"Dammit all to hell and back. You scared the living..."

He slides his hand over my mouth, dragging me with his other hand into the semi-darkened room, where he's been laying in wait for me. He gentles the door shut with the heel of his foot even as I struggle in his hold.

He presses his lips against the shell of my ear but then seems to think better of saying anything. Instead, he licks there, sloppily, with this gruff moan that is muffled by his tongue. He's never done that before, not exactly that. I shiver, hard, the tingling along my spine uncontrollable.

"Maximus..."

My back is now against the wall. One of my legs has crept up over his hip. My hands are on his belt.

He grinds into me, hard, insistent, needy. Now that I am not struggling to get away, he leans in against me to keep me there, between his body and the wall. But his hands are along the back of my thighs, fingers bunching up the thin fabric of my skirt, nails now raking lightly along my skin.

I have his belt open, his zipper edging down, going slowly to feed whatever dark need he has of me. He opens his mouth wider as the zipper descends; I feel his lips as he does this because they are over the side of my neck.

When he clamps down, his lips firm and unyielding, I wait for what I want to come next. My hands are seeking his penis, working to free it, feeling its warmth and girth. And when he clamps down on the side of my neck, not hard, just definite, I moan.

And then the moan becomes an utterly capitulated whimper as he sucks in and releases, roughly mouthing his way down to the crook of my neck, his tongue flicking, sliding. My knees give. I have been drinking on Bourbon Street; he makes my head swim even worse than the alcohol did. I have an insane wish for him to bite in hard enough to draw blood. But he never even bites hard enough to leave a mark unless it is just one of those nights when he...

Why doesn't he talk?

Why doesn't he say something to make my heart race so hard it will hurt it my chest?

Why does he need my body so badly right now?

And then I understand because I remember that we are angry with each other.

Apparently we aren't anymore.

"I love you, too." My words come panting out. "But I hate you..."

Except I don't.

I never have.

I just get scared when we fight.

It's like we're never supposed to - never ever. We're so lucky to even be together, so lucky he's alive and I'm alive, so lucky Bennett exists at all. How can we fight, how can we get so angry about any single thing now when every moment of the day, we should only be thrilled just to be able to touch each other?

People say that all couples fight. That it's healthy and normal. That it's how you grow together. How you figure out what needs to change.

I know all about married couples fighting. Believe me, I once had quite a vantage point and I know all about it. All about how it escalates, how it's nothing about love or growth - only about dominance and how much pain can be inflicted by the dominant party. That is reality. That is truth. And nothing is good about that - not for the couple and not for any children there may be between them.

I don't want that to happen to us. It frightens me beyond all reason that it may be happening now; that we are doomed to as bleak a marriage as I have witnessed in my childhood. That it is inevitable that I really am not going to outlive my upbringing.

He has come to me when I least expected him to yield, to show any softness toward me. For weeks, we have skirted arguments, tension growing until something had to break. I was the one who left home angry. I was the one who was gone exactly one day and felt the weight of regret that I'd walked out on him.

That he is here when I am both incisively furious with him and frightened to feel that way? I don't know what it means. I don't know how to react. I thought he was angry that I so blatantly defied his fiat that I not come on this trip to New Orleans with my women friends from our group that circles the restaurant and the men who drew us together.

Why is he here?

The hen week trip to New Orleans was just one of those ideas I used to come up with all the time. The kind of thing I never censored in my brain before - and the kind of idea I didn't mind either voicing or putting into motion.

But it actually surprised me when I suddenly jumped in to suggest it after Angel and Jack announced they were, at long last, going to get married and soon.

I didn't think about how the idea might affect others - namely, in this case, Max and Bennett. That's why it surprised me; my life has revolved around them for what feels like forever.

But it really hasn't been that long. It's still so new. So not what I thought it'd be. Bennett is now, what, five months old? He is the best but he is not perfect. Who'd want that? I like discovering his personality.

Usually, he's quite the little trouper - goes with me wherever, stays pretty calm unless he's hungry or wet, is usually tolerant when I don't quite do the whole "Mom" routine the way most moms do it. He smiles at me in the most heart-stopping way often enough to keep me definitely under his thrall. And he loves his dad with a passion that is returned in equal, intensive measure.

