CHAPTER FOURTEEN
October 16
HE WAS MARRIED BEFORE. MY HUSBAND was married before.
He was my first in so many ways—my first lover, my first love, my first confidante, my first and only hero—but he knew a lot of women before me and had had a lot of experience. And while that knowledge has needled me every now and then, I’ve always been secure in the fact that I am his first and only wife.
But, as it turns out, I’m not.
I’m not who I thought I was. I don’t even know how to process that. I can’t make any sense of it.
And I have no idea what to do with this new information about the Former Wife, so I’m trying very hard not to think about it. Not to think about her or what the hell happens next. Both Dean and I know how buried secrets can poison you, which is just one of the things that makes it so hard to accept that he hadn’t told me.
Suppressing a surge of pain, I put a mixing bowl on the counter of my cooking station and yank open the cutlery drawer.
“You can do it, Liv,” Tyler insists. He’s standing beside me, looking neat and professional in his chef’s jacket.
I glower at him. I feel like I’m in detention. Everyone else in class is steaming fish en papillote, but Tyler has instructed me—and me alone—to make a soufflé.
Yeah.
I’m still struggling with the knotted idea of Dean’s first marriage, still trying not to think about it while unable to make it go away, and now Tyler is singling me out to do something I really don’t want to do.
“But why?” I sound a little whiney. I’ve made three soufflés in the past six weeks and they’ve all been disastrous.
Tyler is firm—and oblivious to my inner turmoil. “I told you why. You need to know what it feels like to make a proper soufflé.”
“Tyler, I’m sure I can live quite happily without experiencing that thrilling emotion.”
“Maybe so. But I still want you to try.”
I mutter and grumble to make a point. I really want to wrap fish up in cute little paper bags, but because I am still a dutiful student who always does what the teacher asks, I get out a carton of eggs.
After another couple of seconds, I turn off my internal complainer and focus on the task. I complete the mise en place, measuring out the ingredients, grating the parmesan cheese, separating the eggs.
On a whim, I also chop scallions, cheddar cheese, and a few strips of cooked bacon. I mix butter and flour for the sauce, then whisk in hot milk and seasonings.
Once I get going, I lose track of time. Around me, the sounds of cooking rise in a pleasing symphony—chopping, sizzling, stirring. I beat the egg whites, slowly folding them into the sauce and rotating with the grated cheese. I pour the mixture into the ramekin.
My oven beeps to indicate the preheating is complete. I carefully slide the dish inside, then close the door and turn on the interior light so I can watch it cook. I alternate between cleaning my station and peering through the glass.
After my station is clean, I twist a dishtowel anxiously and crouch in front of the oven. The darned thing actually looks good. It’s rising.
Don’t fall. Don’t fall.
As I wait for the endless last five minutes of baking time, I realize Tyler hasn’t stopped by my station at all to check on my progress. I stand to look for him. He’s making his rounds to all the other stations, pointing out this and that.
He catches my eye. I feel like holding up my hands in a “Dude, what’s the deal?” gesture—after all, he made me attempt the soufflé again—but then he winks.
The timer dings. I almost hold my breath as I grab two oven mitts and open the door.
Oh my God.
It looks incredible. Puffy and golden-brown, my soufflé rises dramatically over the rim of the dish a good three inches, like a movie star preening for the camera. It’s at least doubled in volume. The heavenly aromas of cheese, bacon, and scallions drift to me in a wave of heat.
“Tyler.” My voice comes out a squeak. My heart pounds as I carefully transfer the dish to the counter. “Tyler!”
Now it’s a shriek because, Good Lord, the man has got to see this before it starts to collapse.
My fellow students all turn, and Tyler hurries to my station. The rest of the class follows.
Even though my pulse is racing, I don’t say anything. That goddamn perfect soufflé speaks for itself.
“Wow.” Charlotte sounds appropriately awed, and the others all murmur in impressed agreement.
I look at Tyler. He’s grinning like I just won a Michelin star.
“Not bad, eh, Chef?” I ask, unable to stop smiling.
“Not bad at all, Liv.” He’s looking at me rather than the soufflé.
“Did you put bacon in it?” George asks, sniffing the air around my station. “It smells wonderful.”
“Yes, I added bacon, scallions, and cheddar.”
“Why’d you do that?” Tyler asks.
“Just thought it would taste good.”
He nods with approval, then passes out forks to all of us. “You do the honors first, Liv.”
A twinge of nervousness goes through me, but really, how can something so beautiful taste bad? I dig my fork in, relieved that the inside is creamy but not runny. I take a bite and my mouth fills with the fluffy, delicate flavors of cheese and egg accompanied by the smoky tang of bacon.
I stare at Tyler.
“Well?” he asks.
“It’s good.” I wipe a crumb from my lower lip. “I think… I think it’s really good.”
He pushes his fork into the crust. One bite, and he doesn’t say anything. Then he takes a second bite. A heart-stopping instant later, his eyes warm and a smile spreads across his face.
“Excellent, Liv. Fluffy, cooked perfectly. Love the bacon.” He puts his fork down and steps aside to let the others try it.
My fellow students ooh and ahh with appreciation as they taste the soufflé, with most of them going back for seconds. There’s nothing left of it by the time they’ve finished. They all congratulate and praise me before returning to their stations.
“You did it, Liv.” Tyler puts his hand on my arm and squeezes. He looks incredibly proud. “You made the perfect soufflé. How do you feel?”
