CHAPTER TEN
Olivia
SOMETHING IS WEIRD. PAIGE AND JOANNA West have never made a secret of their hostility toward me, but they haven’t flat-out ignored me. Now when I enter the kitchen to ask about helping with dinner, Joanna avoids looking at me. And at Dean, for that matter.
When I catch his eye, I tilt my head toward the garden terrace.
Once outside, I turn to him with a frown. “What’s going on?”
He scratches the back of his neck.
“Dean?”
“Well…”
“Dean?”
A faintly abashed look enters his eyes. “I got into an argument with Helen about you.”
“What?”
“Well, not an argument exactly. She said some things I didn’t like, and I told her off.”
I cross my arms and narrow my eyes. “What, exactly, did you tell her?”
“That you’re the love of my life and she could never compare to you.”
I stare at him. “Really?”
“Not in those exact words, but close.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say. I’m getting a little mushy inside, but part of me is very aware that Helen likely didn’t take such a comment well. “Um, what did she say to that?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t stick around to find out.”
“Why did you have to say that to begin with?” I ask.
“She was being bitchy about you. I didn’t like it.”
“And were your mother and sister there at the time?”
“Yeah.” He holds up his hands in defense. “But I didn’t know it. They walked in on us.”
“Dean.” I groan and drop my head into my hands. “That’s why they’re being so weird to me. They’re on Helen’s side.”
“I didn’t realize there were sides.”
“Of course there are sides! When your ex-wife and your current… not to mention last, thank you… wife meet for the first time, how could there not be sides? Especially when your ex-wife is BFFs with your mother and sister?”
Confusion furrows his brow. “When my ex-wife is what?”
“When they’re best friends forever. BFFs. God, you are such a dork.” I start to pace. “I know I can’t compete with their friendship, and I don’t want to, but I would like it if your mother and sister didn’t wish I was out of the picture. And that Helen was still in the picture.”
“Come on, beauty, they don’t think that.”
I harden my heart against the endearment that usually makes me weak in the knees. “Yes, they do. And now they’re going to think it even more if you’ve painted us as… as Lancelot and Guinevere.”
He grins, which annoys me further.
“Guinevere ends up a nun at the end of that story,” he says.
“So?”
“You could never be a nun.”
I whirl around to face him. “Why could I never be a nun?”
“You’re too lusty.”
With that comment, he glances at my breasts. His eyes darken. Desire tingles through me from that one look. I cross my arms again and frown.
“Don’t change the subject. I meant that now your mother, sister, and Helen all think we have some great, passionate love affair—”
“We do.”
Oh, crap. How much do I adore this man?
I struggle to maintain my indignation.
“It makes your history with Helen seem even more horrible,” I continue. “So now they’re all going to resent me for giving you what she couldn’t.”
“Why should they resent you?” he asks. “You didn’t take me away from her. You didn’t even really come on to me until I made the first move.”
“They don’t know that, Dean, and besides it’s irrelevant. It’s a classic story straight from high school. The old girlfriend and her BFFs always resent the new girlfriend.”
“You’re a helluva lot more than my girlfriend, Liv.” He frowns. “You’re my wife. And I won’t apologize for defending you. Anyone has an issue with you, they have to take it up with me.”
His protective tone is back, and again I have to admit I like it. He’s the only person who has ever defended me.
“I just don’t want them to resent me more,” I say.
“Okay, look.” He spreads his hands in the universal male gesture for what the hell do I do now? “What do you want me to tell them?”
I sigh. “Nothing. But please, don’t compare me to Helen anymore. In fact, don’t even mention us in the same breath.”
“That’s a rule I can follow,” he says, pulling me in for a bear hug.
Then he tilts my face up to his so he can give me a heart-melting kiss that makes my lingering irritation dissolve.
“You and me, beauty,” he reminds me, his eyes gentle.
“You and me, professor.”
When we return to the kitchen, Paige and Joanna already have dinner on the table. I keep quiet for most of the meal, still not liking the thought of what Helen might have said. Or the fact that Joanna West likely agreed with her.
I help clean up after dinner, then go upstairs to change into my nightgown. I power up my laptop to check my email. There’s a message from the loan officer of the bank with the subject line Loan Status.
My stomach twists as I click to open the message.
Dear Mrs. West,
We regret to inform you that your application for a small business loan has been denied for the following reasons…
I stop reading and close the email. I already know the reasons. And while this is the answer I’d half-expected, I couldn’t help hoping that maybe I could do it.