However, there are certain things that Bennett insists will be done his way. For instance, he must be offered a sampling of any new types of food the doctor says to introduce into his diet. You cannot just lovingly fix a new cereal and coo at him as you lift it to his mouth. Oh no. You must present him an array of cereals, all at once, and let him see that you are offering him his choice. And he will choose. And then he expects his will to be done once he has made it known.

He is also enamored of one particular naptime story. He doesn't understand a word of it, of course. But woe be to whoever tries to put him down for a nap and does not read this story first.

Even Max finds himself bowing to Bennett's will on these little demands. After all, we're talking a child of magic, a child we fought for, a child we protected through everything that seemed to want to take him from us before he was even born. And he has been a baby who is easy to get along with - as long as you recognize when he's serious about a demand. It's not so tough doing it his way in those little matters.

Sometimes, I think, I forget there's a whole other world out there. A place away from our little spread in Folsom. Places where there are no pine trees, no Little Tchefuncte, no horses. When I forget, it's always a surprise the moment I remember. Who would have thought I'd turn out this way?

Maximus toils from before the sun rises until early afternoon on the duties of the ranch. He and Ralph are always up to something - Max says that before long, I won't even recognize the place. He wants to spiff up the stable, then relocate the fences to give the horses he's acquired a different expanse to run and wander.

He is designing a building that he says will be the foundation of his winemaking.

Not that any real vines have been planted. Max says he won't plant until the fall because that's the season to do such things. Plant in the fall, harvest in the spring. It will take a few years before we harvest grapes good enough for wine. And then more years before wine is drinkable. I want to feel confident in the future, I truly do. But I can't learn that from Maximus. He doesn't look at life that way. He just works for what he wants and if something happens to toss that fate to the winds, he will not be surprised or feel all this planning was for naught.

For now, he has his vines safely growing stronger in the greenhouse he and Ralph fashioned from the remnants of an old granary that got the shit kicked out of it after a tree crashed in during Katrina's visit. I ordered the vines from a nursery in Florida and got them in just before his birthday in May. I hid them in the stable with Ralph's help and made it part of Max's birthday celebration to find them. After he blew out the candles on his cake, I pointed out the red ribbon that began under the cake platter, ran across the table, down to the floor and disappeared out the side door. He followed the ribbon to where it led him: to the large open crates of the vines. Ever since he saw them, Max has grown all the more serious about making the winery come true. He knows his dream is something I want to be part of, to nurture as he's nurtured me and Bennett.

Watched carefully by Bennett and me, he paced out and mapped the entire field on the side of the sloping acreage near the Little Tchefuncte where the vines will go.

Lately, Bennett has spent long, lazy mid-mornings watching over Max and Ralph as they build and install the fences and lines that will hold the vines as they begin to grow and mature.

This time for the men on the ranch has become a nearly daily ritual. It's also my only time to really be alone. I even make Buck go out with them. And I can bathe and bake and run errands and write. There's never enough time for it all, of course, but I think I appreciate the free moments more because I choose how to spend them even if they are most often spent on damned household chores.

Each time Bennett's with them and I come for him, I savor the feeling of walking through the pine trees and scrub grass to where they are all gathered. I like the first time I hear them. Max's voice. Ralph's chuckle. Buck's bark. Bennett's coo when he sees me.

And I enter the masculine world again. They are as much a mystery to me as I am to them. 

Two days before I came out with that instant suggestion we ladies go off for a hen week in New Orleans to send Angel into marriage in style, I had used my mid-morning break to run down to Covington to attend a public hearing. It was about this new industrial plant they want to put in not too far from us. A lot of people don't want it, including me. We don't like the idea of the change it will mean to our bucolic world.

Ralph took one look at me when I reached the clearing after the meeting. "Uh oh. They voted for it and she's on another warpath."

"Someone has to stand up to them!" I said, my eyes narrowing at him.

"Anna, perhaps a bit of diplomacy would be in order?"

"Max, we are getting organized. To fight them. Make them see we won't go away. That we'll have protests, petitions, get the zoning board people changed, letters to the editor and ..."

"We'll discuss this later," Max said, not even looking at me.

I hate being dismissed.

I hate being a nag.

I hate feeling this antsy, unexpected itch inside to scream.

I hate not knowing lately what I'd scream if I could.

