CHAPTER THREE
OLIVIA
I HIT THE PUBLISH BUTTON ON my latest blog entry, “What the Truck?,” which is an unvarnished recounting of Nicholas’s meltdown and my ruined attempt at a welcome home dinner for Dean.
I’d started my Liv in Wonderland blog as an extension of the café website, using it to describe our birthday parties, community outreach, and to post pictures of our dishes and desserts. But after Nicholas was born, my blog posts started becoming more personal and focused on the struggles of motherhood and work.
And while I keep certain things private—I’d never get into my lackluster sex drive, for one thing—the blog has become popular among other working mothers, who leave comments sympathizing with me, thanking me, and offering advice.
While I have plenty of real-life friends who are also mothers, some of whom also read the blog, it’s fun to have a little community of online “fans,” and I’ve even started earning a bit of extra money from advertising revenue.
I shut down my laptop and take out the Italian notebook Dean brought back for me. I open to the first page and write:
Though the book is so beautiful I feel like I should be using it to write a masterpiece rather than a To Do list, frankly that list is a mile long. And it has to start with my husband. Guilt nudges at me.
Even though Dean has been the model of patient understanding for two years, the discovery of his rather frequent self-pleasuring, not to mention the disaster of my badly faked orgasm, has made me realize I need to do something about this.
It’s definitely time. Maybe I need to stop making excuses about being tired and overworked. I’ve lost all—okay, most—of my pregnancy weight, I feel pretty good about myself, I think about sex practically every time I look at my hot husband, and I miss the intimacy we once had. Plus I finally found a birth control pill that doesn’t give me any side-effects, which means we can be entirely spontaneous.
Sex has always been an intensely powerful part of our relationship, but it also encompasses so much more than just physical pleasure. It’s intrinsic to what we are to each other, a strong, glittering thread throughout our history, the singular, brilliant place where nothing exists except us.
Now with both of us so busy, and especially before we start resenting each other’s work, we need to find that place again. And I’m the one with the map. Not to mention, I’m still curious about Professor West’s hot masturbatory fantasies.
I add to the page:
Surely that will get us back on track, though I’d better have some other plans too. I do some Internet searching for how to revive one’s sex life. Maybe I should even start a Pinterest board of sexy images and ideas. My boards are all about home decorating, elaborate cakes and baked goods, craft projects, and a million “good mothering” tips and ideas. I’ve clearly forgotten one of my main priorities.
I log in to my Pinterest site, create a new board, and pin a few erotic pictures up. Before I can peruse a 31 Days of Hot Sex website, I hear Nicholas calling from the living room that his cartoon is over.
I switch my brain to Mommy Mode and bring Nicholas upstairs to get ready. I don’t have a full work shift today, but I stop at the café to get some paperwork done.
I love the café—it’s a bright, airy fun place with murals covering the walls, diamond-patterned upholstery, and a potted topiary pathway leading up the “yellow brick road” staircase to the Wizard of Oz rooms.
Over the years, our clientele has mostly been mothers with children and families on weekends. Teenagers drop in often, their coolness belied by their half-smiles of pleasure as they’re served edible teacups and peppermint twist cupcakes, and elderly ladies come in regularly for our Mad Hatter high tea.
I’m so proud of what Allie and I have created together, despite some bumps in the road. Not only is the café successful as a family-favorite place of fun, whimsical warmth and good food, we’ve also become actively involved in the community through our charity work, participation in the local theater festival, collaborations with the Historical Society, and most recently our work for the Mirror Lake Bicentennial Festival.
After settling Nicholas in the playpen I keep in our office, I sit at the desk to pay bills and figure out the work schedule.
“Hey, Liv, guess what?” Allie stops in the doorway of the office, her curly red hair caught up in a high ponytail. “A guy from Edison Power stopped by earlier, wanting to talk to us about catering their company picnic in August. It would be incredible for publicity, and it might bring in enough money that we could afford a deposit for the birthday party truck.”
“Edison Power? I just sent them the sponsorship package for the festival.” I pull open my festival file. “What was his name?”
“Mike Harrison, head of marketing. He also said his wife wants to have their daughter’s fifth birthday party here, but I don’t think we can pull it off. Mrs. Harrison wants her daughter’s entire class invited, plus her other friends. We can’t handle that many kids and our regular customers at the same time, and we already have reservations for that day so we can’t close for a private party.”
