CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dean
LIV IS STILL SLEEPING, HALF-BURIED under the covers, her hair spilling over the pillows. I bend to press a kiss against her cheek, breathe in her peachy scent.
I go into the kitchen to start the coffee, liking the familiarity of being back in our apartment. I haven’t been here in weeks. Out of habit, I glance at the clock a few times, even though I have nowhere I need to be anytime soon.
Deflecting a stab of irritation, I take two mugs from the cupboard. I’ve never had nothing to do, nowhere to go. There have always been classes, work, lectures, research, meetings. As much as I hated being away from Liv, she was right when she told me I had to go to Altopascio or I’d go crazy just sitting around.
“Is it really almost seven?” Liv shuffles out of the bedroom in her nightshirt, rubbing one eye and yawning. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I didn’t know I should. You’re never up before seven.”
“These days I’m up by six,” Liv says. “Got work to do. Oh, hey, look at you standing in our kitchen all shirtless and sexy.”
I smile and extend my arms to her. She walks into them, burrowing against my chest, her body warm and soft. I press my mouth to her hair and tighten my arms around her. Exactly where we both belong.
To my unexpected pleasure, we fall into our old routine with ease, as if we’ve never been apart, as if I’ve been here all along. I pour the coffee, she sets the table, I make eggs, she gets out the bread for toasting and brushes up against me whenever she passes by.
Exactly the way it’s supposed to be.
After breakfast, Liv gets ready and leaves for the day. I answer emails and phone calls about the Altopascio dig before going to meet Frances Hunter at a nearby coffeehouse.
“Sorry I’m late, Dean.” Frances stops by the table, trying to balance a coffee, a wet umbrella, and her bag.
I stand to help her, and she mutters a few complaints about the rainy weather before settling in across from me.
“You look tired,” she remarks.
“Jet lag.”
“How’s Liv?”
“Fine.” Better than she’s ever been, probably. That thought eases my apprehension about what Frances might have to tell me this time.
“How’s her café coming along?” Frances asks. “I read an article in a professional women’s magazine about it.”
“The article is out already?”
“The latest issue came out just a couple of days ago,” Frances says. “It was a great article, all about the history of the building and the tearoom, and how Liv and some friends are turning it into a children’s café.”
My pride in my wife knows no bounds. I make a mental note to stop at the store and buy the magazine.
“Well.” I pull my cup toward me. “All the more reason I need to put an end to this nightmare.”
“Just a few more weeks, Dean,” Frances says. “May twentieth.”
“What about it?”
“That’s when Ben Stafford will make his recommendation about the case.” Frances removes the lid from her coffee and takes a sip. “If he determines there’s enough evidence against you, he’ll go to the board of trustees and recommend that they pursue the case. If not, he’ll close the file.”
“Then what happens?”
“Either you get formally suspended or you return to your job.”
Her tone is so matter-of-fact—either you get regular or decaf—that I almost laugh.
“That’s it?” I ask.
A smile cracks her face. “Easy, huh?”
“Christ, Frances.” I shake my head and take a gulp of coffee. “With Hamilton like a fucking bloodhound… What if he keeps up with his own damned investigation?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Really, though, I don’t imagine he’d discover anything that could be used against you. At least, nothing Ben Stafford wouldn’t also know about. Unless there’s something you haven’t told us.”
“Nothing relevant to this. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“For what it’s worth,” Frances says, “the board of trustees is very impressed with your work on such a prestigious dig, not to mention your IHR grant and the conference. Even if Stafford does recommend further investigation, I’m certain the board will be… lenient. None of the board members want to lose you, Dean.”
My jaw tightens. “But if this cluster-fuck gets turned over to them, everyone knows about it. And with Hamilton still dangling his donation to the law school in front of them… Forget it, Frances. I’m screwed.”
She doesn’t respond, but we both know it’s the truth. Even if by some miracle I escape this alive, any confidentiality would be shattered. Faculty, students, administration… all of them would know that a female student accused me of harassing her.
