The longer I am walking this new path with Maximus, the more often I look back on my youth and wonder about the absolute certainty I always had that I would end up alone in the end.

And that this would have been okay to me back then. It would actually have been preferable to having to put up with being yoked to some man through marriage or anything approaching it.

Of course, I have learned that marriage is never so easily categorized. It is a yoke for some. For others, like me, it is freeing.

Max and I, we have our battles, our adjustments. We are both of us far too strong willed to not have grown comfortable with calling our own shots about our own life. Now, I will say that Maximus has experience, obviously, at being married ... so you'd think he'd adapt to the whole concept of compromising for the good of the marriage, right? Okay, so you can see Max really compromising? Even when he is certain he is right? Even when he cannot conceive he does not have carte blanche to make decisions he's used to making? On the other hand, just try to picture me stopping to consider that I should consult with Max about things I am used to deciding for myself.

But the curious thing, especially after what we've gone through since August, is that we have such focus now on finding the way to the future we are determined to build together.

Somehow, these two aspects seem to me to be converging. Our individualities are building the foundation for our union.

I look back over the past year and marvel at what we have become together. If I'd never met him, I'd be alone and I would have no idea that I deserved a better life than what I had. If he'd never met me ... well, I almost said he'd be alone and lonely. God, I hate to think of him as alone. He is far too precious to be alone in life.

It's raining. I worry about flooding from the Little Tchefuncte River, which runs at the back line of our property, out beyond the pool, down the small rise where trees obscure its banks from view. I was down there exploring with Buck yesterday and the creek is swollen with water that cannot find its way out to drain into the larger streams leading to the Pearl River. All of the waterways and bayous are fat with water because of the amount of trees that were felled by Katrina. The larger trees that fell lodged where they lay, serving as dams that collect smaller trees and bushes that raced downstream as the storm raked this area. And every heavy rain since then has made this worse as more water backs up, rising to the top of the banks, threatening flooding. Now it is only a matter of time before we have another disaster on our hands up here. Our only hope is that FEMA brings in the equipment and manpower to clear the logjams so the waterways drain rather than flood.

Fat chance.

Ralph says even if the river floods, it will only affect portions of our property. He is convinced it will not rise as high as the house or the stable.

I wish Max were here.

But he is not.

He has been gone over a week now. I suppose it had to happen, that his corporate life would get back into its old swing. That he'd start all the traveling again. That I'd be stuck up here in Folsom, by myself, with nothing of any real consequence to do.

This is his first long trip post-Katrina. I have worried about him almost constantly. I think I'm going to have to get a grip. But I think I'll get the grip on his next trip; I'm rather enjoying worrying over him, in a sick sort of way that I can't explain.

It's been almost five months now since I've worked for the newspaper. I keep thinking I should miss it more than I do. I never thought I'd actually like not working at my career. But I kind of have to admit, I'm enjoying this time. It's a huge luxury.

I have discovered I have other sides to myself. It's Max who brings them out but it's me underneath it all. He told me last night when we talked on the phone that he finds himself curious at some of the things he's found himself not only willing but eager to do only because I have opened up experiences for him that he might never have dallied long enough to try.

He likes fig jam we found in a farmer's market in Folsom. So he got this mad idea of planting fig trees and two weeks ago, we spent an entire two days tracking down fig trees for him to plant just beyond the stable's run. We had gone hunting up to Memphis; while there, we stopped in a smoky jazz joint and Max has discovered a passion for the blues. Don't ask. But it's enough to make me fall in love with him if I wasn't already just to watch him sitting in a semi-dark room, surrounded by the throes of a delta blues ballad cascading from the stereo and washing through his soul.

Of course, now he's off on this trip and it's storming outside. Lightening. Thunder. The rain is bad. And I am having flashbacks.

I'd rather think of Maximus.

If he were here, he'd have that serious look on his face as I gazed out the French doors in the direction of the Little Tchefuncte. He'd say all the things Ralph has said but I'd believe them from Max. Not that I wouldn't think maybe I was right to worry or that there are things he wouldn't have thought of that could be problems.

