CHAPTER THREE
Olivia
January 15
“PROFESSOR HOTTIE ALERT.”
I glance up from the order invoice. Allie Lyons, my good friend and owner of the Happy Booker bookstore, is peering through the front window with a pair of plastic binoculars that came with a kid’s explorer kit.
“Quick.” She drops the binoculars back around her neck and comes over to the front counter, fluffing out her red curls. “How do I look?”
“Your nose is a little shiny.” I take her bag from beneath the counter and pass it across to her.
She digs around for her compact, powders her nose, and freshens her lipstick. She tilts her heart-shaped face toward me for approval. “How’s that?”
“Perfect.”
The bell over the door rings, and we watch as Dean enters the store. He’s handsome as ever with his dark brown hair ruffled by the wind, his cheeks flushed with cold. Beneath his open peacoat, he’s wearing a blue flannel shirt and jeans that hug his long legs. Although he spends much of his time in a lecture hall or at a desk, his shoulders and chest—his whole body—are hard and muscled from his athletic pursuits.
“Hi, Dean,” Allie says breathlessly.
“Hey, Allie.” His voice is like hot water sliding over a polished floor. “How’s that boyfriend of yours treating you?”
Allie smiles, her face getting a little pink. “Really well, thanks.”
“Good.” Dean reaches out to give my long ponytail a gentle tug. “And how’s that husband of yours treating you, Liv?”
I meet his gaze, my heart thumping at the potent combination of heat and tenderness in his eyes. “He does all right.”
“Guess he’d better work harder, huh?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“God, you two. Get a room.” Allie fans herself with a magazine and rolls her eyes.
Dean and I smile at each other before he pushes back his cuff and glances at his watch.
“Still off at four?” he asks.
“You can leave early if you want, Liv.” Allie glances around the store and sighs. “It’s not like I’m expecting a dozen people to come in during the next half-hour to stock up on New Year’s reading.”
The Happy Booker has had a tough year, what with a rent hike, customers who browse rather than buy, and a dwindling stock that has left several of the shelves bare. All of Allie’s efforts to increase business—kids’ parties, book clubs, educational seminars, Free Cookies and Milk Day—haven’t stopped the store’s downhill slide.
“Hey, a new biography of Darwin.” Dean hefts the hardcover up from the front display rack and gives it to me to ring up. “And a book about cosmic mysteries. And, um, a guide to aquaponic gardening. I’ve been wondering about that.”
He hands me a few more books. Allie shakes her head at me, her eyes bright with amusement behind her purple-framed glasses.
“Did you ever talk to Brent about finding a way to incorporate a café?” I ask her as Dean heads off to look at the history section.
“Too expensive,” Allie admits. “And I’d never get approved for another loan. I can barely pay off the one I already have, and my credit is maxed out. Brent is still paying off his student loans, and I really don’t want to ask my dad for more help.”
“What about opening the store to other events, like writing workshops?”
“I’d love to, but I don’t know how that will bring in much revenue.” She straightens up a few magazines with a discouraged sigh. “Heaven knows my children’s parties haven’t been much of a draw either.”
I glance to the back of the store, where Dean is browsing the shelves.
“What if I apply for a loan?” I ask Allie. “Like as a business partner?”
The instant the words are out of my mouth, my heart stutters. I’ve never even considered being a business partner before.
Allie blinks. “You want to invest in the bookstore?”
“I can try. If you want me to.”
“Are you kidding? I’d love you to be my partner.” The excitement in her eyes fades a bit. “But I don’t want you to feel obligated or go into debt just to bail me out.”
“If I’m a partner, I wouldn’t be bailing you out. I don’t think I would, anyway.”
“You’d be taking on my business debt, though, which is totally unfair. I can’t let you invest in a failing business. You can’t do that. It’s way too risky.”
“I’d rather do that than see you file for bankruptcy.” I hold up my hand to stop her from protesting again. “Honestly, Allie, I don’t know much about business. I don’t even know the steps in the loan application process. But at least let me look into it. If I can find a way to help you, then I really want to.”
She hesitates. “Okay, but promise you won’t do anything without talking to me first.”
“Promise.”
“New book about the siege of Leningrad too.” Dean approaches and puts three more books on the counter.
As I ring up the books, it occurs to me that I could ask Dean to invest in Allie’s bookstore. He would do it, too, without hesitation. But as easy as that would be, my exact words to Allie were, “What if I apply for a loan?” I did not say, “What if I ask Dean for a loan?”
