CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
December 22
THESE ARE ALL RETURNS.” ALLIE BLOWS a curl of hair off her forehead as she dumps another box beside the front counter. “The UPS guy will pick them up tomorrow.”
“Hey, have you thought about adding a section for used books?” I suggest. “That might help draw in customers.”
“Maybe.” Allie puts her hands on her hips as she studies the dwindling number of books on the shelves. “Or I was thinking of expanding the toy section to bring in more kids. Except there’s that huge toy store over on the other side of town that I probably can’t compete with. Definitely have to come up with something, though.”
She heads back to the office while I mull over a few other ideas for her—selling local artwork, adding a café section, working out some programs in conjunction with the library. I do some Internet searches to find out about what other bookstores are doing to improve business.
As usual whenever I’m on the Internet these days, I check my email to see if there’s a message from Dean. As usual, there isn’t. We haven’t even acknowledged that Christmas is just a few days away.
The bell over the door rings. I glance up as a handsome young man with curly, light brown hair enters.
“Welcome to the Happy Booker,” I say. “Can I help you?”
“Hi there. Is Allie around? Are you Liv?”
“Oh, you must be Brent. Nice to finally meet you.” I give him a quick once-over. “Hold on, I’ll get Allie for you. Is she expecting you?”
“Nope. I just got off work and thought I’d see if she wanted to grab a late dinner.”
I go to the back office where Allie is working at the computer.
“Brent’s here,” I whisper. “And he’s cute. I approve.”
She grins. “Good. How do I look? Do I need lipstick?”
“You’re gorgeous. Just get that smudge of ink off your cheek.” I grab a few tissues and hand them to her. She does a quick primping before we return to the front counter where Brent is leafing through a car magazine.
“Hey, Allie.” He smiles at her, his eyes lighting up with an affection that makes her glow.
It’s nice to see. Makes me happy for them.
“Can you take an hour or so for dinner?” Brent asks.
“No, sorry.” Allie looks disappointed. “We’re open until midnight.”
“Go ahead.” I glance at the clock, which reads five past eight. Even with the bookstore’s extended hours, we haven’t managed to attract many last-minute Christmas shoppers.
“The next movie doesn’t get out until ten-thirty and the play down the street won’t be over until at least eleven,” I tell Allie. “Plus we’ve been slow all evening. I can hold down the fort for an hour or so.”
“I don’t know, Liv. I hate leaving you alone.”
“I’ll be fine. We’ve only had six customers all evening. If we get a crowd, it’ll be after the movie lets out.”
She’s wavering, her gaze going from me to Brent. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” I grab her bag from beneath the counter and wave them both toward the door. “Just bring me back some sort of dessert. Chocolate.”
“Okay. We won’t be long.”
Brent beams at me as he holds open the front door for Allie. Their anticipation and happiness reminds me of those early days when I’d get all fluttery inside the minute Dean walked in the door of Jitter Beans.
Ignoring a twinge of heartache, I straighten out the supplies on the front counter, then spend the next hour arranging the books to make the shelves look more well-stocked. I clean up the toys in the kids’ section and talk with a couple of customers who come in to browse.
As I’m reshelving a few misplaced magazines, the bell over the door rings. Several male voices boom into the store. A sudden tension constricts my chest.
I move behind the counter and watch as three young men enter. College boys, by the looks of them. Two of them are big, dressed in jeans and sweatshirts beneath their jackets, and the third is tall and skinny with a mop of shaggy blond hair.
I do a quick scan of the store. The other customers have all left. It’s nine-fifteen. My heart is beating too fast.
“It was third and twenty-three, dude.” The one wearing a King’s sweatshirt pauses by the front table to flip through a pop-up book. “No way he should’ve got that pass off, you know?”
I’m starting to shake. Sweat trickles down my sides.
“Amazing because they’re a shit team this year,” the other guy responds. He stops in front of the magazine section. “If they’d get rid of Samuels, they might have a shot. Oh, hey, check this out. Fantasy football depth chart.”
