by Nina Lane
“So it’s over?”
“It’s over.” She squeezes my arm. “Welcome back, Dean.”
“Thank you, Frances. For everything.”
After the hall is almost empty, I finally turn to my wife. She’s waiting on the bench, and her smile is like the sunrise.
“I knew it,” she says, coming to hug me. “I knew it couldn’t end any other way, not for you.”
Only when my arms close around her am I able to take a deep breath.
“Are you all right?” I ask, resting my hand on her stomach.
“I’m exhilarated. Thrilled. Proud of you and proud that I was right.”
I look at her brown eyes, the thick frame of her eyelashes, the curve of her cheekbones and shape of her mouth. All those details that I treasure like air. Our history together flashes through my mind, and the truth falls into place.
“All these years, I’ve been wrong,” I tell her.
“About what?” Liv asks.
“I’m not afraid when I’m with you. I never have been. In fact, being with you gives me a courage I didn’t know I had. You show me what I can be.”
“No. I just know what you are.”
I lower my head to kiss her, feeling that shift inside me again, the great settling of the earth’s plates, the stars and planets rotating in harmony with a thousand feelings. Gratitude, hope, happiness, surrender. Peace.
And there is a distinct sense of freedom, like whatever bonds lashed me to the ground have suddenly broken. I feel lighter.
I tighten my arms around Liv, knowing that in years to come I’ll have to let go in ways I’ve never imagined. And somehow, that will be okay because my wife will always anchor my heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Olivia
June 25
AFTER MY WHITE KNIGHT WON THE battle of his career, he won another battle against his fear of leaving me alone. Though he grumbled like a bear the entire time, he got on the plane a few days ago and returned to Altopascio to finish his consultation work before the Words and Images conference starts.
As we did before, we exchange emails several times a day, and as my pregnancy progresses uneventfully, I always assure Dean that everything is fine.
And it is.
Frances Hunter told us that Maggie Hamilton withdrew from the university and left town, apparently without even telling her father. After the news about the affair and the videos spread, Edward Hamilton revoked his support for the King’s law school building and cut all remaining ties to the university. While that means a loss of his donorship, the board of trustees and the faculty are immensely relieved to have avoided a scandal.
The reporter Rita Johnson helped shift public perception with an editorial article about the Wonderland Café, in which she condemned Edward Hamilton for his aggression during an opening day event that was intended for children and families.
Allie and I continue to brainstorm ideas to jumpstart the café’s business, and we’ve planned a bunch of different events for the coming months—puppet shows, free kids’ meals, cooking classes, craft parties, tea parties, costume parties. Florence Wickham’s granddaughter Margery comes into the café one morning, bubbling with excitement.
“I’ve distributed all the information to our district’s PTO presidents and several other parenting organizations,” she tells me and Allie. “Believe me, you get all those mothers on your side, and you’ll be a smashing success in no time. Your timing couldn’t be better either, with summer approaching.”
Our friends give us a huge outpouring of support, bringing in family members, children, and grandchildren. When more people learn about our themed birthday party offerings, Marianne tells me that we’re starting to book parties all the way into September.
And every morning when I walk into the Wonderland Café where my friends are, when I smell the fresh croissants and soufflés, hear the chatter of voices, I know why Dorothy and Alice were so determined to leave Oz and Wonderland and find their way home. Home really is where your heart’s desire lives.
Ten days before Dean is scheduled to return from Altopascio, Kelsey drives me to the airport.
“Sure you don’t want me to come with you?” she asks as she pulls up to the curb.
“No, but thanks.” I reach across the seat to hug her. “I need to do this one alone.”
“Okay. Don’t forget to call when you get in.”
I go into the terminal and check in for my flight. Trying to ignore my nerves, I go through security and board the plane.
The flight is thankfully routine, and I have only a mild case of morning sickness that wanes shortly after the plane lands at the San Jose airport. I email both Kelsey and Dean to let them know I’ve arrived safely, then retrieve my bag and stand in another line to rent a car.
After consulting my map, I get on Highway 280 and follow the signs to Highway 17, which leads over a winding mountain road to Santa Cruz.
I make my way to the Pacific Coast Highway, where the ocean stretches out in a white-capped platter of blue and gray. The cold, salt-scented breeze drifts into the interior of my car. It’s early afternoon, and the fog is fading away under the warmth of the sun.
By the time I find Twelve Oaks again, I’m filled with more emotions than I can untangle—nervousness, excitement, fear. I park at the gate and walk down the stretch of dirt road. A young man approaches me.
“I used to live here,” I explain after introducing myself. “I’m looking for North.”
“He’s working over at the farmer’s market,” the guy says. “You want to wait?”
My heart skips a beat. I hadn’t even known if North was still here.
“No, thanks. I’ll find him.”
I go back to downtown Santa Cruz and find a parking space not far from Pacific Avenue. Pedestrians stroll along the sidewalk. The farmer’s market is a sea of people and white tents, voices rising into the air, the sound of a steel band carried on the breeze.