I swipe his credit card through the machine and slip the books into a paper bag. “Allie, are you sure you don’t want me to stay until closing?”
“No, Brent will be here any minute.” She waves us out the door. “Have a good afternoon. And thanks, both of you.”
I grab my coat from the back office and button it up as Dean and I go outside into the frozen, clear afternoon. Our breath puffs out in plumes of white.
“So where are we going?” I ask as we get into the car.
“You’ll see.”
He drives toward the university, but then detours into one of the residential neighborhoods that are populated by expensive, newer homes with views of the lake and mountains. When he pulls up in front of a Colonial-style house that looks as if it belongs in the glossy pages of House Beautiful, my breath sticks in my throat. There’s a For Sale sign in the front yard.
“Dean…”
“I haven’t made an offer yet,” he says. “But it looks great for us.”
“I don’t—”
He’s already getting out to greet a short-haired woman in a business suit who is walking toward us from a car parked on the street. They shake hands and speak as if they’ve met before.
“Liv, this is Nancy Walker with Regent Properties,” Dean tells me. “I contacted her for a showing.”
“I’m sure you’ll love it,” Nancy gushes as we head toward the front porch. “I told Dean it’s just the perfect family home.”
The house is gorgeous, everything so sleek and shiny that it reminds me of a museum. We take off our boots so we don’t muddy the floors. Nancy talks about the square footage (“almost five thousand!”), the size of the bedrooms (“perfect for every age child, from babies to teenagers!”), the quartz countertops (“maintenance-free!”), and the oak hardwood floors (“just refinished!”).
Then she and Dean launch into a discussion of the roof, the heating system, the warranty on the appliances, the property taxes, the size of the lot. Their voices almost echo in the vast spaces of the multiple rooms. The kitchen alone looks like it’s the size of our apartment.
“What do you think, Liv?” Nancy asks.
She and Dean are both looking at me expectantly.
“It’s beautiful,” I say truthfully.
“I’ll leave you two alone to talk for a few minutes.” Nancy digs her phone out of her purse as she heads back to the foyer.
“Do you like it?” Dean asks me. “If you like it, we’ll buy it.”
“Dean, love of my life, you don’t have to buy a house just because I like it.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
“Do you like it?”
“What’s not to like? We can’t live in that apartment forever. With the baby, we’ll need more space, a yard, another bedroom. This is a great school district. We wouldn’t have to think about moving anytime soon. It’s close to both the university and downtown. Not to mention it has an amazing view of the lake.”
The knots pull tighter in my stomach. “It… um, it must be terribly expensive.”
“We can afford it. The trust fund my grandfather left me has been sitting there for years, and I’ve gotten a great return on my investments. We wouldn’t even need to take out a mortgage, unless it makes financial sense.”
He looks through the large kitchen window at the backyard. “I like that it’s on a quiet street. Property values in this neighborhood have been stable for years, so if we did need to sell we likely wouldn’t have to take a loss. Good investment, in addition to being necessary.”
I run my hand over the gleaming quartz countertop. I’ve never thought of a house as necessary. Houses put you into debt and create a thousand worries. It’s hard to leave a place if you own a house. Or if you lose a house for some reason, you could end up with nowhere to go. When I was living with my aunt Stella, I was always afraid that she might kick me out of her house. Like my mother’s parents did to her when she got pregnant with me.
“Better that we buy now when we have time to get organized,” Dean says, turning back to face me. “Our apartment lease expires in July, so we can spend the next few months figuring out what we need to buy. We can stay at the apartment until the house is furnished and we’re ready to move in. There’s that huge furniture store over near Rainwood. We can probably buy everything there, including the crib. Plenty of time to fix anything that needs fixing, hire a cleaning service, get tools and a lawnmower, change our address on all our paperwork.”
“We don’t have to do all of that right now.”
“We’re not waiting until you’re seven or eight months pregnant before we buy a house,” he argues. “You don’t need that stress.”
“I mean… we don’t have to buy a house anytime soon. Babies are tiny, right? Our apartment is fine for now.”
“Liv, it’ll be a lot more hassle trying to close on a house when we have a baby.” He studies me. “Don’t you want this house?”
Although his tone is curious and not reproving, I feel about two inches tall and horribly ungrateful. What kind of person wouldn’t leap at such an offer?