He tosses a magazine to his friend. “Scott, you going to Chicago for the Super Bowl party next semester?”
“Yeah,” the skinny guy says. “Frat’s renting a bus. You?”
“Can’t. Academic probation. Asshole Dennison failed my last paper.”
They all snort with derision. The skinny boy wanders past the counter and shoots me a grin.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
Cold freezes the blood in my veins. I force in a few breaths and consciously try to relax the stiffness in my shoulders. My spine feels like it’s about to snap in two.
“Hey, look, that’s Vanessa Fairfax.” The King’s sweatshirt guy holds up the magazine so his friend can see a photo of a sexy brunette lounging against a car. “Remember I told you I saw her at the Dax concert? She’s so fucking hot.”
“Speaking of hot, what happened with that girl you hooked up with last weekend?”
“Oh, man, that was awesome.”
Without thinking, I grab my cell phone and speed-dial Dean’s number. He answers on the first ring.
“Hello?” he says.
I can’t speak past the tightness in my throat. I clench my fingers on the phone.
“Liv?”
“I’m here,” I manage to whisper. The college kids are still talking, their voices and laughter growing louder and clashing with the sound of my heartbeat.
“Liv, what’s wrong?” Alarm spikes the question.
“I’m…”
“Where are you?”
“B-bookstore.”
“Olivia, listen to me.” Dean’s voice settles into a firm but reassuring tone. “Breathe. I’m on my way.” There’s a rustling sound on the other end. “Count of two, okay? One, two.”
I inhale a breath. My vision blurs, my throat constricting. He repeats the count. I force myself to exhale.
“Hey, do you have the spring semester calendar in yet?” The King’s sweatshirt guy stops in front of me and leans his elbows on the counter. His face is too close to mine.
I step back until my hips bump the other side of the counter. “No. Not yet.”
“When do they come in?” he asks.
“Liv?”
“Just a… a customer,” I tell Dean. A wave of dizziness hits me.
“Keep breathing. Count of five now.”
“When do the calendars come in?” the sweatshirt guy repeats.
“Beginning of January.”
He straightens, his gaze still on me. “You go to King’s?”
“No.” God in heaven, go away.
“Hey, dudes, look at this.” The skinny guy approaches from the kids’ section with a topsy-turvy puppet that changes from Little Red Riding Hood to the wolf with one flip. “Little Red has a wolf under her skirt.”
Their burst of laughter scrapes my insides like nails. The panic intensifies, tilting the world into a crazy spin. My husband’s voice is a steady, deep stream as he instructs me to breathe to the count of eight.
I force air into my lungs. Time has stretched to the point of breaking.
“Stay with me, Liv,” Dean says in my ear. “I’m turning onto Emerald right now.”
I pray the guys will be gone by the time he arrives, but the three of them move deeper into the store to lift the skirt of the Little Red Riding Hood puppet.
Dean walks in the front door, his stride long and rapid. Tension lines every muscle in his body, and concern burns in his eyes.
I drop the phone with a clatter. He rounds the corner to where I’m standing and puts a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Sit down. You’re okay.” He glances to the back of the store when the sound of male laughter rings out. His expression hardens, but his voice remains steady as he turns to me. “I’m here. Breathe, Liv. Count of ten.”
I inhale on his count, then exhale. Again and again until finally I’m able to take an easier breath. My dizziness lessens a bit, and the room starts to steady into balance.
Dean rummages underneath the counter and finds a bottle of water. He cracks it open and holds it to my mouth. After I manage a few sips, he nods toward my hands.
“Flex your fingers.”
I stretch my fingers out and flex them a few times, the activity a distraction from the tightness in my chest and throbbing heartbeat.
The boys’ voices get closer. Dean steps in front of me, blocking them from my view.
“Hey, Professor West, what’re you doing here?” It’s the skinny guy’s voice. “I’m Scott Kenner. I took your class last semester. Cool stuff.”
