Adore (Spiral of Bliss #4) Page 5

  I’ve had to learn how to back off, stand down, retreat, when everything in me wants to fight. I’ve had to stop trying to fix everything, even when I’ve wanted to do nothing more. Even when I still want to.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‡

  OLIVIA

  I hit the publish button on my latest blog entry, “What the Truck?,” which is an unvarnished recounting of Nicholas’s meltdown and my ruined attempt at a welcome home dinner for Dean.

  I’d started my Liv in Wonderland blog as an extension of the café website, using it to describe our birthday parties, community outreach, and to post pictures of our dishes and desserts. But after Nicholas was born, my blog posts started becoming more personal and focused on the struggles of motherhood and work.

  And while I keep certain things private—I’d never get into my lackluster sex drive, for one thing—the blog has become popular among other working mothers, who leave comments sympathizing with me, thanking me, and offering advice.

  While I have plenty of real-life friends who are also mothers, some of whom also read the blog, it’s fun to have a little community of online “fans,” and I’ve even started earning a bit of extra money from advertising revenue.

  I shut down my laptop and take out the Italian notebook Dean brought back for me. I open to the first page and write:

  Get my groove back.

  Though the book is so beautiful I feel like I should be using it to write a masterpiece rather than a To Do list, frankly that list is a mile long. And it has to start with my husband. Guilt nudges at me.

  Even though Dean has been the model of patient understanding for two years, the discovery of his rather frequent self-pleasuring, not to mention the disaster of my badly faked orgasm, has made me realize I need to do something about this.

  It’s definitely time. Maybe I need to stop making excuses about being tired and overworked. I’ve lost all—okay, most—of my pregnancy weight, I feel pretty good about myself, I think about sex practically every time I look at my hot husband, and I miss the intimacy we once had. Plus I finally found a birth control pill that doesn’t give me any side-effects, which means we can be entirely spontaneous.

  Sex has always been an intensely powerful part of our relationship, but it also encompasses so much more than just physical pleasure. It’s intrinsic to what we are to each other, a strong, glittering thread throughout our history, the singular, brilliant place where nothing exists except us.

  Now with both of us so busy, and especially before we start resenting each other’s work, we need to find that place again. And I’m the one with the map. Not to mention, I’m still curious about Professor West’s hot masturbatory fantasies.

  I add to the page:

  Learn Dean’s fantasies.

  Act them out.

  Surely that will get us back on track, though I’d better have some other plans too. I do some Internet searching for how to revive one’s sex life. Maybe I should even start a Pinterest board of sexy images and ideas. My boards are all about home decorating, elaborate cakes and baked goods, craft projects, and a million “good mothering” tips and ideas. I’ve clearly forgotten one of my main priorities.

  I log in to my Pinterest site, create a new board, and pin a few erotic pictures up. Before I can peruse a 31 Days of Hot Sex website, I hear Nicholas calling from the living room that his cartoon is over.

  I switch my brain to Mommy Mode and bring Nicholas upstairs to get ready. I don’t have a full work shift today, but I stop at the café to get some paperwork done.

  I love the café—it’s a bright, airy fun place with murals covering the walls, diamond-patterned upholstery, and a potted topiary pathway leading up the “yellow brick road” staircase to the Wizard of Oz rooms.

  Over the years, our clientele has mostly been mothers with children and families on weekends. Teenagers drop in often, their coolness belied by their half-smiles of pleasure as they’re served edible teacups and peppermint twist cupcakes, and elderly ladies come in regularly for our Mad Hatter high tea.

  I’m so proud of what Allie and I have created together, despite some bumps in the road. Not only is the café successful as a family-favorite place of fun, whimsical warmth and good food, we’ve also become actively involved in the community through our charity work, participation in the local theater festival, collaborations with the Historical Society, and most recently our work for the Mirror Lake Bicentennial Festival.

  After settling Nicholas in the playpen I keep in our office, I sit at the desk to pay bills and figure out the work schedule.

  “Hey, Liv, guess what?” Allie stops in the doorway of the office, her curly red hair caught up in a high ponytail. “A guy from Edison Power stopped by earlier, wanting to talk to us about catering their company picnic in August. It would be incredible for publicity, and it might bring in enough money that we could afford a deposit for the birthday party truck.”

  “Edison Power? I just sent them the sponsorship package for the festival.” I pull open my festival file. “What was his name?”

  “Mike Harrison, head of marketing. He also said his wife wants to have their daughter’s fifth birthday party here, but I don’t think we can pull it off. Mrs. Harrison wants her daughter’s entire class invited, plus her other friends. We can’t handle that many kids and our regular customers at the same time, and we already have reservations for that day so we can’t close for a private party.”

  “Maybe we can double our staff for a few hours.” I open the birthday party calendar and staff schedule. “If we can host a great birthday party for Mike Harrison’s daughter, Edison might be even more inclined to sponsor the festival.”

  “And let us cater their picnic,” Allie adds. “But we don’t have the capacity for thirty-one kids in the party room. Plus a lot of the parents might stay.”

