CHAPTER NINETEEN
November 6
“HOW WAS IT?” DEAN LOOKS AT me from over the top of the sports magazine he’s reading.
I drop my travel bag on the floor and shrug out of my coat. “Fine. Aunt Stella says hello. She sent you a pound cake.”
I pull the brick-hard cake from my bag and put it on the counter, then go into the bedroom to shower and change. My few days with Stella and Henry provided no sudden insights into how to save my relationship with Dean, but the brief separation from him did make it a little easier to breathe.
I helped Stella around the house and in the garden, ate at the town’s diner, went to the farmer’s market and a couple of garage sales. The weather was unseasonably mild, so I took a few long walks and drove into the countryside. I even baked an apple pie, which actually turned out pretty good.
It was a simple few days, and I’m glad I went—even if the big, ugly questions loomed up again the moment I stepped into the apartment. Even if Dean and I still don’t know how to tackle them.
He gets up from the sofa and looks at his watch. “I’m meeting someone for lunch, then I have lectures, office hours, and a late seminar.”
“Who are you meeting for lunch?”
“A guy who’s thinking of applying to the doctoral program. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
It’s back again—this tight, persistent tension in my chest. Did I want to know if he was meeting Maggie Hamilton? Would I care if he was?
No. And no.
Maggie Hamilton is no threat to our marriage. Neither is Tyler Wilkes. The danger lies solely between me and my husband.
Dean changes into a suit and tie and heads out after giving me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. After he leaves, I spend the afternoon doing laundry and cleaning, mostly to occupy my time.
It’s Tuesday. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to miss cooking class, but… yeah. Not the most favorable of circumstances.
Dean’s not home from work by six-thirty, so I finally decide to attend class. I should set things straight with Tyler anyway. I’m the first one there, which is good, and I walk to the instructor’s station.
Tyler glances up and gives me an uneasy smile. “Hi, Liv. I… uh, I wasn’t sure you’d show up.”
“Why?”
“You know, because of what happened.”
“I told you I’d come back,” I remind him. “Did you think I’d be too ashamed and change my mind?”
“Well, no.” He scratches his head. “Um, just that it’d be like this. You know, awkward. I’m really sorry. It was a mistake. I never meant for that to happen.”
I sigh. “Look, never mind. I just wanted to tell you I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. And you’re right, it was a mistake. We’re both just going to forget it now, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. Sure.” He looks a little disappointed, but makes no further remark.
I head to my station to get organized for the evening. The other students file in, and we exchange greetings and small talk until the clock strikes seven.
Tyler calls for our attention and discusses the various cuts of pork, then demonstrates how to butterfly the tenderloin and prepare it with roasted apples and onions.
We watch attentively and take notes, then start on our own preparations when he’s finished. I put out my bowls and wash the apples. Just as I’m taking the knife from a drawer, I look up to see Dean walk into the room.
I drop the knife with a clatter. My heart hammers.
This can’t be good.
Dean catches my eye. He looks handsome as the devil—his navy suit impeccable, without a single crease, his tie perfectly knotted, his dark hair brushed away from his forehead. Aside from his five o’clock shadow, you’d never know he just spent an entire afternoon in meetings and teaching classes on Gothic architecture.
He comes toward me, his long stride and air of confident authority drawing the attention of the other students. “Hello, Liv.”
“Dean.” I wipe my clammy hands on my apron. “What are you doing here?”
He scans the room, his eyes growing cold.
Shit.
Tyler is looking at us from his station. After a heartbeat, he approaches.
“Can I help you, sir?” he asks Dean politely.
“Dean West.” Dislike and intimidation radiate from Dean. He sizes Tyler up in one glance and clearly finds him lacking. “Olivia’s husband.”
“Oh.” A crimson flush crawls up Tyler’s neck to his cheeks. He’s sweating a little from standing over a hot stove, and he wipes his forehead with his sleeve before responding. “Uh, good to meet you. I’m Tyler Wilkes. Liv is… um, she’s doing great.”
“So I’ve heard.”
I wince. “Dean, what are you doing here?”
“Thought I’d sit in on class, see how things go.”
“I’m not sure that’s—” Tyler begins.
“You don’t mind.” Dean looks Tyler hard in the eye. “Do you?”
Embarrassment heats my face. Dean is taller than Tyler, and he’s looking down at the poor guy as if daring him to say yes, he does mind. Tyler swallows. A bead of sweat drips down his temple.
“Dean, that’s really not—” I begin.
“I’ll sit over there.” Dean nods toward several chairs placed against the wall. “Go on with your lesson, Chef Wilkes.”