I loosen my fingers from the edge of the counter. “I just don’t want you to think you have to be so extravagant.”
“It’s a necessity, not an extravagance. Yeah, we could get something smaller, but with this place there’s no worry about running out of space or having to move because of the school district. It’s a great, safe neighborhood too.”
“What about work?”
“What about it?”
“What if you get a better job offer somewhere else?”
“Then we’ll deal with that, if it happens. But I can’t imagine an offer that would be better than what I have at King’s. The conference is coming up, I have classes and papers, students to advise, tenure track, a top-level salary. There’s no good reason for me to look for another job. And now that you’re pregnant… what better place for us to stay than Mirror Lake?”
He’s got it all figured out. I have no counterargument, and I don’t want to think about my reasons for trying to come up with one.
“It’s a beautiful house,” I repeat.
He gives me a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“So, what are we thinking?” Nancy chirps as she returns to the kitchen.
Dean turns to her and starts talking about a potential offer, how much movement there is on the asking price, what kind of allowances we should make for improvements, if we should apply for a mortgage, what current interest rates are like.
I watch Dean as he talks. He’s standing with his arms crossed, his back straight, his feet apart in that sure-footed stance that seems to be holding the world in place. He’s reeling off words like equity, amortize, and depreciation with the same ease he uses to discuss clerestory windows and quatrefoils.
He’s not afraid.
No. He’s not only not afraid, he’s fearless. I’m pregnant, he’s going to be a father, and instead of gnawing over a bunch of worries that he would be well within his rights to have, Professor Dean West has made a definitive plan. Now he’s going to implement his plan and ensure everything goes exactly the way he wants.
I should find this reassuring. Instead, his confidence only intensifies my own uncertainty.
“Dean, we’re meeting Kelsey in ten minutes,” I remind him.
We retrieve our coats and go back outside. Dean and Nancy continue to discuss the offer, and she promises to be in touch with more information.
“I have an appointment next week with my lawyer,” Dean tells me as we get back in the car and return to downtown. “See about the process of amending the will and trust after the baby’s born. If something happens to me, everything I own goes to you, but we’ll have to get the baby added as a beneficiary. And I’ll increase my life insurance benefits too.”
“Dean, I was talking to Allie earlier about maybe helping her out with a loan for the bookstore.” The words escape me in a rush. Until now, I haven’t realized how much I want Dean’s support for this idea.
“How much does she need?”
“I don’t know yet. But I mean, not a loan from you. I was thinking about applying for a business loan and… uh, maybe partnering with her.”
“Oh.”
“Oh good, or oh bad?”
“Good, but investing in a troubled business is no easy task.”
“I know.” I don’t, actually, but I want to learn.
“You can’t overdo it.”
“I won’t.” Irritation prickles at me. “I don’t intend to put myself or the pregnancy at any risk.”
“I’ll give you the—”
“Dean, if I needed the money from you, I would ask. But I want to do this by myself.”
“Liv, to get a business loan, you need to have collateral and a—”
“Dean, please.” My stomach is getting twisted up again, the way it used to when I first met him and allowed myself to dwell on the differences between us. “I’m not training for a marathon. I’m just going to try and help out a friend. I really want to do this.”
He turns onto Ruby Street. “Okay, but you don’t even need to ask if you want to use our money.”
“I know.” And I do.
He parks the car by the curb, then puts his hand on the small of my back as we navigate patches of ice on the sidewalk. I can feel the warmth of his touch even through my coat—his gesture of I’m right here that I have always loved.
“You’re late.” Kelsey March glowers at us from the front porch of Matilda’s Teapot, where she is hunched into her coat. Her blue-streaked blond hair shines in the overhead light, and her face—devoid of makeup aside from bright red lipstick—is pinched with cold.
“Why aren’t you waiting inside then?” Dean asks.
Her glower deepens, and I subject her to an effusive embrace. “You look great. How’s your mom?”
“Fine. She sent you some blinchki.” She thrusts a Tupperware container at me and jerks her head toward the door. “I’m starving. Dean, you’re paying.”
“For you, anything.” He gives her one of his patented Dean West smiles, which would make any other woman melt.
On Kelsey, however, it has all the impact of a feather against stone. She rolls her eyes at me and strides into the tearoom, which is in an old, converted Victorian house. Chintz tablecloths and curtains dominate the interior, the clientele consists mostly of elderly ladies, and the tea and sandwiches are served on china plates and cups.