  “We’ll use the Kansas Farm room too,” I say. “And the outdoor terrace. This is great, Allie. We’ll show them how good we are and establish a relationship. Do we have his wife’s contact info?”

  Allie digs in her apron pocket for the party request form and hands it to me. “I already emailed her this morning and told her we couldn’t host that many kids.”

  “Allie, we can do it.” I unfold the paper. “When did she schedule the party?”

  “Two weeks from Saturday. She wants the full Wizard of Oz package.”

  “I’ll call her.” I reach for the phone. “If we plan for enough staff, we’ll be fine.”

  A hint of irritation radiates from Allie. I try to ignore it as I leave a message on Monica Harrison’s voicemail.

  “It’s not just about the café, Allie,” I say apologetically, putting the phone back onto the receiver. “I didn’t realize I’d be responsible for finding sponsors for the festival. But I asked Edison Power to be our highest level sponsor, and if they agree, we’ll be able to have a children’s stage at the festival and hire Slice of Pie to play.”

  “But the festival has nothing to do with the café,” Allie says with a frown.

  “Look, I’ll handle it all,” I promise her. “And I won’t schedule anything without your okay.”

  She shrugs, not looking entirely convinced or happy. Regret twists my insides as I watch her turn and leave the office. Since becoming partners, Allie and I have disagreed on things over the past couple of years, but we’ve always managed to reach a compromise and never stayed irritated with each other for very long.

  I start to go after her with the intention of making amends when the phone rings.

  “Wonderland Café,” I say into the receiver. “This is Liv.”

  “Liv, it’s Monica Harrison. You left a message about my daughter Becky’s birthday party?”

  “Yes, thanks for calling me back. I wanted to tell you we’d be happy to host it for you, and after talking to my partner, we found a way to accommodate your entire guest list.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you so much. Becky will be thrilled.”

  I wr
ite down the details of her request and email them to Allie before gathering my things to leave. I get Nicholas into his car seat and text Dean, asking if he can join us for lunch. When he doesn’t respond right away, I drive to King’s University.

  The campus is milling with people walking to and from class, boots sloshing in the melting spring slush. The grass of the quad is starting to turn green, the bare trees budding with leaves.

  The door to Dean’s office in the history department is half-open. His baritone voice drifts into the corridor, along with another man’s accented tone. They’re talking about the Altopascio monastery and the damage from the earthquake.

  I stop outside the office, taking Nicholas out of the stroller before he starts fussing. A young woman with brown, curly hair caught back in a bun comes down the hall toward me, her stride purposeful and a stack of folders in her arm.

  After a second, I realize it’s Jessica Burke, Dean’s whip-smart, former grad student who earned her PhD a few years ago and has since been doing postdoc work in England.

  “Jessica?” I stop and wave at her. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

  “Oh, hey, Liv.” She approaches to give me a quick hug. “I just got in a few days ago. My father passed away last week.”

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.” Sadness flashes behind her attempt at a smile. “He was sick for awhile, so it wasn’t unexpected but still…”

  She shakes her head and turns her attention to Nicholas. “Wow, look at how big Nicholas is getting. I’ve been keeping up with him by reading your Liv in Wonderland blog. He’s adorable.”

  “Thanks. If there’s anything you need or anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

  “Actually, I might be on the lookout for a part-time job,” Jessica says, letting Nicholas wrap his fist around her thumb. “My postdoc at the University of Leeds is over, so I’m looking for a professorship somewhere. I’m also hoping to be able to stay with my mom for awhile since she’s pretty broken up about my dad. I’d like to help her out as much as I can.”

  “Of course. Are you looking for a professorship around here?”

  “If I can find one, but my chances are slim just because all the positions are already taken,” she replies. “Dean is keeping an eye out for me, and he’s going to spread the word to other state universities.”

  Before I can respond, the door of Dean’s office opens wider.

  “You’d be an excellent fit for the WHC, Dean.” The other man’s lightly accented voice carries into the corridor. “I don’t have to tell you that opportunities like this don’t come around very often.”

  “I appreciate that, Hans,” Dean says. “And I’m honored that you’d think of me.”

  Something in his voice indicates he really is honored. I wonder what opportunity they’re talking about.

  The two men step into the corridor. Hans is a slender, blond man wearing a well-cut gray suit and small, round glasses. He looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t immediately place him.

  “Hey, Liv.” Dean catches sight of me and lifts his hand in greeting. “What are you doing here?”

  “We thought we’d see if you were free for lunch.” I walk toward him as Nicholas starts to squirm, reaching out for his father.

  “Hans, Jessica, and I are heading to a meeting over at SciTech,” Dean explains, hefting Nicholas into his arms. “They’re helping us with analyzing the seismic reports from the quake. Hans, this is my wife Olivia. Liv, Hans Klasen. You met at the Medieval Studies conference a few years ago. Hans is the director of UNESCO’s World Heritage Center.”

