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 could 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. That 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.”
Discomfort stabs at me. “I haven’t been offered the job. The only reason I didn’t turn it down right away was—”
She holds up a hand to stop me. “I’m not upset you didn’t tell me, Dean. In fact, it made me think you might be under-utilized in your current position.”
I don’t know what to say to that, though her implication that I’d like to do other things besides teach is partly true—and the reason I’ve enjoyed getting back into archeology and travel.
“I talked to Hans Klasen yesterday,” Frances continues, picking up a glossy blue folder embellished with the gold UNESCO logo. “I told him he’d be a fool not to offer you the job.”
“What?” I sit back and stare at her. “Why?”
“Because I’ve been around scholars for most of my life,” Frances replies. “And it’s rare that I have the privilege of working with one of your caliber. I believe you should use your God-given talent on a global scale, to actively work with sites and monuments the way you’ve been doing with Altopascio.”
For a minute, I can only look at her, again smothering the persistently ambitious thought of taking my career and reputation to a whole new level. I shake my head.
“I appreciate that, Frances. But there’s no way I could ever leave King’s or Mirror Lake. And it doesn’t matter anyway because I haven’t been offered the job.”
“Yet.” Frances pushes the folder across the desk to me. “Your devotion to your work is the reason the World Heritage Center is interested in you. It’s hardly a wonder you didn’t even have to formally apply. Your integrity and single-mindedness are your application.”
A weighty silence falls between us.
“I can’t believe you want me to consider another job,” I finally admit.
“I know. I’m amazed that I’m being so generous.” Frances gives me a little, self-deprecating smile. “If it were any other job, I wouldn’t be. But frankly, you taking the job would also be great for King’s University, especially if you did joint programming between us and the WHC.”
She turns back to her computer. “Really, Dean, I don’t believe you’ve reached the limits of what you can do or the difference you can make. And honestly, I suspect that unless you look beyond this university, you never will.”
She puts on her glasses and begins typing. I glance at the thick, blue United Nations folder on her desk, not sure if it seems more like a time bomb or an announcement that I just won a coveted prize.
Without picking the folder up, I turn and leave the office.