by Nina Lane
“Oh, lovely!” Florence claps her hands. “I’ll send you all the info to get started.”
“…I can’t,” I finish weakly.
Kelsey snorts with suppressed laughter.
“It won’t take much time,” Florence assures me, patting my chest again like she’s stroking a cat. “Archival research and writing up a few reports, maybe doing some work on the engines. You did such a beautiful job with the Butterfly House the Historical Society just can’t tackle this new project without you.”
“I’m really not—”
“You are such an extraordinary help to us.” Florence turns to Kelsey. “A pleasure seeing you, dear. I’ll be in touch, Dean. You are a gem, did I ever tell you that?”
She squeezes my biceps, gives us a little wave, and heads out the door. I sink into a nearby chair with a groan. Kelsey is outright grinning now.
“Professor Marvel, browbeaten by a little old lady,” she teases.
“Little old lady, my ass,” I mutter darkly. “She’s Xena the Warrior Princess in disguise.”
“Hey, engine restoration sounds more like Archer’s line of work,” Kelsey says. “You should call him, ask if he can help you out.”
“Good idea.” I take out my phone to text Archer. “Maybe Florence will pat his chest and squeeze his biceps for a change.”
“Hah.” Kelsey rolls her eyes. “Knowing him, he might like it.”
I send the text to my brother. Though I’m aware Kelsey’s suggestion is a ploy to get me and Archer to spend time together—in her belief that we need to—I also know Archer would be a great addition to the project.
I slide my phone back into my pocket as Kelsey and I head out to our cars.
“You have time for coffee?” I ask, thinking she could give me a good perspective on this whole job situation.
“No, sorry.” Kelsey stops by her car, digging into her purse for her keys. “I’m heading over to the warehouse to check on some equipment. Gym tomorrow around four?”
“Sure.”
She gives me a wave and gets into her car. I watch her drive away, then start toward my car. After a block, I turn and go in the opposite direction.
Our former apartment, the place where Liv and I first lived when we moved to Mirror Lake, sits above a row of shops on the corner of Avalon and Poppy Streets.
There’s a wrought-iron balcony that used to be filled with Liv’s potted plants. In the summer, she’d leave the French doors open and the blue-and-white striped curtains would flutter in the breeze from the lake.
I’d always liked coming home—walking toward the building and seeing those curtains like they were waving hello. Knowing my wife was in the rooms behind them.
Now the balcony is empty, the French doors shut. The landlord rented out the place shortly after Liv and I moved to the Butterfly House. No idea who’s been living there since.
I walk back to my car and head toward campus. Strange how when your life gets richer and bigger, you still sometimes miss the days when it was smaller.
*
I work late at the university, finalizing my travel arrangements and reviewing the criteria needed for a site to be inscribed on the World Heritage protection list.
By the time I head home, the sky is charcoal-gray, streaked with a few reddish clouds. The porch lights are on, and I go into the foyer—expecting the usual noises, Liv cooking dinner, either kid’s music or the TV on, Nicholas coming to greet me.
Instead it’s oddly quiet inside.
“Liv?” I drop my briefcase on a table and go into the kitchen. There’s a wrapped package on the central island with my name on it.
I wonder if I’ve missed an important date—birthday, anniversary of our first date—but no. I unwrap the package and pull out a ream of typing paper.
Huh. There’s a note typed on the first page:
While I wandered soft and lonely as a cloud
that floats on high over vales and hills,
You saw me and snatched me down
to love among the utility bills.
Interesting. It sounds like a clue. Since we keep our bills in the first drawer of the kitchen desk, I walk over to open it.
A bunch of bills are wrapped around a box with a rubber band. I unfasten the band and open the box, which is full of cotton balls. Each cotton ball has a paper letter affixed to it. I dump them all onto the desk, arranging and rearranging the letters until they spell out:
S-H-A-R-P D-R-E-S-S-E-D M-A-N
I think for a minute, then go upstairs to the bedroom. I open the closet, revealing one of my suits hung neatly on a hanger. A leather belt is buckled through the pant loops, with a note attached to the buckle.
I take it off and read another clue that leads me to a box in Nicholas’s room, which reveals an apple. A fourth box near the living room fireplace contains a block of wood, and a fifth has a bag filled with candy and a note that says:
Professor West to the dark tower came,
saying fum, fie and fee
I smell peaches and cream—is it she?
Amused and intrigued, I climb the spiral staircase to the tower. A box is sitting on the landing, and I open it to reveal a spool of copper wire and a skein of wool. I knock once on the door and push it open.
All the breath stops in my lungs. Tiny white lights glitter around the windows, casting a soft glow on my wife, who is standing in the middle of the room.
I can only stare at her—stunning in a white dress that hugs all her gorgeous curves, her hair adorned with little white flowers. She’s smiling that smile that makes my heart fill to breaking every single time.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” I let the doorknob slide from my grasp and put the box down. “You look incredible. Isn’t that your wedding dress?”
Her smile widens. “It’s a bit tighter now, but yes. Thanks for remembering.”