"This doesn't need discussing, Max," I said. My voice was soft. He looked up at me with wary eyes. "This just needs action. And I'm taking a lead in organizing to fight this."

There was a tough silence. Even Buck stopped panting. Then Bennett gave that unmistakable sound of a baby with a dirty diaper needing attention. Max's eyes dropped toward his son and then he went back to his work. For just a moment before I moved, I watched the sweat on his shirt and thought how different he looked all these months after leaving his office job.

We never did discuss this zoning issue. I always did plan to follow through with helping to keep this plant out of Folsom. It's our town now - we have a stake in its future.

But the next morning, as Max gathered Bennett for the tromp to the fields, he hesitated at the door. He looked back at me. It wasn't that we'd not talked; we'd just been preoccupied with other things and maybe we didn't want to start a fight. Maybe.

"In light of all that we know and even more in respect to all that we may never know, do you not think wisdom would deem that a role in a public spectacle may not be prudent?" His voice was soft. But there was steel there.

"What are you trying to say?"

"We agreed to maintain a low profile."

"Low profile?"

"Not call attention to ourselves." He looked down at Bennett.

"I don't understand." But that's when it hit me. Between the eyes. "Oh. But this is different - it's important and ... Oh. I didn't mean it that way."

He must have heard it when reality washed over me. When I got what he was talking about. After what had happened with Mephisto and Lucas, we had agreed to live our lives under the radar to lessen the danger to our entire group. The need to not call attention to ourselves had cost Maximus his career. He had never once complained about that. Never once moaned or fretted over his fate.

He simply accepted it had changed. He sacrificed willingly, intentionally.

Sometimes the way life changes can still surprise me. It can take me a while to adapt to new realities. I do know he is the one who lost the most in this process.

He made the most sacrifices.

He always has.

Whatever I have had to give up or change, it seems nothing so much as totally miniscule compared to all that he has sacrificed without ever looking to anyone to share his burden.

How can you get angry at a man so noble and good to you?

Apparently all it takes is a sharp flare to the days and coming up against his susceptibility to issue fiats rather than have discussions.

We'd been on edge with each other. For days, it just felt like something was brewing but every time I was on the verge of snapping back at him, I stopped and wouldn't let myself fly off at him. It didn't feel right to ever again fight him or argue with him or even allow there to be any indication there was anything but peace in our home.

Which made me feel anything but peaceful.

But I would gather Bennett in my arms, breathe deep of his baby smell and wallow in the feel of him as I pressed my lips into his soft arms. And as I did this, I would need no other reminder of all I held dear.

So I did begin to intentionally and continually back down before anything ever escalated to an argument between Max and me.

Until the night I suggested the hen week trip to New Orleans. Everyone at the restaurant was so excited and we planned it in about thirty minutes. I never even once considered I couldn't go. In fact, my mind raced in nothing flat to how easy it would all be to make sure I could go - I called my mom on the way home and asked her to stay at the farm to help Max with Bennett. She loved the idea. Course, she loves spoiling Bennett. He's her only grandson. She buys him horrid, annoyingly noisy toys that Max invariably sneaks away from Bennett before he's gotten any attachment.

So when I got home that night, I announced to Max what was going to happen. Explained about my mom coming up. Knew he could see how excited I was. And that this was all such a great idea. We ladies had not been out together in so long - and it was all in our own back yard. If anything happened and Bennett just needed me, I was only a short drive away. It was all perfect.

Except to him.

"You did what?" We were in Bennett's room, watching him sleep; Max beginning to work his charms on me. I had just explained all about the hen trip. He was half listening, hence his delayed reaction.

"The Quarter. Just us girls. You are expressly forbidden." Max's arms were around me. I thought we were just watching the little man sleep and about to walk each other to our own bed.

"What if I say no? What then, lady?" His voice was low, husky. I thought he was just giving me a hard time, messing around with me.

"You wouldn't say no. Not to me."

When he didn't say anything, I twisted in his arms to look up into a stony face.

"What? You're serious? Why would this bother you - I've got my mom coming up to help with Bennett. Surely it's not that you don't trust me? Right?"

"I think you are trying semantics on me. I am impervious to manipulation.... I think...yes, I trust you. When you are sober and in the company of sensible adults. With that particular bunch of women...and O'Gallagher...it is not so much of a lack of trust as a fear of the unknown."

