Spiral of Bliss: The Complete Boxed Set

by Nina Lane

  “We have a bid for five hundred dollars,” I say into the mic. “Do we have a…”

  “Six hundred!” a deep male voice booms from the other side of the tent.

  We all look in that direction. Archer is standing there with Nicholas still on his shoulders. Nicholas is waving a paddle in the air. Kelsey shoots Archer a glower. He responds with a look of pure defiance.

  “Six fifty!” Kelsey calls.

  “Do we have a bid for seven hundred?” Mr. Jenkins asks.

  Several paddles lift.

  “Eight hundred,” Archer shouts.

  Mr. Jenkins and I exchange looks of surprise.

  “A thousand?” he asks into the mic.

  “A thousand five hundred,” Kelsey calls.

  People turn to stare at Archer and Kelsey. Though they’re on opposite sides of the tent, they’re looking at each other with such challenge it’s as if they’re the only two people present. I can practically see the sparks flashing between them.

  “Do we have a bid for a thousand six hundred?” I ask, torn between wanting the money for the restoration and not wanting my friends to go over the top.

  “Two thousand,” Archer calls.

  There’s a collective gasp.

  “Two thousand five hundred?” Mr. Jenkins asks.

  Archer taps Nicholas on the knee. Nicholas waves the paddle in the air.

  “Uh, you’re bidding against yourself, son,” Mr. Jenkins remarks.

  The audience chuckles.

  “No,” Archer replies. “I’m bidding for her.”

  A smattering of applause and laughter rises in the air, and a flush colors Kelsey’s cheeks. Mr. Jenkins grins.

  “Do I hear two thousand six hundred?” he asks.

  I look at Kelsey, who shakes her head. A man in the front row raises his paddle, which causes another ripple of surprise.

  “Three,” Archer shouts.

  In the end, Archer buys his own chair for three thousand two hundred dollars—easily the largest bid yet, and one that brings the audience to its feet in a standing ovation. It takes Mr. Jenkins and me a good five minutes to get everyone settled back down and focused on the next chair.

  The frenzy over Archer and Kelsey’s bidding has galvanized both the crowd and Mr. Jenkins.

  “Lettuce raise the bids, Liv!” he shouts into the microphone.

  I smile and rush through the remaining sales pitches, describing a jungle-themed chair, an ocean chair, a Dr. Seuss-inspired chair—all of which bring in substantial bids.

  Just as Mr. Jenkins slams the gavel down on a winning bid, a booming noise cracks overhead. I jump a little, startled, as the patrons murmur to each other and glance up at the tent roof.

  “Hey, Liv, what does a cloud have on under his pants?” Mr. Jenkins asks cheerfully.

  “Um, what?” I realize the sky has grown even darker, almost iron-gray. I’ve been so preoccupied with the auction I didn’t notice before now.

  “Thunderwear!” Mr. Jenkins claps his hands and laughs.

  Thunder?

  Light flashes through the grayness. I turn, looking past the patrons to where the chairs are all lined up on the grass, awaiting pickup from the winning bidders. Another crack sounds in the distance, a rumbling noise like a hungry giant or—

  The skies open up. A flood of heavy rain begins to pour down, splashing onto the tent and pooling immediately into puddles of muddy water.

  Are you freaking kidding me?

  A gust of wind billows against the tent, rippling the cover. Shrieks and gasps rise from the crowd. People push to their feet, clutching bags and purses as they hurry to seek more secure shelter.

  I grab Mr. Jenkins’ arm, helping him down the steps of the stage to where Florence is sitting.

  “The café is open, if you can make it over there,” I tell them. “But hurry.”

  I run outside, thinking of the carnival, the entertainment, if there’s enough shelter for everyone. The rain spills down, lightning splitting across the sky. People rush away from the stages, clutching their children’s hands or holding event fliers over their heads.

  “Save the chairs, man!”

  I whirl at the sound of Archer’s voice. He’s waving frantically at Brent, who is running toward him from the direction of the food trucks. Kelsey is close behind, holding Nicholas. She sees me and swerves, as Brent and Archer rush to pull the painted chairs into a nearby truck.