I don’t even think I can describe how I feel, which is a little embarrassing because, well, I made a soufflé. I didn’t save the world. Still…
“I feel pretty amazing,” I admit.
“Told you. And you did it all by yourself.”
“Is that why you didn’t come to my station at all tonight?”
“Yes, it is. You can cook, Liv. And well. You just needed the confidence to know you can do it.”
He gives me a little salute and returns to his instructor’s station. I finish cleaning up and drive home.
“I did it.” I drop my satchel on the table. “I made the perfect soufflé.”
“Did you bring it home?” Dean peers at me from behind the newspaper.
“No, we ate it all. That’s how good it was. It was fluffy, creamy, airy, tangy…”
“Hmm. Sounds like you.”
I flop down beside him on the sofa. “Really, I’ve never made anything like that before. I had no idea making a soufflé could be so rewarding. I added my own twist to the recipe, bacon and scallions…”
The paper rustles as he turns a page. I nudge him with my elbow.
“Dean, are you listening?”
“Yeah. Bacon. I’m getting hungry. Let’s order bacon burgers from Abernathy’s.”
Inspired by the idea, he pushes off the sofa and goes to the phone. I scowl at his back. Okay, so soufflés aren’t exactly on Professor Dean West’s radar, but a little enthusiasm would have been nice.
Not that I ever express much interest in Ottoman architecture or medieval apocalyptic imagery.
I go to shower and change, and by the time I’m done the food order has arrived. After we eat, Dean goes into his office while I do a little cleaning and fill the coffeepot so he won’t have to bother in the morning.
After watching a police drama on TV, I head to the bedroom and stop by his office. The light is on, and he’s at his desk going through some papers.
“Is that your conference presentation?” I ask, nodding at the stack in front of him.
“Abstracts for one of the seminars.” He organizes them into a pile and puts them in his open briefcase. “My flight leaves at six on Saturday morning.”
I realize I’m almost looking forward to his absence for a few days. I need the time to be alone and try to untangle all my snarled thoughts and emotions.
“Dean, what happened with that grad student?” I hover by the door. “Maggie Hamilton?”
His jaw tightens. “She went out of town a few weeks ago. Haven’t talked to her, but she’s sent a couple of emails about her proposal.”
“Have you approved it yet?”
“No. I told her we’d discuss it when she returns. Given recent circumstances, I’m going to tell her she needs to change advisors.”
“I’m sorry… about all that.”
He shakes his head. “She was totally out of line. In more ways than one. I won’t work with her anymore.”
That, at least, is a relief.
I approach Dean and step between his chair and the desk. He pushes the chair back a little to make room so I can curl into his lap. He’s only wearing a pair of pajama bottoms, and his chest is warm and muscular.
He folds his arms around me and presses a kiss to my temple. At times like this I never want to leave the comforting, protective circle he’s always wrapped me in. I tuck my head beneath his chin, and we sit for several long minutes. He smells like soap and toothpaste. I listen to his heartbeat, feel the movement of his breath.
He pats my hip. “I should finish up here, beauty.”
“Okay.” I kiss his neck and ease away.
I’m still awake when he comes into the bedroom almost an hour later. He climbs into bed beside me, but makes no move for anything sexual.
I turn to look at him, sliding my hands beneath my head. “What did she study?”
“Who?”
“Helen.”
“I told you. Art history.”
“But what field?”
“Nineteenth-century European. Classicism, realism, impressionism. She did her dissertation on the Pre-Raphaelites.”
Something clicks in my brain from a long-ago art history class. “Weren’t the Pre-Raphaelites influenced by medieval art?”
“Late fourteenth century, before Raphael.” He glances at me. “Why?”
“It’s just kind of… uncanny, you and she. Your fields of study. Should have been a perfect match.”
“All we had were similarities in our research. Everything else was very imperfect. Hell, it was downright defective.”
“Was she good at her work?”
“She got hired at Stanford, so yeah. She was good.” A slightly irritated tone colors his voice. “Why are you asking?”
“I’m curious. Even though it ended badly, she was a big part of your life.”
“Not anymore.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Years.”
“Does she still teach at Stanford?”
“Yes.” He sighs and switches off the bedside light. “I really don’t want to talk about her.”
Apprehension spreads through me. A million questions crowd my head, have been piling up ever since he told me about his first wife.
His first wife. The word still stings like a thistle. That makes me his second wife.
What was she like? Did he make her laugh? What kind of movies did they watch? How was the sex? What did they do? Where did they travel? Did he know how she liked her coffee? Could she cook?
I want answers to everything, not because I care about Helen but because it has so much to do with Dean. Because it’s all such a part of him, his history, his life.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Dean, I—”
He turns away toward the opposite wall. “Liv, I thought we were done with this.”
A bubble of anger bursts inside my head.
“You’re never done with a rough past, Dean,” I say, pushing to sit up. “You think you can just tell me about it and it’ll go away? That you make this big revelation and suddenly everything is back to normal with us?”
His back muscles tense. He doesn’t respond.
“We need to go to counseling again, Dean,” I say.
“I’m not discussing my first marriage with a damned counselor.”
My first marriage.
Even he still thinks of it as his first. When we got married, when we said, “I do…,” he’d done it all before. And I had no idea.
A wave of exhaustion slams against me. I roll over and stare at the ceiling. I don’t even have the wherewithal to battle all the old emotions that I hate—fear, inadequacy, anxiety. Loneliness.
Everything that I’d felt before I met Dean. Everything I thought we’d replaced with love and trust. I can feel it all breaking through again now, and I don’t know what to do.