“Thanks.” Dean’s tone is short and clipped. He tilts his head to the door. “You guys heading out now?”
“Yeah, we’re going to a Christmas party down by the lake.”
“Good.”
The guys hesitate, thrown by Dean’s unfriendly demeanor, but then they mumble a goodbye and shuffle out. When the door clicks shut, Dean turns back to me.
I take another swallow of water. The panic is subsiding, like a wave receding slowly from a beach. Exhaustion takes its place, draining my muscles of strength.
Dean reaches out to brush a strand of hair away from my forehead, his fingers lingering against my skin.
“Been a while,” he murmurs.
I nod and draw in another breath. I haven’t had a panic attack since long before we were married. My throat aches.
“You’re here alone?” Dean asks.
“Allie went out with a friend for a quick dinner.” I wipe a trickle of sweat from my temple. “She’ll be back any minute.”
The thought of Allie and Brent returning to find me a total mess is enough to get me to my feet. I go into the bathroom to splash water on my face and brush my hair, then emerge feeling calmer and more in control.
“Triple chocolate fudge cake.” Allie waves a cardboard container at me as she and Brent come through the door. “From Abernathy’s just around the corner. Oh, hi, Dean.”
Even with Brent there, Allie blushes when she looks at Dean. That makes me smile a little. The remnants of my panic fade, though I’m weary to the bone.
I take the sweet-smelling box, aware of Dean speaking to Allie in a low voice. She glances at me with concern.
“Go get some rest, Liv,” she says. “I didn’t know you have migraines.”
Grateful that Dean didn’t divulge the real reason for my sudden breakdown, I give Allie a weak smile. “I don’t… I don’t get them very often.”
“I’ll stay with Allie until the store closes,” Brent offers.
Allie gets my satchel and coat, then ushers us out the door with instructions for me to get a good night’s sleep. Although I’m exhausted, part of my brain is prickling with unease and fear.
I can’t look at Dean as we head home and go up the stairs to our apartment. All I want to do is throw myself into his arms and cling to him. But I no longer know if I have the right to do that.
I shed my coat and go into the living room. Everything looks the same as it did before I left. Christmas tree, holly-covered mantel, mistletoe. The curtains are open, the town lights shining, the lake an expanse of black in the distance.
“Liv.”
I turn. Dean is standing by the door, looking every inch the man I have loved for so long. Dark, rumpled hair, a thick rugby shirt, worn jeans torn at the knee. Those beautiful, gold-flecked eyes fixed on me.
Without a word, he holds out his arms.
A cry breaks loose from the dark pit in my soul. I fly across the room to him, my tears overflowing when his arms close tight around me. I press my face against his chest as sobs wrench my throat and my heart shatters with relief.
He sinks to the floor, never loosening his hold on me, and pulls me onto his lap. The low sound of his voice rumbles in my ear. Tears spill down my face in unending streams. I clutch a fistful of his shirt and cry and cry and cry until my whole body aches.
His arms tighten around me, strong as steel and warm as sunlight. My mind empties of thought, and there is only us again, my body fitting against his, his grip on me unbreakable. All the heartache and fear of the past few months pours out of me, the wrenching torrent of a broken dam, until finally my flood of tears begins to slow.
Dean presses his mouth to my forehead and strokes my tangled hair away from my face. I burrow against his chest and exhale a long, shuddering sigh. My body quakes with lingering sobs.
He shifts and folds himself more securely around me, rubbing his hand up and down my back.
I’m scraped raw, torn in half. We sit there forever. Breathing.
“Dean?”
“Hmm?”
“My foot’s asleep.”
His muffled chuckle brushes against my hair. We untangle ourselves, and he grasps my hands to pull me up. I work the pins and needles out of my foot before we move to the sofa, where I settle against his side, right into the place I never want to leave.
A deep, dreamless sleep pulls me under. I surrender, knowing I’m safe.