“So, what’s going on with you two?” Kelsey flips open the parchment menu and studies me and Dean through her rimless glasses. “Everything okay?”
Kelsey knows a lot of what happened between me and Dean, and she was the one I stayed with when we were apart. She doesn’t, however, know everything.
“We’re good,” Dean says.
Kelsey gives me a look. “Liv?”
“We’re good,” I agree.
It’s too early to tell anyone about the pregnancy, even Kelsey. At least Dean and I have talked about it, and we’re both doing what we’re supposed to do. He makes me a cup of horrible no-caffeine coffee in the morning and puts my prenatal vitamins on my plate. I walk on the treadmill at the gym, have scheduled my next two checkups, and when I’m not feeling nauseous, I eat lots of fruits, vegetables, and whole grains.
I try not to dwell on my fear that I don’t know how to be a mother. For most of my life, I didn’t even want to be a mother.
“So then she made this huge iced bread, which is called a krendel, and she knows I love it except that I eat it like a freaking cow, so she made me deliver it to the neighbors but only because their son is newly single after…”
Kelsey, thank God, is rambling about her own mother. I love Kelsey’s mother. She is a plump, cheerful woman who epitomizes one of my dream mothers.
I’ve had a lot of dream mothers. The sharp-tongued feminist, the happy homemaker, the driven career woman, the nurturing earth goddess. They’ve flitted in and out of my mind since I was a child. Now that I’m pregnant, they’ve appeared with new strength as I try to imagine what kind of mother I’m going to be.
Well, I know one thing about being a mother, at least. I know I don’t want to be the kind of mother my own mother was.
Kelsey goes on and on about her Christmas while we eat. Well, Kelsey and Dean eat. I’m feeling a little queasy, so I just pick at a slice of quiche.
“Not hungry?” Kelsey glances at my plate.
“Uh, not really. Hey, did Dean tell you about his IHR grant?”
“What?” Kelsey is properly awestruck by this news and peppers him with questions and congratulations.
“You going to campus tomorrow?” Kelsey asks Dean as we get ready to leave. “Up for a few games of racquetball?”
“Not tomorrow.” Dean fishes for his wallet. “Prepping for a seminar.”
“Did I tell you my department scheduled me for three seminars?” Kelsey drains the last of her tea. “And I have a new grad student starting this semester. You know what that means.”
Dean pushes back from the table so abruptly that the chair legs screech across the hardwood floor. He grabs my coat and holds it out for me. “Ready to go?”
“Sure.” I throw him an odd look as I shrug into the coat. “Don’t forget to use the gift certificate. What’s the hurry?”
“No hurry.” He heads off to take care of the bill as Kelsey and I gather our satchels.
“Hey, really.” Kelsey gets all serious for a second and reaches out to squeeze my arm. “You guys okay?”
I watch my husband as he makes his way to the front counter, his dark hair and black peacoat a striking contrast to the yellow chintz and lace décor.
“Yes,” I tell Kelsey. “We’ll be fine.”
A cloud cover has made the evening gloomier than usual, and Dean makes sure Kelsey gets back safely to her car before he and I head to Avalon Street. When we get home, he settles on the sofa to watch the news. I busy myself watering my houseplants and straightening the living room.
I stack a pile of Dean’s sports magazines on the coffee table and pick up the newspaper. I didn’t read it this morning, so I look over a few of the articles, then turn to the Help Wanted section.
I skim the ads. Energy consultant. Systems administrator. Early childhood educator.
Nothing I’m qualified for or have experience in, though I suppose it doesn’t matter now that we’re going to have a baby.
I sit at my narrow desk and take a notebook and a pen from the drawer. I stare out the window for a few minutes, watching reddish clouds sweep over the snow-frosted mountains.
Then I write:
I look at the list for a minute, then add:
I reread the list, then close the book and write on the cover:
After slipping the book back into my desk, I power up my laptop and type “small business loans” into a search engine.
I study websites about different organizations, loan programs, application types. I write down the contact information for our local bank’s loan office and start to fill out the online application. Less than a quarter of the way through, there are boxes for details about credit reports, taxes, collateral, accounts, a business plan. I turn to ask Dean for help, then stop.