And as much as I hate Crystal Winter, she was right about one thing. The stigma will never go away.
“Will Stafford interview my other students?” I ask.
“Not unless he recommends that the board pursues the case.”
“Which we both know he will.” I stare out the window. “This is a fucking nightmare, Frances.”
“I know.” She hesitates. “Look, if it’s any consolation, your reviews are outstanding. I’ve no doubt every one of your students will vouch for your integrity.”
Sure. While they’re being asked questions like, Has Professor Dean West ever made suggestive comments to you or touched you inappropriately?
“There’s not much recourse against a false claim of sexual harassment, Frances,” I say. “Even my lawyer admitted that. The fallout is brutal.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Jessica Burke told me Maggie is spreading shit about me to the other students,” I continue. My chest is tight. I have the sick, pervasive sense again that there’s no way out of this. “It won’t be long before something gets out about me harassing her, even if Stafford doesn’t want the board involved.”
“I’m sorry, Dean,” Frances says.
Though I know she really is sorry, I also know there is nothing she can do.
I push away from the table. “Anything else?”
“No. Just hang in there.” She looks down at her coffee, her face etched with lines of frustration and disappointment.
Guilt stabs me. Frances was the one who hired me. And now she’s had to waste a ton of time and energy on this investigation. If it goes to the board, she’ll take some heat too, not to mention having to be the one to explain it all to the rest of the history faculty and all the students.
As I pass her chair, I pause to put my hand on her shoulder. Apologies crowd my throat. Finally I manage to say, “Thank you.”
She puts her hand on mine and nods. “Say hello to Liv for me, Dean.”
Liv.
I have a sudden urge to see my wife. I say goodbye to Frances and head outside. The rain has stopped, sunlight breaking through the gray clouds and warming the spring air. I walk down Avalon Street and turn toward the café.
As I approach the Historical Museum, a white-haired lady in a pink suit and little hat crosses the sidewalk to the front steps. She pauses and peers at me with one of those I know you looks that elderly ladies often have.
“Nice afternoon,” I offer.
“Yes, it is,” she agrees. “Aren’t you Olivia’s husband?”
“I am.” I extend my hand. “Dean West.”
“Of course.” She smiles as she closes her gloved hand around mine. “Florence Wickham. I’m on the Historical Society’s board of directors. We met at last year’s holiday party.”
“I remember. It’s nice to see you again.”
“You too. I thought you were out of town.”
“I was. I’m back now.”
“Lovely. We adore Olivia, Dean. Her new café sounds just delightful.”
“She and her partners are doing amazing work.”
“I told her that my granddaughter is the assistant superintendent of the Rainwood school district,” Florence informs me. “She has many contacts in the area with parent organizations, and she’s very excited about the Wonderland Café. And even with all that work, Olivia has been so helpful with our Butterfly House campaign.”
Heat slides through my veins at the memory of what Liv and I did at the Butterfly House. I return Florence’s smile. “She’s been enjoying the research.”
“You’re a historian, isn’t that correct?” Florence tilts her head toward the museum doors. “Would you mind giving me your opinion on something?”
“Sure.” I hold open the door for her, then follow her inside and back to the offices.
“We’re trying to raise the money to restore the house to its original structure.” Florence takes out a bunch of photos and documents and spreads them over a long table. “But we’re having a terrible time with the zoning laws and such, which is hampering our fund-raising efforts. And because it’s such a prime piece of land, we’re worried the city will pressure us to sell it to a developer, who would demolish the house.”
“That would be a shame.”
“Yes. We want to apply for government grants, but we must emphasize the historical value of the home. That’s what Olivia has been working on, and we’re going to submit photographs as well. As a historian, what elements of the house itself would you consider most important?”
I pick up a photo and study it. “The architectural features that are most distinctive to the time period and house style. Like these decorated gables, the polygonal tower, the wraparound porch. And interior features like the wooden relief panels and plaster medallions.”
Florence blinks. “We haven’t been inside yet.”