“Maybe we can double our staff for a few hours.” I open the birthday party calendar and staff schedule. “If we can host a great birthday party for Mike Harrison’s daughter, Edison might be even more inclined to sponsor the festival.”
“And let us cater their picnic,” Allie adds. “But we don’t have the capacity for thirty-one kids in the party room. Plus a lot of the parents might stay.”
“We’ll use the Kansas Farm room too,” I say. “And the outdoor terrace. This is great, Allie. We’ll show them how good we are and establish a relationship. Do we have his wife’s contact info?”
Allie digs in her apron pocket for the party request form and hands it to me. “I already emailed her this morning and told her we couldn’t host that many kids.”
“Allie, we can do it.” I unfold the paper. “When did she schedule the party?”
“Three weeks from Saturday. She wants the full Wizard of Oz package.”
“I’ll call her.” I reach for the phone. “If we plan for enough staff, we’ll be fine.”
A hint of irritation radiates from Allie. I try to ignore it as I leave a message on Monica Harrison’s voicemail.
“It’s not just about the café, Allie,” I say apologetically, putting the phone back onto the receiver. “I didn’t realize I’d be responsible for finding sponsors for the festival. But I asked Edison Power to be our highest level sponsor, and if they agree, we’ll be able to have a children’s stage at the festival and hire Slice of Pie to play.”
“But the festival has nothing to do with the café,” Allie says with a frown.
“Look, I’ll handle it all,” I promise her. “And I won’t schedule anything without your okay.”
She shrugs, not looking entirely convinced or happy. Regret twists my insides as I watch her turn and leave the office. Since becoming partners, Allie and I have disagreed on things over the past couple of years, but we’ve always managed to reach a compromise and never stayed irritated with each other for very long.
I start to go after her with the intention of making amends when the phone rings.
“Wonderland Café,” I say into the receiver. “This is Liv.”
“Liv, it’s Monica Harrison. You left a message about my daughter Becky’s birthday party?”
“Yes, thanks for calling me back. I wanted to tell you we’d be happy to host it for you, and after talking to my partner, we found a way to accommodate your entire guest list.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you so much. Becky will be thrilled.”
I write down the details of her request and email them to Allie before gathering my things to leave. I get Nicholas into his car seat and text Dean, asking if he can join us for lunch. When he doesn’t respond right away, I drive to King’s University.
The campus is milling with people walking to and from class, boots sloshing in the melting spring slush. The grass of the quad is starting to turn green, the bare trees budding with leaves.
The door to Dean’s office in the history department is half-open. His baritone voice drifts into the corridor, along with another man’s accented tone. They’re talking about the Altopascio monastery and the damage from the earthquake.
I stop outside the office, taking Nicholas out of the stroller before he starts fussing. A young woman with brown, curly hair caught back in a bun comes down the hall toward me, her stride purposeful and a stack of folders in her arm.
After a second, I realize it’s Jessica Burke, Dean’s whip-smart, former grad student who earned her PhD a few years ago and has since been doing postdoc work in England.
“Jessica?” I stop and wave at her. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”
“Oh, hey, Liv.” She approaches to give me a quick hug. “I just got in a few days ago. My father passed away last week.”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” Sadness flashes behind her attempt at a smile. “He was sick for awhile, so it wasn’t unexpected but still...”
She shakes her head and turns her attention to Nicholas. “Wow, look at how big Nicholas is getting. I’ve been keeping up with him by reading your Liv in Wonderland blog. He’s adorable.”
“Thanks. If there’s anything you need or anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
“Actually, I might be on the lookout for a part-time job,” Jessica says, letting Nicholas wrap his fist around her thumb. “My postdoc at the University of Leeds is over, so I’m looking for a professorship somewhere. I’m also hoping to be able to stay with my mom for awhile since she’s pretty broken up about my dad. I’d like to help her out as much as I can.”
“Of course. Are you looking for a professorship around here?”
“If I can find one, but my chances are slim just because all the positions are already taken,” she replies. “Dean is keeping an eye out for me, and he’s going to spread the word to other state universities.”
Before I can respond, the door of Dean’s office opens wider.
