Adore (Spiral of Bliss #4)

by Nina Lane

  “Of course I trust you,” I say. “I’ve been doing everything for us and for the café.”

  Allie sighs. “Look, I get it, okay? You want to please people. You want to be everything to everyone. But you can’t be. No one can be. And I think you need to realize that your family is your priority right now and take a few weeks off.”

  Hurt and regret twist through me. More than the request itself, I hate that I’m the reason Allie is making it in the first place. That she’s reached the point where she needs to stop working with me.

  “I don’t want to take a break, Allie,” I tell her. “Both Dean and Kelsey know people at Edison, and they’d intervene on our behalf. Dean has already offered.”

  “If Edison already gave us their decision, we’re not going to push the issue,” Allie replies. “We need to focus on moving forward. I’m already looking into some outreach opportunities, because parents are going to talk, and the Wonderland Café isn’t going to come out of this mess unscathed.”

  “Okay.” I fumble through the papers on the desk to find the information about the party truck. “I’ll call Roger Jameson about the Airstream and see if we can—”

  “Liv.” Allie’s voice hardens. “We’ve lost the Airstream. It’s over.”

  “It’s not over,” I protest. “I just have to finish a few things for the festival and…”

  My voice trails off. The despair filling me intensifies.

  “You need to step back from the café right now,” Allie says. “You’re getting the festival and the café way too mixed up. I’m just sorry I didn’t try to stop you sooner. Maybe the café wouldn’t have taken a hit.”

  Silence falls between us.

  “I had everything under control,” I finally say.

  “No, you thought you had everything under control.” Allie pauses and reaches across the desk to touch my arm. “And I’m not going to abandon you. Brent and I will still help with the festival. But you need to leave the café to me.”

  Her tone indicates that she won’t take no for an answer. And if I’m being brutally honest with myself, I can’t say I blame her. I wouldn’t want to work with me right now either.

  “Okay.” I push to my feet, feeling as if a black cloud is pressing in on me from all sides. “I want to fix this, Allie.”

  “You’ve really done enough.” Allie shakes her head. “And I admit I’m partly to blame for not standing up to you sooner. I’ll figure this out, Liv. If something comes up, I’ll call you.”

  We exchange a hug that isn’t as warm as our embraces usually are before I gather my things and leave. As I walk down the porch steps, a mother approaches, herding two young children into the café. The kids climb the steps with a bright, springy excitement, clearly anticipating cupcakes and hot chocolate.

  I walk slowly to my car, feeling flattened. I want to cry on Dean’s shoulder—because I need him, dammit—but he’s at the university, probably finalizing things for the United Nations Assembly. It’s almost ridiculous how impressive that is.

  Cold breaks through me, the old, latent sense of being untethered, adrift. I have the urge to go home and be alone—to curl up with my quilt, a cup of tea, and a book—but I’ve already let enough people down, and hiding isn’t going to help.

  I straighten both my spine and my willpower, and head to the Historical Society museum and offices. I still have the Bicentennial Festival to plan, and the entire town is counting on me not to fail.

  I find Florence Wickham in her office, peering at a bunch of old railroad photographs spread out on a table. She looks up at me with a welcoming smile, which makes me feel better. At least she still thinks I’m the bee’s knees.

  “Come in, Olivia, dear.” She waves me into the office. “I’m organizing these for Archer to look over. Maybe we can make a display about the history of the railroad to put up outside the auction tent.”

  My heart lightens a bit at the thought of the Chair Fair. So many Mirror Lake residents have contributed beautifully decorated chairs to the auction it seems like a given we’ll reach our fundraising goal. If enough people attend, that is.

  “I’m just waiting for four more chairs to be delivered, then we can get the catalog printed,” I tell Florence. “I’ll send the mock-up to Patrick so he can start studying it.”

  “Oh, dear.” Florence straightens, her forehead creasing. “Did you get Patrick’s email? His son just bought a house in Florida, and he and his wife are going down this week to help with some work before they move in. He won’t be able to fulfill the auctioneer duties.”

  Dread pools in my belly again. I take out my phone and scroll through the messages. Patrick’s email is buried under all the other ones I missed. I battle back a fresh wave of anxiety and tell myself this is not an unsolvable problem.

  “So we need a new auctioneer.” I force a light note into my voice, trying to sound like this will be no more trouble than needing a fresh carton of milk. “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “The professional auctioneers charge quite a fee,” Florence replies worriedly. “Patrick was doing it as a favor, just to help us.”

  To help us.

  A bright light suddenly flashes in my mind, illuminating the solution to several problems all at once. Yes! Not only will this save the auction, but it will also repair the new tension between me and my husband.

  “I’ll ask Dean,” I tell Florence, a welcome relief filling me. “He offered to help with the festival, and he’ll be happy to serve as auctioneer.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Florence claps her hands. “What a marvelous idea. With his voice, that man will make a metal folding chair sound like a king’s throne. The women are going to bid small fortunes.”

  “I’ll talk to him tonight,” I say, tucking my phone back into my bag. “I promise, Florence, everything will be fine.”

