Spiral of Bliss: The Complete Boxed Set

by Nina Lane

  He’s probably digging for worms or waiting for birds at the birdbath or… oh, Jesus, the birdbath, which I just filled with water this morning…

  “Nicholas!” I run over the flagstone paths, fear spiking in my blood.

  The circular, cement birdbath looms ominously in a corner of the garden. I come to a halt, panting. Nicholas isn’t there.

  “Nicholas, where are you?” I shove aside a rising panic and rush to check every part of the yard—the bushes where we play hide-and-seek, the lawn where we toss balls back and forth, the garden where we’ll plant vegetables this summer…

  “Nicholas…” I stop, my heart hammering so hard I can hear it inside my head.

  Beyond the garden lies an acre of land thick with trees and undergrowth. The border isn’t fenced yet, and Nicholas isn’t allowed to go there, which is just one of the reasons Dean and I never leave him in the yard by himself…

  “Dean!” His name rips from my throat. I run back into the house. “Dean!”

  I barely make it to the stairs before he comes hurrying down, alarmed at the panic in my voice.

  “It’s Nicholas.” I grab his arm, fisting my hand into his sleeve. “I can’t find him. I was cooking dinner, and then I noticed the sliding glass door was open, and… Dean, I can’t find him!”

  He’s already pulling on his shoes and heading outside before I finish. I run after him, terror swelling into my throat. My breathing is too fast, shivers erupting over my arms.

  “Nicholas!” Dean’s deep voice resounds through the thicket of fir trees and evergreens.

  “He’s not in the garden.” I’m starting to shake. “I looked everywhere.”

  Dean looks again. He races around the sides of the house, checks behind the garage and in the front yard, calling Nicholas’s name the whole time.

  “Stay here,” Dean orders, heading toward the trees. “In case he comes back. Run down to the basement and grab a flashlight.”

  I careen to a stop as he disappears past the tree line, sinking into the depths of the woods. I struggle against the fear threatening to engulf me, my mind flooding with images of Nicholas hurt, lost, or worse…

  I hurry back to the house. Dean’s voice echoes behind me as he calls for our son, the sound laced with a panic I’ve never heard from him before. My stomach wrenches. I grab two high-powered flashlights from the basement and return to the garden.

  “Dean?” My voice fades into the growing darkness.

  His footsteps rustle on the leaves and undergrowth before he appears at the tree line, holding out his hand for one of the flashlights. He turns and disappears back into the woods.

  I switch on the second flashlight and tread another path around the garden. It occurs to me that despite the door having been opened, Nicholas might not have gone outside.

  I hurry back inside and search all the rooms upstairs and down, calling his name. A deafening silence fills the entire house. By the time I make my way back outside, I’m shaking so hard my teeth are rattling.

  I go down the steps of the back porch toward the woods. A sudden noise from behind me jolts my heart up into my throat. I turn and hurry back to the porch.

  “Nicholas?” I shine the flashlight around the base of the porch. There’s a narrow opening on the side skirting, one I hadn’t noticed before. I crouch down and push aside a loose board, trying to peer inside. “Nicholas?”

  I aim the flashlight beam under the porch, illuminating nail-studded boards, cobwebs, a growth of scrubby weeds… and Nicholas crouched in a corner, his hands and face streaked with dirt.

  “Nicholas!” The cry escapes me before I can stop it.

  He jerks his head up, takes one look at me, and crumples up his face to cry.

  “Nicholas, no, no, it’s okay.” Forcing my voice to even out, I try to crawl through the opening toward him, but the board is too tight. “Honey, it’s okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just worried… Nicholas, come here, please…”

  He opens his mouth and lets out a howl. My heart is hammering—I can’t tell if he’s hurt or not.

  “Nicholas, please!”

  He cries harder, his face streaked with dirt and tears in the beam of the flashlight.

  “Liv!” Dean’s voice rumbles through the cold air.

