Spiral of Bliss: The Complete Boxed Set

by Nina Lane

  I smile and thank her. Though I experience the usual Mom Guilt about leaving our son in the care of other people, even Archer and Kelsey, I console myself with the reminder that not once in over two years have Dean and I been away from Nicholas at the same time.

  In fact, I’ve never been away from him at all—Dean has gone on trips and to conferences, but I’ve always stayed home. Surely I don’t need to feel guilty for planning to spend a few nights away from Nicholas for the first time in two years.

  And I try not to think about the stark reality that something could potentially happen to him while we’re gone. Of course, it won’t, and he’ll be fine, but…

  But nothing. He’ll be fine.

  Archer drives me and Nicholas back to the Butterfly House. I sort through the day’s mail while Nicholas plays with his fire trucks. At the bottom of the stack, there’s a postcard addressed to me, the postmark and stamp from Sri Lanka. Scrawled, slanted handwriting covers the card:

  Liv,

  Mangroves, lagoons, tea plantations, Temple of the Sacred Tooth, gilded rooftops, stilt fishing, elephant sanctuaries, sunsets like crayons exploded in the sky.

  My adventure continues.

  North

  I read the card over a few times, the simple words evoking bright, vivid pictures. For two years, my friend North has been traveling around the world with nothing but a walking stick, his backpack, and his uncanny sense of understanding.

  “Going on walkabout,” he’d told me when we’d spoken on the phone shortly after Nicholas was born. “See what I can see. Do what I can do.”

  I’d been surprised and baffled—even when I’d first met North, I’d thought he would never leave Twelve Oaks. He was such a part of the place, like a tree whose roots twined deep and secure into the California earth.

  But he’d uprooted himself, shaken off the dirt, and left Twelve Oaks after twenty years to tour the world. Over the past two years, I’d received postcards from Japan, India, Poland, Brazil, China, Tanzania, South Africa, Australia. Always a list of places, people, sites, and food that made the country come to life.

  I put the postcard in the kitchen drawer where I keep all of North’s postcards. I don’t know if he plans to return to Twelve Oaks, but one day, somehow he and Dean will finally meet—the two men who proved to me, who still prove, there is such intense good in the world.

  They’ve always been linked by an everlasting, invisible thread—the man who put me on a path that led to my husband. And one day North will meet Nicholas, the boy who changed every cell in my body. All loves of my life in such profoundly unique ways.

  After getting dinner prepped, I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop. I make reservations at a hotel in Madison and the lodge in Door County where Dean and I used to stay often. I make a list of Things to Do, though I expect we’ll follow it loosely since the whole point of this trip is to relax and have fun. Lots of hot, spicy fun.

  The more I plan, the more excited I get. I picture Dean and me walking hand-in-hand down State Street, stopping to explore the shops and used bookstores before going to a café for a leisurely coffee. I see us strolling through the botanical gardens, eating dinners in intimate restaurants, candlelight and shadows, and then returning to our hotel room for bubble baths, massages, and plenty of sex that’s both raw and romantic.

  Exactly what we’d had during our first year together, when we’d lived in a lovely, intense world that belonged to us alone. I can’t wait to give that world back to my husband and to remind him how perfect we can be together.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DEAN

  PARIS. UNITED NATIONS. CULTURAL HERITAGE. CONSERVATION. Assistant director. Chartres Cathedral. Durham Castle. Fontainebleau. Speyer Cathedral. Rhodes. The monuments of Ravenna.

  I did my master’s degree work in the city of Ravenna. That was when I knew I wanted to be a historian—despite my father’s decree that I should go to law school and follow in his footsteps.

  Instead I’ve spent my career following the footsteps of countless people into the past. I’ve studied the minutiae of their lives—coins, paintings, tools, manuscripts—to discover their secrets. I’ve measured their cathedrals and translated their poems. I’ve unearthed their pottery and mapped the layout of their castles.

  And while I’ve always worked hard to be the best at whatever I’ve done—a drive instilled in me when I was a kid—I never considered the possibility that being a great medieval historian could lead me to a diplomatic position with a worldwide organization.

  Spring rain sleets outside the window of my campus office, rivulets of water spilling over the glass. I work a loop of string between my fingers, creating a geometric pattern of triangles and squares.

  I could end up working for an international organization, I remind myself. But I won’t. Despite the many fascinating aspects of the job, not to mention the intellectual and professional challenges and the fact that it would secure my career on an entirely new level, I can’t pursue it. Even if part of me wants to.

  I unwind the string from my fingers and drop it onto the desk, turning to my computer. After pushing thoughts of UNESCO and the World Heritage Center out of my mind, I spend the next hour working on a paper about medieval guildhalls.

  My phone buzzes. An image of a busty, sexy French maid shows up on the screen, with Liv’s face pasted over the model’s.

  I dial her number.

  “Yes?” Her voice is sultry and low.

  “Nice picture,” I tell her. “But your body is far superior.”

  “Well, I haven’t yet found a French maid costume that would fit well.” She heaves a sigh. “I think I need to buy all new lingerie.”