But the next rolling thunder, like the one that rattles the windows just now, would not be so tough to take if he were here tonight. I might be prickly and argue with him about how little he knows of our topography to be so sure that we won't be flooded when all the rules for flooding were tossed out in the wake of Katrina ... but he would just roll his eyes because he would be so certain he knows better.

And he might.

Which isn't the point.

What is the point?

I don't know. Maybe it's that I wish I wasn't alone right now when I'm jittery over the first really major rainstorm after Katrina. Or maybe I'm just a wimp underneath.

Max is going to adore this wonderful herb cheesecake I have leaned how to make a few days ago. There, that's something to think on. I spent hours today making one for him. I have this faith that he'll be home soon and can enjoy it as a welcome home token from the wife he never knew might have the ability to bake. Who knew?

I was hoping it would be today that he'd call and say he was on way home because today is Valentine's Day. I want to be with him today even though I know it's only a day, an artificial day I suppose, and that in the long run it doesn't matter.

Last year on Valentine's Day, he seduced me further into the joy of being in love with a man such as him. He introduced me to just how decadent he could be with me. He introduced me to the carnality of Lupercalia and the sex lottery.

How different things are this year. Last year, I spent weeks trying to find the right thing to wear for him for Valentine's Day. This year, I am baking him a gourmet appetizer and smiling at the memory of the little black thong of mine on which I'd hot glued little candy Valentine hearts. I'd hidden the thong in his suitcase where he'd found it that first night away on this trip. His voice on the phone that night had made me wet. He said he'd do his best to be with me on Valentine's so I could wear the thong for him and he'd nibble the candy hearts off and make me sorry for giving him a hard on when I was too far away.

I hope he gets back in the next few days or the cheesecake won't be fit to eat. 

Through the lightening flashes, I see Ralph walking toward where I'm standing. He must be out checking the property. I open the French door; Buck darts out. It is so cold outside right now.

Ralph says the river is out of its banks already. He shakes his head. Will we flood, I ask him. Not a chance he says but just then another of the really bad rolls of thunder makes the roof shake. I hate this, I say to him. So do I, he says.

He sits in the kitchen with me for about an hour, until the worst of the storm passes. I sip wine; he sips beer. He asks me when Max will be home.

I don't know. I honestly don't. Last night, he said I could not call him today as he'd be involved in something and I had to understand that this was one of those times when he'd have to be unreachable.

Ralph likes my baking. This week, with Max gone, I've been baking up a storm. I've made macadamia fudge and pecan-banana bread and chocolate chip cookies and yams in orange sauce. I tried making divinity but the weather was too humid the day I was making it so it didn't sit up well. But Ralph took the pan after we had a good laugh at how goofy it looked. He returned it a few days later and said he'd eaten it by the spoonfuls. He said he was getting fat with all the baking I was doing and that maybe I needed to let Rosie at the Tavern taste some of my desserts because she might want to start serving them there.

Pete is no longer living with us and I can tell Ralph misses his brother for all that he tries to pretend he is relieved to have his place back all to himself. I think maybe he took comfort in having Pete living with him after Katrina. But now Pete is living with my mother in New Orleans. Every day it seems, we make some progress in getting life cleaned up around us. My mother's return to her home is a significant milestone for us all.

So Ralph and I sit in my kitchen and we commiserate with each other for being so pitiful as to be lonely this week. I miss Max; he misses Pete. We agree how stupid this is, what a waste of emotion and stuff.

Valentine's Day, then, comes to a close for me with Ralph heading back out into the lessening rain and Buck coming back inside, soaking wet, his tail wagging over the messy fun he's just had. He seems almost happier when I grab his big towel to dry him off. So instead of the scent of Max in heat, I get eau de wet dog fur as the smell that fills my senses as I'm going to sleep.

Somewhere deep inside the fugue of dreamless sleep, he wakes me.

He whispers my name; I wonder if he's been whispering naughty thoughts before I fully wake because I am already wet when I realize I'm awake. He's not even touching me. He just has his mouth over my ear and he's saying my name as if it is the Roman word for his desire for me.

"I'm so glad you called," I whisper back to him. "I won't say I was worried about you because I think you hate me to worry about you."

"I will be home tomorrow."