  Relief floods me. I push away from the opening and wave the flashlight.

  “Over here!” I call. “I found him!”

  Leaves and twigs crunch as he runs toward us, his hair messy from the wind, his eyes still dark with panic.

  “I can’t reach him.” I move away from the porch, my breath rasping in my throat. “I think I scared him when I called his name. I don’t know if he’s hurt.”

  Dean moves to yank at the loose board, pulling it away from the skirting. He shoulders his way through.

  “Hey, buddy.” He greets Nicholas in a calm, measured tone. “What’re you doing under here? You okay?”

  Nicholas hiccups and gives a waning sob. Dean shoves his way farther under the porch, his voice a low, steady stream of reassurance as he inches his way closer to our son. When Nicholas’s crying lessens, my relief blooms stronger—if he were hurt, he wouldn’t be easily calmed.

  I shine my flashlight under the porch as Dean crawls toward Nicholas, finally getting his hand around Nicholas’s arm. Slowly, he pulls backward.

  “Come on, buddy. Let’s go inside. Maybe Mommy will make us some hot cocoa.”

  Nicholas scrubs at his eyes and moves toward Dean. I almost hold my breath as they make their way back, Dean guiding Nicholas out ahead of him.

  I grab Nicholas and pull him close, holding on tight. I bury my face in his hair and close my eyes, a thousand words of gratitude spilling through me like a rainbow.

  Dean pushes the board over the opening behind him and gets to his feet, holding out his arms. I move closer so he can embrace Nicholas. Dean meets my gaze over the top of our son’s head, the last remnants of panic fading from his expression. We walk back to the house and spend the next half hour getting Nicholas cleaned up and ensuring he isn’t hurt.

  When I return to the kitchen, I’m still shaking. The pot on the stove is boiling over, drops of water hitting the burner with a sizzle. I turn it off and push the pot aside.

  “You okay?” Dean comes up behind me and settles his hands on my shoulders.

  I nod, even though everything inside me is shouting, “No! No, I’m not okay! I left my two-year-old son alone, for God’s sake. Alone. I wasn’t paying attention. Anything could have happened to him. Anything.”

  I inhale a ragged breath and concentrate on the weight of my husband’s hands on my shoulders, like he’s securing me to the earth.

  “Nothing happened,” Dean says gently. “He’s fine.”

  This time.

  The ominous warning blisters in my head. You hear stories all the time of children who escape their caregivers and end up hurt, or parents who get distracted by something for just a few minutes, and then—

  Guilt scorches my chest.

  “Liv, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Of course it was my fault.” The words break like glass in my mouth. “It was my watch. Whose fault was it, if not mine?”

  Dean doesn’t respond, but pulls me toward him and kisses me. Then he goes to read a picture book Nicholas is holding out.

  The black thought of what might have happened hovers over me like a cloud as I finish getting dinner ready. It makes no sense to blame myself for things that didn’t happen to my son. But good sense has nothing to do with the guilt and fear that gnaw at me for the rest of the evening.

  Long after Dean and Nicholas have gone to bed, I sit on the sofa and look out the picture window at the garden enshrouded in darkness. In addition to the self-blame, I’m upset by the fact that Nicholas found a hiding place in our own home I didn’t even know exi
sted. What if this had happened out in the park or playground, or a place that was totally unfamiliar to me? I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking.

  Slowly I make my way upstairs and crawl into bed beside my husband. I huddle up against Dean’s warm, strong body, which moves in the steady rhythm of sleep. Everything about him has always made me feel so safe, but a feeling of safety is no guarantee of anything.

  Our home aside, what if I’d lost track of Nicholas tomorrow night, when Dean is gone, rather than tonight? What if Dean hadn’t been here? I might not have heard the noise from under the porch, and certainly I wouldn’t have known to even look there. Or what if I hadn’t noticed Nicholas was missing until…

  I shove the oil-black thoughts aside. I’d once told Dean to stop thinking what if and to focus on what is. I only wish I could take my own advice.