“Uh, I meant… I assume the house has features like that.” I clear my throat. “Why haven’t you been inside yet?”
“We need to thoroughly clean it, but we don’t have the money or staffing.” Florence shrugs. “That’s the reason most things are delayed.”
“I could help with clearing it out.”
She glances at me. “You mean the interior?”
“Sure. I’d just need a dumpster. There’s some furniture you might want to keep and restore, but there’s also a lot of stuff from previous remodeling jobs that can be thrown away.”
“How do you know that?”
Though this might get me in trouble, I admit, “Liv and I went into the house a few weeks ago. Just to look around.”
“Oh.” Florence looks intrigued. “And you say there’s still furniture?”
“It’s pretty much a mess,” I tell her. “But if you want, I can start to go through it all. I’d be able to tell what’s worth saving and what should be tossed. Then I can take pictures of the interior features that are historically important.”
“Oh, how wonderful, Dean!” A smile breaks over her face, crinkling her eyes. “We would love for you to do that. I’m afraid we don’t have the funds to pay you, but—”
“I’m volunteering,” I say. “I’m on leave from the university this semester, so I’ll be glad to have something to do.”
Florence claps her hands in excitement and gives me a warm hug that smells like talcum powder.
“I’m heading to a board meeting right now,” she says, gathering up the documents and photos. “I’ll tell the other members about you. They’ll be thrilled. We’ve been wanting to get started on the interior, but just haven’t had the resources.”
She pauses at the door. “Was Olivia able to locate the keys? I didn’t think anyone had found out where they are yet.”
“No, but I don’t need the keys.” Though I realize I’m admitting to breaking and entering, I suspect Florence won’t mind. “There’s a way to get in through the side door. I just have to squeeze through.”
“Oh.” She tugs one of her gloves up her wrist, eyeing me with speculation. “Well, you are quite the expert at squeezing into tight spaces, aren’t you, Dean? Out of them too, I imagine.”
She gives me a smile and a little wave before heading off.
I have no idea what she just meant by that, but then again I don’t have much experience dealing with elderly ladies.
I take out my phone and text Liv that I’m heading up to the Butterfly House. I stop to get a toolkit and other supplies out of our storage garage, then drive to where the house sits on its huge parcel of land.
After shouldering my way in through the loose board at the side, I walk through the house again, studying the furniture, everything that needs to be fixed, picturing how it would look if it were all restored to its original glory.
Then I open the front door and get to work.
May 7
It takes one phone call. It’s almost a relief, as if I’ve been waiting for the catalyst. The excuse I need to finally confront the thing that has gnawed at me for weeks.
It’s a warm day, the trees and flowers flourishing, the sun bright. A few boats are out on the lake, the sails like giant bird wings. After working for a couple hours at the Butterfly House, I drive to the café with the intention of asking Liv if she wants to go to lunch.
The place looks phenomenal with new tables and chairs, the walls painted and murals almost done, the hardwood floor gleaming. I find Liv in the kitchen, going over some papers with a few people she’d introduced to me as the head chef and kitchen staff.
Liv gives me a quick smile and wave of hello, then turns back to the discussion. I watch her, my heart thumping hard as it always does at the sight of her.
She looks different—more confident, in charge, as they talk about the stations, the ordering system, purchase specifications, and work flow.
I let out a breath, feeling something loosen inside me. This, I know, is exactly what Liv wanted. Even through all we’ve had to deal with, she’s stood her ground, found a goal, and gotten it done. She’s finally realized how strong she is and has proven it to herself.
When she sets the papers down and approaches me, I’m grinning like a fool.
Liv stops, amused. “Well, you look happy.”
“Sure I’m happy. You’re here, aren’t you?”
“Aw.” She smiles, giving me a little pinch on the arm. “Good one.”
“Can I take you to lunch?”
“Of course. Just give me a sec.”
We return to the main room, and Liv goes behind the front counter to her open laptop. I sit down at one of the chairs, which has upholstery covered with a playing card design in honor of Alice in Wonderland, and wait for Liv to finish typing on the computer.