"Trust me only with...? I think I've not been so insulted in a very long time -- and..." 

It was like a wildfire, the way this flashed over me. Honestly, I wanted to slug him. He stood there, immovable and tight jawed. I felt this descending into one of "those" fights. I wanted to be anywhere but with him just then.

"I cannot talk to you anymore. And I'm not fighting with you in front of my son. I'm going to finish packing and then I'm going."

He was somewhere, glowering most likely, when I yanked my suitcase down the steps later. Ralph drove me over to Rosie's and then I got him and Pete to drive all of us down to the Quarter. We stayed at the Mimosa Orleans, a charming bed and breakfast Max had once suggested to my mother and she had raved about it.

I suppose that's another story.

The Mimosa Orleans.

And Richard.

Who was a hit with all of us.

And paid special attention to us.

Who was the owner of the Mimosa Orleans.

And made me feel instantly good about myself because he made a pass at me.

Who put his hand on my knee.

And asked me to run away with him to Cabo San Lucas.

Who couldn't have been serious.

And made me realize I'd been coming on to him, too.

Who left the next morning.

And left me feeling silly for responding to him the way I did.

I called Max not too long after Richard left the bar. Just wanted to say to Max that I was thinking about him. And Bennett. And missing them. But also feeling horrible about how angry I still felt over tension I couldn't release that seemed to hover between us where it didn't belong. Where it was obscene.

So maybe the Mimosa Orleans isn't another story. Maybe it's part of this one.

All I really know, I suppose, is that the next night I was as ready as any of the other gals to go carousing on Bourbon. I brought us each two pink boas - one to wear and one to share with a man we were to pick out from the crowds there, a man manly enough to accept and wear a pink boa with confidence. We each picked our men out very carefully for only the exact right man would do. 

The one I picked was surly and gruff but his eyes flickered with amusement as he agreed to take the boa, wear it with pride, and reward me with a kiss on the cheek for the dubious honor.

Surly?

Gruff?

Guess I got a pattern when it comes to picking out a man from a crowd.

And that's the very night when I stumbled in, giggly high from drinking my way back down Bourbon, only to be grabbed as I opened the door to my room at the Mimosa Orleans.

"I hate you..."

He stops all movement. Then looks slowly up at me from beneath his lashes. Danger flashes out of those eyes.

"I hate you so much." Alcohol and the wildness of Bourbon may have loosened my tongue but something about saying this, here, in this mood between us, feels like playing a part. I could not say it to him otherwise.

His jaw works, tightening then releasing. He puts a hand on the wall next to my head. Out of the corner of my eyes, I watch as he flexes that arm ominously. It makes me wet. It always does to appreciate his strength, virility.

When I look back into his face, he slowly grins at me. His eyes flash again and I react this time by narrowing mine at him.

"There you are." His voice is deep, his tone brutal. "I had wondered where my woman had gone ..."

His hand leaves the wall, twines into the back of my hair, pulls my face toward his as he leans away from me.

"I didn't mean that ... Maximus ... I don't ever want to fight with you. I hate it. It scares me."

He yanks me in to him. My breath leaves me when I jolt into the solidity of his chest.

"I think I like how it raises the temperature..." He growls this at me, deep and primal. "Like this shirt you're wearing."

It is a hard, rough whirlwind now. He grabs for my shirt with both hands, rending it apart at the buttons in one movement that is both fluid and brutal in its efficiency.

I don't remember feeling this madness in a while. The one where the edges of your eyesight are red flashes from pressing your eyes shut tight and then suddenly opening them wide with shock. Whatever I have thought was pent up inside me, it wasn't just anger or annoyance. It was passion. It was the madness I feel about him. But it's a two-edged sword. It cuts me either way.  Tonight it lances the fear of fighting with him because I know the sureness of his grasp on my hair means he is going to stand right here and take whatever I may throw at him..

He'll never let me go that easily.

I'll never understand how he always seems to know my fears. He just goes to battle with them, making it look easy.

Later, we both groan as he shifts, making me move along with him. The floor is hard, shiny wood planks that have been here for so many years. Probably had more than their share of makeup sex performed upon them.

He climbs to his knees, looks down at where I am helpless and boneless on the floor. I can't even lift an arm but I can study him though half-lidded eyes. If this place were on fire, I'm not sure I could command my feet to move.

