Chapter 7

Fall soon faded into winter in New York City, but Michele and Max's love was still strong. Michele was no longer sleeping in her lonely little room, but had moved her things into Max's room, and neither of them had ever been happier. Sadie had looked at them at breakfast one morning and laughed, patting Max on the back. "I don't know what this apartment complex does to people," she said, "but whatever it is, the rest of the world should get in on it, and quick." The couple responded by smiling knowingly and sweetly at each other, Michele's delicate hand laid over Max's.

Michele had gotten a real job at an Italian restaurant around the corner, and Max frequently visited her on her breaks, much at the dismay of the patrons and owner. One older woman had caught them embracing by the bathrooms, and had mumbled something about health code violations. "Get hip lady," Max said loudly, but not unkindly. "Soon it'll be the 70s, and you'll still be stuck in the 40s!"

She struck him as hard as she could with her purse. "Get a haircut, hippie!" She said angrily, then slipped into the ladies room.

Michele turned to him, trying to look stern but almost unable to hide her smile from him. "Max, you are going to get me in trouble! I need this job you know." She jabbed him playfully, her eyes fixed on his.

"Hey, these people should thank me. I'm just letting them know what they're missing," he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close. "How could they resist you anyway?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh trust me, they can. They can do what ever they want. Now let me go, my break's over and these people need their pasta." She smiled at him as silence settled in between them. He pulled her close, and their lips met for a long time. Finally, Michele wrestled away from him. "I love you," she said softly. "Now go home!"

She spun around to leave and she felt him smack her buttocks. "Go get 'em tiger," he yelled, loud enough for the entire restaurant to her. "No slacking off this time. No meatball left unturned!"

Michele turned to face him just before she turned the corner. "You are an ass!" She said with a laugh. He laughed as well, then left.

When Michele returned home that night, Max was waiting for her on the couch again, this time reading a newspaper. She shuffled to him slowly, then bent down and kissed his cheek. "Reading the paper, you square old man?"

He was completely still for a moment, then pounced. He pulled her down to the couch and laid on top of her, delighting in her giggle. He looked at her with feigned sternness. "I resent being considered old for reading the paper, little girl," he said, his voice mocking what she could only guess was his own father. "Being interested in current events is anything but square!" She giggled again, and he broke character. "I'm glad to see you home," he said, then bent down and kissed her.

Their rather heated passion on the couch was interrupted when Max pulled away and exclaimed, "Oh! Before I forget and this turns into steamy sex," he flashed that brilliant seductive smile and Michele rolled her eyes, "a letter came in the mail for you today. I think it might be a Christmas card or something." He sat up and produced a small red envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.

She examined it. It was in fact addressed to her, that was for sure, but that wasn't what interested her. In the upper left hand corner, the O'Brien family had written their name and address.

Michele caught her breath suddenly. She hadn't been in contact with the O'Briens since James' funeral, and that encounter hadn't been pleasant in the least.

Max placed a hand on her knee. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head and swallowed. "It's from James' family." She ran a hand over the other side of the sealed envelope, then took a deep breath and opened it. It was in fact a Christmas card, with a fat smiling cardinal perched in a snowy tree printed on the front of it. She opened it, and the O'Brien family had signed the inside, wishing her a Merry Christmas.

But there was also something else. A folded note on lined paper.

Michele realized she was sweating, and her hands trembled slightly as she opened the note.

Dear Michele,

Your mother gave me your New York address, and I just thought I'd drop you a line and say hello. I was wondering if perhaps you'd like to join us for dinner on Christmas Eve. Perhaps you can bring that boy along your mother keeps talking about. Give me a ring and let me know.

Sincerely Yours,

Donna O'Brien

Michele sighed and folded the note back and held it in her two hands as if it were a treasure that could be easily broken.

After a while, Max spoke. "Is everything ok?"

She turned to him. "They want me to come to their Christmas dinner. And they want me to bring you."

He placed an arm around her. "Well that's great! I wouldn't mind going, not at all."

She shook her head slightly. "We can't go Max. There's no way." She stood up and paced around the room, staring down at the floor.

"Why not? They seem nice enough."

She paused for a moment. "You don't understand. The last time I spoke to Donna O'Brien, she was screaming at me for abandoning her son, for leaving him alone in his time of need," she ran a hand through her hair. "She blames me for his death." She began pacing again. "And then she wants me to bring you. The man who replaced her son. I don't think so. I'm not putting you in that position." She stopped and steadied herself with one hand on the drywall.

Max stood up and went to her, laying a loving hand on her shoulder. "Maybe she's changed her mind. She wouldn't have invited you if she really thought you caused her child's death."

She shook her head. "You didn't see her eyes that day, Max. I've never seen anyone look at me that way." She shivered. "It was horrifying."

He looked down at her, and she up at him. "Well," he began, searching for an answer. "Why don't you sleep on it, and then you can make your decision tomorrow." He brushed her hair behind her ears and let his hands slide to either of her cheeks.

She smiled slightly for a split second, then nodded.

"Come on now," Max said, stroking her cheek. "Where were we?" He smiled seductively once again, then pulled her in tightly.

"Is that all you think about?" Asked Michele, half annoyed, half amused.

"What else am I supposed to think about? Current events? That newspaper was just a farce, my dear." He twisted his fingers around his non-existent moustache in a very Vaudevillian-antagonistic way.

She sighed. "There you go again, Maxwell's silver hammer. Your charm truly is dangerous. It kills me, really it does," she said sarcastically.

He picked her up in a cradle carry and headed toward the bedroom. "Oh Michele, I am going to make you eat those words. Hopefully three times in the next couple hours."

"Give me a break! I had to work all night you know!"

"I didn't say you had to be awake all three times."

"You're sick!"