  And it will be about freaking time.

  *

  I pull the blanket up around Nicholas and pick up the baby monitor before heading up the spiral staircase to Dean’s office. I knock once and push the door open.

  “Dean?”

  He’s at his desk wearing his pajama bottoms, the phone cradled against his shoulder and his attention on the computer screen. He gestures for me to hold on as he continues the call.

  Rather than focusing on what he’s saying, I listen to the deep, measured cadence of his voice and admire his sculpted shoulders, the muscles of his chest and back…

  A tingle of awareness goes through me. To avoid the temptation of jumping his bones—clearly, my comeback is here to stay, regardless of the fact that everything else is going wrong—I look out the windows and wait for him to finish the call. When I hear the click of the phone, I turn back to him.

  He swivels in the chair to face me, his expression one of distracted concentration. For an instant, I wish I’d come up here with another hot encounter in mind, but Dean and I have a history of using sex as an easy and delicious escape from both reality and our own problems. Unfortunately, the problems are always still waiting when we emerge from our lustful fog.

  “I have a favor to ask you.” I approach him, reaching out to run my fingers over his corded forearm. “I need a new auctioneer for the Chair Fair, and I was hoping you’d volunteer. I mentioned the idea to Florence, and she’s all over it.”

  Rather than immediately agreeing, which was the response I was hoping for, a shadow passes over Dean’s eyes.

  “The UN Assembly starts next week in Geneva,” he says. “They’re going to vote on our proposal to put the site on the protected list.”

  I nod. “You told me. Simon and Mateo are going to give the presentation, right?”

  “Yeah.” He leans in to click something on his computer screen. “I didn’t think I’d have to go. I’d already told Hans I wouldn’t be there.”

  But…

  The unspoken word sparks apprehension inside me. I know the World Heritage Center pushed the proposal through partly because they’re courting Dean for a
high-level job. And it takes me a second to realize he’s telling me something without outright saying it. My heart starts beating too fast.

  “But now you do have to go?” I ask.

  Dean nods, turning to straighten a stack of papers on his desk.

  “But that means…” You’re going to miss the festival.

  A weighty, thick silence falls between us. A hundred unwanted images flash through my mind. I can see my husband navigating an international convention with his steely self-assurance.

  The pictures are crystal-clear—Professor West, clad in his tailored navy suit, his silk tie knotted perfectly, his dark hair burnished by the lights as he shakes hands and extends greetings in French, German, Italian. I hear him discussing Roman aqueducts, building strategies, site management, and cultural landscapes.

  I see the United Nations offices in Geneva, a vast conference room with delegate tables arranged in a half-circle before the rostrum where the World Heritage officials sit. I see Dean standing at a podium before fifty diplomats, all identified by plaques announcing their country affiliation. Armenia, Portugal, Mali, Finland, Japan.

  They wear identification badges and translation headphones, and their desks are stacked with binders, papers, laptops. There are interpreters’ booths, a sound control room, a viewing gallery, a massive screen where renowned historian Dr. Dean West displays photos and maps and explains why the committee should vote to restore and protect a medieval monastery.

  My whole body tenses, as if in defense against the images I don’t want to see, the truth I don’t want to acknowledge.

  “You can’t go,” I manage to say, though of course what he’s going to do is far more important than helping me with a chair auction.

  “I have to, Liv.”

  “Why?” I curl my hands around the back of a chair, trying not to shake. “If Simon and Mateo can handle the presentation…”

  “Hans called me about an hour ago, asking if I would lead a break-out session on medievalism. And Jessica Burke asked me to talk to Hans about the Youth Experts Program, which is badly in need of help.”

  I should be so proud. And I am—part of me is, anyway. A part I’m having a hard time finding beneath a sharp, growing apprehension.

  I tighten my grip on the chair and tell myself to breathe. I catch the frustrated regret in Dean’s eyes as he goes to the table where his briefcase sits open. I know exactly the source of that regret—the push and pull between his loyalty to me and his commitment to his work.

  “If the vote passes, it’s more than the site being placed on the list,” he says, almost as if he’s trying to remind himself as well as me. “It means funding to repair the quake damage and support for dozens of people who have been working at Altopascio much longer than I have. It means revenue for the town and government. It means conservation and legal protection for a monastery that’s important both historically and culturally. I have to fight for this.”

  Of course he does. I know that. This is the United Nations. Global education, intercultural understanding and solidarity, democracy, freedom of expression. Dean can’t walk away from this fight for anything, not even me. He won’t.

  I stare at the photographs still on his desk—the images of the dig zones, the tools, a gold disk that was once buried deep in the soil.

  “Why…” I swallow hard. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Because I didn’t know.” Dean stuffs some papers into his briefcase. “I knew about the vote, but not about the medieval session. And considering the delegates who are going to be there, plus my work on the Conservation Committee, I have to go.”

  I cross my arms tightly over my chest, suddenly feeling as if my husband is moving away from me, inch by painful inch, and into the vast unknown of the world where I will no longer be able to reach him.

