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  “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.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Olivia

  have an urge to escape, like a rabbit who senses an approaching wolf. Dean hasn’t seen his younger brother in five years, and I’m part of the reason why. If not the reason. I’d met Archer West once, during Thanksgiving weekend the first year Dean and I were together.

  We arrived at the San Jose airport in late morning the day before Thanksgiving. Lines of traffic moved sluggishly over the highway. We drove out of San Jose and into the wealthy computer-money suburbs of Cupertino, Saratoga, and Los Gatos.

  The sheer expanse and beauty of the West home was totally foreign to me, the girl who’d lived in cramped apartments and slept on sofas in strangers’ living rooms.

  Richard West was a tall, broad-shouldered man with gray hair and an almost tangible shield of reticence. Joanna West looked like she’d been to finishing school with her model-like posture, coiffed hair, and designer suit. I might have had a hard time imagining her capable of an affair if I didn’t know quite well that people concealed all sorts of things behind their facades.

  Everything about the West house and family seemed perfect. Dire
ct from the glossy pages of a magazine.

  “What do you do, Olivia?” Joanna West asked me during dinner.

  I glanced at Dean. “Er, I work in a coffeehouse. Jitter Beans. And I’m majoring in literature and library sciences.”

  “Oh. How nice.” She smiled vaguely, and that was the end of that conversation.

  “And what do your parents do?” Richard West asked.

  “My father passed away years ago, and my mother is in travel,” I said. “This fish is delicious. Whatever did you put in the sauce?”

  Later that night as Dean and I were getting ready for bed, I said, “I’m not sure they like me.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I like you.” He kissed my forehead. “Don’t let them get to you, Liv. No one can meet their expectations.”

  Including him. I knew that without needing to ask, but I still didn’t fully understand why. Dean West was the epitome of the perfect, successful son. Not even Joanna and Richard West could say a word against him.

  Reminded me of me, I thought as I tucked myself against Dean in bed. I’d been the same way when I lived with Aunt Stella and Henry. Just in a far less prominent way.

  I slept restlessly that first night, feeling out of place in the huge bed, waking at every sound the house made. Even the silence was strained, as if it were stretched tight.

  The sky was just starting to lighten with dawn when I woke. The clock read five-forty. Dean’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets and covers rumpled. I crawled out of bed and trudged to the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash water on my face. I shrugged into my robe, finger-combing the tangles from my hair before heading downstairs. A rectangle of light came from the kitchen.

  As I approached, the low rumble of male voices stopped me. My heart stuttered with a strange sense of foreboding.

  “You fucked it up once, you’ll fuck it up again,” Dean hissed.

  “Just because it’s not what you’d do,” another voice snapped. “Give me the goddamn money, and I’ll get out of here.”

  “No.”

  “Then welcome me home for Thanksgiving, brother.”

  Archer. My breath stopped in my throat. The deadbeat brother had returned. Unable to stop myself, I peered around the kitchen door.

  Dean stood with his back to me, clad in his running clothes, his shoulders rigid. Across from him was a tall, younger man with overlong, unkempt black hair and a sullen expression. Dressed in jeans and a dirty T-shirt beneath a worn leather jacket, he stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips in a stance of insolent defiance.

  “You’re not staying here for the weekend,” Dean said.

  “Aren’t I? Mom will love it. All of us together for the holidays.”

  Dean’s hand shot out to grab the front of his brother’s T-shirt. “You little bastard.”

  “Don’t fucking—” Archer stopped. His gaze jerked to me, pinning me to the spot. “Who the hell are you?”

  Dean spun around. “Liv, what…”

  “I… I couldn’t sleep. Must be the time change.” I pressed a hand to my chest and backed up a step. “I’m sorry.”

  Archer looked from me to Dean and back again. Understanding dawned in his expression suddenly. He smiled.

  Dean crossed the room and stopped beside me, putting a protective hand on my lower back.

  “Hello.” Archer approached, his brow furrowing as he looked at me. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Archer West, Dean’s brother. And you’re Dean’s…?”

  Yes, I’m Dean’s.

  “Liv Winter,” I said.

  “Liv.” He extended a hand.

  Up close, Archer was handsome in a scruffy way, with thick eyelashes and a wide mouth. His features were smoother than Dean’s, almost pretty in the way his cheekbones sloped to his jaw, but his eyes contained a gleam that was unnerving at best.

  I shook his hand, disliking the way his long fingers tightened around mine. As he drew his hand away, he slid a forefinger across my palm.

  A shudder of revulsion raced through me. I pulled away and wiped my hand on my robe.

  “Um, I’ll leave you to talk,” I said. “Sorry for the interruption.”

  “No, stay,” Archer suggested. “Dean was just making coffee, right, bro?”

  Dean shook his head. “Get the hell out, Archer. Liv, sorry he’s such an ass.”

