by Nina Lane
Dean, carrying a fragrant bag laden with fluffy croissants, closing the door of the apartment that had once been an artist’s atelier. Flowers blooming from window boxes, framing views of rooftops and chimney stacks, tall oak doors embellished with gold molding, scuffed wooden floors.
My new husband. My husband.
I stare at him now—the thick hair falling over his forehead, the stubbled planes of his jaw and dark-lashed eyes. He’s wearing worn jeans and an old King’s T-shirt, his feet planted on the hardwood floor in a solid stance that looks as if he’s holding the earth in place. As if he’s holding our life here in place.
“Move to Paris?” I repeat weakly.
“If I were even offered the job, I’d have to work from the World Heritage Center headquarters,” he says. “But it wouldn’t only mean a move to France. It’s a position that requires global mobility, moving wherever the WHC sends me. Sometimes only for a few weeks or months. We’d have to completely uproot our lives.”
“Do you think you’d ever consider it?” I ask.
“No. It would be a full career move, not something I could do part-time from King’s, like I’m doing with the Altopascio dig. I’d have to resign from King’s and start all over again.”
Resign.
The word sticks me like a pin. He resigned from King’s three years ago—for no other reason than to protect me from the hideous fallout of a false sexual harassment allegation. And while the university asked him to rescind the request and keep his job—later rewarding him with full tenure—the very idea of Dean leaving the department he created elicits a wave of apprehension.
I can’t imagine him resigning from King’s again, not even for a good reason rather than a disgraceful one. In the few years since he started the Medieval Studies program, it’s developed a widespread reputation for being one of the best and fastest growing history programs in the country.
Move. Resign. Start over.
“Um… wow.” I can’t think of anything else to say. Because… wow.
Dean shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I appreciate the interest, but we could never make it work.”
Of course we couldn’t. But I wonder how he’s figured that out in the week since Hans told him about it.
Though I’m aware of a faint relief that Dean doesn’t seem interested, it’s not like him to do something without considering all the angles first. I mean, this is the man who looked up the university rules before he even asked me out, just to make sure there would be no repercussions if a professor dated a student.
“Do you think you’d want the job?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter if I want it or not,” he replies. “We have Nicholas, I have tenure at King’s, you’re busy running the café and all your other activities… Why would we even consider moving anywhere?”
“So what’s this business about the interviews?”
“That’s what Hans and I were talking about,” Dean explains. “Once a year, the World Heritage representatives meet at a United Nations Assembly to vote on which sites to add to the protected list. With the Altopascio proposal still under consideration and the assembly meeting in July, it wouldn’t look good if I turned down the job right away. If the representatives think I’m still a strong candidate, that will help our case. And with the earthquake damage, the site needs all the help it can get.”
I know Dean wouldn’t hesitate to pick his family over any professional opportunity. I also know he’s not the kind of man to sit complacently in one place—he’s a natural leader who likes to move, to do things, to effect change. And what greater influence could he have than to actively help save historic sites throughout the world?
I gaze out the window at the glassy darkness. Condensation clings to the edges, framing my image. Sometimes when I see my reflection, I see Liv the confident woman, the capable mother, and other times I still see a ten-year-old, uncertain girl.
Those glimpses make me realize that girl will always be a part of me. I wonder if that’s true for everyone—do we all still sometimes feel like the children we no longer are?
I look away from the window at my tall, strong husband. It’s in him too—the twelve-year-old child who fought with his brother and divulged the secret that tore them apart. The son whose father pushed him excessively to be the best. The young man who believed in chivalrous knights and bold, momentous quests.
The boy who dreamed of traveling to far-flung, exotic places, seeking adventure, leading the troops to victory.
Discomfort hits me. It’s also not like Dean to pretend to be interested in something he’s not.
“So what’s going to happen when the WHC committee discovers you’re not really considering the job anyway?” I ask.
“Nothing’s going to happen.” A crease appears between his eyebrows. “I don’t like not being able to say no right away, but I also don’t like the idea of doing something that could thwart all the progress we’ve made.”
“But they’ll think you’re interested in the job,” I point out. “That sounds a bit…”
Unethical. I don’t like that either. Nothing about Dean has ever been unethical. Just the opposite.
“I’m trying to save an important site that’s been badly damaged by an earthquake and is now in danger of being destroyed,” Dean says in a measured tone, faint tension lacing through his body. “And I’m not hiding my position. Everyone knows I’m advocating for the site.”
And that’s just one of the reasons they want him. The World Heritage committee can easily see how Professor Dean West’s undeterred advocacy and persistence on behalf of a medieval monastery could extend to sites around the world.
I walk to the other side of the tower and look out the window that affords a view of downtown.
It’s silly, I know, this feeling of something perilously close to fear. It also reminds me that no matter what else we do in life, some things run so deep they’re engraved in our bones. I don’t like instability, restlessness, unpredictability. I crave safety and permanence.
That’s just one of the reasons I love the lake—the water moves and shifts, but stays in one place, encircled by trees whose roots run deep into the earth, by rocks and boulders that have been there for centuries, by a town that was founded two hundred years ago by people who were looking for a home.