I forward the letter to Allie, typing “Sorry” in the body of the email. I’d warned her nothing might come of this, but again part of me had wished for a different outcome.
I suppose I could apply with other banks and companies, but there’s no reason why the response would be different. Nothing about my finances and collateral will change anytime soon, unless I list Dean’s assets. Which I don’t want to do.
After opening a new window, I type “how to save a bookstore” into a search engine and make a list of my findings. Poetry readings, concerts, a used book section, newsletters, membership, a mail-order book website.
I compile the information into a document and send it to Allie. Then I email my supervisor at the Mirror Lake Public Library and ask her if she has any ideas for either increasing Allie’s business or joint programs the bookstore can do with the library.
“Hey, I got an email from Nancy the realtor,” Dean says as he comes in and heads toward the bathroom. “Says she has a few more showings lined up for us when we get back.”
“Great.” I try to sound enthused as I turn back to my research.
When Dean emerges from the bathroom, he’s wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and no shirt. I take a moment to admire him as he walks across the room and gets into bed, putting his reading glasses on and picking up a book from the bedside table.
Pleasure uncoils inside me. I love the contrast of his scholarly demeanor with the outright sexiness of his muscular chest and arms. It’s a look that belongs only to him. And is only mine to enjoy.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Hey, Liv.”
I climb onto the bed. “Why did you follow me that day at the registrar’s office?”
“You mean after you left?”
“Yeah. I was upset and hurried out of the office. You followed me. Why?”
“I wanted to help you.”
“Why?”
“Because you said we.”
“I said Wii? The video game thing?”
He laughs. “When the clerk said you couldn’t transfer your credits, you said, ‘There must be something we can do.’ There was a problem, and you knew you were part of the solution.”
“Seriously?” I sit back on my heels, a little disappointed. “That’s why you came after me?”
“Because you were resilient and strong and determined, yes.” He puts the book aside and tugs me closer, warmth brewing in his eyes. “And because you were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. When I first looked at you, my heart felt like it was going to pound out of my chest. I wanted to kiss you right there on the sidewalk. You were wearing a white T-shirt and your jeans had a rip across the thigh, and I had to force myself not to stare at your astonishingly sexy body. Then when you stayed and talked to me… so damn pretty with your hair all messed up by the wind… I couldn’t let you get away.”
“Well.” A flush of sheer pleasure sweeps over me. “That’s better.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Did you already know I was working at Jitter Beans when you came in a couple weeks later?” I ask.
“No. That was the best coincidence of my life.”
“Mine too.” I tilt my head as I study him. “When did you decide to ask me out?”
“I wanted to right away, but I had to find out about the professor-student dating rules.”
I grin. “You looked up the rules before you asked me out?”
“Uh huh. Then I figured if you agreed to go to the museum lecture, it would mean you didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“I was so glad you asked me.” I rub my hand over his leg. “I had a big crush on you.”
“I know.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know?”
“Why else would you knock the other girls aside whenever I walked in?” Dean looks rather pleased with himself.
My mouth drops open. A flush scorches my cheeks. “I did not knock the—”
“You sure did. And you think I didn’t notice the chocolates or the extra cookie you’d put on my plate? Or the time you gave me a box of shortbread and told me it was a free sample?”
Now he looks downright smug. My face feels like it’s on fire. So much for trying to be subtle.
“Yeah, well, I… I mean… you know, keep the customer happy and all that,” I mumble.
“Oh, you kept this customer happy, all right.”
He’s grinning in earnest now, and I can’t help smiling. He reaches for my waist and pulls me so that I tumble on top of him. He pushes his hands into my hair, stroking it away from my face as he presses his lips to mine.
Then there’s lovely kissing that makes my pulse pound. Every time Dean kisses me, every time he looks at me, I’m reminded of how right I’d been in allowing him past my defenses. In deciding that he was the one to whom I could open myself. In knowing that he wouldn’t flinch.
I press my hand to his erection beneath his pajama pants and rub against him. A mutual, unspoken agreement descends between us, as he eases me to the side and slides his hand between my thighs.
I spread my legs apart to give him access, squirming when he runs his forefinger along the edge of my panties, slipping beneath them just far enough to tease.
“Don’t you want to know why I wanted you?” I ask breathlessly, losing focus for an instant as he trails his fingers lower.
