by Nina Lane
If only it were that easy…
“Mama, tower!” Nicholas calls.
I pull away from Dean, and we join our son on the carpet. We spend the next hour building, reading picture books, listening to music, and refereeing a toddler fuss that is soothed with a sippy cup of milk.
Our evening routine is a striking contrast to last night, but comfortably familiar—after a dinner of leftover tacos, I get Nicholas ready for bed while Dean cleans the kitchen.
After I return downstairs, I shuffle through the day’s mail. There’s another postcard from my friend North, this time from Cambodia:
Liv,
Sandcastle temples, sugar palms, monks in saffron robes, crowded markets with pungent scents of grilled seafood and fried insects, brutal scars of the past and yet, when you look, evidence of a bright, serene awakening.
My adventure continues.
North
I join Dean on the sofa, where he’s sprawled out watching the news. He extends an arm and I snuggle against his side, letting the warmth of him ease away the lingering tightness in my chest.
“Postcard from North.” I hold the card out to him.
“Cambodia, huh?” He reads the card and turns it over to look at the printed photo of the elaborate Angkor Wat temple complex. “I went to grad school with a guy who specialized in Southeast Asian architecture. He spent a year in Cambodia studying Angkor Wat. He invited me to visit any time, but I never made it over there.”
For some reason, I don’t like the idea of Dean not having done something. I stroke my hand under his T-shirt to touch the flat, hard ridges of his abdomen.
“Hey, you okay?” Dean pats my hip.
“Yeah, I just forgot I was supposed to do something at the café, and it sort of screwed things up. I’ll straighten it out, though.”
“What happened?”
I know he’ll find out sooner or later, so I take a deep breath and confess my colossal fuck-up. He listens in silence, his brow creasing with concern.
By the time I’m finished, the tension in my shoulders has eased somewhat. Sharing my burdens with Dean has always made things easier, and I fully expect him to reassure me everything will work out.
“Liv.” His expression is somber, his mouth turning into a frown. “I think the universe is trying to tell you something.”
I blink. “Like what?”
“Like you’ve been trying to do too much for too long. Sooner or later, something was going to give.”
Though that’s exactly what I just told myself, it hurts extra hard hearing it from Dean—especially considering the reason I forgot about Becky’s party.
“You wouldn’t have said that when we were getting busy in the hotel room,” I mutter, pushing away from him and getting to my feet.
His frown deepens. “I won’t apologize for wanting you all to myself for one damned night. You’ve had every other Saturday off at the café for the past year, and you had it written on the calendar that today was your day off. I’d never have made plans if I’d known you had other commitments, but I can’t even remember the last time we were alone together for an entire night. I’m not apologizing for it.”
“I’m not asking you to apologize,” I retort, tossing North’s postcard on a table. “I know I fucked up. But I don’t need you making me feel worse.”
Remorse flashes in his eyes, but his jaw tightens. “I don’t want to make you feel worse. I want you to stop thinking you have to do everything. You don’t have to tackle every single project on your own just because people ask you to or because you feel you have to. You don’t have to prove you can do it all, Liv. Everyone knows you can.”
My insides twist. Why don’t I know that by now too? Why don’t I believe it?
“Look, I know some people over at Edison Power,” Dean continues as he stands and approaches me. “So does Kelsey. Let me call them and—”
I hold up my hand to stop him. I know—I know—the easiest way to deal with this mess is to turn everything over to my husband. Just like the night when he effortlessly rescued me and Nicholas from chaos, he would do the same thing now. He’d smooth all the rough edges, negotiate the conflicts, make everything right. He would fix it.
But why shouldn’t I be responsible for cleaning up my own messes? I’m the one who wanted to do it all, so I’m the one who has to fix it. Yes, it’s a rotten leftover of life with my mother—who never took responsibility for a fucking thing, including her own daughter—but that doesn’t give me a free pass. I won’t make excuses for myself.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ll figure it out.”
Dean exhales a sigh of frustration. “Liv, it’s okay to ask for help. To accept help when it’s offered. It doesn’t make you weak or irresponsible.”
“I don’t think it does.”
“Then let me help you, dammit.”
I look up at the hard note in his voice. He’s standing with his arms folded across his chest, his mouth tight and eyes dark.
I suddenly wonder what it has cost him over the years to stand back and not intervene in my problems when there is nothing he wants to do more. Being passive, especially in regards to his family, goes against the very core of who Dean West is. He’s always been the one to make things happen—to win the game, save the day, find the treasure, lead the battle.
But for me, because I asked him to, he has put himself on the sidelines and watched me try, fail, and try again. He’s forced himself not to jump in and rescue me, and because of his restraint, I’ve grown and changed in ways I’d once never imagined I could.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For letting me make mistakes. For not trying to fix things, even though I know you always want to.”
He’s still frowning. “That sounds like you’re going to turn me down again.”
“No, I’m not turning you down. I just need to figure out what the fallout of all this is going to be and talk to Allie. Give me a day or two. I promise I’ll tell you if I need you.”
Dean looks at me for a long moment, his expression shuttered. He reaches over to brush a lock of hair away from my forehead.
“I thought you always needed me,” he says.