The lights of Avalon Street shine in the darkness like the stars of the Milky Way. Our little apartment is down there somewhere, the place where I’d be reading in a cushy chair by the French doors when Dean would come in from his bedroom office, rumpled and scruffy, kiss the top of my head, and tell me he was going to the corner bakery to pick up some doughnuts.
“Liv, there are dozens of other candidates being considered for the job,” he says from behind me. “A request to interview isn’t a job offer.”
“What if it turns into one?”
“I’d say no. Hans already knows I’m not going to uproot our lives.”
Because we both have everything we always wanted right here. Right now.
Neither of us has to say those words aloud.
We’ve worked so hard. We have so much. I’d been so over-the-moon happy when Dean was offered tenure at King’s almost three years ago, solidifying his position there and ensuring we could stay in Mirror Lake as long as we wanted.
Never did I imagine that either of us might one day not want to stay.
But if I block out everything else, I can see this for Dean, like a single, crystal-clear star. It’s in his nature, the very core of him. Everything he is centers around his fierce, basic urge to protect.
Since becoming a mother, I’ve understood Dean’s protectiveness on levels I never had before, solidifying the bone-deep knowledge that I would do anything to keep my child safe.
Now, as I think of Professor Dean West merging his intense, protective instinct with his love of history, it’s painfully obvious that no one on earth is more perfectly suited to advocate for the global protection of historic sites.
&nbs
p; I swallow hard. “I wouldn’t want you to miss an incredible opportunity.”
“I’m not missing anything,” he says. “We have a life here I don’t want to change.”
And yet he didn’t say he doesn’t want the job.
I let out my breath in a long rush. I have never understood the meaning of the word wanderlust. I was not the college girl who had dreams of backpacking through Europe or South America. I will never understand Kelsey’s love of packing her truck and hitting the road for weeks on end, chasing storms and sleeping in roadside motels.
My travel journey has been an inward one, mapping out all the rivers and valleys of my soul, finding my way, charting new territory toward a place that I could call home.
I’ve done that now. I know who I am. I have bloomed right where I was planted.
And while change has always been a nerve-wracking concept for me—as a child, change never led to anything good, and it’s the thing that has caused the most rifts between me and my husband—I’m not as afraid of it as I used to be.
But for me, change is having a toddler who is learning something new every minute, restoring and moving to the Butterfly House, figuring out ways for the café to reach into the community, visiting Altopascio one day, enrolling Nicholas in preschool, trusting my ability to plan a town festival.
It’s not giving up what we’ve built here and moving overseas.
“If we were living back on Avalon Street,” I say. “In our little apartment, just you and me, no child yet… would you want the job?”
“Not if you didn’t want to consider moving.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He pushes to his feet and goes to the window, looking out at the expansive view of the lights. His profile is like that of an ideal king or emperor—strong and beautiful with a straight nose and angular jaw. His hair is getting longer, in need of a cut, the thick strands brushing the back of his collar.
“You spent enough time supporting me when we were first married,” he says. “I wouldn’t ask you to uproot your life again, especially on this scale.”
The unease inside me intensifies, like a wave building slowly beneath the surface of the ocean.
“That’s still not an answer, Dean.”
He drags a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I don’t know, Liv. If it were just the two of us living in the apartment, then I’d be a lot more inclined to want it.”
“Regardless of what we have here?”
“Liv, for almost ten years, I’ve never done a damn thing regardless of what we have.” A note of irritation edges his voice. “I’ve done everything with you—with us—in mind. Everything. So you’re asking a pointless question because it’s not just you and me anymore, and we don’t live in the apartment, and we do have a child to think about.”
“I’m trying to get at whether or not you’d even want the job,” I tell him.
“And I told you it doesn’t matter.”
I hold up my hands in a placating gesture. “Okay. I just don’t want you to make a decision you’ll later regret.”
“I’m beginning to regret having told you about this,” he mutters.
I blink. “Wow.”
Dean sighs, turning to cross the room to me. He brings his hands up to the sides of my neck.
“Liv, I just don’t see the point of this conversation,” he says. “Why are you even asking these questions? I need to do some political maneuvering, but do you want me to seriously consider pursuing the job?”
I stare at the warm, vulnerable hollow of his throat that is one of my favorite places to kiss. Of course I don’t want him to consider the job. I want him to stay happy right where he is. I don’t want him to notice another door on the other side of the room, away from us, and wonder what would happen if he walked through it.
“No,” I finally say. “I don’t want you to take a new job, Dean. Certainly not one in Europe. But I also don’t want to be the reason you turn down an amazing opportunity.”
“Liv, you’re the reason I do things, not the reason I don’t.” He brushes his thumb across my lower lip. “Why are you so upset?”
“I’m not upset. I’m proud of you.” The instant I say the words, I realize just how true they are. I put my hand against his jaw. “The United Nations, for heaven’s sake. I mean, I knew you were good, but I didn’t know you were that good.”