“Er… okay.” After hesitating, Tyler steps back and glances at me. I try to give him a reassuring smile, which I’m certain comes out more like a grimace.
The other students return to their preparations, their initial curiosity waning as they learn who Dean is and the apparently uninteresting reason for his visit. He sits down, his arms crossed and his gaze level on me.
Focus, Liv.
I turn back to my work. My hands are shaking, but after a few minutes I calm down and get my ingredients in order.
I know Dean will not cause a scene. He’s here to stake some sort of manly claim, to intimidate Tyler, but he’ll be civilized about it.
Sort of.
I slice several apples and onions, retrieve olive oil and mustard from the pantry, get the pans heating. I even start to feel a twinge of pride at the knowledge that Dean is watching me, especially after his nasty remark that I could end up like my mother, who had no viable skills of her own.
Now I know how to prep a kitchen, how to season and cook different cuts of meat, how to make stock. I know about fresh herbs, sauces, acidity, various salts, and flavor profiles. I know how to cut vegetables and the best purposes for different knives, pans, and pots. Hell, I even know how to carve a whole chicken.
Hah. Take that, Mr. Medieval History Professor.
The pork tenderloin is thick and need to be cut, so I take out the slicing knife with a flourish.
“How’s it going, Liv?”
Tyler stops uncertainly in front of me. It would seem strange to the other students if he ignored me, so I know he’s here for appearances rather than any real interest in how I’m doing. In fact, he looks as if he’d rather be anywhere but at my station.
“Uh, just fine, thanks.” I give him a weak smile and turn my attention back to the pork.
“Your pan is too hot.” Tyler comes around to lower the heat under my skillet. “And your butter is going to burn if you don’t add oil to it.”
“Right. Sorry.” I flip the meat over and start to saw it in half, which I know is the wrong technique but I’m getting nervous again. I can feel Dean’s hostile stare burning into Tyler.
“Wait.” Tyler steps closer. “Let the knife do the work, Liv. When you’re doing a butterfly cut, keep the knife parallel to the cutting board.”
He reaches out to put his hand over mine on the knife handle. I jerk away. My breath catches in my throat. Tyler drops his hand to his side and steps back.
“Well, you remember how I did it, right?” he asks.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Okay. Stay focused.”
He moves on to Charlotte’s station. I wipe my hand on my apron and grasp the knife. A sudden flash of that night, that kiss, makes my chest tighten with dismay.
I don’t know why I kissed Tyler. I’ve never wanted to look at another man since I met Dean. And not only did I let myself kiss Tyler, I actually liked it.
I glance at Dean. He’s watching me, his arms still crossed, his expression unreadable.
I don’t know if he’s forgiven me. I don’t know if I’ve forgiven him. I certainly haven’t forgiven myself.
I slice into the tenderloin. Suddenly a searing pain flares through my entire hand and up my arm. I let out a sharp cry and drop the knife. Dean is beside me in less than a second, reaching out to grab my wrist.
“Liv?” Tyler hurries toward me.
“Back off.” Dean growls the order at him. Tyler skids to a halt.
“Oh, Jesus, Liv.” Charlotte stares at my hand. “Someone call 911!”
I start to protest that it’s not that bad, but then I look down and see what appears to be a river of blood pooling onto the cutting board, over the knife and the raw meat.
My blood.
Dizziness swamps me. I sway against Dean. He grabs a dishtowel and wraps it around my hand, then guides me to a chair. The other students huddle around, buzzing with concern. Dean presses the towel tight against my hand to stem the flow of blood.
“Everyone, step back, please,” Tyler calls. “The medics are on their way.”
The crowd eases away to give me room to breathe. My head spins, the pain starting to throb. There’s blood on my apron.
Within minutes, two paramedics arrive, and then I lose track of what happens—tightness on my hand, a blood pressure cuff, lots of questions. Someone puts my legs up on a chair.
Dean moves back to let the paramedics work, but keeps his hand tight on my shoulder as he confers with them. I hear the words blood loss, deep cut, and nerve damage, all of which seize my chest with fear.
“Dean?” My own voice sounds very far away.
“Right here.” He lowers his head close to my ear. “Hang in there, beauty.”
The paramedics bandage the wound and suggest I go to the ER. I don’t want to go to the ER.
Dean hauls me up against him. His arm around my shoulders might be the only thing keeping me upright.
“Come on,” he says. “I’m taking you.”
There’s a lot more talking, voices rising with concern, and next thing I know I’m in the backseat of Dean’s car with Charlotte by my side. Dean drives to the nearest hospital and stops at the emergency entrance. After a brief discussion, Charlotte goes to park his car in the regular lot while Dean and I go inside.