  “You don’t need lingerie to turn me on.”

  “I’m trying to give life to your fantasies, professor,” Liv says.

  “You’re already my fantasy come to life.”

  “Oh, for Lord’s sake.” Liv groans. “Would you work with me here? Do you understand that I am willing to act out your hottest fantasy? I’ll be a cheerleader, a stripper, a policewoman… hell, I’ll be a hooker, if that’s what it takes. The deal is you have to tell me what your fantasy is first.”

  I know she’s expecting some elaborate scenario. When Liv fantasizes, she dreams up entire worlds involving pirate captains and their prisoners, or battles between fairies and elves. I, on the other hand, just picture her spread open in front of me, gasping and moaning as I pound my cock into her sweet, warm pussy.

  “Dean?” she prompts. “Tell me.”

  Though this is not my strong suit, it’s a measure of how much I love my wife—and how badly I want our explosive sex life back—that I give it a shot. At this point, I’m willing to try anything.

  “What if it’s not so much who you are,” I say, lowering my voice an octave, “as where you are?”

  “Oh.” Her breath catches with a little gasping noise that makes my blood burn. “You mean like a spaceship or something? Am I your alien princess sex slave?”

  Where does she come up with these?

  “No,” I admit. “But I like the princess idea.”

  Not to mention the sex slave.

  “You’ve seriously never thought of that before?” Liv asks.

  I must have the imagination of a doormat, because the answer is no.

  “Not once in your entire sexual history have you ever acted out your fantasies with a girlfriend?” Liv asks.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then what have you done?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “You lie like a rug.”

  I glance at the door, which is closed but not locked. Because I’m not stupid, I go to lock it before returning to my desk.

  “Where are you?” I ask Liv.

  “Home and on the sofa,” she replies. “Nicholas is napping, and of course he co
uld wake any second so I’d suggest you don’t risk anything by stalling.”

  Okay, I can do this. Ignoring the fact that what goes on in my head are really just stripped-down fantasies about fucking my wife dirty. I don’t have the time—or, apparently, the imagination—to visualize even a tenth of the elaborate scenarios Liv dreams up. I’ll admit to a few ideas, but I’m still not willing to share them.

  “I imagine making love to you on a deserted island,” I remark.

  “Go on.”

  “With you in a little bikini that barely covers your breasts and ass.”

  “What color is it?”

  “Uh, blue. With white polka dots.”

  “How did I find a bikini on a deserted island… oh!” Liv’s voice warms with enthusiasm. “Unless we’re the sole survivors of a shipwreck?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “And we have to live off the land, right? And of course you can’t keep your hands off me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do we just wander around naked? No, wait, you said I’m wearing a bikini. What are you wearing?”

  “A… uh, a loincloth?”

  “How did you get ahold of a loincloth?”

  “It was a dishtowel from the ship.”

  Liv laughs. “No way would a dishtowel cover you up.”

  “Maybe I made the loincloth out of palm leaves, then.”

  “So we’re on a tropical island.”

  “Well, it’s not an island in Antarctica,” I mutter.

  “Okay, okay, sorry. It’s your fantasy. I’m just going to get comfortable and listen.”

  An expectant silence follows. Any lust I might have had disappears as my brain works to think up a creative scenario.

  “So it’s a hot, tropical island with white-sand beaches and a cool ocean breeze,” I say.

  “Mmm.”

  “And you’re… in this blue bikini with white polka dots…”

  “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

  “And I’m… okay, let’s just say I’m naked.”

  “I like it so far,” Liv remarks.

  I’m trying hard to picture her spread out on the sofa, maybe even with her skirt hitched up and her hand between her legs, but the pressure of this fantasy is seriously killing my desire. I much prefer just telling her all the hot things I want to do to her. Or will do to her. Soon.

  “Are you turned on?” I finally ask.

  “You mean right now?”

  “No, I mean yesterday,” I say dryly.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I mean now.”

  “Well, I was getting there a little when you started talking about the loincloth,” Liv admits. “But we’re off to a rather slow start.”

  “Considering I was just thinking about medieval guildhalls, I’d say we’re not doing too badly here.”

  “Are you hard?”

  “No.”

  Liv lets out a sigh of exasperation. “Then get back to the fantasy. Are there coconuts?”

  “Where?”

  “On the tropical island, of course.”

  “Probably.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “What?”

  “The coconuts.”

  I try to think of what the hell I’m supposed to say.

  “Eat them?” I suggest.

  “I mean, do you break the coconuts open with your big, strong muscles and then pour the coconut milk over my naked, glistening body… oh, crap.”

  “What?” I ask. “That was starting to get good.”

  “Yeah, well, your son is awake and screeching,” Liv says in resignation. “The Fantasies of Professor West will have to wait.”

  “Too bad,” I remark, while sending up thanks to whatever god is in charge of overly imaginative wives for getting me out of this.

  “Call me later,” Liv suggests.

  “I have two lectures and a seminar later,” I say, trying to sound regretful.