There’s no information requested on the application that I can’t find myself or get from Allie—I just need to research and figure it out. I email Allie asking her about the business plan, then I save the application to finish later and log off the site. Even though I have a lot of work to do, it feels like a good start.
Dean is working in his office by the time I get ready for bed. I fall into a comfortable sleep with the pleasant knowledge that he’ll soon slide under the covers beside me.
The sun is already streaming through the window when I wake the next morning. I’m tucked against Dean’s long body, my leg across his. We have a king-sized bed, so usually we end up apart from each other on either side of the mattress, but sometime during the night I’ve scooted across and draped myself over him.
That’s happened often since we reconciled. It doesn’t take a genius to explain why I now have a tendency to latch on to my husband during the night.
I push my hair away from my eyes and look up at him. He’s awake, one arm trapped beneath my shoulder and the other resting on his stomach.
“Morning,” he says.
“Hi.” I shift. “Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry… crap.” He winces as he pulls his arm out from underneath me.
“Pins and needles?” I massage his arm with quick strokes. “Seems to be the only part of you that’s asleep.”
I glance at his impressive erection, which is tenting the sheet.
“Considering the way you were rubbing up against me,” he says, “that shouldn’t be a surprise.”
“I was sleeping. How could I have been rubbing up against you?”
“Very seductively. I thought you were having a sex dream.”
I feel my face heat up. No need to tell him my dreams have been getting somewhat erotic lately.
Since I know quite well he’ll see the blush, I shove away from him and sidle out the other side of the bed. He’s still watching me as I head to the bathroom. I shoot him a glower.
“Quit it,” I say.
“If you’re still turned on, I can help you with that.” He looks pointedly at his cock.
“I am not still turned on.” I’m getting turned on, but don’t see the need to tell him that either. At least, not now with him starting to look smug.
He wraps his hand around his erection and starts to stroke himself—the sight of which he knows very well makes me hot in two seconds flat. Still I manage to resist him, just to make a point, and go into the bathroom.
In the shower, I have to bring myself to a quick, strong orgasm to take the edge off, because yes, I did have a sexy dream even if I can’t remember the details. After the vibrations ebb, I feel silly for masturbating when I’ve got Dean hard and ready just on the other side of the door.
Must be pregnancy hormones making me irrational, because otherwise I’d be out there bouncing up and down on him like he’s a carnival ride.
When I step out of the shower, I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror. I turn sideways and squint, wondering if my belly is getting rounder and my breasts are getting bigger or if I’m just imagining it.
I do a quick calculation in my head. Almost nine weeks. In another three weeks, I’ll already be in my second trimester.
Can’t wrap my brain around that.
I put my robe on and open the door. Dean has already finished himself off and is lying there with his eyes closed, looking relaxed and sleepy.
“You done?” I lean a shoulder against the doorjamb.
“I’ll be ready to go again in a few, if you’re interested.”
“Maybe later.”
He opens his eyes to look at me. “Playing hard to get, pretty lady.”
“You didn’t seem to have any trouble without me.”
“I had a lot of trouble without you.”
A twinge tightens my heart. I push away from the doorjamb and go to stroke my fingers through his messy hair.
“You won’t be without me again,” I promise.
He grasps my wrist and presses a kiss against my palm before climbing off the bed. After he goes into the bathroom, I stretch out on his side of the bed. The sheets are warm from his body heat. I rest a hand on my stomach and try to imagine what it will feel like when the baby starts to move.
Dean comes out of the bathroom and crawls onto the bed beside me, lowering his head for a lovely, minty kiss before flopping onto his back. I shift to one elbow and run my hand over his chest.
“You know, I was thinking…” I begin.
“Uh oh,” he mutters.
I pinch his arm. “I was thinking about us. That we should do something really romantic to prove our commitment again. Like take a hot-air balloon ride or enroll in ballroom dancing lessons.”
“Can’t we just rent a cabin for a week and screw like rabbits?”
I roll my eyes, though the idea is not without appeal. “I mean, in addition to that.”
“Oh.”
“We could renew our vows, but I think that’s a little clichéd.”
“Mmm.”
“Maybe we could get matching tattoos,” I suggest.
“Of what? A ball and chain?”
“Dean!” I smack him with a pillow.
He laughs and pushes the pillow aside, then grabs my ass and hauls me on top of him.
“Give me a kiss, beauty.”
“No way,” I huff, even though the sensation of his lean, muscular body beneath mine is getting me all tingly again. “You’re mocking a meaningful declaration of our love. Why should I kiss you?”