I maneuver through the crowd, looking at the vendor signs. When I find the Twelve Oaks tent, I stop a distance away. My heart is pounding.
North is busy talking to a customer, pointing at a box of heirloom tomatoes. He looks almost the same—more gray in his hair and beard, a little heavier, but I swear he’s wearing the same jeans and T-shirt from ten years ago. And he still has a braid in his beard, tied with a little red ribbon.
I wait for the cluster of people to disperse before approaching the tent.
“Free samples of strawberries,” North says, gesturing to the bowls on the counter.
“Hi, North.”
He looks at me and blinks. For a second, I’m afraid he doesn’t remember me. Then that old, familiar grin breaks out through his beard.
“Get over here, Liv,” he says.
I go around the counter to hug him, tears stinging my eyes as his arms tighten around me in an embrace of pure warmth and affection. When we part, he holds my shoulders and looks at me, shaking his head.
“I’ll be damned. I thought I told you not to come back.”
“You did. But I’ve learned that sometimes it’s okay not to listen to people.”
He chuckles. “True enough. Hold on.”
He gestures to a couple of guys who are unpacking boxes from the truck and tells them to take care of things for a while. We get two iced coffees and find a place to sit away from the crowd.
“I’ve thought about you a lot,” I tell him. “Wanted to email or write, but I remembered what you said.”
“Yeah. I was glad that you moved on.” North tugs at the braid in his beard. “So tell me now.”
I tell him everything I did after I left Twelve Oaks ten years ago. Community college, working retail, transferring to the University of Wisconsin. Library sciences, literature, Jitter Beans, Mirror Lake, the Historical Museum. The Wonderland Café
.
“When I was at the University of Wisconsin, I met a man who teaches medieval history,” I say. “He’s my husband now.”
“He’s a good guy?”
“The best.” My throat tightens with emotion. “He really knows how to love me.”
“Good.”
“How’s everything here?”
North tells me about the seed business, the changes in the commune, the people who have come and gone, their new expansion into making furniture and hammocks.
By the time we’re finished talking, the sun has started its descent and several of the farmer’s market vendors are packing up their stuff.
“You want to stay?” North asks.
Part of me does. I’d love to spend a few nights back at Twelve Oaks, enjoying the salty air, wandering the gardens, joining the group for dinner and the nightly campfire.
But I shake my head. “I booked a hotel room a few blocks from the beach.”
“What are you in town for?”
“To see you.”
“You came back just to see me?”
“You did so much for me, North. More than I can even explain.”
He shakes his head, looking away for an instant before gruffly patting my shoulder. “I didn’t do anything, Liv. You did.”
“I just wanted to tell you that everything turned out…” My throat closes over. “Everything turned out better than I could have imagined.”
“I’m really glad to know that.”
We throw our cups into the recycling bin and walk back to the Twelve Oaks tent. I help pack up the remaining vegetables, handmade soaps and lotions, while North and the other guys dismantle the tent.
When the truck is loaded up, I approach North and dig into my pocket. I pull out the necklace he gave me.
“Remember this?”
He takes it in his hand and nods. “Long time ago.”
“It helped me a lot. The reminder. It took me a long time to learn it was true, though.”
“At least you learned,” he says, putting the necklace back in my palm. “Some people never do. Always knew you were a good student.”
He pulls open the door of the truck and gestures to the passenger seat. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Thank you, North. For everything.”
“Great to see you again, Liv. You know where to find me.”
“Always.”
I take a step back and lift a hand in farewell. My heart fills with gratitude for this gruff, honest man who pointed me toward a road that led directly to now.
“When are you heading back?” North asks.
“Friday.”
“So soon, huh?”
“Yes.” I smile at him. “I have a life to live.”
A week after my brief trip to California, I drive to the airport again. This time, it’s to meet my husband on his return from Italy. Dean had emailed me that he would take a taxi from the airport, but no way am I waiting an extra two hours to see him come home.
For good.
Not “for better” or “for worse.”
For good.
Dean’s flight is scheduled to get in at six in the evening, and I arrive at the airport an hour early. I find an empty bench at the gate exit and sit down. By the time the plane lands, I’m jittery with excitement.
After what seems like an interminable wait, tired-looking passengers clutching bags and carry-ons begin to disembark. I stand up, searching the crowd. A few minutes later, a tingle ripples over my skin.
He walks past the open doors, my beautiful, dark-haired husband who would stand out in a crowd of Greek gods. He looks incredible in faded jeans and a rugby shirt, his face dusted with rough stubble. His hair is a little longer, curling over his ears, and I’m struck with a visceral memory of seeing him for the first time and experiencing that intense, hot pull of attraction.
I feel that rush again, uncoiling in my blood, but this time—more powerfully—my heart surges with joy and love. Dean doesn’t see me as he starts down the stairs, but when he reaches the bottom, he looks up.
His glance passes right over me. He starts to turn toward the baggage claim area.
Then he stops. He turns back, his gaze colliding with mine.