In the ER, he leaves me briefly to fill out the paperwork before I’m led to an examination area. A doctor and nurse ask more questions, all of which Dean answers, and then they unwrap the wound and clean it with a stinging solution that makes me yelp.
I stare at the cut, which looks huge and gaping red. “What… what about nerve damage? The medics said…”
“We’ll check for that, Mrs. West.”
After an injection of anesthetic, the doctor sutures the wound, then asks me to move my hand in various positions, hold a pen, flex my fingers this way and that. He bandages my hand again with gauze and tape and writes up a prescription for pain medication.
Dean talks with the doctor for a few minutes, but by now I’m so drained I don’t bother to listen. If it’s good news, I’ll know soon enough. If it’s bad news, I don’t want to know yet.
George has brought my satchel to the hospital, and he and Charlotte are in the waiting room when we finally emerge. Dean gives them the update, assuring them I’ll be fine, and thanks them for accompanying us.
“Did someone turn off my stove?” I ask George. It seems like an important question to ask.
“I did,” he says. “We got your station cleaned and sanitized, too. Everyone will be glad to know you’re okay.”
Finally Dean and I head home. In blessed silence. I stare out the dark window, seeing both our reflections in the glass.
He has to help me undress since I can’t use my left hand. I feel sort of silly just standing there while he pulls off my apron, still caked with dried blood, and unfastens my skirt and blouse. His movements are gentle but impersonal, and once I’m in my nightgown I sink onto the sofa with a sigh of exhaustion.
Dean rests his hands on his hips, his eyebrows drawn together. “Need anything?”
“No.”
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
“No.” My eyes are getting heavy. “But thanks.”
I don’t remember anything after that. I wake when a gray, wet light filters through the curtains. Rain splashes against the windowsills, patters onto the roof.
Sometime during the night, Dean put my quilt over me. I burrow back under its familiar warmth and watch raindrops race each other down the window.
“How do you feel?” Dean’s voice is soft.
I look to where he’s sitting in the overstuffed chair next to the sofa. He’s still wearing his trousers and shirt from last night, only now both are abominably wrinkled. I push myself onto one elbow, then wince as pain spirals up my arm.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Okay, I guess.”
“Do you want a pain pill?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
Dean brings me a glass of water and the medication, then crouches beside the sofa. He reaches out to push my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears. I look at him, the angles of his face that I know so well, the shape of his mouth and thick-lashed eyes.
“Did you sit there all night?” I ask.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You smell really bad.”
He grins and pushes up to standing. “You’ll be okay if I take a shower?”
“Please do.”
While he’s gone, I head into the guest bathroom to pee. I manage to wash my good hand and splash water on my face. I look wretched, pale and gaunt with bruised circles ringing my eyes and my hair a tangled mess.
Good thing I don’t plan to go anywhere or see anyone for days. Maybe ever again.
Feeling incredibly sorry for myself, I head back to the living room, pausing once to breathe through a wave of dizziness. When Dean emerges from the shower—freshly shaved, dressed in worn jeans and a clean white T-shirt—I’m curled back up on the sofa.
“What did the doctor say?” I finally ask. “About permanent damage?”
“Your mobility is good, but because of the depth of the cut, you might have some numbness in your fingers for a while. They’ll be able to tell more when the wound heals.” He pauses. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Not really. The knife just slipped, I guess. I still have trouble remembering how to hold the damn things properly.”
I flex the fingers of my right hand. Dean returns to the chair beside the sofa. He’s close enough that I can smell the soap-and-shampoo scent of him. I could use a shower too, but I don’t want to move.
We’re quiet for a few minutes before he says, “It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I shouldn’t have barged into your class like that.” He drags a hand through his hair, self-directed anger flashing in his eyes. “It upset you, threw off your concentration.”
That’s true, but I don’t bother acknowledging it. We’ve punished each other enough.
I reach out and put my good hand on his knee. “Forget it, Dean. We both made mistakes.”
“Did I scare him, do you think?”
I manage a hoarse laugh. “Yes. You definitely did.”
“Good.” He puts his large hand over mine, his fingers tightening. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too.”
Silence falls. I turn my palm upward so we can lock our fingers together. As I watch the rain spilling down the window, I realize nothing between me and Dean will ever be the same again.
A strange calm settles in my heart. Maybe Dean needs to see me as more than his ever-faithful wife and the girl he needs to protect. And maybe I need to see him as more than my unwavering husband and the man who effortlessly takes care of everything.
Maybe this was meant to happen, this discovery of cracks where now a different, new light can shine through.