The phone rings. Still looking at her computer, Liv answers it.
“Good afternoon, Wonderland Café.”
She pauses. Something radiates from her suddenly that gets me to my feet. I cross the room in a few strides, tension clawing at me.
“Yes?” Liv says into the phone.
She turns, her gaze meeting mine. My instinct kicks into gear, and I’m reaching for the phone before I can think. Liv puts her hand up and steps back, the phone still pressed to her ear.
“What?” she says into the receiver, her skin paling. “No. I don’t want to talk to him.”
I go around the counter and grab the phone from her, knowing to my bones what this is about.
“This is Dean West,” I tell the caller. “Who’s this?”
“Um… I was speaking to Olivia West,” replies a woman.
“This is her husband.” My grip is about to break the phone. “Who is this?”
“This is Mary Frederick, assistant to Mr. Edward Hamilton. Mr. Hamilton would like to make an appointment to speak to Mrs. West about—”
I slam the phone down, anger flooding me, my heart hammering. Liv is watching me, wary now, her eyes dark with the realization of what that phone call means. Edward Hamilton is now a very real threat to her and possibly her new business.
“What does he want?” she asks.
“To get to me.” Through you.
Edward Hamilton is an asshole, but he’s not stupid. He figured out early on that Liv is the one guaranteed way he can scare me. That if he goes after her… I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her.
Liv knows that too.
Her brown eyes fill with fear, pain, worry. A sharp ache cuts through my chest. And as my wife and I stand there in the Wonderland Café looking at each other, the decision solidifies inside me like ice.
I reach out to tuck a lock of Liv’s hair behind her ear. Any excuse to touch her. Not that I need an excuse. Most of the time I touch her just because I want to. Because I can. Because she’s mine.
“I need you to do something for me,” I finally say.
“Anything.”
“Don’t change your mind. Don’t tell me you want to talk to Hamilton and defend me or defend us. Not now. Not ever. I will go bat-shit crazy if I have to let you go to him.”
She curls her hand around my wrist. My pulse beats against her fingers. She shakes her head.
“I won’t,” she promises. “I’d never talk to him about us.”
“Okay.” Relief melts away some of the ice.
“What if he…”
Her voice trails off, leaving a hundred questions unspoken. A seething anger snakes into my blood at the thought of what the answers could be.
“I’m going to deal with this.” I tug my arm from Liv’s grasp. “And you’re going to let me.”
If there is one certainty in the world, it’s that my wife knows me. She knows that this is not a question, not a negotiation.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
“I’m going to talk to him.”
Liv nods, her expression clouding. “Please be careful.”
“If his assistant calls again, hang up on her,” I say.
“What if he calls?”
“He won’t.” I check the caller ID on the café phone, then take out my cell phone and program Hamilton’s office number in. “I’ll take care of this.”
There’s no other option. Not with Hamilton closing in.
Instead of taking Liv to lunch, I go home and make arrangements for the hour-and-a-half flight to Chicago the following day, with a return flight the same evening. I call Frances Hunter and keep the conversation short. Apologize. Don’t listen to her protests. Thank her and apologize a second time.
Then I call Hamilton’s office and tell his assistant when I’ll be there.
The next morning, I say goodbye to my wife yet again.
The hot, sweet crush of her body against mine, a tangle of silky hair, the peach softness of her cheek, the press of her mouth.
She’s all I’m thinking about as the flight lands in Chicago. She’s all that matters. I catch a taxi from the airport, and the driver stops in front of a downtown high-rise. I grab my briefcase and go inside, taking the elevator to the twelfth floor.
Edward Hamilton’s law office is filled with leather chairs and polished mahogany furniture. His receptionist greets me with a smile and offers coffee or tea.
“No, thank you.”
“All right, follow me, please. Mr. Hamilton is waiting for you.”
My teeth clench as I follow her into the room, the window overlooking the lake, the huge desk where Hamilton is sitting in his leather chair. He’s on the phone, and he gestures the receptionist out of the room as his gaze meets mine.