I look at the clock. It's not midnight yet. "Thank you for letting me hear your voice on Valentine's."

"When I return, expect me to make it worth your while to have had to wait on me to celebrate this day."

"Just return to me and we'll call it even."

"I am not interested in a draw. Only victory."

"Roma victor?"

"Promise you shall put up a valiant effort? I shall promise to mount a physical assault that will overwhelm your every defense. It shall make your capitulation all the sweeter."

"You don't really think you have the ability to make me ever capitulate to you, do you?"

"Are you daring me?"

"Yes."

"Prepare for your defeat."

"Maximus?"

"Yes?"

"You're going down this time, buddy."

"Perhaps. If it would pleasure you, woman."

"Well, that wasn't what I meant ... but ... I like the sound of that."

"Tomorrow, cara. Now, return to sleep. I only needed to hear your voice."

"Are you okay, Max? Everything went okay?"

He says nothing for a long few moments. I am just on the verge of thinking we've lost the connection when I hear him sigh. I close my eyes at the feel of his sigh. "Everything in my life led me to you, Anna. Always hold fast to the love we share. I'll be home in the evening. We'll talk then."

All day long, the day after Valentine's, I keep thinking I "feel" Max coming nearer. But just when I think I "sense" him turning down that crumbly road leading to this property and I rush out, smoothing down my hair and holding in my breath ... it's not him. It's no one. It's like a ghost that teases me all day.

The first few times I rush out onto the front stoop and bounce from foot to foot waiting on him to drive up, Buck races out with me and runs around barking in excitement. I think to myself that it must be Max coming home because the dog senses his master's return.

Of course, as it turns out, it's just the dog sensing his loony mistress is up to more goofiness.

Ralph just shakes his head and goes on with brushing the horses or carrying in their feed or whatever other chore he is engaged in when I rush outside.

There comes a time when I just step up to the front window, the one in his office, and look out through parted wood blinds. But he never drives up those times either.

Eventually, even I realize I have no ESP or special connection with Max that imparts upon me the ability to get his vibes like that. It may work if he walks into a room and I sense him ... but it doesn't work, apparently, over miles of country woods.

So much for grand illusions of love's power, eh?

He never makes it in time for the lunch I've made him of hearty gumbo with potato salad, recipes of my Mom's that he has said he loves. I cart over a bunch to Ralph when I realize he's not stopped for his lunch break. Ralph says I use too much okra and I tell him he's one crazy Bogalusa boy so what does he possibly know of good gumbo? He says Cajuns have weird tastes in food due to our way too many generations stuck out in the swamps. Jealous, I say. Okra, he replies as if it's a put down.

"Will you teach me how to ride a horse?" I ask him as he hands me the now-empty gumbo bowl.

"I see that as being a tremendous success," he says sarcastically. "I could never teach a woman as hard-headed as you. Ask the husband. He seems to have a lot more patience with you than I would."

"I was thinking that ..."

"That what?"

"No, you're right. I'll ask Max. I just ..."

"Just what?"

"I thought I would surprise him. You know?"

"I see."

"Well?"

"No."

"What? Why not?"

"Because you'd never listen to me."

"I would so!"

"Like you listened to me about nailing that board into the gate?"

"That's different!"

"Like you listened to me when I told you not to turn off the main power breaker just to change out that socket?"

"Oh, come on! That was the right way to do it and you know it ..."

"Like you listened to me when I told you how to connect the compressor to the paint sprayer when we were finishing the work on the garage?"

"Well ... yeah, but ..."

"Yeah, yeah. So that's why not."

"Okay. I may not have the best track record with you but ... Okay. You're right. I'll ask Max. Even though it will rather ruin the surprise."

He can't hide his smirk but he at least he tries. 

I don't really just "not listen" to Ralph. It's just that he never explains anything. He just says something and I'm not supposed to use my brains or think about it ... he just expects me to do what he says as if he can order me around. But he is funny about it ... I think he's always known I won't just blindly follow his directions. I think he secretly finds it endearing even when it bugs the shit out of him. I think we've hit this brother-sister thing and I could do much worse than having a brother like Ralph around.