“Because I make you hot.”
Damn. He slides his hands underneath my robe and rubs my ass in circles, the heat of his palms burning through my cotton panties. It takes a superhuman effort to give him a quick peck on the lips and move off the bed.
“Hey.” He frowns at me.
“Try a little harder next time, professor.” I head for the closet. “Besides, it’s almost time for work, and I need to change.”
“You don’t need to change. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
I toss him a smile over my shoulder, unsurprised to find him looking pleased with himself for that remark. Warm inside, I dress in a skirt and blouse, then rummage around for a pair of shoes. Dean’s cell phone rings. He groans, but reaches to pick it up.
“Dean West.” After a pause, he pushes up to one elbow. “Paige?”
The sudden tension radiating from him arcs into me. The only Paige I know of is his younger sister, but she still lives out in California and they rarely speak anymore.
“Yeah… what?” Dean swings his legs to the floor and sits on the edge of the bed. “When?”
I hurry to sit beside him, suddenly alarmed. I press my hand to his back.
“Okay… hold on.” He grabs a pen from his nightstand and scribbles something on a piece of paper. “Thanks for calling. Be there as soon as I can.”
He puts the phone down and curses, his shoulders rigid.
“Dean?”
“Shit, Liv.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “I have to go to California. My father had a heart attack.”
“You’re staying here,” Dean orders.
He’s spent the last hour making phone calls to his sister and mother while trying to book a flight to California. He paces the bedroom like a caged tiger.
“You’re pregnant, for God’s sake,” he says.
“I know that.” I fold a blue skirt and put it in my suitcase. “But Dr. Nolan said it’s perfectly safe to travel. And if you think I’m letting you go to California alone, you’re wrong.”
“Dammit, Liv, I have to stay at my parents’ house, and you know what a—”
“Dean, I can handle it.”
“I don’t want you to!” He stops in the middle of the room to glare at me, his fists clenching at his sides. “Why do you think I’ve gone to California alone since we got married? So you won’t have to deal with my fucked-up family.”
My chest constricts. It’s true that I haven’t protested before. He’s visited his family alone because he wanted to protect me, just like he does now, and I was happy to let him. For a long time, it felt good to let Dean shield me whenever he could and soothe me on the rare occasions when he couldn’t.
Except now, our lives have changed so much. I’ve changed. So has he, even if he doesn’t quite know it yet. There’s still a long path ahead of us, and I need to start on it by not being afraid.
“Dean, when things happen, we need to deal with them together.”
“When things happen with us, yeah.” His features tighten. “Not with my family.”
“Your family is part of you.” I put a pair of jeans in my suitcase. “It’s about time I accept that too.”
“Do you even remember what happened the last time you saw them?”
Oh, I remember.
I straighten to look at him. “You can’t protect me from everything. Least of all our marriage.”
I smother the urge to remind him that his need to protect me is what made him lie about his previous marriage. And then that became one of the things that broke us apart.
The phone rings. Dean swears and grabs the receiver. “Yeah, Paige.”
He stalks from the bedroom, his voice a tense rumble as he speaks to his sister again. I hurry to finish packing my things, then take some of Dean’s shirts from the closet and start to fold them.
“All the flights for the day are booked, so I’m going to have to fly standby,” he says into the phone as he returns to the bedroom. “Otherwise earliest is tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know. Call me if anything changes.”
He tosses the phone onto the bed. Tension stiffens his jaw.
I pause in the motion of putting his jeans into his suitcase. “What?”
“She says Archer is coming back.”
My stomach twists sharply at the mention of his younger brother. “Is he there yet?”
“He’s driving up from LA.” Bitterness cuts his voice. “Supposed to get in soon.”
“Any news about your father?”
“Same as before. Stable but critical. They expect he’ll need surgery.”
He rubs his face. Lines of exhaustion already bracket his mouth and eyes, and we haven’t even booked a flight yet.
I approach him and put my hand on his chest. His heartbeat races against my palm. I can sense all the emotions boiling inside him—the fear of failure, the guilt that he has spent his life battling.
“Dean, please don’t fight me on this.” After all we’ve been through in recent months, I have a lot to prove to both him and myself. “If it were the other way around, would you let me go alone?”
He doesn’t respond, his mouth compressing. I slide my hand down to rub his flat belly.
