inside. ‘I can’t, Zoe. But I wish I could.’ Even as he said the words, his hand came to circle her wrist, pulling her towards him. Zoe went, unresisting, her head falling back as his lips met hers again and again, a desperate dance of their mouths, lips and tongues and teeth, a furious yet beautiful joining, both of them craving the connection.