But it's not really until I'm working on dinner for Max that it dawns on me how roughly similar Max and Ralph are. I don't listen to either of them when I think I know better. They both hate it but I think they also wouldn't really change it. They can accept me as I am and make do with it. They can even see that I may just be worth the aggravation.

And I respect them both, in their own ways.

Maybe it's why they get along as well as they do. Max walks away from this place knowing I will keep it going and that Ralph will always be watching over the place. And me. Because he does tend to watch over me and Buck even if he does it with a gruff manner and a sharp tongue.

Dinner is long time done and I try to call Max's cell but it's switched off so I leave a message. I wonder where he is? I keep everything in the oven, dishes of over-cooked food that I hope he will be hungry for when he finally comes home.

And he does finally come home. I am on the deck, sipping a glass of cabernet when I hear his car engine coming toward the house and Buck gives his "my master's around" woof. It's so dark outside that even from back here, I can see the diffuse glow his headlights cause to the surrounding night when he's near the front of the house. I've grown comfortable with the darkness of the countryside's nighttime. I like how close the stars feel.

I stand on the unlit front stoop and watch him as he reaches into the back seat for his suitcase. When he steps back from the car, he looks toward the house and I see his eyes sweep over it before landing on me. The look of weariness turns to a soft smile.

When he reaches where I am, I hand him my glass of wine and take his suitcase, which is far too heavy for me but he lets me have it anyway. He finds it entertaining. I lug it inside the front hall as he walks into the living room and I hear him sigh as he sinks into the couch. Oh, what the hell, I think and leave the suitcase where I've managed to get it inside.

I bring the bottle of wine in from the bar to pour more for him. I settle on his lap, facing him, legs astride his thighs. He lets me loosen his tie and plant little kisses along his brow as I work on the knot. He sips the wine. It is a moment, is it not? One of those simple ones that I find myself more and more diving into with such ease.

His brow knits suddenly and his nose seems to rise into the air, like Buck does when he picks up a scent. "What is that aroma?" he asks me.

I have to chuckle. "You know, a year ago, I would have been sure you were talking about my perfume ... It's dinner. At least, I hope it's still edible. But I thought you might be hungry when you got in ..."

He tries hard to not look suspicious, doubtful. But of course he's got a pretty hard time hiding something like that. He nibbles at his bottom lip. "It smells ... enticing."

"You hungry?"

"Yes ... for you."

"Oh, Max. The food is good this time. Don't be so ..."

But he is leaning toward me and I can feel his breath on my chin. And then his mouth is close to mine, closer. Our lips seem to press in at the same time. This gentle pressure that moves and swirls.

I love when he kisses me like this. I know he can draw this out for so long ... hours. Just kissing each other. 

We let our lips meet. Just testing. Caressing. He pulls away and my bottom lip seems to stick to his. When he leans back, I have no choice but to match him, inch for inch, lest our lips be wrenched apart. And then we sink into a small kiss. When he kisses like this, he makes me want to fall into him. He seems to let me come to him rather than him overwhelming me.

I put my hands on his face to keep him locked to me. To keep him steady. To bring him closer. To hide inside him where it's easy and safe.

He breaks off the kiss, slowly. I let him because I am drifting inside it. I feel him lean over and put his glass on the table. I lean with him. Still holding his face. My lips coming to his again. As he straightens up, the kiss opens and it is languid and deep. I feel his hand on the small of my back. I like how he does this. How he has that solid contact with my spine and then he slides his hand up my back, pushing me up and also into his mouth more. Until his hand reaches the back of my neck and he only has to hold me with the lightest pressure because meanwhile he's already pulled me into a kiss that is wet and open and obscene for how slow and firm it is.

How long we kiss, I don't know. Hours?

Max is not even hard at first. I know it seems sick but somehow ... somehow his ability to control and deny himself when he wants to ... the way he will test that he still can ... and he does it when I think all that frustration is put into kissing me ... lord. It can make me swoon. When he does harden, it is at his leisure. He puts my hand atop his soft penis and lets me feel as he hardens to my touch.

When he is, he smiles into the kiss as I instinctively move over him.

"What's for dinner?" he asks me as his lips flicker over my arched neck.

"Something very yummy."

"Yes?"