  “Freak storm,” Kelsey gasps, her blond hair hanging damply over her face. “It wasn’t on the radar, Liv, I swear.”

  “Can you take Nicholas to the café?” I ask. “Get him changed? There’s clean clothes in his diaper bag in my office.”

  “Yeah, but you need to take cover too.”

  “I’ll be there in a sec. Just want to make sure no one needs help.”

  Kelsey runs off into the storm. I hurry to the stages to ask if the bands are okay or if they need help with their equipment. In seconds, I’m drenched through, water spilling down my face and soaking my clothes. Another crash of thunder and lightning rents the air.

  The rain comes down harder.

  The festival volunteers rally as best they can, but the lightning is getting closer and being in an open field is about the worst place for any of us. The wind increases, pushing against the tents, tipping over garbage bins and sandwich-board signs.

  When a food tent dislodges from its moorings and billows toward the lake, the remaining staff and festival-goers run toward Avalon Street, seeking shelter in shops and restaurants.

  Wiping rivulets of water from my face, I return to the auction tent to try and find Brent and Archer, but the place is empty, chairs overturned and auction paddles lying in the mud. I cast a glance over the park. It’s now deserted, the wind and rain whipping through the abandoned tents and art booths.

  I turn, hurrying to the Wonderland Café. Mud soaks into my shoes. By the time I go up the front porch steps, I’m waterlogged, cold, and starting to shiver. Light blazes through the windows of the café. The air inside is fragrant with the scents of sugar cookies and hot tea.

  Because the café was closed for the festival, the only people inside are Florence, Mr. Jenkins, and Kelsey. They’re all still in their wet clothes, but somewhat drier thanks to kitchen towels. Nicholas, in dry clothes from his diaper bag, is sitting at one of the tables in his booster seat, eating cheddar crackers and drinking milk.

  “You okay?” Kelsey hurries toward me. “Everyone else?”

  “I think everyone is okay, but I’ll check with the fire department. They were on hand in case of an emergency.” My phone is wet but working, so I contact the fire chief and paramedics, who thankfully report no injuries or accidents.

  “Have you heard from Archer?” I ask Kelsey.

  “Not yet.” She checks her phone, her forehead creasing with worry.

  I go into the back office, where I keep extra clothes for myself, and change into black yoga pants and a T-shirt. When I return to the front room, a clatter of activity comes from the porch. The door opens, and Archer walks in, carrying the Blue chair.

  “We got all the chairs to the warehouse,” he tells me, plunking the chair down by the counter. “Doesn’t appear to be much damage.”

  His gaze meets Kelsey’s across the room. Energy arcs through the air. Kelsey crosses her arms. Her eyes narrow with defiance, as if she’s trying to resist the obviously magnetic force between them.

  “I wanted that chair,” she informs him icily.

  “Good, because I made it for you.” Archer’s expression becomes equally mutinous. “You don’t want to get married, fine. But no way are you shutting me out, storm girl. You’re mine, dammit. You’re mine for life, whether you marry me or not. You won’t take my ring yet, but you’d damned well better take this chair.”

  He folds his arms across
his wide chest and glowers at her, as if defying her to say no. The rest of us are silent, the air tense with anticipation over what Kelsey is going to say or do next.

  She walks toward Archer, her gaze never leaving his.

  “Ask me,” she orders.

  He studies her for a second, then goes down on one knee in front of her. My heart gives a little leap, as I’m sure he’s going to propose again. He puts one hand on the Blue chair.

  “Kelsey March,” Archer says. “Will you accept this chair?”

  A slow smile blooms across Kelsey’s face. She reaches out to thread her fingers through Archer’s hair. For a long moment, they look at each other, caught in something so intense and private I’m sure they’ve forgotten everyone else in the room.

  “Yes,” Kelsey says, running her hand down the side of Archer’s face. “Forever.”