“I already know.” He moves his lips down to my throat, licking the hollow where my pulse is throbbing.
“You do not.”
“Uh huh.” He strokes his thumb up my cleft. “The professor thing got you all hot and bothered.”
He’s not far off, so I don’t bother to argue. I gasp and sink back against the pillows when he thumbs my clit and slides his mouth down to my breasts beneath my nightgown.
“And your suit.” I fumble to slip his pants lower so I can touch his exposed cock. It springs warm and hard into my hand. “I thought you looked… amazing in your suit. And then at the lecture, when you started talking about… oh, God… when you were standing there… with that… I was… what were you talking about again?”
“Monastic architecture and sarcophagi.” He tugs lightly at my nipple with his teeth. Sparks fly through me. I tighten my hand on his shaft and begin to stroke. “Also monastic scribes.”
I spread my legs wider. Part of me wants him to yank my panties off me, but I like the feeling of the damp cotton against my folds. Plus his fingers are doing such delicious things down there that I don’t want him to pause for anything else.
“Did they have sex?” I pull back a little to look at him, faintly curious beneath my arousal. “The monastic scribes?”
“Some of them said sex was the root of… fuck, Liv, tighter… of other sins.”
I swirl the pad of my thumb over the head of his cock. “But they had sex even though they were monks?”
“Probably. Some of them were certainly obsessed with it.”
“Oh, that sounds wick… wicked.”
“I’m sure it was.”
Then his lips cover mine and we’re kissing hot and deep. He slides his finger over the outside of my panties, rubbing the fabric into my cleft, and I moan against his mouth and wiggle my hips around to try and make him stroke deeper.
I move my hand up and down his cock, and then the urgency builds higher and we both start groaning and thrusting toward each other harder and faster. Our legs get tangled together, and I rub my breasts against his chest to ease the aching tingle in my nipples. Our tongues slide together, two of his fingers slip inside me, and then one flick of his thumb and I gasp his name and clamp my shuddering thighs around his hand.
I stroke him faster as his body quakes with his own release, and it’s all pulsing vibrations and heat and salty sweat. And somewhere in the midst of the slick pleasure, I wonder when everything became so comfortable with Dean, when I’d lost my inhibitions and discovered that being sexy could be so breathtaking, so satisfying. So easy.
Maybe there hadn’t been a moment of discovery at all. Maybe, with Dean, it had just always been like this.
On Tuesday, almost a week after we first arrived in California, I decide to venture out by myself while Dean visits his father. Since the Wests have several cars, Dean returned our rental a few days ago. After he gives me the keys to his father’s car, I head downtown.
Los Gatos is a vibrant place filled with cafés, boutiques, restaurants, and shops. It reminds me a little of Avalon Street, except without the lake breeze. People are eating early lunches and having coffee at outdoor seating areas. Brightly colored awnings line the sidewalks.
It’s cool enough to wear a light jacket, and I spend some time poking around a few gift shops, art galleries, and furniture stores. I stop for a decaf cappuccino at a coffee-and-chocolate shop, then buy a bag of chocolate-covered almonds for Dean and a box of assorted chocolates for his mother.
Might as well try to keep things sweet.
I browse a few more shops, entering a women’s clothing store that looks as if it has stylish but casual clothes.
“May I help you, ma’am?” A saleswoman with helmet hair approaches me.
“Just looking, thanks.”
I glance over the racks of business suits and silk blouses, the blazers, and pencil-slim skirts. It would be silly to buy anything in my regular size since I’ve already gained weight. Not to mention I have no reason to wear career clothes.
I pull a somewhat voluminous shirt from a rack, then realize I’ve made my way to the maternity section at the back of the store.
“I have a chart, if you need help with sizing.” The saleswoman pauses beside me again, her gaze flickering to my midriff.
“Oh, I probably won’t need maternity clothes for a few weeks yet.”
“We have a number of styles that will work throughout your pregnancy.” She takes several pairs of pants from the rack and shows me the different adjustable waistbands and front panels. “And for blouses, use whatever size you are now to determine your maternity clothes size. Let me get the chart, and we can do some measurements.”
Next thing I know, she’s wrapping a measuring tape around my hips and bust, then consulting her chart. I decide to roll with it—I like the elegance and simplicity of the clothes, and I don’t mind buying a few things to keep on hand. By the time we’re done, I have two pairs of pants, two pairs of jeans, three blouses, and a heather-gray skirt.