"I am still capable of surprising you, Maximus." I lower my chin and meet his gaze. "You know what I realized this week while you were gone? That cooking isn't so tough if you simply put your mind to it."

His eyebrows knit.

"Would it surprise you to know I simply decided to get into cooking and baking for you?"

"Yes."

I chuckle; he joins me but his eyes seem baffled. "See? Then you're in for a surprise. Although, it would have been much better if you'd been here two hours ago ... but it'll still be very good."

"Are you in danger of turning into a good wife?" he asks me with a smirk.

"Perhaps I am," I say softly. "Maybe it's your Valentine's present this year."

"Ah. Yes. Valentine's." He sighs before giving me a smoldering glare and tightening his hold on me. "I promised to give you untold pleasure to make up for not being here with you for Valentine's."

"No, you just promised to come home safe and sound."

"So you are no longer interested in the passion I have stored up to bestow upon you?"

"I'm always interested in that." His thumb strokes down my throat. Why is it one touch from him can heat me? "But first let me serve you."

"Serve me?"

"Remember last year ... you blindfolded me? I wonder ... would you let me do that to you? Blindfold you and feed you from my fingers? Do you trust me to have cooked a meal you'd eat sight unseen? Something savory and exotic for your palate? Hmm?"

"What will you use for the blindfold?"

I hold up his tie. He gives me that formal nod and I do the honors, making sure I lean in on him, breasts close to his face, to tie the knot behind his head. I tell him he can remove his clothes while I'm gone, if he wants, and that when I return, it will be with food to make him sorry he ever doubted me.

In this time while he's been gone, I've discovered a part of me I know he doesn't believe exists. I think he'll like it. I think he'll think he backed the dark horse this time.

The food I've prepared is similar to what he served me last year when he brought me to his place to celebrate the ancient ceremony of Lupercalia, complete with the sex lottery. Ironic now, in light of all that we've faced this year, that that was the night we pledged to be a couple for a year based on the outcome of the sex lottery. I had had no idea that night the depth of what Maximus wished with me. I do now, I think.

I have made a savory rice with saffron and raisins and pine nuts and julienne carrots. I have made lamb stew, redolent with mysterious and deep spices and mint. I have frosted grapes and dates to clear his palate when he wants it. I have a cool lemon grass soup that I will let him sip from a prized Japanese melamine bowl. I have stuffed dates for his dessert for I know he doesn't care as much for cakes. And I am prepared to sit at his feet or in his lap to feed him each tiny morsel ... and to feel his lips close over my fingers and his tongue lap up lingering tastes there and his teeth to nip the their tips.

He is on the floor when I return. He leans back against the couch, his glass of wine resting on the carpet next to his hip. He is clad in nothing but the blindfold ... and his necklace of leather bearing two alligator teeth and a tiny gold key I gave him last year.

I have to kiss him before I give him the tease of a grape that I rub against his lips until he opens to accept it. I know he won't talk about whatever he was doing yesterday that has lingered with him as if it is a cloak he wraps around him to keep me from knowing what troubles him. So I chatter about my week ... my boring, banal week. He relaxes to this. He probably envies me. Hell, I envy me as I give him fingers full of the rice.

A bit more wine ... and then the first taste of lamb ... and he almost groans at how wonderful it is. His hand on my hip flinches as he swallows. He mutters something in dark Latin. It makes me smile. His tongue comes out to lick the wetness of the lingering flavors of the lamb from his lips. I lean in and lick along with him.

It isn't that long but I savor him savoring the meal ... his hunger slowly slakes. His thirst tapers. His kissing lingers longer upon my lips. He won't let me sit on the carpet near him anymore; he makes me straddle his lap and stay there. He plays with my breasts every time I give him another date. He is reclining now, his head back upon the couch's cushions.

"Enough," he finally says, rubbing his belly. He grins sloppily. "Fat and lazy."

I remove his blindfold. "Now you see."

"Now I see the woman I love," he says, gazing at me with a look of peace. Contented. "Look in my jacket. Left pocket. I have something there for you."