“I remember everything about that day.” I walk toward her, lifting my hand to touch her thick, shiny hair. “Every stone in the terrace. The hills covered with grapevines. The way Jean’s mother stopped you halfway toward me to straighten the hem of your dress. The flowers you were holding, the golden retriever lying in the sun. The officiant saying, ‘Magnifique’ when you came closer. Everything. But mostly you.”
“I’d tell you it was the best day of my life, but that wouldn’t be true,” Liv says. “I’ve had so many best days with you. More than I can count.”
“I haven’t had any best days with you.”
A crease appears between her eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Because you are my best day.”
“Aw.” She smiles. “Good one.”
I slide my hand under her chin, lifting her face to mine for a kiss, but she puts her hand on my chest to stop me.
“Did you understand the clues?” she asks.
“Paper… you’re going to write me a really hot love letter.”
“No.”
“Cotton… uh, we’re going to have a naked pillow fight?”
“No.”
“I’m going to tie you up with a leather belt.”
“No.” Intrigue sparks in her pretty eyes. “But hold that thought for later.”
“The wood… well, one look at you and I get a hard-on, so that’s self-evident.”
Liv grins. “Wrong again.”
“Then I didn’t understand any of them.”
“Paper is the traditional gift for a first anniversary,” Liv says. “Cotton is for the second, leather for the third, fruit for the fourth, wood for the fifth, and sugar for the sixth.”
“Ah. Let me guess. Seventh is copper and wool.”
“I always knew you were brilliant.”
“Our seventh is coming up this year,” I remark, sliding my hands around her waist to pull her closer. “July twelfth.”
“You remember.”
“Of course.” I frown at her. “Haven’t I brought you flowers and gifts on July twelfth for six years running?”
�
�Yes, you have.” She smooths her hands over my suit jacket. “But for this year, I was thinking we should do something extra-special. Seven is considered to be a very lucky number.”
She gestures to another larger box on the coffee-table, this one tied with a red ribbon. Since she’s already covered traditional anniversary gifts, this has to be something different. I let go of her and walk over to sit on the sofa.
I open the box and take out the items one by one. A white rose. A University of Wisconsin baseball cap. A postcard printed with one of the distinctive Union Terrace chairs. A Madison, WI keychain, a Bucky Badger stuffed animal, a picture of the Wisconsin State Capitol building.
“Do you get it?” Liv asks.
“If I had to guess, I’d say this has something to do with Madison, Wisconsin,” I remark.
“Excellent guess.”
“Our first year together.” I look at the gifts on the table. “One of the best years of my life.”
“Mine too.” Liv sits beside me, reaching out to put her hand on my knee. “With our seventh anniversary coming up, and us not having been away together in so long, I’ve planned a trip for us back to Madison.”
“Yeah?” Warmth fills my chest. “Just the two of us?”
“Just the two of us. Kelsey and Archer are going to take care of Nicholas.” She picks up her notebook and opens it to a page filled with notes.
“We’re staying in a lakeside suite at the Edgewater,” she says, showing me the page. “I have dinner reservations at the White Rose and tickets to a show at the Overture Center. We can go to the zoo, the botanical gardens, the farmer’s market, and I booked our favorite cabin in Door County for the last night. We’ll do all the things we did during our first year together.”
For a second, I can’t even speak. The idea of having my wife all to myself for several days, reliving those months when I was falling for her so hard, so fast…
Liv smiles. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “More than okay.”
“Since the festival is in the summer, I planned it for Memorial Day weekend,” Liv says. “Sheryl said she would cover my Friday shift, so we can leave early in the morning and be in Madison by noon, which means we’ll have all afternoon and evening.”
My heart begins a slow, heavy descent to the pit of my stomach.
“Memorial Day weekend?” I repeat.
“Yes, since we’ll both have Monday off, that gives us a whole extra day.”
Now I can’t speak for a different reason. Liv looks up, faint confusion furrowing her brow.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“I… uh, Liv, I have to leave town the Thursday before Memorial Day. I just found out this morning. The United Nations Assembly agreed to vote on our proposal, if we can get it to them by the end of the month. I have to go back to Tuscany, and then Paris. I’ll be gone for about ten days.”
She blinks. “Oh.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Simon called this morning,” I say in a rush. “I was going to tell you at the café. If the Assembly votes to put the Altopascio site on their protected list, we’ll be able to raise more money for the repairs, increase the size of the team, even get enough funding for the third phase of the project. There’s a few dozen people who are counting on this, not to mention the whole town. I’m so sorry.”
Liv shakes her head. A petal falls from her hair onto the floor. She starts putting all the Wisconsin gifts back into the box.
“It’s okay, Dean. I shouldn’t have made all the plans without checking your schedule first.”
“No, it’s not… I mean, it’s… there’s nothing I want more than to be alone with you.”
Curses blister my brain. I can’t fucking stand the look on her face. The disappointment she can’t hide.
“Liv…”
“Dean.” She puts her hand on my wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Really, it’s okay. I know how hard you’ve been working for this, especially after the earthquake. It’s great that the Assembly has agreed to vote on it.”
“It’s just… we thought we’d missed the deadline, but they gave us an extension.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
But it’s not okay. It’s not fucking okay that my wife planned an anniversary trip that we have to cancel because my work is taking me out of the country again. It’s not okay that we haven’t been alone together in weeks. It’s not okay that having everything means we’re losing sight of each other.