  “Liv,” Archer said. “Short for…?”

  “Olivia.”

  “Shakespearean.” He raised a black eyebrow. “Nice. I like it. Reminds me of that quote, you know, live fast, die young. Do you live—”

  Before he could finish, Dean stepped forward and shoved his brother to the side. Archer’s shoulder hit the doorjamb with a thud. Anger flared, and he whirled toward Dean.

  Just when I thought Archer was about to throw a punch, Dean took another threatening step toward his brother. They locked gazes for half a second, then Archer retreated.

  Hah.

  “Asshole,” Archer muttered, embarrassment coloring his face.

  “Come in, Liv.” Dean closed his hand reassuringly around my arm. “If he makes you uncomfortable again, I will fucking kill him, and he knows it. Right, bro?”

  Archer shot me a glare, then grabbed a beat-up duffle bag by the refrigerator and stalked out of the kitchen. The instant he left, Dean’s shoulders sagged.

  “Sorry.” He pulled me against his side. “I didn’t expect him to come back. No one did.”

  “He doesn’t come home for the holidays?”

  “He doesn’t come home unless he wants something,” Dean replied, his tone bitter. “What he wants is the money my grandfather left him.”

  “Why does he want it from you?”

  “My grandfather set what’s called a condition precedent for Archer’s inheritance. That means Archer has to finish college, get a steady job, prove he’s capable of handling the money. My grandfather also designated me as the person who determines if and when Archer has fulfilled the conditions and what percentage of the money he should get at any given time.”

  “You?” I wondered why Richard West wasn’t the designated “person in charge,” then remembered that Dean told me his father and grandfather had been estranged.

  “Has Archer received any of his inheritance yet?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “And that’s why he’s mad at you.”

  “One of the reasons.” He filled the coffee grinder and watched as the blades pulverized the beans.

  “What are the other reasons?”

  He didn’t respond, his expression set. A sudden trepidation rolled through me.

  “Dean, what—”

  I stopped when Dean glanced to the doorway. The sound of heavy footsteps preceded Richard West’s entry into the kitchen.

  “Morning.” Richard strode in dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt, smelling like cologne. “Liv. Dean. Coffee ready?”

  “Couple of minutes.” Dean filled the pot with water. “Dad, Archer is back.”

  Richard frowned. “Where is he?”

  “Upstairs. He said he’d traveled most of the night.”

  “If your mother gives him anything, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “He comes to me because she won’t.”

  “She’d better not. You make sure of it, you hear?” Richard picked up the paper and snapped it open.

  Animosity radiated from both men. Dean glanced at me, the lines in his face easing into a forced smile.

  “What do you want for breakfast, Liv?”

  “Just toast, thanks.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving.” Joanna West entered the kitchen, dressed in a straight linen skirt and blue silk blouse, her hair and makeup done perfectly. “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day out.”

/>   She paused to kiss Richard’s forehead. He ignored her.

  “So much to do before our big dinner.” Joanna went to the coffeepot. “I told Alma to make both pumpkin pie and pecan this year. Oh, and those maple-syrup carrots you like so much, Richard.”

  I looked at Dean. He was watching his mother. A sudden pain filled his eyes, one that seemed both ancient and weary. My chest constricted.

  Dean lowered his gaze to his cup. In that instant, I saw him as a child reading books about knights and stories of a boy detective who solved mysteries and made things right. I knew that Dean had been trying to do the same thing for years.

  But to no avail.

  “Oh, it’s lovely, Joanna! So delicious.”

  The West home buzzed with women’s melodious voices and men’s liquor-enhanced laughter. A crowd of at least forty people—friends, relatives, neighbors—milled around the house and terrace. An elaborate Thanksgiving buffet stretched across the dining room. Richard West manned the bar, while Joanna fluttered around ensuring everyone had enough to eat and drink.

  I made an effort to socialize, watching with amusement as matronly and not-so-matronly women fawned over Dean and batted their eyelashes at him. I caught snippets of conversation about Archer West, faint murmurs of disapproval.

  Archer sat out on the terrace, his feet up on a wooden chair, chatting amiably with anyone who stopped to greet him. Paige West, stunning in a clingy, tie-dye print dress and dangly silver earrings, basked in the glow of attention from several young men.

  The afternoon sun shone bright and cool, shimmering on the grass. An orange tree swayed in the light wind. Laughter floated. The aromas of herbed turkey, roasted apples, fresh-baked rolls, and pumpkin pie drifted in the air.

  Dean maneuvered through the crowd with the ease of a blade cutting through silk. He’d spent the first hour beside me, introducing me to guests and being attentive, until I insisted I’d be fine on my own. Still, his gaze met mine every so often, as if he were keeping an eye on me while he joined conversations and asked if he could get anyone anything.