I've never been good at getting gifts. I know why. I just can't always control the immediate sense of shame and discomfort. But with Max, I'm learning to anticipate the feeling changing to elation to get a gift from him. He puts thought into his gifts. There are always meanings upon meanings. I don't always get every aspect of his meaning but I know deep inside him, they are there. And they are given with love and affection.

Inside his jacket pocket is a long, dark maroon, hinged leather box. The box alone is spectacular and sensuous. It isn't wrapped; I don't think it needs to be. Inside is deep green pen. It is round and luxuriant with a small inlaid gold fleur de lis on the cap.

It's the most exquisite pen. It fits my hand as if I'd been waiting for it. "Oh, it's so beautiful, Max," I sigh to him. 

"For your writing," he says softly, his eyes examining my reaction. "To encourage you."

I have not written one single word since I left the newspaper. I have made scattered promises to him that I will write again. It's something he knows I love but I don't know how to even start anymore. Writing was who I was; I don't know about that anymore.

But he does. He just seems to know that I've been thinking long and hard lately about why I've not been writing. About why I've not called my old editor back when he left a message weeks ago about whether or not I wanted to come back to work there.

I'm content now. I don't know that I want to shake up my cozy life that I've found in the wake of all that's happened. 

"Last year, on Lupercalia, you said something to me in Latin after we made love. Do you remember?"

"Yes."

"It sounded so incredible and sexy. You promised to tell me what it meant someday."

"Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur."

"Oh yeah, that's it," I say, snuggling into him and feeling that rise of passion when I am in his control, body and soul. When he says things like this and I know I am with a man ... with such a man who can still make me tremble. "What does it mean? What were you saying to me that night?"

He puts his mouth at my ear. I tremble in advance. His voice drifts into me, into my pores maybe, into my soul. "Even a god finds it hard to love and be wise at the same time," he says.

We neither of us moves at first. His mouth stays at my ear; his tongue traces behind the lobe as he sucks in the soft flesh between hard teeth. I run my hands over his chest. I feel goose bumps rise and he shivers ever so slightly. I'd have missed it but I was paying attention.

"Did you truly love me that way that night?" I ask him.

"You had conquered me. How could a mere mortal not give his all to you at that point?" 

"Oh." My fingers stroke over his nipples until he groans in my ear. "The sex lottery ... it bound me to you for a year ... the year was up yesterday. And I'm still here with you. I'd never want to be anywhere else."

"Now we are bound by something stronger. Something that will last forever. We need no lottery this year, do we?"

We make love. Right there upon the carpet. He promised some wild carnality reminiscent of last year. But it's not last year anymore. We possess each other in ways far too complete to be simple or categorized.

Tonight, making love with him is rolling around and giggling softly and letting him drag me under him and asking him to not come yet and then changing position again and feeling the way he can take me that is so total and absolute that nothing exists after. When he comes, his breath is expelled on a whimper of submission to me. He makes that sound when he must feel as if I've taken and given all there is from and to him.

We wake up hours later, sticky; our sweat turned icy cold. We help each other to bed and fall asleep instantly. I wake in the very early hours to shower, clean up our mess from the night before and serve him breakfast in bed.

His hair is sticking out everywhere. He looks grumpy and swollen with sleep. I sip coffee as he digs in. Once again, he tries to hide his surprise that the food is really good. But I am telling you, I just put my mind to cooking and now I don't have problems with that.

I like to watch him eat. This morning, he concentrates on the grits and eggs and toast as if he is just beginning to believe this isn't some aberration; that he really is now living with a woman who can tend to him. Who will tend to him.

Isn't this the life, I think to myself as I do the dishes later. I can see him and Ralph out the window, working on pulling yet another stump from the ground that they'll burn in the weekly post-Katrina bonfire that is slowly clearing our fallen trees. Eventually, I wander into the bedroom to pick up his socks, underwear and shirt from the floor because he seems to have suddenly lost track of how to put them in the clothes hamper.

"Men," I grumble as I load his dirty clothes in the washing machine.

"You would be lost without us," he says as he comes into the house, passing behind me in the laundry room on his way to the kitchen. He gives me a pat on the rump. "When will you serve lunch?"

"Soon. Go wash up."

It's an idle life, I suppose. But it's not a bad life at all. Maybe even it's an idyllic life. But it's life.