“You’d be an excellent fit for the WHC, Dean.” The other man’s lightly accented voice carries into the corridor. “I don’t have to tell you that opportunities like this don’t come around very often.”
“I appreciate that, Hans,” Dean says. “And I’m honored that you’d think of me.”
Something in his voice indicates he really is honored. I wonder what opportunity they’re talking about.
The two men step into the corridor. Hans is a slender, blond man wearing a well-cut gray suit and small, round glasses. He looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t immediately place him.
“Hey, Liv.” Dean catches sight of me and lifts his hand in greeting. “What are you doing here?”
“We thought we’d see if you were free for lunch.” I walk toward him as Nicholas starts to squirm, reaching out for his father.
“Hans, Jessica, and I are heading to a meeting over at SciTech,” Dean explains, hefting Nicholas into his arms. “They’re helping us with analyzing the seismic reports from the quake. Hans, this is my wife Olivia. Liv, Hans Klasen. You met at the Medieval Studies conference a few years ago. Hans is the director of UNESCO’s World Heritage Center.”
“Of course.” The pieces click, and I hold out my hand in greeting. “Pleasure to see you again, Dr. Klasen.”
“Hans, please. You as well.” He indicates Nicholas with a smile. “You hadn’t had your son last time we met. He is two years now?”
“He turned two in January, yes.”
“Beautiful child.” Hans touches Nicholas’s brown hair. “Strong resemblance to his mother.”
“Lucky kid, huh?” Dean asks, winking at me.
“Indeed,” Hans agrees.
“Charmers,” I remark, flattered nonetheless. “Hans, how long are you staying? Maybe both you and Jessica can come for dinner one night.”
“I’m afraid I leave tomorrow for Washington, DC,” Hans explains. “I stopped for a lecture in Chicago and the SciTech meeting. Also to convince your husband to come for the interviews.”
I swing my gaze to Dean. “Interviews for what?”
He shakes his head. Jessica glances from me to Dean and touches Hans on the arm.
“I think Professor Hunter was looking for you,” she tells him. “We still have a few minutes before we need to leave.”
They both walk toward the main office. Dean hands Nicholas back to me.
“Interviews for what?” I repeat.
“Hans thinks I’d be a good fit for an open position at the World Heritage Center,” Dean says.
I blink in surprise. I know Dean’s professional reputation is immense, extending beyond the scope of academia, but strangely enough, not once have I considered the possibility that another institution might want to lure him away from King’s University.
“What’s the job?” I ask.
“Assistant director.”
Assistant director of the World Heritage Center, a division of the United Nations?
Before I can process that astonishing idea, Nicholas whines and reaches for the sippy cup in his stroller. I turn, getting him settled and giving myself a second to regain my composure.
I love Dr. Dean West, summa cum laude from Harvard, the brilliant professor, the distinguished scholar and archeologist, but I don’t often think of him that way. To me, he’s far more often my warm, sexy husband, the doting father of our son, my best friend who brings home my favorite ice cream just because he thought I’d like some. The man who puts his hand on my lower back to guide me with such ease, as if I’m an extension of his body.
So it’s something of a shock to remember just how internationally renowned he is, and to realize other people want him.
“So you’re… you applied for the job?” I ask.
“No.” His expression pensive, Dean brushes his hand over Nicholas’s hair. “But the WHC knows my credentials. Last week when I was in Italy, Hans mentioned the board was eyeing me for the assistant director position.”
“And he asked you to take it?”
“He asked me to interview for it.” Dean pushes back his cuff to glance at his watch as Hans and Jessica round the corner from the office.
I step away from him, taking hold of the handle of Nicholas’s stroller.
“I’m sorry, we’ve got to get going.” Dean leans in to brush a kiss across my cheek. ““I’ll tell you more about it later, okay?”
I nod, but something inside me rustles with unease.
After Nicholas is asleep that evening, I take the baby monitor up to the Butterfly House’s tower room, which is now Dean’s home office. It’s one of our favorite rooms—a circular space lined with windows that show off a view of the lake and downtown, all nestled within the embrace of the mountains.
Last year during the final phase of renovations, Dean put in oak shelves, which are now packed with hundreds of books, and I created a little sitting area with a comfy sofa and chairs near the wood-burning stove that radiates a cozy warmth in winter. The wall space is lined with framed family photos and various prints of medieval manuscripts. Dean is seated at his big desk, which is cluttered with books and papers.