For the first time, I don’t run and leap into his arms, although the urge to do so is almost overwhelming. Instead I smile and approach him, holding out my hands.
“Welcome back, love of my life.”
He stares at me, stunned, his hands closing warm and strong around mine.
“Liv.”
“Hi.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to bring you home.”
He’s still staring at me. He clears his throat. “You… uh, you cut your hair.”
“I did.” I turn to show him the back of my short, sleek haircut, which falls just below my ears in gentle waves. “Well, Kelsey’s stylist cut it for me. Do you like it?”
“Very Betty Rubble.”
I grin and turn back to face him. He still looks faintly dumbfounded. It’s kind of cute.
“It’ll grow back, professor.” I pat his chest. “I promise.”
“You’re beautiful.” Dean finally breaks out of his stupor and untangles one of his hands from mine. He reaches out to curl a lock of my hair around his forefinger, giving it a gentle tug. “As long as I can still do this, I like it.”
He moves to grasp my waist and guide me away from the few remaining passengers. We edge behind an advertising display sign before Dean lowers his head to mine. He tucks his hands into my hair, angling my head in the exact right way, and captures my lips with his.
It’s a lovely kiss that fills me with pleasure. I spread my hands over his chest, feeling the heat of his body through his shirt, the closeness of him sending shivers clear down to my toes. Our lips fit together seamlessly, that familiar sense of belonging wrapping around us both.
Dean lifts his head, his eyes tender as he spreads his hand gently across my belly.
“How are you?” he asks.
I wind my arms around his neck and rub my cheek against his. “Never better.”
After another few stolen kisses, we hurry to get Dean’s suitcase from baggage claim and drive home, both of us eager to return to the island of us again.
We spent the next few days settling back into our routine and catching up with each other. One afternoon several days after his return, Dean comes out of his office looking rather stunned.
“I just talked to Frances Hunter,” he tells me. “She said she recommended to the board of trustees that I get fast-tracked for tenure.”
“Oh, Dean.” Happiness and pride flood me. “That’s wonderful.”
“She also said the chancellor got a call from a man who’s interested in donating to the new law school building at King’s.”
“Not… not Edward Hamilton.”
“No.” Dean shakes his head. “Justice Richard West from California. Frances wanted to know if I’m related to him.”
It’s enough to make us both realize that maybe some family bonds really are unbreakable.
And so things settle into place. For the next few weeks, Dean delivers lectures, organizes Jessica Burke’s PhD defense, guides his students’ research, and is as confident and in control as… well, all those powerful kings of legend. He contacts the real-estate agent Nancy about houses on the market and keeps an eye out for potential properties.
And because my husband is a scholar extraordinaire, he researches every last detail and makes plans for our upcoming parenthood. As he starts lists of everything we’ll need for the baby, his vocabulary becomes an amusing mixture of medieval and baby-related terms: Cistercian, onesie, crenellation, binky, scriptorium, exersaucer.
The Words and Images conference is a resounding success, leadin
g to a slate of new offers from universities and institutions trying to lure Dean away from King’s. We meet his ex-wife Helen for dinner one night, a nice evening that gives Dean a final sense of closure.
Summer arrives with wild, happy fervor. Sailboats float on Mirror Lake like lily pads, and both tourists and locals crowd the coffeehouses and cafés, including Wonderland. My blissfully normal pregnancy progresses without incident. By the time I ease into my second trimester, my libido kicks back into force, and Dean and I return to the pleasure of our lusty sex life.
And I just love the way my husband loves me. His kisses are like whipped cream melting into hot apple pie, like ripe, red cherries, and dark chocolate swirled with peppermint. I never dreamed that my response to Dean could be even more intense, but one brush of his mouth is enough to flood me with immediate desire. We seek each other out almost every night, both to satisfy our erotic cravings and to immerse ourselves in intimacy.
One evening I find him stretched out on the bed wearing only his boxers and his reading glasses, his forehead furrowed in concentration as he grades papers for his summer lecture course. Just the sight of my handsome professor lights a fire inside me. After a moment of admiring his rumpled hair and muscular chest, I climb onto the bed beside him. He pushes the papers aside and reaches for me with a smile, lust already brewing in his eyes.
The moment Dean’s lips touch mine, a warm, scrumptious feeling blooms inside me. He takes my face in his hands, deepening the kiss, tracing the line of my lips. I press my thighs together to ease the ache cascading through my lower body. I open my mouth and surrender to the sweep of his tongue. A moan catches in my throat as I spread my hands over the muscles of his chest.
Though Dean is especially gentle with me these days, his hunger for me burns hotter than ever. He unfastens the buttons of my shirt and pushes it off my shoulders, his eyes filling with both heat and tenderness. My heartbeat quickens as I shrug out of my bra and toss it aside, already desperate for his touch.
I’m rounder everywhere, my waist flaring to wide hips, my belly a distinct swell, my breasts full and sensitive. Dean fondles my new curves with a growl of pure pleasure before pulling me against him.
