by Nina Lane
“Not the best word, but it’ll do in public.” He kissed my temple. “In private, you can just be my beauty.”
Oh, he was good. My lingering irritation melted in a surge of warmth.
“Give me a kiss, beauty.”
He whispered the words close to my ear, as he always did. I loved the way he could make that one phrase a command, a request, or a question, with just the subtle modulations of his deep voice. This time, it was a gentle command, one I was only too happy to obey.
I lifted my head and closed the scant distance between us to press my mouth against his. Heat flooded me. He slid his hand to the back of my neck and angled his head so our lips fit together seamlessly. After a long, deep kiss, he eased away and leaned his forehead against mine.
I was crazy about him. I loved the way he invested everything he did with such purpose, the way he focused his attention on me and really listened when I talked. I loved his brilliant mind, loved both the impenetrability and sheer dorkiness of medieval history. I loved the way he looked at me, stroked my hair, kissed me. I loved the million beautiful ways he made me feel.
I was starting to love him. Only I didn’t know it yet.
“Be with me, Liv,” he said. “Just be with me.”
I looked at him and thought that for the first time in my life, there was nowhere else I wanted or needed to be.
CHAPTER FIVE
DEAN
JANUARY 16
ell, fuck.
My ex-wife is standing in the kitchen. Liv is hovering beside me, gripping my sleeve. Her tense posture tells me she knows exactly who this other woman is.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Helen bluntly.
She blinks and sets down the dish sponge. “Hello to you too, Dean.” She faces us, folding her arms. “I was with Paige when your mother called. I told her I’d stop by and straighten up while they’re at the hospital. The cleaning lady isn’t coming until tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’m here now, so you can go.”
Her eyes harden. “I’m here for Paige and your mother, Dean, not you. They’re still my good friends.”
Her tone implies that I am anything but. We haven’t seen each other for over fifteen years. The only contact we’ve had was one email a few months ago when she told me she’d submitted a proposal for the Words and Images conference I’m organizing.
Helen’s gaze flickers to Liv. “I’m Helen Morgan. Dean and I were once married.”
“I’m Olivia West,” Liv replies. “Dean and I are married.”
The possessive tone in her voice does me some good.
“Liv and I are going to the hospital after we get settled,” I tell Helen.
“Good. I have coffee made if you want some before you leave.” Helen taps her finger on the counter, her gaze faintly triumphant.
She’s staking a claim in the kitchen of my childhood. That’s fine, because I sure as hell don’t want it anymore.
I guide Liv upstairs to my former bedroom, which thankfully bears no trace of the teenager who once lived there. Liv rubs her hand across my lower back.
“Okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. Sorry. Had no idea she’d be here.” I turn to face her. She looks better than she did on the plane, but is still pale. “You should lie down.”
“I’ll take a nap when we get back from the hospital.”
“You’re not feeling well, Liv. You don’t need to see my parents right now.”
“I’m better, really. It was just the motion of the plane.” She gives me a stubborn look and turns to go into the bathroom. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”
I drag my hands over my face and tell myself she doesn’t need the extra stress of an argument. After we’ve both showered and changed, we go back downstairs. Helen gestures to a plate of muffins and hands me a cup of coffee.
“Still take it black?” she asks.
“Yeah, thanks.” I’m mildly surprised she remembers how I like my coffee.
“Don’t be surprised.” Her expression glimmers with amusement. “I had a fifty-fifty shot. Black or white.” She glances at Liv. “You?”
“No, thanks.”
I get a bottle of ginger ale from the refrigerator and hand it to Liv. Helen’s gaze follows Liv as she takes the bottle and sits at the table.
“Your flight was okay?” Helen asks, turning back to unload the dishwasher.
“Fine.”
“I offered to do some grocery shopping for your mother,” she says. “Stock up the fridge for the next few days.”
“That’s… uh, that’s nice of you,” I say.
“It’s no trouble.”
I watch her as she moves around the kitchen. She looks good—shorter hair, a little rounder, attractive. Beneath my surprise at seeing her again, there’s that old guilt.
Helen and I were supposed to be ideal. That was why I’d married her. A perfect match between a historian and an art historian. Prove to everyone, prove to myself, that my life was snapping together like a jigsaw puzzle, regardless of our family strife. Then the marriage ended up my biggest failure.
“So, Dean.” A bright note enters Helen’s voice as she sorts the clean silverware. “Medieval imagery. Great conference topic. My colleagues at Stanford have been talking about it. Have you seen my proposal?”
“Not yet. It’s gone to the other committee members first. I’m sure it’ll be accepted. They’ll love the interdisciplinary nature of it.”
“What about you?”
“It’s a great subject, sure.”
“I was thinking about icons in particular.” Helen glances at me. “The Pre-Raphaelite vision of the Middle Ages, especially through Keats. And Rossetti’s use of iconography from illuminated manuscripts.”
“You should look at the British Library’s Roman de la Rose manuscript,” I suggest. “I think you’d find a lot of stylistic connections to Defense of Guinevere.”
“I also want to talk about Ruskin’s ideas of vision and perception,” Helen says. “That all relates to the Pre-Raphaelite aesthetic.”