I gesture to the clock. “Half past later.”
He turns to face me as I sink into an oversized chair beside the window and put the baby monitor on the side-table.
“So what did you tell Hans when he said they were considering you for the job?” I ask.
“I was going to say no,” Dean says, “but since we’re trying to get the World Heritage Center to put the monastery on the list of protected sites, I knew it wouldn’t be a good move politically to turn them down right away.”
“What does the position entail?”
“Analysis and evaluation of historic sites in different countries,” Dean says. “The assistant director determines which sites should be listed by the WHC, how to protect sites in war zones, assesses landscapes, natural properties, conservation. Whoever takes the job has to get involved with cultural areas far beyond medieval sites. They’d chair the annual convention, deal with lobbying, fundraising, United Nations meetings.”
“You’d be an international diplomat.” I feel like I just said, “You’d be president of the United States.”
“I went to college to be a historian, not a diplomat.”
“You went to college to learn how to study and preserve history,” I remind him. “And this sounds like you could do that on an international level. Actively, too… working with the physical part of history like you’ve been doing at Altopascio. I know how much you love that.”
“I also love living in Mirror Lake and teaching at King’s,” Dean says. “It would be more of a change than we can make.”
“Why?”
“We’d have to move to Paris.”
My breath catches in my throat.
Paris. Sweet, hot memories fill my heart and mind.
Despite my nomadic childhood with my mother, I had never been out of the United States before Dean whisked me off to France almost seven years ago for our wedding and honeymoon. We’d gotten married at the family villa of a friend of Dean’s before spending a soft-edged, intense month together in Paris. I’d felt like I was floating the entire time, as the world unfolded all the dreams I’d kept secret in my heart.
Even now the word Paris sparks thoughts of the museums and art galleries where paintings glow like jewels, the cafés with round tables and wicker chairs, the sandcastle façade of Notre Dame cathedral guarded by looming gargoyles, the lamp-lit bridges arching over the Seine. Buttery madeleines, fresh fruit at the outdoor markets, rich wine from Provençal vineyards…
Dean, carrying a fragrant bag laden with fluffy croissants, closing the door of the apartment that had once been an artist’s atelier. Flowers blooming from window boxes, framing views of rooftops and chimney stacks, tall oak doors embellished with gold molding, scuffed wooden floors.
My new husband. My husband.
I stare at him now—the thick hair falling over his forehead, the stubbled planes of his jaw and dark-lashed eyes. He’s wearing worn jeans and an old King’s T-shirt, his feet planted on the hardwood floor in a solid stance that looks as if he’s holding the earth in place. As if he’s holding our life here in place.
“Move to Paris?” I repeat weakly.
“If I were even offered the job, I’d have to work from the World Heritage Center headquarters,” he says. “But it wouldn’t only mean a move to France. It’s a position that requires global mobility, moving wherever the WHC sends me. Sometimes only for a few weeks or months. We’d have to completely uproot our lives.”
“Do you think you’d ever consider it?” I ask.
“No. It would be a full career move, not something I could do part-time from King’s, like I’m doing with the Altopascio dig. I’d have to resign from King’s and start all over again.”
Resign.
The word sticks me like a pin. He resigned from King’s three years ago—for no other reason than to protect me from the hideous fallout of a false sexual harassment allegation. And while the university asked him to rescind the request and keep his job—later rewarding him with full tenure—the very idea of Dean leaving the department he created elicits a wave of apprehension.
I can’t imagine him resigning from King’s again, not even for a good reason rather than a disgraceful one. In the few years since he started the Medieval Studies program, it’s developed a widespread reputation for being one of the best and fastest growing history programs in the country.
Move. Resign. Start over.
“Um… wow.” I can’t think of anything else to say. Because… wow.
Dean shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I appreciate the interest, but we could never make it work.”
Of course we couldn’t. But I wonder how he’s figured that out in the week since Hans told him about it.
Though I’m aware of a faint relief that Dean doesn’t seem interested, it’s not like him to do something without considering all the angles first. I mean, this is the man who looked up the university rules before he even asked me out, just to make sure there would be no repercussions if a professor dated a student.