So he scoops me up and I nuzzle against him, all sticky and needy and the strongest life force I've known. He gentles us both into the mattress, where we sink down together as he pulls the sheet over us.

For long moments, I am as close as I've ever been to telling him about my father, about why I don't want to find out if I'm like him even if I fear I am. And maybe that's how revelations come to you - from out of the hazy twilight just as you realize you feel safe and secure. My revelation is that I have no real happy medium on this issue of fighting with Max - I can't accept that having a tiff with him is not automatically the prelude to hatred and terror and divorce.

I run from the fight lately not because I'm not up to it but because I fear I'm far too equipped to win it at all costs.

"Trust in me," Maximus whispers against my ear as he settles in, his arm capturing me against his body.

"Always." I am intent on burying myself in him.

"I am not speaking of trusting me to protect you."

"I do, though."

"But, cara, do you trust in me that I am never going to walk away from you?"

"Of course."

"I think not."

I pull away just enough to look at him. Before I can say anything in response, he puts a finger on my lips. His eyes are not on me; they are hazy and I could swear he is somewhere he wants me to discover but knows the only way I can is if he guides me there to find him waiting.

"You're the only person I've ever trusted like that, Max."

"My father told me, on the day before I was to take a bride, that the truest measure of a husband is in his ability to stand within the storm and always know where his home is."

I wait by his side, this man who is my home, and I know that whatever he is about to share, it will be important to my understanding of him.

"No matter what has happened, Anna, I have not returned to you a different man. I am still me and I still have the same need to be your man. I am not perfect. I am not easy. I do not wish to be. I only wish to be loved by you and to be worthy of love from my children."

"Do you doubt my love?"

His eyes focus and he looks at me as he traces a hand softly around my breast. "Never."

"Then ..."

"I will not be treated as if I have returned to you as a fragile, broken shell of who I was. I am a man, not a child. I will not break. And I would be treated as if you believe this."

My mind runs over the months since he's returned. I do know I've changed in all that's happened. I do know I treat our life as if I must cushion it in cotton batting, protecting it from everyday bumps and bruises.

Like not always wanting to admit that Maximus may not be perfect. Like not admitting that sometimes I'm allowed to be furious with him and other times I'm allowed to piss him off royally. That he can handle real life again.

"You must get over this, Anna. You must show me your passion even if it is displayed in anger. We cannot simply drift apart because you are unwilling to fight for what you want in this marriage. I am not easy to live with but neither are you. Did either of us wish a partner who would not challenge us?"

"It's just that, if we fight, really fight, then we may say things we can't take back."

"Yes. We will."

"And it may kill our love."

"This is what worries you, cara?"

"Of course."

"Love that easily destroyed would not have withstood what we have faced together."

"I don't know ... maybe."

"No more walking away."

"I don't do this on purpose. I just ..."

He shifts so that we can look directly into the other's eyes. His hand rests on my neck, his thumb on the pulse point. I see pain; I see resolve; I see compassion for me.

"Whatever it is, cara..." He hesitates.

I think he must hope I'll jump in now, that I'll make a huge leap here in my own growth. But I'm not ready to pollute him with this knowledge. He reads it in my eyes, which are steady on his, that I am resolute. He nods. 

I wrap my arms around his neck and feel him absorb me into his core. I keep thinking I've grown up. I'm a mom now. I owe it to my child to not live a life shadowed by things I should have long ago outgrown.

One thing I can control is the fear that any bad fight with Max is going to make him change, make him betray the man I know he is. That would no more happen than I would walk away from him. And when I think about it from that perspective, I see it differently.

It isn't that either of us want to fight or argue. It's just that he doesn't want me to treat him as if he's not worth the challenge of my full passion. And I wouldn't want him to do that to me either.

This is one of those changes that I'd wish I could make in the course of one night in his arms, knowing he may not understand why but he still sees it happening to us. And he's not willing to let it go on.

He leaves before I wake. I lie on the mattress, not wanting to move. My eyes are closed and I can see Bennett just before he wakes from his afternoon nap, his hair sweaty and disheveled.

My eyes open and I stare at the fan above me.

And this I know: whatever I was before, I am not beholden to any future but the one I build with the two men who have wrapped me inside their fates.