“I imagine that would be influenced by Tennyson and his Arthurian poems,” Liv remarks. “And how perfectionism is disconnected from everyday life, like Guinevere says of Arthur. ‘He is all fault who has no faults at all.’”
Helen just looks at her. Liv shrugs.
“I was a literature major,” she explains.
“Oh.” Helen turns to close the dishwasher.
Liv winks at me. Warmth dissolves more of my unease.
“So should we go to the hospital now?” Liv asks, pushing away from the table.
“Sure.” I put my cup in the sink. “Thanks, Helen.”
“No problem.”
Liv and I get our stuff and go back out to the driveway. I open the car door for her, then settle into the driver’s seat.
“She seems… nice.” Liv sounds like she’s choosing her words with care.
“She’s not a bad person,” I say. “And she was dealt a shitty hand with the miscarriages. She and I were just totally wrong. And that’s one hell of an understatement.” I reach over to pat Liv’s thigh. “Whereas you and I were meant to be.”
That seems to ease any trepidation Liv might have. The last thing I want is for her to worry about Helen, though I know Liv can hold her own if she needs to.
After parking at the hospital, we go inside. White walls, antiseptic smells, an air of sickness. My head fills with memories of my grandfather, his body wasting to skin and bones, the rasping, phlegmy cough. The angry way he faced his impending death.
“Let’s get some flowers.”
Liv’s smooth voice washes away the ugly thoughts. Before I can respond, she turns toward the gift shop and chooses a display of yellow and pink flowers that I’m sure my father will hardly notice.
“Dean, finally.” When we enter the cardiac unit, my sister gets up from one of the vinyl chairs. Paige is a younger version of our mother, all understated polish in some sort of knit dre
ss that probably cost a fortune.
After we exchange a brief hug of greeting, Paige gives Liv a narrow look. I step in front of Liv to deflect it.
“Hello, Olivia.”
“Nice to see you, Paige.”
“You didn’t tell me Helen was at the house,” I tell my sister.
A humorless smile tugs at Paige’s mouth. “Would you have come home if I did?”
Good question.
“How’s Dad?” I ask.
“Sleeping. Mom is in there with him right now.” Paige tilts her head toward the corridor leading to the private rooms. “Room three-eleven.”
Liv and I go to the room. I knock on the door before pushing it open. My mother is sitting in a chair by the window, staring at the opposite wall. She looks the same, dressed in one of her designer suits with elegant, tasteful jewelry, and her face made up flawlessly.
“Oh, Dean.” A look of relief crosses my mother’s face. She rises to give me an embrace that smells like perfume and hairspray. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I look past her. My chest tightens when I see my father lying in the hospital bed. Though we’ve always had either a strained relationship or none at all, he has nevertheless been a big presence in my life—like my grandfather before the cancer diagnosis. Now my father looks pale, weak. Small.
Like my grandfather before he died.
I detach myself from my mother and put Liv’s flowers on the bedside table.
“How are you, Liv?” my mother says.
“Fine, thank you, Joanna. I’m sorry about Richard.”
“The doctor said he might need surgery, but we don’t know what kind yet.” My mother looks at my father. Her hand goes up to fiddle with her pearl necklace. “I’ve let his office know. He was supposed to go to Sacramento next week.”
“You said Archer is coming back?” I ask.
“He left a message. I haven’t been able to reach him. His number is by the phone in your father’s library. See if you can find out when he expects to arrive.”
“I’ll try.” Though not very hard.
“I hadn’t heard from him in a few months,” she continues. “The last time I did, he mentioned some woman he was thinking of marrying. God knows what a disaster that would be.”
Her eyes barely flick to Liv. I struggle to control a wave of resentment.
“At any rate, I would certainly expect Archer to be here within a day or so,” my mother says. “People have already been asking where he is.”
I feel Liv’s worried gaze on me. She doesn’t need to be dragged into any of this again. Neither do I, but I’m here and I can already feel myself surrendering to the inevitable.
“I’ll look into it, Mom.”
“Good.”
“Dean.” My father opens his eyes, his voice a raspy whisper. “When did you get here?”
“Few hours ago.” I move to his bedside. “How do you feel?”
“They tell me I’ll make it.”
“Do you need anything, Richard?” my mother asks. “Water?”
My father shakes his head. His gaze shifts to the flowers. “What’re those?”
“Flowers from Liv.” I step aside so he can see Liv standing by the door.
She gives him a wave. “Good to see you, Mr. West. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“How long are you both staying?”
“Until you’re released from the hospital,” I say.
Liv touches my arm and tells me she’s going to the restroom. As soon as she leaves, my parents and I fall silent. I can’t remember the last time I was alone with them. The silence almost vibrates, filled with unpleasant memories.
My mother smooths the blanket, picks up a few fallen flower petals, refills the water pitcher, straightens the stuff on the bedside table.
Then, for lack of anything else to do, she picks up her purse. “Well, I suppose the doctor will be in soon. Dean, Paige and I will go home, now that you’re here.”
She gives my father a perfunctory kiss. Her heels click on the floor as she leaves.