  I press my body closer to his and rest my hand over his heart, which beats ceaselessly against my palm. Despite our ups and downs, I know to my bones this man, at least, always is.

  CHAPTER NINE

  OLIVIA

  I’M RELUCTANT TO BE APART FROM Nicholas after Dean leaves again. It’s irrational, I know, and my reluctance only seems to intensify Nicholas’s clinginess, but it’s also part of the overall unsteadiness I’ve experienced ever since Dean told me about the new job opportunity. Ever since I started thinking it would be perfect for him.

  Not for us, but for him.

  I have to disentangle myself from my crying son when I leave him at daycare—a process that brings a lump to my throat and elicits sympathetic murmurs from Christine as she gently separates Nicholas from me.

  Just a phase, I tell myself as I drive to the café. Remember, there will come a time when he won’t want you around. A time when he’ll go off to college with a “Bye, Mom,” and a quick hug.

  I exchange a few texts with Dean during my shift, which makes me feel better, and Christine sends me a few pictures of Nicholas happily playing with some of the other kids.

  Still, deciding more time together is a good thing, I pick Nicholas up early from daycare and take him to the children’s museum for a couple of hours, then to the Boxcar Deli for dinner.

  As we settle into a booth, I hear a woman say my name. I look up to see Jessica Burke approaching. We greet each other, and she ruffles Nicholas’s hair.

  “Can you join us?” I ask her, gesturing to the seat opposite me.

  “I’m meeting a friend, but I’m early so I can sit for a few minutes,” she says, sliding into the booth.

  “Any word on possible jobs in the area?” I ask.

  “No.” She sighs and gives me a rueful smile. “I applied for a visiting professorship in Indiana, so we’ll see what happens. How is Dean’s trip going?”

  “Fine, from what he tells me.” I hesitate, then figure she can probably give me a good perspective on this whole assistant director position. “What’s your take on the WHC job opening?”

  “It’s fantastic, and a great opportunity for Dean,” she says, accepting a glass of water from a passing server. “He’d have a ton of influence if he were offered and accepted it. He might even be able to get the Youth Experts program started again.”

  “What’s the Youth Experts program?”

  “It was started as a program for students around the world to get involved with conservation issues,” Jessica explains. “Dozens of students have been interested, but the program hasn’t had a leader so it’s been something of a disorganized mess.”

  “And Dean could fix that?”

  The answer is obvious, of course. Dean can fix anything.

  “Yeah, definitely,” Jessica says, shooting Nicholas a smile as he offers her a slobbery goldfish cracker. “If he were assistant director, he could totally allocate funds and hire someone to organize the Youth Experts program. It would make a huge difference to so many young people, since they’re the ones who will one day be in charge of the sites.”

  I’m certain if Dean had the power to hire a leader of the Youth Experts program, that person would be Jessica Burke. And with her looking for a job right now…

  She waves at a curly-haired young man who enters the deli.

  “Sorry, Liv, I gotta go.” Jessica slides out of the booth. “Let’s have coffee soon, or let me know if you need a babysitter for the cutie over here.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  We say goodbye, and I turn back to the menu. Knowing that Dean taking the job could also lead to a prominent position for Jessica and opportunities for students around the world is an unexpected thorn in my side.

  I shake my head to dislodge the dreaded sense that I could be the one preventing so many opportunities for others because I don’t want anything to change.

  I pull a few coloring books out of my bag and turn my attention to Nicholas. Most of the time, I love being alone with Nicholas, except this time I feel Dean’s absence more acutely than I have before. With his new responsibilities over the past couple of years, I’ve gotten used to him being away, but only now do I realize I don’t like being used to a separation from my husband.

  Later that night, after Nicholas is asleep, I call Dean. His phone goes to voicemail.

  “Hi, it’s me,” I say. “Just wanted to see how things are going. I’m about to go to bed, so I’ll try you again tomorrow.”

