Spiral of Bliss: The Complete Boxed Set

by Nina Lane

  “Oh, wonderful!” Florence claps her hands. “What a marvelous idea. With his voice, that man will make a metal folding chair sound like a king’s throne. The women are going to bid small fortunes.”

  “I’ll talk to him tonight,” I say, tucking my phone back into my bag. “I promise, Florence, everything will be fine.”

  And it will be about freaking time.

  I pull the blanket up around Nicholas and pick up the baby monitor before heading up the spiral staircase to Dean’s office. I knock once and push the door open.

  “Dean?”

  He’s at his desk wearing his pajama bottoms, the phone cradled against his shoulder and his attention on the computer screen. He gestures for me to hold on as he continues the call.

  Rather than focusing on what he’s saying, I listen to the deep, measured cadence of his voice and admire his sculpted shoulders, the muscles of his chest and back…

  A tingle of awareness goes through me. To avoid the temptation of jumping his bones—clearly, my comeback is here to stay, regardless of the fact that everything else is going wrong—I look out the windows and wait for him to finish the call. When I hear the click of the phone, I turn back to him.

  He swivels in the chair to face me, his expression one of distracted concentration. For an instant, I wish I’d come up here with another hot encounter in mind, but Dean and I have a history of using sex as an easy and delicious escape from both reality and our own problems. Unfortunately, the problems are always still waiting when we emerge from our lustful fog.

  “I have a favor to ask you.” I approach him, reaching out to run my fingers over his corded forearm. “I need a new auctioneer for the Chair Fair, and I was hoping you’d volunteer. I mentioned the idea to Florence, and she’s all over it.”

  Rather than immediately agreeing, which was the response I was hoping for, a shadow passes over Dean’s eyes.

  “The UN Assembly starts next week in Geneva,” he says. “They’re going to vote on our proposal to put the site on the protected list.”

  I nod. “You told me. Simon and Mateo are going to give the presentation, right?”

  “Yeah.” He leans in to click something on his computer screen. “I didn’t think I’d have to go. I’d already told Hans I wouldn’t be there.”

  But…

  The unspoken word sparks apprehension inside me. I know the World Heritage Center pushed the proposal through partly because they’re courting Dean for a high-level job. And it takes me a second to realize he’s telling me something without outright saying it. My heart starts beating too fast.

  “But now you do have to go?” I ask.

  Dean nods, turning to straighten a stack of papers on his desk.

  “But that means…” You’re going to miss the festival.

  A weighty, thick silence falls between us. A hundred unwanted images flash through my mind. I can see my husband navigating an international convention with his steely self-assurance.

  The pictures are crystal-clear—Professor West, clad in his tailored navy suit, his silk tie knotted perfectly, his dark hair burnished by the lights as he shakes hands and extends greetings in French, German, Italian. I hear him discussing Roman aqueducts, building strategies, site management, and cultural landscapes.

  I see the United Nations offices in Geneva, a vast conference room with delegate tables arranged in a half-circle before the rostrum where the World Heritage officials sit. I see Dean standing at a podium before fifty diplomats, all identified by plaques announcing their country affiliation. Armenia, Portugal, Mali, Finland, Japan.

  They wear identification badges and translation headphones, and their desks are stacked with binders, papers, laptops. There are interpreters’ booths, a sound control room, a viewing gallery, a massive screen where renowned historian Dr. Dean West displays photos and maps and explains why the committee should vote to restore and protect a medieval monastery.

  My whole body tenses, as if in defense against the images I don’t want to see, the truth I don’t want to acknowledge.

  “You can’t go,” I manage to say, though of course what he’s going to do is far more important than helping me with a chair auction.

  “I have to, Liv.”

  “Why?” I curl my hands around the back of a chair, trying not to shake. “If Simon and Mateo can handle the presentation…”

  “Hans called me about an hour ago, asking if I would lead a break-out session on medievalism. And Jessica Burke asked me to talk to Hans about the Youth Experts Program, which is badly in need of help.”

  I should be so proud. And I am—part of me is, anyway. A part I’m having a hard time finding beneath a sharp, growing apprehension.

  I tighten my grip on the chair and tell myself to breathe. I catch the frustrated regret in Dean’s eyes as he goes to the table where his briefcase sits open. I know exactly the source of that regret—the push and pull between his loyalty to me and his commitment to his work.

  “If the vote passes, it’s more than the site being placed on the list,” he says, almost as if he’s trying to remind himself as well as me. “It means funding to repair the quake damage and support for dozens of people who have been working at Altopascio much longer than I have. It means revenue for the town and government. It means conservation and legal protection for a monastery that’s important both historically and culturally. I have to fight for this.”

  Of course he does. I know that. This is the United Nations. Global education, intercultural understanding and solidarity, democracy, freedom of expression. Dean can’t walk away from this fight for anything, not even me. He won’t.

  I stare at the photographs still on his desk—the images of the dig zones, the tools, a gold disk that was once buried deep in the soil.