I pay for the purchases and loop the bag over my arm before heading outside again. As I pass a restaurant, the smell of pizza fills the air. My stomach growls. I pause to study the menu taped in the restaurant window when two women walk out. Paige and Joanna West emerge, Paige holding the door open as Joanna fishes around in her purse.
“Oh. Hello, Olivia.” She slips her sunglasses on. “We didn’t know you were planning to come downtown.”
“Dean was going to the hospital, and I thought he’d want a chance to visit his father alone.” I feel exactly the way I did all those times I’d enter a classroom as the “new girl”—nervously wanting to please, and yet not knowing how my overtures would be received.
“You bought some things at Eclipse?” Paige glances at the name on my bag. “Let’s have a look.”
Well, hell. That’s all I need. The tags on the clothes say Maternity, the jeans have elastic stretch panels in the front, the skirt has an expandable waistline…
I make a show of looking at my watch. “Actually, I need to head back. I think Dean should be home soon, and we were going to… um, do something.”
Neither woman’s expression changes. I give them a wave and hurry in the opposite direction, aware that they’re probably going to talk about me now. Not that they haven’t before.
When I return to the West house, I go upstairs to unpack my things. I wonder if Joanna and Paige are having coffee or doing some shopping.
I can’t remember if I was ever that way with my mother. Mostly I remember being angry with her for dragging me from place to place or just not talking to her at all.
“You don’t even know how good you have it, Liv,” she told me once when we were on the road to yet another town.
I was in the passenger seat of our old Chevrolet, tucked close to the door to avoid a scratchy ridge of foam that had burst through the vinyl seat. I shoved my hand into a bag of potato chips. I’d eaten half the bag already and was feeling sick, but I kept eating because it gave me something to do with my hands and made it more difficult to talk.
My mother glanced at me from the driver’s seat. It was over ninety degrees out, and we’d rolled all the windows down. Hot air rushed into the car. Her wheat-blond hair whipped around her head and neck. She was wearing a yellow tank top and capri pants, her bare feet tan and dusty.
“Most girls your age would love such freedom.” She pulled her sunglasses off her head and slipped them over her eyes. “How many of them have seen as much as you have, done as much? None, I’ll tell you that. They’re too busy painting their nails.”
I spread out a hand and looked at my nails. Ragged and bitten to the quick.
“So cut out the attitude and be grateful,” my mother added. “And stop eating chips. You’re getting fat.”
I crumpled up the bag and wiped my greasy fingers on my shorts. I scratched a mosquito bite on my leg. I stared out the open window. I’d long ago devised a game of looking at passing cars and making up stories about the people inside.
The older couple driving a Cadillac had been married sixty years and were taking a trip to the beach together. The young, long-haired guy in the hatchback was on his way to meet his girlfriend after they’d gone to separate colleges. The four girls in the VW were taking a road trip to Manhattan for the first time.
I wondered what people thought of when they saw me and my mother.
Crystal. She’d told me to call her that when I was eight. Didn’t think it was a good idea if people immediately knew we were mother and daughter.
“Get out the map, Liv.” She nodded toward the glove compartment. “We’re looking for I-77. You remember Nadine from the grocery store? She’s got a brother who lives in Cleveland. Runs an auto-parts store or something. Nadine said to pay him a visit if we happened to be in town.”
“We don’t happen to be in Cleveland,” I muttered. “We’re going there on purpose.”
“Shut up, Liv, and look at the map. Why are you always such a pain in the ass?”
“Because we’re always moving,” I snapped. “Why did we have to leave Akron? I liked it there.”
I did, too. I’d been able to start fourth grade at the beginning of the year, which meant I wasn’t as much the “new girl” as I would have been if I’d started mid-year. I’d even made a few friends, and my teacher, Mrs. White, was nice.
“There’s nothing in Akron,” Crystal replied. “We need to go somewhere where things are happening.”
By the time we got to Cleveland, we were out of money and down to a quarter tank of gas. Turned out Nadine’s brother Tom worked at a garage, and my mother talked him into filling the gas tank and checking the car. Then she booked us into a cheap motel room and told me to wait for her there.
She was gone for two days. I watched TV and ate candy bars and chips from the vending machine. When Crystal returned, she smelled like cigarette smoke and had a wad of twenties in her pocket. Even then, I wondered what she’d done for them.
Now I shove aside all the old emotions, reminding myself that my life is completely different. It’s been different for over fifteen years. I’ll never be that uncertain and afraid again. And I will not be the kind of mother Crystal was.