“Yes, you did.”
I smile. “Yes, I did.”
He pulls me against him, his strong arms encircling me in a warm, protective embrace. A rush of selfishness fills me so fast my throat aches. I can’t stand the thought of sharing my husband with anyone.
Since the day we met, this man has never looked beyond me, beyond us, beyond the fortress of our marriage that we’ve fought so hard to build and defend.
But what would happen if he did? What if my white knight decides to lower the drawbridge and let the rest of the world in?
CHAPTER FOUR
‡
OLIVIA
I didn’t have a key. I was eleven. I couldn’t get into the apartment. I had no idea where my mother was.
I can’t remember where we were, what city it was. Indianapolis, maybe, or Milwaukee. It was a cold, glittery night. We’d been there for two days, having driven from Florida where my mother earned some cash selling woven bracelets on the beach. She’d used the money to put down a deposit on a first-floor, downtown apartment that smelled like mold.
She’d sent me out to get milk and bread from a store a few blocks away. When I got back, the apartment door was locked. I didn’t have a key. I rang the bell. No answer. Knocked. No answer. Tried to peek in the window. Dark inside.
Dark inside.
My heart thumped low and heavy against my ribs. I clutched the plastic bag. My hands were sweaty. I waited for a long time, huddled up against the door. Every now and then, I’d ring the bell or knock, as if she’d suddenly open the door and tell me she’d been in the shower all this time.
The night air grew colder. When my fingers started getting numb, I pushed to my feet and walked back to the grocery store. Even if I had no one to call, at least it would be warm there. Lights shone from the windows, neon beer signs flashing.
I walked with my shoulders hunched. I didn’t notice the group of men loitering outside the store until I straightened. They were big, maybe five of them, dressed in ratty jeans and jackets. Cigarette smoke, bottles of hard liquor, raspy laughter.
“Hey, honey, why you all alone?” one of them called.
I stopped. I’d been forced to deflect plenty of leering, wrong looks from men. I’d been looked at, touched, and spoken to in ways no young girl should be. My mother had never protected me, so I’d had to learn how to protect myself. Even if it was by being invisible.
A guy with a beard stood between me and the entrance to the store. He narrowed his gaze on me.
“You know how to answer a question, girl?” he asked.
My stomach knotted. Their stares burned into me. I’d have to pass them all, walk through the gauntlet they’d created, to get inside the store.
“You’re a pretty little thing,” another guy remarked, tilting his head back to drink out of a bottle. “You shouldn’t be out alone this time of night.”
“You got a boyfriend?” the bearded guy asked with a leer.
The others laughed, the sound cracking through the air like a whip.
I dropped the bag and ran. Better than trying to be invisible was not being there at all.
Their laughter followed me as I ran, my tennis shoes pounding on the cracked sidewalk. Instinctively, I ran back toward the apartment, but fear propelled me faster and faster. By the time I stopped, gasping for breath, I realized I didn’t know where I was.
I stopped on a street corner, looking around. An empty lot, car repair shop, boarded-up house. Yellowish pools of light cast by streetlamps. Panic flickered in my gut. I didn’t know what to do except keep walking. There was no one else around, not that I’d h
ave trusted anyone enough to ask for help.
I walked through the maze of streets until my feet ached, passing closed stores and noisy dive bars I was too scared to enter. Everything scared me—passing cars, shadowed alleys, underpasses thick with weeds. I didn’t even dare try and find a police officer for fear they’d involve Child Protective Services after taking me in.
When I was too exhausted to keep walking, I found a sheltered stoop where I could hide in the shadows. I nodded off into an uneasy sleep, waking when the sky began to lighten.
I pushed to my feet, hugging my arms around myself as I started walking again. A grocer was just unlocking the door of his shop as I approached. Desperate and longing to be back at “home,” I hurried up to him.
“Sir, can you help me?” My voice was hoarse, cracking. “I’m lost.”
He eyed me warily, trying to figure out if I was a runaway kid, beggar, or both.
“P-please,” I begged. “I know the street where I live, but I can’t find it. Could you just l-look it up for me? Tell me how to get there. I’ll walk home.”
He finally relented and gestured for me to enter the store. He told me how to get to Sycamore Street, and it turned out I’d walked ten miles away from the apartment. Then he gave me an apple and told his wife to drive me back.
A light was on in the apartment. I knocked. I didn’t know whether to be enraged or relieved when my mother answered the door. She looked like an angel, the light glowing on her honey-blond hair, her features as fine as those of a princess. She looked at me with her thick-lashed blue eyes and blinked.
“Where were you?” she asked.
“You told me to go to the store for milk and bread last night,” I said, my throat tight with the urge to fling myself into her arms, to feel her embrace. “When I got back, you weren’t here. I didn’t have a key. I’ve been walking all night. I got lost.”
She blinked again, like she didn’t remember. At times like that, I almost wished I could blame drugs or alcohol for her lack of concern. Using the excuse “She was drunk” or “She was strung out” seemed far easier than admitting the truth, which was “She just doesn’t give a shit.”