  “Why…” I swallow hard. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Because I didn’t know.” Dean stuffs some papers into his briefcase. “I knew about the vote, but not about the medieval session. And considering the delegates who are going to be there, plus my work on the Conservation Committee, I have to go.”

  I cross my arms tightly over my chest, suddenly feeling as if my husband is moving away from me, inch by painful inch, and into the vast unknown of the world where I will no longer be able to reach him.

  And that, more than anything, floods me with raw, painful fear. Because Dean has always been so comfortable and secure in the world, so confident, and if that is where he truly belongs, then what happens to us?

  I take a breath, feeling the start of a fracture. The moment in which I’m forced to admit Dean and I might never find our way back to each other, at least not the way we both want to. Too many other things are crowding into the place of Liv and Dean. Separating us.

  “Who are you going as?” I ask. “Professor Dean West of King’s University or Assistant Director of the World Heritage Center?”

  “As a historian trying to save a medieval monastery.” Dean drags a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I don’t want to leave again, Liv, but this is critical. If the UN votes no, we’ll face a huge loss of support and revenue.”

  “I’m not denying the importance of it,” I reply, knowing there is only one weapon I have in my corner, only one way to defend myself against the world that seems determined to lure my husband into exotic, distant places where I can’t go.

  “I get that it’s big and illustrious and not nearly on the same level as a town festival,” I say, disliking the strident note in my voice, “but you just gave me a lecture yesterday about asking for help when I need it. And you told me weeks ago you would help us with the festival. That you would help me.”

  “Liv, I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, his mouth tightening. “You also told me countless times you have plenty of volunteers, and you didn’t have a specific job for me anyway.”

  “That’s not the point.”
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  He straightens to look at me. Because I know him so well, I see the guilt, anger, and frustration warring inside him, right next to his deep-seated certainty that the United Nations task belongs to him alone. No one except Professor Dean West can do this… and he knows it. So do I.

  “What is the point, then?” he asks. “You making me feel like an ass for leaving when you’ve spent the past three years not wanting my help?”

  “I haven’t—” My voice sticks in my throat.

  I’m too late. The realization that he’s right hits me with the force of a blow. I waited too long, tried too hard to do everything by myself. And now that I’m finally admitting I need Dean’s help… he’s already agreed to be there for someone else.

  A hot flush of pain sweeps over me. I hate my fear, my desperation, my panic-induced attempt to play this card even though I know how unfair it is.

  “When I told you about the festival, I gave you a chance to say no,” I remind him. “You didn’t.”

  “Damn right I didn’t.” Dean turns, anger darkening his expression as he grabs another sheaf of papers from the table. “Don’t you know by now I can never fucking say no to you, Liv?”

  “You’re doing it now.”

  “Because this isn’t about you!” he snaps, slamming down the lid of his briefcase. “I know you like it when I’m at your beck and call, but believe it or not, I do have obligations to other people.”

  “You think I don’t know that? You think that hasn’t been shockingly clear every time you’ve gone to Italy or France?”

  “I’ve asked you countless times to go with me.”

  “And for the first time ever, I haven’t been able to go where you want,” I reply caustically. “I know you like it when I follow you around like a puppy, but believe it or not, I have obligations to other people too.”

  “Right.” Dean spreads his arms, his jaw tightening. “So you go deal with your obligations and I’ll deal with mine.”

  It’s not the end of the world. I know that. I’ll have to scramble, but I’m sure I can find another suitable auctioneer for the Chair Fair. It won’t be someone who is as good as Dean, but—as I keep reminding myself—I’ve done a lot of things without Dean over the past couple of years. I can stage a successful auction without him.

  But somewhere deep inside me, in a place where I’m still captivated by a handsome medieval history professor who came to the rescue of a girl upset over college credits, I feel as if our lives are starting to run parallel. We converge around Nicholas and our home life, but if everything else is separate...

  I pull in a breath. Maybe this is just what happens when a marriage stretches and lengthens, when a couple’s careers expand, when you realize there are only so many hours in the day and you still have so much to do.

  Maybe it’s supposed to be this way—my husband and I now putting our other responsibilities first, focusing together on our child and giving each other whatever is leftover.

  It doesn’t feel right, though. In fact, it feels horribly wrong. Dean and I have never been each other’s leftovers.

  I turn to the door, hating the anger still lingering between us, the discovery of problems neither one of us knows how to fix. Problems that have nothing to do with the United Nations or town festivals.

  “What time do you leave?” I ask.

  “Flight leaves Wednesday at seven.”

  “Email me your hotel and flight information.”

  “I already did.”

  I pause and turn back to face him. “When are you coming back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Depends on the vote.” He doesn’t look at me, but his voice is tense with regret. “Simon and I are heading to Altopascio afterward, see if we can start the earthquake repairs. I should know by the end of the assembly.”

  We’re both silent. The resignation and sorrow simmering between us almost breaks my heart in half.