I take the maternity clothes out of the bag and spread them out on the bed. The stretch panels mean I can wear them throughout the pregnancy. I do a little mixing and matching with some of my other shirts, then fold everything up and put it all in my suitcase. I realize I forgot to give Joanna the chocolates I bought her, and I put them on the dresser.
I change into yoga pants and a T-shirt and sit at the desk. I open my Liv’s Manifesto notebook. After a moment of thought, I write:
An unfamiliar feeling winds through me. I grip the pen harder and keep writing.
I put the pen down and reread the list.
You.
I turn on my computer and type a few words into a search engine. I’m perusing several lists when Dean comes in. He kisses me on the forehead and gives me an update about his father before he flops down on the bed and pulls a loop of string from his jeans pocket.
“Chaucer, huh?” I ask.
“What?” Dean glances up from twisting the string around his fingers.
“You wanted to name our kid Chaucer.” I look at him with a raised brow, my hands poised over the keyboard. “Not if you expect to stay married.”
He manages to look offended. “Chaucer is a classic name. Great historical significance.”
“You might as well put a teasing target on the kid’s back.”
“We could shorten it to Chet.”
“Chet West. Sounds like the name of a spaghetti western hero. Come see Ride ’Em, Cowboy, starring Tom Mix and Chet West.”
“Hmm. Not sure that’s a movie I’d want to see.” Dean unravels the string from his fingers. “So, what brilliant name ideas do you have?”
“I’ve always liked the name Elliott.”
“Great. Our kid will forever be associated with E.T. Everyone will be telling him to phone home.”
We glower at each other for a few seconds before I turn back to the computer. “What if it’s a girl? And don’t you dare say Hildegard or Goditha.”
“Isabella.”
I pause, my fingers on the computer keys. “That’s nice.”
“Bella for short.”
I look at him. “Really nice.”
Dean smiles. I get all soft inside. He looks pleased with himself.
“Just don’t tell me Isabella was some medieval queen who ended up getting burned at the stake,” I warn.
“Isabella of Angoulême became the queen of England. She was beautiful and fierce.”
“Say no more.” I like the idea of naming a daughter after a woman who was beautiful and fierce. As long as I don’t know if she met an untimely end. “Isabella if it’s a girl. And if it’s a boy?”
“Durwin.”
“No.”
“Arthur.”
“No.”
“Roland.”
“No.”
“Sedgewick.”
“Hell no.”
“Nicholas.”
I pause again. “Nicholas is a medieval name?”
“Lots of medieval Nicholases. There was a Pope Nicholas who started an artistic revival in Rome. There was a sculptor, a goldsmith, a philosopher...”
“Hmm.”
“Sounds good, doesn’t it? Nicholas West.”
I don’t respond immediately, for no other reason than to make him sweat a little. Finally I nod. “It does sound good.”
Dean looks almost surprised. “You agree?”
“Nicholas West or Isabella West.” My heart thumps as I picture a pink-cheeked baby. Our pink-cheeked baby. Nicholas or Isabella.
“That’s it?” Dean’s grinning like he just won an award. “Those are the names?”
“Those are the names.” I push away from the computer and go to lower myself into his lap. “Nice work, professor.”
“You too, beauty.” He rubs my belly in slow circles and then down between my legs.
“You sure you want to?” I ask as a warm tingle slides through my blood.
“As long as you feel okay.”
“I feel fine, but I am gaining weight, you know.”
“So?”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course not.” Dean pushes a lock of hair away from my shoulder. “What, you think you won’t turn me on when you’re bigger?”
“I still have a long way to go. It could get… awkward.”
“So we’ll figure it out.” He pulls me to him and eases his hand between my thighs again.
“You know, there’ll probably be a time when we won’t be able to manage much position-wise,” I warn him. “Or at least, I won’t. And I have no idea what happens hormonally when things progress. Maybe my sex drive will disappear.”
I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted when Dean starts laughing.
Before I can scowl at him, he pulls me closer for a long, deep kiss. I sigh and settle against him. Just as we’re getting into it, a knock sounds on the door. Dean mutters a noise of irritation as we separate. He pushes to his feet and goes to open the door.
Paige is standing in the hallway, her hands on her hips. She glances past Dean to me.
“What is it, Paige?” he asks.
“Archer called. He’ll be here in a couple of hours.”