  Florence and I clap. We all smile as Archer gets to his feet and pulls Kelsey into his arms for a kiss. Happy as I am for both of them, and their consensus that a lifelong love can bloom bright even without marriage, I still experience a sudden, sharp longing for my husband. For us, our marriage is everything.

  Our marriage is everything.

  The declaration repeats in my mind, like a comet streaking endlessly across the sky. Something opens inside me, revealing the basic truth that has always been a part of me. But it had gotten buried beneath the chaos of work, responsibilities, parenthood, daily living, and… I admit rather reluctantly… dusty old fears that maybe it’s time for me to throw out for good.

  “Well, we should get going,” Florence remarks, tugging on her damp coat.

  “We might need an ark.” Mr. Jenkins looks at the cascade of rain falling outside the window. “Good thing I Noah guy who can build one.”

  Florence rolls her eyes. Kelsey, Archer, and I all chuckle.

  “It’s still raining pretty hard,” I tell them. “You shouldn’t drive home yet.”

  “We’ll be fine.” Florence waves her hand in a circle. “I’m in the mood for some hot toddies, if you know what I mean.”

  Kelsey shoots me an amused look and strides to the door.

  “We’ll drop you both off,” she offers. “We need to get home too.”

  There’s a small flurry of activity as everyone prepares to leave. I don’t want to go home until I can assess the festival damage, and I promise Kelsey I’ll stay at the café until the rain lets up.

  After they all leave, I make myself a cup of tea and pick up Nicholas when he starts whining and rubbing his eyes. I turn on some gentle music and walk around the café with him in my arms.

  I pass the Mad Hatter tea party, the wacky croquet game where the Red Queen’s face is contorted with anger, the Kansas farm where a twister spins from the floor to the ceiling, whisking Dorothy and Toto off on an adventure.

  I walk through the Wicked Witch’s castle, the poppy fields, Munchkinland where Dorothy took her first step on the Yellow Brick Road. I pass the garden where Alice is talking to the caterpillar, seated on a soft mushroom with smoke billowing above him, and where she dances the quadrille with the Gryphon and the Mock Turtle.

  And the Gryphon added, “Come, let’s hear some of your adventures.”

  “I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning,” said Alice a little timidly, “but it’s no use going back to yesterday because I was a different person then.”

  Nicholas shifts in my arms, resting his head against my shoulder. I return to the office and place him gently in his soft playpen, dimming the lights and turning the music lower. He sleeps soundly, his mouth slightly open and his hands balled into little fists. I settle my hand on his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. I whisper a few words of thanks, then take my mug of tea out to the covered back terrace.

  The rain is still coming down in heavy, gusting sheets. I stop at the railing, looking at the expanse of Wizard’s Park, the broken tents lying on the grass like wounded sea creatures, the litter of sodden popcorn boxes and popped balloons, the deserted food booths and overturned chairs.

  Tears sting my eyes. The disappointment I’ve kept at bay now settles heavily around my heart. Despite my stumbles, I’d worked hard for the festival. I’d desperately wanted everything to turn out well. I’d wanted it all to be perfect.

  I wipe at a drop rolling down my cheek, not sure if it’s rain or tears. I can’t help feeling as if I let down so many people. Townspeople, sponsors, vendors, artists, entertainers, children, the Historical Society. Myself.

  No, it doesn’t make sense to feel like this. Not even Kelsey, atmospheric scientist extraordinaire, could have predicted this storm. And I’ve certainly learned that life hides countless unforeseen catastrophes no one can predict.

  Hell, life is messy. Stormy. Uncontrollable. Maybe all you can do is shelter yourself with the people you love most. At least then, you can enjoy the good weather and get through the storms together.

  I start to go back into the café when a movement catches my eye. I turn and look into the distance. My breath catches, my heart making a wild, spinning leap up into the stars. In the rain, the indistinct outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man appears, striding through the flooded wreckage of the park as if he’s a warrior crossing a battlefield.

  As always, his path is a direct, unwavering line straight to me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  OLIVIA

  I WALK TO THE RAILING OF the terrace, curling my hand around a post as I watch my husband come toward me. A thousand emotions flood my heart and soul.