  Come back to me. The wish blooms bright and hard in the center of my soul, the place where our unbreakable relationship, our everlasting marriage, has always lived.

  I can’t remember the last time I’d hoped for anything more desperately. But hope and reality are two very different things. And because there is nothing else I can say, I turn away from my husband and walk slowly back down the spiral staircase.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  OLIVIA

  AFTER DEAN’S DEPARTURE, THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE takes on an air of vastness and empty space. Without the secure familiarity of the café to keep me occupied, I’m thrown off balance even more, as if the ground is once again shifting beneath my feet. I try to focus on the final preparations for the festival, even more fiercely determined to make it a success, and spend a great deal of time with Nicholas.

  One afternoon, in need of a friend, I find Kelsey in the garage of Archer’s shop, crouching on top of a huge, custom-built, storm-chasing truck armored with sixteen-gauge steel plates and a Kevlar coating.

  A circular radar device and large antenna sits on top of the vehicle, along with a bunch of little tubes that Kelsey is working at with a wrench. Her hair is covered with a ratty baseball cap, and her tank top and cargo pants are streaked with dirt and grease.

  “What are those?” I ask, gesturing to the tubes.

  “Cannons.” She peers down, flashing me a smile of greeting and pride. “They shoot instrument probes into the tornado to measure and collect wind speed, pressure, and temperature data. This is the first season we’re taking Dorothy out, so we’ll see how she does.”

  “Dorothy, huh?” I can’t help smiling.

  “You and Allie are a bad influence on me. So is the movie Twister, which Archer has the poor taste to actually like.” She pats the roof of the vehicle affectionately before hopping off and approaching me. “Speaking of Allie, she called me and said something about a birthday party gone wrong?”

  I sigh and sit down on a nearby bench. As a silent partner in the café, Kelsey stays out of the daily operations, but Allie and I have always involved her in big decisions and kept her informed when something changes.

  I suppose the birthday disaster qualifies.

  “It was my fault,” I admit. “I’m taking a leave of absence from the café until the festival is over. And speaking of the festival, please tell me you’re still going to be in town for it.”

  “Sure. Archer and I are working at the kids’ stage, right?”

  I nod. “Did you check the forecast for me?”

  “Everything looks great. Nothing on the radar, but I’ll check the day before too.”

  I can see the festival plan in my head. Everything will be situated in Wizard’s Park—the carnival rides and game booths, the food trucks, stages, and Chair Fair tent.

  And, if I let myself, I can see the townspeople wandering around with their excited children, taking them to the ball-toss game and on the merry-go-round. I hear their squeals of laughter, their pleas for ice cream, their voices accompanying a sing-along.

  I don’t see Dean anywhere.

  “Hey.” Kelsey takes off her cap and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand as she sits beside me. “What happened?”

  The confession sticks in my throat. I look at the storm-chasing truck and try for the hundredth time to understand why anyone would see a black storm on the horizon and choose to drive right toward it. To go into it.

  I push to my feet and approach the truck, running my hand over the steel plates. “Why do you do it?”

  “Chase?” Kelsey shrugs. “It’s hard to explain. It’s a rush like no other. Dangerous, exhilarating, thrilling. The realization that you can face down a force of nature is pretty damned powerful.”

  “And scary.”

  “Scary is part of the appeal,” Kelsey says. “I struggled for a long time with my attraction to
danger. I thought it was the reason my father died. I tried to hide in academia and to control everything about my life.

  “But then I met Archer, and I discovered that sometimes being in control can suck. That sometimes I want to let everything go, to give up control and drive into a storm without knowing what will happen.”

  I turn to look at her. “But you won’t marry Archer because you don’t want anything to change.”

  She averts her gaze. “I don’t want anything to change about us. And I know it’s stupid because my parents had a great marriage. They loved each other completely. But then my father died and… well, my mother was alone. Then I lost my mother right when I found Archer. And it’s been so good that I feel like I’d be tempting the fates if I married him. What if I lost him too?”

  She holds up her hand when I start to speak.

  “Don’t tell me it makes no sense,” she says. “I know that already. But I can’t love Archer more than I already do. And I’m not going to marry him just because some bullshit custom says we should or because people think marriage is the only way you can be with someone for life. Because it’s not.”

  “True,” I agree. “Swans mate for life, but they don’t get married. They just wing it.”

  A grin tugs at Kelsey’s mouth as she climbs back onto the roof of the vehicle.

  “You hear anything from Professor Marvel?” she asks, apparently having done enough baring of her soul.

  “Yes, he’s heading for the UN Assembly meeting as we speak. Being an international diplomat.”

  Kelsey shoots me a glance. “You don’t sound thrilled about that.”

  “I’m proud of him,” I reply, deliberately avoiding her remark. “I’m just sorry he’s missing the festival. And I’m worried they’re going to offer him the job, which was clearly made for him.”

  “So why does that worry you?”