“She says Archer is coming back,” I tell my father.
He shrugs. He resigned himself years ago to the idea that this is how things have to be. Thirty-five years of pretending means nothing will ever change. My parents would have divorced if my father had retired from the bench and gone into private practice, but he’s been associate justice on the California Supreme Court for over twenty-two years, having been elected and retained by voters in three elections. For him, divorce fell off the radar long ago.
Despite staying married, for all practical purposes, he and my mother are separated. My father spends most of his time hearing cases in San Francisco, Los Angeles, or Sacramento. He has an apartment in the city and, more than likely, several mistresses. My mother travels a lot on her own little vacations. They maintain the “perfect marriage” act when they’re both in town, and I suppose they’ve come to some sort of understanding about it.
But I know neither of them has ever been happy.
“So how’s work?” my father asks.
I tell him about the upcoming conference, the IHR grant, my classes and students. He tells me about recent court cases, policies of the California judicial council, what he thinks of the governor’s new appointments secretary.
After an hour, the doctor comes in for a consultation about the heart cath he’s planned to determine further treatment. My father waves me out of the room with instructions to come back tomorrow.
I find Liv in the waiting room, eating from a bag of vending-machine fruit snacks.
“When is the surgery?” she asks as we walk to the parking lot.
“Early next week, probably. They’ll schedule it tomorrow after they do some more tests.”
Before opening the car door for her, I put my arm around her waist. She turns to me, her body bowing against mine. Her lips are candy-sweet and warm. I rest my palm against her cheek and deepen the kiss.
Peaches and sugar. Everything good. The girl who has refused to prove herself to anyone except herself. The girl whose strength comes from inside.
“What?” Her whisper is soft against my mouth. She pulls back to look at me. “Are you still upset with me for wanting to come with you?”
“No.” I brush a few strands of hair off her forehead. I love all the locks of hair that are constantly escaping her ponytail or falling around her shoulders. Those stray tendrils have given me endless excuses to touch her.
“Then what?” Liv asks.
I shake my head. The questions jam into my throat.
Why was I suddenly not enough for you?
What if I fail you again?
A hard rush of love and pain fills me.
It’s an unrealistic urge, I know, this need to protect my wife from everything. But it will never go away. I felt it the minute I saw her, and now it’s part of my blood. I even hate that I wasn’t there for Liv all those years she was alone. When her godforsaken mother failed her, when bastards abused her, when—
“Dean?” Her voice slides through my bitter thoughts.
I take a breath. “I’m booking us into a hotel.”
“Why?”
“It’ll be easier on you. I don’t know how often Helen will be at the house, but there’s less chance of running into her if we’re not staying there. Not to mention my mother and sister.”
“No.” Liv shakes her head. “If we go to a hotel, your mother will be upset and… no.”
Irritation spreads through me. “I don’t want you under any stress.”
“Then don’t create any by trying to… to isolate me, Dean.” She gives me a mutinous look. “Who do you think your mother will blame if we leave the house? Me. And she’d be right, because we all know you wouldn’t stay in a hotel if you were here alone.”
Shit.
“Please, Dean.” Liv puts her hand on my chest. “Please don’t be upset. I need to do this. And you need to let me.”
“We’re only staying until my father
is out of the hospital.”
“We’re staying as long as your parents need you.”
None of my family needs me anymore. That’s the reason I’ve distanced myself from them. The reason I chose Liv. If I had to do it all over again, I would. The exact same way.
I pull open the passenger side door, then go around to the driver’s seat. I still don’t know what I did to fuck things up so badly with Liv last year. It wasn’t just keeping my first marriage a secret, because things were bad before I told her the truth.
And the fact that I don’t know what went wrong makes me even more afraid that it could happen again. Like a punch you don’t see coming.
Helen is gone by the time we get back to my parents’ house. My mother and sister are out on the back terrace. I persuade Liv to go and rest for a while, then I head into the library.
My brother’s telephone number is scribbled on a pad beside the phone. An automated voicemail answers after I dial.
“Archer, it’s Dean. I’m at the house. Mom has been trying to reach you, so call as soon as you get this.”
I hang up and turn to the computer. An email from Nancy the real-estate agent appears in my inbox.
Crap. Almost forgot about the house for sale.
Dean, there have been a few more showings, so we’re expecting multiple offers. Do you have mortgage preapproval yet, if you’re applying? Must talk down payment. Call me soon.
I try not to dwell on Liv’s reluctance about buying a house. I get where it comes from. It’s the reason I agreed to stay in that apartment for so long. Because Liv wanted to, because she never learned how to feel secure living in one place, because she’s scared something will happen and we’ll have to leave.
But now everything has changed.
I dial Nancy’s number and explain that I’m in California for the next week or two.
“If you want to make an offer, we should do it today,” she tells me. “There were three showings this morning alone.”
“Email me the papers to sign. I’ll fax them back to you this afternoon.”
We discuss the offer, and she agrees to write it up. I hang up the phone and go back to the living room. My mother and sister are still sitting on the terrace, both of them holding take-out cups of coffee they must have picked up on the way home from the hospital.