  Dean is soaked through, his hair plastered to his head, rain dripping in rivulets over his face. He stops at the bottom of the terrace steps. For a long moment, we look at each other, the rain falling between us, a rumble of thunder echoing over the mountains.

  He climbs the steps to where I’m standing, and as he closes the distance between us, the ache inside me softens and disappears. Dean twists a lock of my damp hair between his fingers and tucks it behind my ear.

  “Hey, beauty.” His voice is a warm, gentle current sliding right around my heart.

  “Hi, professor.” I reach out to put my hand on his chest. “You came back.”

  “I will always come back to you.”

  Fresh tears sting my eyes. Uncaring that he’s drenched, I move closer and slide my arms around his waist. He folds his arms around me. Rainwater seeps from his clothes into my T-shirt, but the sensation of his powerful body against mine, and the delicious, familiar warmth of him, burns away the cold.

  I feel my world straightening into balance again, a palpable shift beneath my feet, securing me to the earth, to myself, to this man.

  Only when a chill ripples over my skin do I lift my head to look up at him.

  “Nicholas is sleeping in the office, but there are extra clothes in the backroom. You should find something that fits you.”

  Dean picks up my hand and presses a kiss to my palm before twining his fingers through mine. We go into the café and I pull on a dry shirt before checking on Nicholas again. Dean emerges from the backroom in sweatpants and a black Wonderland Café T-shirt. He sits at a stool on the counter as I pour him a cup of hot coffee and refresh my tea.

  I set the coffee in front of him, gazing at the thickness of his eyelashes, the way his lips close around the rim of the mug.

  “What happened?” I ask quietly.

  “The Assembly voted to protect the site. There was a unanimous yes vote from all UN delegates.”

  “Oh, Dean.” Pleasure and pride flood me in a wave as I lean across the counter to kiss him. “Congratulations. You must be thrilled.”

  “Yeah, I’m happy about it.” A self-conscious smile tugs at his mouth. “Now we won’t have any trouble with funding or repairing the quake damage. Not to mention, we can keep the entire excavation team intact and work on finding out what else is there.”
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  I take his hands in mine and squeeze, unable to speak past the sudden lump in my throat. I forget, sometimes, how much I admire this part of Dean’s character—the relentless drive to pursue a goal, to get things done not only for himself, but for other people. For history.

  “I gave the presentation on Tuesday, and they voted on Wednesday,” he continues. “Then I had the session on medieval sites all day Thursday and Friday. I figured if I hurried, I could get back here in time for at least part of the festival, so when the last session was over, I caught the next flight out. And here I am.”

  Here you are. Right here. As always.

  “I thought you were going to Altopascio after the assembly,” I say.

  “I told Simon he’d have to go without me.” Dean shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. “He was heartbroken, of course.”

  “Of course. But I’m sure he’ll get over it.”

  “Yeah.” Dean sets the mug down and looks at me, his gaze tracking warmly over my face. “Sorry I couldn’t stop the storm for you.”

  I smile. I suppose it’s about time I also accept the fact that not even my husband can prevent certain kinds of storms.

  “I know you would have, if you could have,” I tell him.

  Sometimes I wish there was a way to be prepared for everything. Then I remind myself that I was never prepared for the things that set me on the path of my life. And, like a string of pearls, everything is connected. The endless travels with my mother, all the strangers and friends we met along the way, the path to Twelve Oaks and North, then to my aunt Stella. Then Fieldbrook, North again, the University of Wisconsin. Dean. Our son.

  “Did you talk to Hans and Simon about the job?” I ask.

  “Yeah, we had a few meetings.” Dean rubs a hand through his hair, faint hesitation flashing across his expression before he says, “The World Heritage Center committee did formally offer me the assistant director position.”

  A sense of inevitability crashes over me, but not in an unpleasant way. This news isn’t a surprise, but it’s been an uncertainty. And now, at least, knowing is better than not knowing.