Dean is gone when I wake early the next morning. There’s a note on the coffee table saying he went to the bakery. I’m still drained and tired, but the fear has eased.
I push aside the quilt that Dean must have spread over me during the night. I sit up as the front door clicks open and he steps in. Our gazes meet across the room, somewhat cautious, but no anger or uncertainty shimmers in the air.
He pauses beside me, the scent of his soap tickling my nose, and brushes his hand against my cheek. A tingle skims through me at the touch of his fingers.
“You look like you need some coffee,” he remarks.
I manage a hoarse laugh. “Yes, please.”
“Coming right up.”
“Oh, what about Kelsey?”
“I called her last night and told her you were here. She said, and I quote, ‘It’s about freaking time.’”
We both smile, then Dean goes into the kitchen while I shove to my feet and head for the shower. I stand under the hot spray for a long time, feeling as if it can wash away all the ugliness of recent weeks. I dress in loose pants and a soft fleece shirt, then go to sit at the kitchen table with my husband.
We’re both relatively quiet as we have coffee and muffins, though we cast glances at each other from across the table. Just the sight of him warms my blood—his masculine features that are so dear to me, the strands of thick hair brushing his forehead, the way he picks up his coffee by wrapping his hand around the cup rather than the handle.
We exchange sections of the Sunday paper, commenting on news articles and local events. He reads the sports page. I read the entertainment insert. He refills our coffee. I clip a few coupons. He studies the stock market. I get a pencil and work out a few answers on the crossword puzzle, then pass it across for him to finish. We split the last blueberry muffin.
It’s almost eleven before we finally get the dishes washed and the paper stacked for recycling. Dean stands and stretches, his T-shirt pulling across his chest, then comes around the table to wrap me in his arms.
“Ah, Liv.” His body heaves with a sigh. “I miss you.”
I press my forehead against his chest. “I miss you too. Things sure got messed up, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“We’ve done a lousy job trying to fix it.”
“Yeah.” His voice roughens with the admission.
I swallow hard and force out my darkest fear. “What if we can’t?”
Dean puts his hands on either side of my head and lifts my face to look at him. His eyes are serious but tender.
“We’ve done it before,” he says. “We can do it again.”
Fall seven times. Get up eight.
“I don’t want to lose you,” I whisper.
“You’ll never lose me.” He slides his hand to the back of my neck. “I want you to come home.”
I tighten my arms around his waist. A tentative hope spreads inside me, like a new, green shoot pushing its way up through a layer of ice.
“I want to come home,” I say. “And I want you to be here when I do.”
“I’ll be here, beauty. Waiting for you.”
Christmas Eve is cold and bright. A fresh layer of snow covers Avalon Street, and the sun sparkles off it like little jewels. Colorful lights twinkle around lampposts and store windows.
The Historical Museum is having a holiday party for staff and volunteers this afternoon, and Dean and I are going together. Though I haven’t yet moved back into our apartment, we’re both here getting ready.
I dress in a black, short-sleeved jersey dress with a scooped neckline that displays the cameo necklace Dean gave me as a first anniversary present. The pendant matches my cameo engagement ring, which I’m also wearing. I twist my hair into a ponytail and fasten it with a red bow, then head out of the bathroom.
Dean is knotting his tie in front of the mirror. He slides his gaze to me, and his eyes warm with appreciation.
“Very pretty.” He gives his tie a final pull, then comes over to press a kiss against my lips.
My heart flutters. He looks incredibly handsome in black trousers and a crisp, white shirt, the knot of his tie nestled against the column of his throat. I watch as he shrugs into his suit jacket, checks for his wallet, fastens his watch—all those easy, deft movements that have become so familiar to me over the years.
I think I’ve loved him since he first walked into Jitter Beans. Into my life.
He takes his car keys from the dresser and glances at me. A frown tugs at his mouth.
“Liv?”
Emotions tumble through me, riotous colors, light and shadows, fear and joy. I take a breath.
“Dean.”
“What?”
“I’m pregnant.”
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