“Do you think you’d want the job?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter if I want it or not,” he replies. “We have Nicholas, I have tenure at King’s, you’re busy running the café and all your other activities… Why would we even consider moving anywhere?”
“So what’s this business about the interviews?”
“That’s what Hans and I were talking about,” Dean explains. “Once a year, the World Heritage representatives meet at a United Nations Assembly to vote on which sites to add to the protected list. With the Altopascio proposal still under consideration and the assembly meeting in July, it wouldn’t look good if I turned down the job right away. If the representatives think I’m still a strong candidate, that will help our case. And with the earthquake damage, the site needs all the help it can get.”
I know Dean wouldn’t hesitate to pick his family over any professional opportunity. I also know he’s not the kind of man to sit complacently in one place—he’s a natural leader who likes to move, to do things, to effect change. And what greater influence could he have than to actively help save historic sites throughout the world?
I gaze out the window at the glassy darkness. Condensation clings to the edges, framing my image. Sometimes when I see my reflection, I see Liv the confident woman, the capable mother, and other times I still see a ten-year-old, uncertain girl.
Those glimpses make me realize that girl will always be a part of me. I wonder if that’s true for everyone—do we all still sometimes feel like the children we no longer are?
I look away from the window at my tall, strong husband. It’s in him too—the twelve-year-old child who fought with his brother and divulged the secret that tore them apart. The son whose father pushed him excessively to be the best. The young man who believed in chivalrous knights and bold, momentous quests.
The boy who dreamed of traveling to far-flung, exotic places, seeking adventure, leading the troops to victory.
Discomfort hits me. It’s also not like Dean to pretend to be interested in something he’s not.
“So what’s going to happen when the WHC committee discovers you’re not really considering the job anyway?” I ask.
“Nothing’s going to happen.” A crease appears between his eyebrows. “I don’t like not being able to say no right away, but I also don’t like the idea of doing something that could thwart all the progress we’ve made.”
“But they’ll think you’re interested in the job,” I point out. “That sounds a bit…”
Unethical. I don’t like that either. Nothing about Dean has ever been unethical. Just the opposite.
“I’m trying to save an important site that’s been badly damaged by an earthquake and is now in danger of being destroyed,” Dean says in a measured tone, faint tension lacing through his body. “And I’m not hiding my position. Everyone knows I’m advocating for the site.”
And that’s just one of the reasons they want him. The World Heritage committee can easily see how Professor Dean West’s undeterred advocacy and persistence on behalf of a medieval monastery could extend to sites around the world.
I walk to the other side of the tower and look out the window that affords a view of downtown.
It’s silly, I know, this feeling of something perilously close to fear. It also reminds me that no matter what else we do in life, some things run so deep they’re engraved in our bones. I don’t like instability, restlessness, unpredictability. I crave safety and permanence.
That’s just one of the reasons I love the lake—the water moves and shifts, but stays in one place, encircled by trees whose roots run deep into the earth, by rocks and boulders that have been there for centuries, by a town that was founded two hundred years ago by people who were looking for a home.
The lights of Avalon Street shine in the darkness like the stars of the Milky Way. Our little apartment is down there somewhere, the place where I’d be reading in a cushy chair by the French doors when Dean would come in from his bedroom office, rumpled and scruffy, kiss the top of my head, and tell me he was going to the corner bakery to pick up some doughnuts.
“Liv, there are dozens of other candidates being considered for the job,” he says from behind me. “A request to interview isn’t a job offer.”
“What if it turns into one?”
“I’d say no. Hans already knows I’m not going to uproot our lives.”
Because we both have everything we always wanted right here. Right now.
Neither of us has to say those words aloud.
We’ve worked so hard. We have so much. I’d been so over-the-moon happy when Dean was offered tenure at King’s almost three years ago, solidifying his position there and ensuring we could stay in Mirror Lake as long as we wanted.
Never did I imagine that either of us might one day not want to stay.
But if I block out everything else, I can see this for Dean, like a single, crystal-clear star. It’s in his nature, the very core of him. Everything he is centers around his fierce, basic urge to protect.
Since becoming a mother, I’ve understood Dean’s protectiveness on levels I never had before, solidifying the bone-deep knowledge that I would do anything to keep my child safe.