  And that, more than anything, floods me with raw, painful fear. Because Dean has always been so comfortable and secure in the world, so confident, and if that is where he truly belongs, then what happens to us?

  I take a breath, feeling the start of a fracture. The moment in which I’m forced to admit Dean and I might never find our way back to each other, at least not the way we both want to. Too many other things are crowding into the place of Liv and Dean. Separating us.

  “Who are you going as?” I ask. “Professor Dean West of King’s University or Assistant Director of the World Heritage Center?”

  “As a historian trying to save a medieval monastery.” Dean drags a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I don’t want to leave again, Liv, but this is critical. If the UN votes no, we’ll face a huge loss of support and revenue.”

  “I’m not denying the importance of it,” I reply, knowing there is only one weapon I have in my corner, only one way to defend myself against the world that seems determined to lure my husband into exotic, distant places where I can’t go.

  “I get that it’s big and illustrious and not nearly on the same level as a town festival,” I say, disliking the strident note in my voice, “but you just gave me a lecture yesterday about asking for help when I need it. And you told me weeks ago you would help us with the festival. That you would help me.”

  “Liv, I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, his mouth tightening. “You also told me countless times you have plenty of volunteers, and you didn’t have a specific job for me anyway.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  He straightens to look at me. Because I know him so well, I see the guilt, anger, and frustration warring inside him, right next to his deep-seated certainty that the United Nations task belongs to him alone. No one except Professor Dean West can do this… and he knows it. So do I.

  “What is the point, then?” he asks. “You making me feel like an ass for leaving when you’ve spent the past three years not wanting my help?”

  “I haven’t—” My voice sticks in my throat.

  I’m too late. The realization that he’s right hits me with the force of a blow. I waited too long, tried too hard to do everything by myself. And now that I’m finally admitting I need Dean’s help… he’s already agreed to be there for someone else.

  A hot flush of pain sweeps over me. I hate my fear, my desperation, my panic-induced attempt to play this card even though I know how unfair it is.

  “When I told you about the festival, I gave you a chance to say no,” I remind him. “You didn’t.”

  “Damn right I didn’t.” Dean turns, anger darkening his expression as he grabs another sheaf of papers from the table. “Don’t you know by now I can never fucking say no to you, Liv?”

  “You’re doing it now.”

  “Because this isn’t about you!” he snaps, slamming down the lid of his briefcase. “I know you like it when I’m at your beck and call, but believe it or not, I do have obligations to other people.”

  “You think I don’t know that? You think that hasn’t been shockingly clear every time you’ve gone to Italy or France?”

  “I’ve asked you countless times to go with me.”

  “And for the first time ever, I haven’t been able to go where you want,” I reply caustically. “I know you like it when I follow you around like a puppy, but believe it or not, I have obligations to other people too.”

  “Right.” Dean spreads his arms, his jaw tightening. “So you go deal with your obligations and I’ll deal with mine.”

  It’s not the end of the world. I know that. I’ll have to scramble, but I’m sure I can find another suitable auctioneer for the Chair Fair. It won’t be someone who is as good as Dean, but—as I keep reminding myself—I’ve done a lot of things without Dean over the past couple of years. I can stage a successful auction without him.

  But somewhere deep inside me, in a place where I’m still captivated by a handsome medieval history professor who came to the rescue of a girl upset over college credits, I feel as if our lives are starting to run parallel. We converge around Nicholas and our home life, but if everything else is separate…


  I pull in a breath. Maybe this is just what happens when a marriage stretches and lengthens, when a couple’s careers expand, when you realize there are only so many hours in the day and you still have so much to do.

  Maybe it’s supposed to be this way—my husband and I now putting our other responsibilities first, focusing together on our child and giving each other whatever is leftover.

  It doesn’t feel right, though. In fact, it feels horribly wrong. Dean and I have never been each other’s leftovers.

  I turn to the door, hating the anger still lingering between us, the discovery of problems neither one of us knows how to fix. Problems that have nothing to do with the United Nations or town festivals.

  “What time do you leave?” I ask.

  “Flight leaves Wednesday at seven.”

  “Email me your hotel and flight information.”

  “I already did.”

  I pause and turn back to face him. “When are you coming back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Depends on the vote.” He doesn’t look at me, but his voice is tense with regret. “Simon and I are heading to Altopascio afterward, see if we can start the earthquake repairs. I should know by the end of the assembly.”

  We’re both silent. The resignation and sorrow simmering between us almost breaks my heart in half.

  Come back to me. The wish blooms bright and hard in the center of my soul, the place where our unbreakable relationship, our everlasting marriage, has always lived.

  I can’t remember the last time I’d hoped for anything more desperately. But hope and reality are two very different things. And because there is nothing else I can say, I turn away from my husband and walk slowly back down the spiral staircase.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‡

  OLIVIA

  After Dean’s departure, the Butterfly House takes on an air of vastness and empty space. Without the secure familiarity of the café to keep me occupied, I’m thrown off balance even more, as if the ground is once again shifting beneath my feet. I try to focus on the final preparations for the festival, even more fiercely determined to make it a success, and spend a great deal of time with Nicholas.