And it’s a goddamned disaster that I can’t figure out how to fix it.
“Forget it.” I grab Liv’s arms, pulling her toward me so she tumbles onto my lap in a rush of sweet, flower scents and warmth. “I’ll tell Simon I can’t make it. We’re going on our trip.”
“Dean—”
“It doesn’t matter, Liv. They can do the work without me.”
“No, they can’t. You’ve been working on the site for years now, and there’s no way you can insult the WHC by not showing up. What if you need them in the future?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Dean, love of my life.” Liv puts her hands on my cheeks and turns my face to look at her. Her brown eyes are warm with love and understanding. “You’re going to do this. You’re going to give your proposal to the UN because it’s what you’ve been working toward. Because there is no way you can risk losing the site completely. We’ll just postpone our trip until we can figure out a time that works for both of us. Maybe even on our actual anniversary.”
My chest is tight. I hate the unease simmering in my blood, the disquiet that started the second I heard I had to leave again. I take a breath and reach up to pluck a flower from Liv’s hair, crushing the fragrant petals between my fingers.
Not only do I remember every last detail of our wedding day, our honeymoon is imprinted on my mind like a painting. Liv sitting on the balcony of our rented apartment, her body clad in a flowered sundress that flowed over her bare legs, her head bent over a Paris travel guide.
My wife… my wife… laughing at a comedian street performer, gazing at Vermeer’s The Lacemaker, stopping to look at the old books in one of the stalls along the Seine. Her long hair falling across the side of her face, the movement of her arm as she reached up to push it back.
That was poetry. Right there. Poetry.
Determination fills me in a hard rush. No way am I letting my wife’s plans be postponed.
“Come with me,” I tell her.
She blinks. “What?”
“Come with me to Europe,” I say. “Instead of reliving our first year, we’ll relive our honeymoon in Paris. We’ll go to the same restaurants, visit the museums and that little café where you couldn’t get enough of their macaroons. I’ll bore you to tears telling you all the architectural details of Notre Dame. We’ll go to—”
“Dean.” Liv touches my hand to stop my barrage of words. “I can’t go with you. We can’t do all that.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t leave the café for more than a couple of days,” Liv says. “We’re too busy right now. And the week after Memorial Day, I’m swamped with meetings about the festival. Besides, you’ll be so focused on work we wouldn’t have time to do all those things together anyway.”
Frustration fills my throat. Liv presses a kiss against my lips and eases away from me.
“We’ll figure it out, Dean, I promise,” she says. “It’ll take some adjusting, but we’ve been doing that for awhile now.”
I don’t want to adjust. I want to grab things and force them to work the way I want them to. The way they should.
“I’ll go make us a quick dinner.” Liv glances at the clock. “Archer is dropping Nicholas off at seven, so I’ll call and see if he wants to eat with us too.”
I watch her go, my gaze sliding over the straight line of her back, her legs and round hips, the thick, dark hair falling like a curtain over her shoulders.
My beauty. It feels like a weight is pressing on m
y chest. I can’t figure out why I’m so knotted up, but then it hits me.
My wife gave me the chance to make her completely mine again. Just for a few days. And I have to say no.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‡
OLIVIA
I’d launch Plan B, except I only had Plan A. I look at our wall calendar in the kitchen, which is filled with color-coded details about our daily activities and schedules. With Dean gone again and the festival scheduled for the second week in July, there’s no way we can have a romantic weekend getaway anytime soon.
Maybe we could go somewhere after the festival. Except then we’re getting into the end of July and August, and summer is always a busy time for the café, especially if we end up catering the Edison company picnic. But I might be able to get away for a few days.
Unless Dean suddenly discovers he has to go to Siberia to excavate a wooly mammoth.
Now, Liv, stop it.
I give myself a mental kick and get a sippy cup of milk for Nicholas, who is occupied with a toy toolkit on the sunroom floor. I open my laptop and pull up my Liv in Wonderland blog. I’m half-tempted to write a blog post about the trials and tribulations of a busy married couple trying to get away together, but that isn’t something I want others to know about.
Instead I write about the multiple preschool and kindergarten options available for children today and title the post “Finger-painting en route to MIT.”
After I publish the essay, I turn to my Pinterest boards. Started as a source of inspiration, the boards have now become the bane of my existence.
My Sexy Ideas board mocks me with pictures of lithe, gorgeous couples locked in passionate embraces that will never be interrupted by waking toddlers or mommy guilt. My Recipes board is filled with photos of polenta fries, beef Wellington, and “toddler-friendly” snacks of roasted chickpeas and vegetable risotto balls that I have yet to actually make.
And my Parenting Ideas board taunts me with images of crafts that I planned for rainy Sundays after Nicholas and I make whole-wheat pancakes while listening to Mozart. Melted crayon art, homemade play dough, an airport made out of a pizza box with landing lights that work.
While many rainy Sundays have passed since I created the board, my son and I have spent them lounging around in our pajamas, watching cartoons and eating microwaved popcorn rather than being creative and healthy.