“You need me,” I say. “Let me be there for you.”
“I don’t want you to be there!” He strides to the other side of the room.
“They can’t hurt us, Dean.”
“No, they can’t hurt us, but they can still hurt you.”
“Not if I don’t let them.”
“You know what it’s like, Liv,” he snaps. “Look, it’s my fault you’re pregnant, and if—”
“Your fault?” Shock floods me. “It’s your fault that I’m pregnant?”
Dean turns to stare at me, a flare of guilt crossing his features. “I didn’t mean—”
I hold up both hands to stop his denial. It’s too late.
This is it—the confirmation of a horrible fear I didn’t want to acknowledge.
“You think this is a mistake.” I can hardly get the words past my tight throat. “And you’re blaming yourself.”
“We didn’t plan it, Liv!” Dean paces to the closet and back. “I didn’t put a condom on, so yeah, it’s my fault. I never forget to wear a condom.”
I sink onto the edge of the bed. A fiery memory shoves at me. “You did once. That last time at your parents’ house.”
He stops for a second, struck by the same intense recollection. He bites out a curse. “We were lucky that time.”
“But not this time.”
“Liv, that’s not what I meant! The night you got pregnant… I wasn’t thinking straight, and I forgot to put on a damn condom. It was an accident, not a mistake.”
Mistake. Mistake.
The word ricochets around my head. I hear my mother’s voice, disembodied, weary from living. “You were a mistake, Liv. I never should have had you.”
Old emotions churn inside me, snarled and messy. I stare at my hands. I can hear Dean’s breathing from across the room. His frustration is a black haze.
“I’m… there shouldn’t be any blame.” I struggle to put my thoughts into order. “A pregnancy… I mean, we have this child, and you… you’re going into this with this idea that it wasn’t supposed to happen…”
“Liv, I’m trying to buy a house because we’re having a baby. I’m thinking about our finances, investment and legal strategies. I’ve even looked into college savings programs. I’m going into this with the idea that we have to plan for the future.”
“But how do you feel about all that, Dean? If you think you somehow failed—”
“Liv.” Dean crosses the room and kneels in front of me. He puts his hands over mine. “Liv, look at me.”
I look up through the veil of hair that has fallen across either side of my face. His eyes blaze into mine, determination steeling his features. He grips my shoulders.
“I’ve never…” His voice is rough. “I’ve never felt that anything involving you was a failure. Believe me.”
I’m supposed to fall into his arms and let him hold me. I’m supposed to press my head against his chest and listen to his deep-voiced reassurances, feel them soothe all the doubts blistering in my head. I’m supposed to say yes, yes, of course I believe you…
An ache fills my heart. He’ll reassure me, I’ll feel better, then he’ll go to California alone while I stay in our cozy apartment, sheltered from all the cold hostility and anger winding through the West family.
That’s the way it works for the strong, protective man and the good girl who doesn’t cause trouble for anyone.
I stare into my husband’s eyes. Such a beautiful brown. The color of chocolate, mahogany, cinnamon. I can see him waiting for my surrender.
“I can’t believe you,” I whisper.
“What?” A shutter crashes over his expression. He lets go of me.
“We’ve spent the past four months failing miserably.” I force the words out, broken but clear. “We let each other down. We made mistakes. We hurt each other.”
He shoves to his feet and stalks away. “That’s over. We’re done with that.”
“Are we? Then you need to stop thinking that every time something doesn’t go according to plan, it’s a mistake. You need to stop thinking you failed me.”
“You just fucking told me that I did fail you!” Dean retorts. “You told me years ago that you didn’t want children. Birth control was my responsibility. I was the one using condoms.”
“Dean, for the love of God, birth control was both of our responsibilities. And I was the one who wanted to at least talk about the idea of children. To maybe reconsider. Just because we never came to an agreement doesn’t mean we totally screwed up. An unplanned pregnancy doesn’t equal failure.”
Does it?
I shake off that thought and stand. I will trust my instincts. I will trust myself. A new resolve straightens my spine.
“We’re in this together, Dean. Together. It’s no one’s fault. There’s no blame to throw around.” I take a hard breath, knowing he has to hear the unvarnished truth. “There is no way to protect me.”
He backs up, as if my words have hit him.
“I have to be there with you the entire time,” I persist. “I have to. I want to help your family, if I can. I want your parents to accept the fact that I’m your wife. I want them all to understand that we’re together.”