  As I end the call, I remember when he first went to Italy a few years ago. For the two months he was in Altopascio, we had a standing phone date every night at ten sharp. Not once did either of us miss our nightly calls.

  I slide into bed, rolling over to press my face into Dean’s pillow, which I still often do when he’s not here. The faint scent of his shaving soap clings to the cotton.

  I inhale deeply and imagine the two of us closing the door of a hotel room and turning toward each other. Shutting the rest of the world out, the way we used to do so often, even in the early part of our relationship when we were utterly captivated by each other.

  I still remember those days so clearly. I woke one morning alone in Dean’s bed, absorbing the warmth still lacing the sheets, the lingering smell of lust. I listened to the sound of the shower and imagined Dean naked under the hot spray, soap sluicing over his muscular body… heat coiled through me as I reached for my robe.

  After tugging it on, I went to use the guest bathroom. When I returned, the main bathroom door was half open. Dean was standing at the sink, getting ready to shave, a towel wrapped around his waist. Fragrant steam coated the bathroom and fogged the mirror. I paused in the doorway, allowing my gaze to travel over the contours of his bare shoulders and chest still damp from the shower.

  He was such a beautiful man. A shiver ran down my spine as I recalled the previous night when I had traced the slopes of his pectoral muscles, his rigid torso, following that line of hair down to…

  “Keep looking at me like that,” Dean said, “and I’ll have you on this counter in two seconds.”

  “Promises, promises.” I leaned my shoulder against the doorjamb and continued to watch him.

  I had never seen a man shave before. I’d lived my childhood with my mother, and despite her numerous men I’d never become accustomed to their rituals or behaviors. I’d spent so much of my time trying to hide from them that they’d been like alien creatures—vaguely menacing and fearsome.

  Dean was the one who proved I had nothing to fear, not from him. He was all warmth, heat, and tenderness.

  “How often do you shave?” I asked.

  “Once a day at least. Twice if I’m planning to take my lady out.” He took a razor out of a drawer and turned on the water faucet.

  “You don’t use an electric razor?” I asked.

  “Not a close enough shave.” He rubbed his whiskery jaw. “Prefer it the old-fashioned way. Soap, not cream, and a good double-edge razor.”

  “Soap?”

  �
��With a brush.” He extended a small bowl with a disk of soap and a shaving brush.

  I took them both and swirled the brush into the soap, creating a frothy lather. The spicy scent rose to my nose, filling me with memories of that scent clinging to Dean’s skin.

  “Can I put it on you?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  I stepped closer and reached up to slide the brush over his jaw. Before I could, he took hold of my waist and lifted me onto the counter beside the sink. My heart thumped at our nearness. Dean slid his hands to my thighs, the heat of his palms burning through my cotton bathrobe. He pushed my knees apart so he could move into the juncture of my thighs.

  “I thought you wanted to shave.” I was close enough now that I could see the water still beading on his chest and shoulders.

  “I do.” He took hold of my hand and lifted the brush toward his face. “But I did say I would have you on the counter.”

  My breath caught in my throat as I stroked the soap-covered brush over his cheek and down to the underside of his chin. I swirled the brush into the soap again and covered the other side of his face and around his mouth. With my finger, I wiped away the excess soap from his lips. By the time I was finished, my pulse was pounding.

  Dean reached beside me and picked up the razor. I eased to the side so he could see himself in the mirror. He took my hand again and closed my fingers around the razor handle.

  “Dean, I can’t…”

  “I trust you,” he said.

  I looked at him for a moment, struck by the intense light in his eyes. It had taken me a long time to realize trust didn’t come any more easily to him than it did to me.But every time we were together, it felt like an undeniable acknowledgment we’d both crossed that barrier. I knew everything we did together, every act in which we engaged, would serve to either strengthen our trust in each other or prove that it was warranted.

  Dean brought the razor to his face, his hand still clasped around mine. “Sideburns first. Downward stroke.”