My heart stutters at the idea he would ever think otherwise.
“Of course I do.”
A faint, resigned smile tugs at his mouth. He turns away, picking up a stack of papers from the kitchen counter before he goes upstairs to his tower office.
I have a sudden, sharp longing to return to the hot intimacy we’d had in the hotel room. I want cherry pie and champagne again. I want lacy lingerie, silk blindfolds, the burn of lust. I want to feel Dean’s hands sweeping over my naked body. I want to hear his deep voice whispering commands in my ear. I want to close the door and shut the world out so we can focus on each other again.
But even if we could, it wouldn’t be the same. All our efforts, both mine and Dean’s, to find that place again have either failed or created a disaster.
Maybe because that place no longer exists. Maybe we’ve been trying to recreate something that can’t be recreated because it belongs to the past. Maybe it’s now just a memory. And if not even Dean can bring it back to stay…
My heart aches. I’m tempted to follow him to his tower and curl up on his lap. The sensation of my husband’s strong arms tightening around me in a warm, secure circle is, perhaps, the only thing in the world that can banish my sense of hopelessness.
Instead, I turn in the opposite direction, walk up the stairs, and crawl into bed alone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OLIVIA
THE TENSION BETWEEN ME AND DEAN persists over the next day. I know he’s frustrated not only by the derailing of our intimacy—again—but also by the fact that he can’t jump in to help fix the café’s latest disaster.
And though I try to explain I’m not being stubborn—because I’m actually quite willing to let him make calls on my behalf—he doesn’t see the point of me wanting to wait for the dust to settle first.
And yet I can’t focus entirely on Dean right now, since Allie is the one I betrayed and the one with whom I first need to make amends. She isn’t at Wonderland when I arrive on Monday morning, and after getting the café opened, I return to the office and plunge into work.
I leave a message for Monica Harrison with a profuse apology and request to please return my call. I open my email and, with a sinking sense of dread, click on a message from Mike Harrison at Edison Power.
Liv,
It looks like things won’t work out for Edison Power to sponsor the Mirror Lake Bicentennial Festival. However, we’re happy to donate two tickets to the Freefall Water Park for the auction. I’ll put them in the mail today.
Best of luck with the festival and your future events.
Mike Harrison
My chest constricts. Though I’d been expecting this, I’d also secretly been hoping I still had a chance. I pick up the phone to call Mike Harrison.
“I want to apologize for what happened at Becky’s party,” I tell him after introducing myself. “It’s entirely my fault. We’ve had so many successful parties at the café that—”
“I’m sorry, Liv, we can’t change our decision,” he says. “I understand that things go wrong, but at this stage we don’t think a partnership between you and Edison is a good idea.”
“The festival is a different venture from the café,” I continue. “The city council asked me to plan it when the previous director moved away, but—”
“Liv, I’m sorry. We won’t be able to sponsor the festival. And we’re contracting another restaurant to cater our company picnic in August. We have the sense it might be too much for you to handle, and we need to have complete confidence that the people we hire will be equal to the task.”
And that’s not you.
The unspoken words ricochet like a bullet inside me.
I manage to mumble a plea about “reaching out to us in the future” and wanting to do something to make up for my mistake. Mike Harrison is polite and gracious, though I can hear the door slamming shut when he hangs up the phone.
I rest my head in my hands. I’d thought we could do everything in one fell swoop—earn enough money for our truck and secure a major sponsor for the festival. Now both of those things are gone because I dropped the ball.
If I didn’t know it would put the city council in a terrible bind, I’d resign from the festival director position right now because at the rate I’m going, Mirror Lake’s two-hundredth birthday will consist of some balloons and maybe a few grilled burgers from the Boxcar Deli.
And if we don’t get enough people to come out to the festival, then the Chair Fair auction will fail, which means I’ll also be letting down the Historical Society and the railroad project—
Despair roils in the pit of my stomach. I have a sudden urge to run away.
“Liv.”
I lift my head to look at Allie, who has stopped in the office doorway. She doesn’t look as angry as she did on Saturday, but she’s not exactly her usual cheerful self either.
“Edison turned us down to cater the picnic,” I tell her. “And they declined to sponsor the festival, though considering what happened I can’t say I’m surprised. I’m so sorry, Allie.”
“Me too.” She pushes a chair away from the desk and sits down, crossing her arms over her chest. “It might be time for you to take a break, Liv.”
I blink. “A break?”
“You’re clearly running yourself ragged,” she says. “And honestly, you’ve been overriding me at every turn this past year. We’re supposed to be partners, but you’ve been wanting to do everything yourself. I think we both need to take a step back and reassess how our partnership is working.”
Pain tightens my throat. “Oh my God, Allie, have I been that bad?”
“Not bad, Liv, but honestly since you had Nicholas, you’ve become a serious control freak. And when you steamroll decisions for our business, it feels like you don’t trust me either as a friend or a partner.”
I don’t even know what to say to that. But a small, raw corner of my soul knows Allie is right—in my efforts to ensure my son’s life, and my life, are nothing like my shaky, uncertain childhood, I’ve totally overcompensated.
“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 n
ot 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.”