We need to understand that too, this new definition of together.
Dean drags a hand through his hair, his body corded with strain. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to stay here.” I spread my hands out. Time is running short. We need to get to the airport. He needs to get to California. My heart is pounding.
“If you leave without me, Dean, I’ll just get another flight tomorrow and follow you.” I snap my suitcase closed. “One way or another, I’m going.”
He curses sharply, then turns to go into the living room. A few seconds later, I hear him talking on the phone again.
I turn on my laptop and send emails to Allie, my supervisor Samantha at the Mirror Lake Historical Museum, and the head of circulation at the library where I volunteer. I tell them all I have a family emergency and will let them know as soon as possible when I expect to return.
I call Kelsey and leave a message asking her to collect our mail and water my plants. I take Liv’s Manifesto from my desk and put it into my satchel, then get my coat.
Dean is tense with anger and doesn’t speak to me as we head to the airport. It hasn’t snowed in a few days, so the roads are clear. Though there’s not much traffic, it takes almost an hour and a half to get to the airport. The motion of the car makes my stomach roll with queasiness. I inhale a few deep breaths and try to ignore the unpleasant sensation.
At the airport, Dean forks over way too much money for two available first-class seats, and we go through the process of boarding the plane. Before the plane leaves the gate, I take out my notebook and add to my manifesto:
Then I turn to a fresh page and draw a picture:
I tear the page off, fold it, and pass it to Dean. He opens it and gives me a sideways glance. He takes my pen, scribbles a response, and passes the note back:
“Why did you draw Michigan?” I ask.
He frowns. “It’s a mitten.”
“Oh.” I peer at the picture again. “Sure it is.”
“I’m about ready to spank you,” he mutters.
“Promises, promises.”
I smile at him, warmed by the heat flaring in his eyes. I put the note in my satchel and settle back, tucking my hand into his. His fingers close around mine.
Though takeoff is uneventful, the movement and altitude jolt my stomach again. Less than a quarter of the way into the flight, my nausea surges with a force that catches me off guard. I push past Dean and make it to the bathroom in time to retch into the toilet. My throat burns. I rinse out my mouth and wipe my face with a wet paper towel.
“You okay?” Dean is watching me with concern when I emerge.
“Must be motion sickness.” I sink into my seat again and close my eyes. I hear Dean speaking with the flight attendant, who then brings me some crackers and ginger ale.
I press a hand to my chest and breathe. The stale air worsens the sick feeling, and the smell of flowery perfume from one of the female passengers sticks in my nose. My stomach tumbles.
“What do you need?” Dean pushes my hair away from my damp forehead.
“Nothing. Just keep the barf bag handy.”
I spend the rest of the four-hour flight battling the nausea and reconsidering my insistence on coming along. When the plane begins to descend, the queasiness intensifies, but I’m so relieved at the idea of landing that I manage to withstand it.
When we get off the plane at San Jose airport, I go into the bathroom to splash water on my face and freshen up. After reassuring Dean that I feel better with my feet on the ground again, we collect our bags and get a rental car.
The brightness of the California sun is a shock after the winter cold of Mirror Lake. There’s a chill in the air, but everything is glassy and green. A haze hangs over the hills surrounding Silicon Valley. Traffic snakes over the multilane freeways.
The West family home is located between the wealthy suburbs of Saratoga and Los Gatos. A palatial Spanish-style house on a lot flourishing with palm and desert trees, it exudes status and money. The low-pitched, red-tile roof contrasts with stucco siding and arched windows, and lush, green plants grow along the front walkway.
Dean pulls the rental car next to a sedan parked on the circular drive.
“Don’t know whose car that is,” he says.
I try to quash a new wave of unease. I hope it’s not Archer West.
Not likely, I tell myself. I haven’t seen Dean’s younger brother in five years, but I know that a blue sedan is not his style.
Dean pushes the door open and dumps our suitcases in the foyer. The sound of running water comes from the kitchen. I follow him inside.
He stops abruptly in the kitchen doorway. Tension lances through him. I put my hand on his back and pause beside him. Cold silence vibrates in the air. He moves to block my view of the kitchen. I peer around his shoulder.
A tall, blond woman is standing by the sink.
My heart plummets to my toes. I know exactly who this woman is. She turns her head to meet my gaze, and I find myself staring at my husband’s ex-wife.