Now, as I think of Professor Dean West merging his intense, protective instinct with his love of history, it’s painfully obvious that no one on earth is more perfectly suited to advocate for the global protection of historic sites.
I swallow hard. “I wouldn’t want you to miss an incredible opportunity.”
“I’m not missing anything,” he says. “We have a life here I don’t want to change.”
And yet he didn’t say he doesn’t want the job.
I let out my breath in a long rush. I have never understood the meaning of the word wanderlust. I was not the college girl who had dreams of backpacking through Europe or South America. I will never understand Kelsey’s love of packing her truck and hitting the road for weeks on end, chasing storms and sleeping in roadside motels.
My travel journey has been an inward one, mapping out all the rivers and valleys of my soul, finding my way, charting new territory toward a place that I could call home.
I’ve done that now. I know who I am. I have bloomed right where I was planted.
And while change has always been a nerve-wracking concept for me—as a child, change never led to anything good, and it’s the thing that has caused the most rifts between me and my husband—I’m not as afraid of it as I used to be.
But for me, change is having a toddler who is learning something new every minute, restoring and moving to the Butterfly House, figuring out ways for the café to reach into the community, visiting Altopascio one day, enrolling Nicholas in preschool, trusting my ability to plan a town festival.
It’s not giving up what we’ve built here and moving overseas.
“If we were living back on Avalon Street,” I say. “In our little apartment, just you and me, no child yet… would you want the job?”
“Not if you didn’t want to consider moving.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He pushes to his feet and goes to the window, looking out at the expansive view of the lights. His profile is like that of an ideal king or emperor—strong and beautiful with a straight nose and angular jaw. His hair is getting longer, in need of a cut, the thick strands brushing the back of his collar.
“You spent enough time supporting me when we were first married,” he says. “I wouldn’t ask you to uproot your life again, especially on this scale.”
The unease inside me intensifies, like a wave building slowly beneath the surface of the ocean.
“That’s still not an answer, Dean.”
He drags a hand through his hair with a sigh. “I don’t know, Liv. If it were just the two of us living in the apartment, then I’d be a lot more inclined to want it.”
“Regardless of what we have here?”
“Liv, for almost ten years, I’ve never done a damn thing regardless of what we have.” A note of irritation edges his voice. “I’ve done everything with you—with us—in mind. Everything. So you’re asking a pointless question because it’s not just you and me anymore, and we don’t live in the apartment, and we do have a child to think about.”
“I’m trying to get at whether or not you’d even want the job,” I tell him.
“And I told you it doesn’t matter.”
I hold up my hands in a placating gesture. “Okay. I just don’t want you to make a decision you’ll later regret.”
“I’m beginning to regret having told you about this,” he mutters.
I blink. “Wow.”
Dean sighs, turning to cross the room to me. He brings his hands up to the sides of my neck.
“Liv, I just don’t see the point of this conversation,” he says. “Why are you even asking these questions? I need to do some political maneuvering, but do you want me to seriously consider pursuing the job?”
I stare at the warm, vulnerable hollow of his throat that is one of my favorite places to kiss. Of course I don’t want him to consider the job. I want him to stay happy right where he is. I don’t want him to notice another door on the other side of the room, away from us, and wonder what would happen if he walked through it.
“No,” I finally say. “I don’t want you to take a new job, Dean. Certainly not one in Europe. But I also don’t want to be the reason you turn down an amazing opportunity.”
“Liv, you’re the reason I do things, not the reason I don’t.” He brushes his thumb across my lower lip. “Why are you so upset?”
“I’m not upset. I’m proud of you.” The instant I say the words, I realize just how true they are. I put my hand against his jaw. “The United Nations, for heaven’s sake. I mean, I knew you were good, but I didn’t know you were that good.”
“Yes, you did.”
I smile. “Yes, I did.”
He pulls me against him, his strong arms encircling me in a warm, protective embrace. A rush of selfishness fills me so fast my throat aches. I can’t stand the thought of sharing my husband with anyone.
Since the day we met, this man has never looked beyond me, beyond us, beyond the fortress of our marriage that we’ve fought so hard to build and defend.
But what would happen if he did? What if my white knight decides to lower the drawbridge and let the rest of the world in?