  “Okay.” Her voice lowers into a husky tone. “But I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  I put my phone back on my desk. I love Liv even more for trying. But it used to be that we didn’t have to try. Other things have been rough over the years, but sex has always been so damned easy. So damned good. At least, until recently.

  I drag my hands over my face. Even taking sex out of the equation, we don’t spend much time alone together. I’ve tried making the romantic part easy again. We’ve had date nights and nice dinners out, though more often than not Liv has ended up falling asleep on the way home. I write her love notes, cook dinner regularly, help take care of Nicholas, do everything I should be doing. And still it feels like we’re not getting it right.

  But if we were in Paris…

  We could live in an apartment like the one we had on Avalon Street. Take Nicholas to parks and gardens, boat rides, carousels. Liv and I could visit all the museums again, sit at corner tables in cafés, take the train to visit London, Venice, Berlin. In the summer, we could get a little farmhouse in the south of France and…

  I shake the ridiculous thoughts out of my head. Even if I were offered the job, we’d never be able to create a life like that. I’d be required to travel more than I do now, and to remote places where it would be difficult for Liv and Nicholas to come along. And no way could I stand leaving them for weeks on end. The travel I already do now is too much as it is.

  My phone rings. I refocus on the fact that I’m in my office and should be working. I reach for the phone.

  “Dean West.”

  “Dean, it’s Simon Fletcher,” announces the booming voice of my friend and director of the Altopascio dig. “Did you hear the news yet?”

  “What news?”

  “The UN Assembly agreed to vote on the Altopascio site, if we get the proposal to them by the fifteenth.”

  “Really?” A combination of surprise and disbelief fills me. “But the deadline was three weeks ago.”

  “I’m guessing Hans Klasen had something to do with the extension,” Simon remarks. “We need you back over here to finish work on the proposal.”

  I flip through the calendar on my desk, trying to ignore the sinking of my heart at the thought of leaving my family again so soon. “I’ll try to catch a flight early next week.”

  “I know you just got home, man. How’s Liv and your boy?”

  “Both great, thanks.”

  “Bring them with you,” Simon suggests. “I haven’t seen Liv in ages, and you guys could go to Rome or Paris for a few days when we’re done. Take a vacation.”

  I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve suggested exactly that to Liv. I haven’t yet been able to convince her to come to Italy with me—despite promises of leisurely strolls through medieval towns and lunches on terraces overlooking vineyard-covered hills.

  “I’ll ask her,” I tell Simon. “Figure ten days or so?”

  “At least. Mateo Rinaldi is getting the Italian team on board, but you’re the guy who has to put it all together.”

  “Okay.” I turn to my computer and pull up an airline website. ”I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  After making the arrangements, I walk down the corridor to Frances Hunter’s office. A formidable, gray-haired woman, Frances has been one of my staunchest supporters and friends since she hired me to start the Medieval Studies program at King’s.

  She’s sitting at the desk in her office. I stop at the open door.

  “You want me to bring you back some grappa?” I ask.

  Frances stops typing and turns to peer at me over her glasses.

  “It’s a good thing you’re not teaching this semester,” she remarks dryly.

  I move to sit in the chair in front of her desk. “The UN agreed to vote on the Altopascio proposal. T
hat has to mean they understand how urgent it is.”

  Frances sits back in her chair and studies me. “I have a question for you, Dean.”

  “Sure.”

  She takes off her glasses. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but I was surprised when you accepted the job offer from King’s.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes. I knew you’d have multiple offers from universities with much bigger names. So why did you accept our offer?”

  I lean my elbows on my knees, linking my hands together. I remember the day Frances had called offering me the job. Liv and I had been living in a two-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles, and my postdoc fellowship with the Getty Institute was almost completed. I’d had professorship offers from Cambridge, Princeton, UCLA, Cornell, and the University of Toronto, as well as two other postdoc offers in Germany and Italy.

  Through months of interviews and travel, Liv had only said she wanted me to take whatever job would make me the happiest. “Whatever job you really want, Dean. It doesn’t matter to me where we live.”

  She’d come with me to Mirror Lake for my interview at King’s. We stayed a few nights at the Wildwood Inn, walked along Avalon Street, and went hiking on one of the mountain trails.

  When we stopped on a rocky outcropping surrounded by trees, Liv looked out at the glistening expanse of the lake and said in an offhand way, “I’ve always dreamed of living in a place like this.”

  So taking the job at King’s University, and making my wife’s dream come true, was what made me the happiest.

  “I accepted the offer at King’s because I liked the idea of creating a Medieval Studies program from the ground up,” I tell Frances, which is also the truth. “Starting something new.”

  “It’s been phenomenal, as you well know,” Frances remarks. “But as the program has become more and more successful, I’ve suspected it was only a matter of time before other institutions came knocking at your door.”

  A strange sense of foreboding fills my chest. “Are you firing me, Frances?”

  “Heavens, no.” She laughs. “I’d actually give anything to keep you here. But I heard the World Heritage Center is eyeing you for the assistant director position.”