“I’ll call you back,” he says into the receiver before dropping it back onto the cradle.
Hostility thickens the air. He points to a chair.
I set my briefcase down and remain standing. “I want you to leave my wife alone.”
He eyes me narrowly, closing his hand around a pencil and tapping it on the desk. “I’m sure you do.”
“She has nothing to do with this.”
“Stafford thinks she does,” Hamilton replies. “We have evidence that you were involved with a student in the past. A student whom you seduced and later married.”
My fists clench. Anger heats my insides.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“You know what I want,” he says, pushing to stand up. “You fucked with my daughter, and I want you gone. She can’t get anything done with you still at King’s, and there’s no way she can graduate with you there. If the board doesn’t fire you, I’ll beat you to a pulp myself.”
Every muscle in my body tenses for a fight. I need one excuse, one goddamned opening…
Hamilton looks down at some papers on his desk.
“Your wife had a nervous breakdown, didn’t she?” he asks. “Lost her merit scholarship at… Fieldbrook College in the first year. What exactly happened? Reports are that she dropped out for personal reasons, but there’s a record that a psychologist had to—”
“You fucker.”
I leap across the desk before I can think. Grab Hamilton by the throat and bring us both crashing to the floor behind the desk. My fist connects with his face. He grunts. I hit him again. My vision goes red.
“Mr. Hamilton!” The receptionist’s voice penetrates my anger.
I land two more punches on Hamilton and pull back for a third when two security guards grab my arms and yank me off him.
I fight them, my blood replaced with rage, hating the restraint. Don’t stop me, you bastards. Let me kill him. The guards are shouting. One of them wrestles me away. Hamilton climbs to his feet, wiping a trickle of blood from his mouth.
“Mr. Hamilton?” The receptionist hurries forward. “Are you all right?”
I push myself away from the guards, holding my hands up. My breath burns my chest. I stalk to the other side of the room.
“You want us to throw him out, sir?” one of the guards asks.
Hamilton heaves in a breath, his gaze cold on me as he shakes his head. “No.”
“But, Mr. Hamilton, you—”
“Never mind, Mary.” Hamilton waves a hand to the door. “Go away.”
With a worried glance at me, Mary hurries from the room again. The guards hesitate before Hamilton snaps at them to get out.
“We’ll be right outside,” one of them says. They leave the room and shut the door behind them.
I clench my jaw. My shoulders are about to crack.
“How far do you want to take this, West?” Hamilton grabs a glass of water from his desk and takes a swallow. “You want me to charge you with assault and battery? Take it to court? Have it all dragged out in front of the board of trustees and student body? You know they’ll call your wife in to testify.”
Fear stabs through my anger. I shove aside thoughts of Liv.
Hamilton and I stare each other down like wolves looking for another opening to attack. Hatred seizes me as I walk back to him, my fists tight, my voice like stone.
“You leave my wife alone,” I order. “You leave her the fuck alone. I hear that you’re asking one goddamned thing about her, that you’ve tried to contact her, that you’ve said her name, and you’re dead. I will fucking kill you, Hamilton.”
“We can end this all right now,” he replies with a shrug. “It’s up to you.”
I fight back a new wave of rage, grab my briefcase, and walk to the door. Outside, I drag in a few breaths of cold air.
I get a taxi and go to a computer services store where I can hook my laptop to a printer. I power up the laptop and open a document.
Don’t think. Just type.
Dear Chancellor Radcliffe, Professor Hunter, and members of the Board of Trustees,
I am writing to resign from my position as professor of Medieval Studies at King’s University, effective immediately.
Given the circumstances that have affected me both personally and professionally, it is in my best interest, as well as that of King’s University and my students, that I leave the position.
I have greatly enjoyed teaching at King’s and regret this course of action tremendously. I will do whatever is necessary to facilitate the transition for my students.
Please accept both my resignation and my heartfelt gratitude.
Sincerely,
Dean West