  “Of course.” The pieces click, and I hold out my hand in greeting. “Pleasure to see you again, Dr. Klasen.”

  “Hans, please. You as well.” He indicates Nicholas with a smile. “You hadn’t had your son last time we met. He is two years now?”

  “He turned two in January, yes.”

  “Beautiful child.” Hans touches Nicholas’s brown hair. “Strong resemblance to his mother.”

  “Lucky kid, huh?” Dean asks, winking at me.

  “Indeed,” Hans agrees.

  “Charmers,” I remark, flattered nonetheless. “Hans, how long are you staying? Maybe both you and Jessica can come for dinner one night.”

  “I’m afraid I leave tomorrow for Washington, DC,” Hans explains. “I stopped for a lecture in Chicago and the SciTech meeting. Also to convince your husband to come for the interviews.”

  I swing my gaze to Dean. “Interviews for what?”

  He shakes his head. Jessica glances from me to Dean and touches Hans on the arm.

  “I think Professor Hunter was looking for you,” she tells him. “We still have a few minutes before we need to leave.”

  They both walk toward the main office. Dean hands Nicholas back to me.

  “Interviews for what?” I repeat.

  “Hans thinks I’d be a good fit for an open position at the World Heritage Center,” Dean says.

  I blink in surprise. I know Dean’s professional reputation is immense, extending beyond the scope of academia, but strangely enough, not once have I considered the possibility that another institution might want to lure him away from King’s University.

  “What’s the job?” I ask.

  “Assistant director.”

  Assistant director of the World Heritage Center, a division of the United Nations?

  Before I can process that astonishing idea, Nicholas whines and reaches for the sippy cup in his stroller. I turn, getting him settled and giving myself a second to regain my composure.

  I love Dr. Dean West, summa cum laude from Harvard, the brilliant professor, the distinguished scholar and archeologist, but I don’t often think of him that way. To me, he’s far more often my warm, sexy husband, the doting father of our son, my best friend who brings home my favorite ice cream just because he thought I’d like some. The man who puts his hand on my lower back to guide me with such ease, as if I’m an extension of his body.

  So it’s something of a shock to remember just how internationally renowned he is, and to realize other people want him.

  “So you’re… you applied for the job?” I ask.

  “No.” His expression pensive, Dean brushes his hand over Nicholas’s hair. “But the WHC knows my credentials. Last week when I was in Italy, Hans mentioned the board was eyeing me for the assistant director position.”

  “And he asked you to take it?”

  “He asked me to interview for it.” Dean pushes back his cuff to glance at his watch as Hans and Jessica round the corner from the office.

  I step away from him, taking hold of the handle of Nicholas’s stroller.

  “I’m sorry, we’ve got to get going.” Dean leans in to brush a kiss across my cheek. “I’ll tell you more about it later, okay?”

  I nod, but something inside me rustles with unease.

  *

  After Nicholas is asleep that evening, I take the baby monitor up to the Butterfly House’s tower room, which is now Dean’s home office. It’s one of our favorite rooms—a circular space lined with windows that show off a view of the lake and downtown, all nestled within the embrace of the mountains.

  Last year during the final phase of renovations, Dean put in oak shelves, which are now packed with hundreds of books, and I created a little sitting area with a comfy sofa and chairs near the wood-burning stove that radiates a cozy warmth in winter. The wall space is lined with framed family photos and various prints of medieval manuscripts. Dean is seated at his big desk, which is cluttered with books and papers.

  I gesture to the clock. “Half past later.”

  He turns to face me as I sink into an oversized chair beside the window and put the baby monitor on the side-table.

  “So what did you tell Hans when he said they were considering you for the job?” I ask.

  “I was going to say no,” Dean says, “but since we’re trying to get the World Heritage Center to put the monastery on the li
st of protected sites, I knew it wouldn’t be a good move politically to turn them down right away.”

  “What does the position entail?”

  “Analysis and evaluation of historic sites in different countries,” Dean says. “The assistant director determines which sites should be listed by the WHC, how to protect sites in war zones, assesses landscapes, natural properties, conservation. Whoever takes the job has to get involved with cultural areas far beyond medieval sites. They’d chair the annual convention, deal with lobbying, fundraising, United Nations meetings.”

  “You’d be an international diplomat.” I feel like I just said, “You’d be president of the United States.”

  “I went to college to be a historian, not a diplomat.”

  “You went to college to learn how to study and preserve history,” I remind him. “And this sounds like you could do that on an international level. Actively, too… working with the physical part of history like you’ve been doing at Altopascio. I know how much you love that.”

  “I also love living in Mirror Lake and teaching at King’s,” Dean says. “It would be more of a change than we can make.”

  “Why?”

  “We’d have to move to Paris.”

  My breath catches in my throat.

  Paris. Sweet, hot memories fill my heart and mind.

  Despite my nomadic childhood with my mother, I had never been out of the United States before Dean whisked me off to France almost seven years ago for our wedding and honeymoon. We’d gotten married at the family villa of a friend of Dean’s before spending a soft-edged, intense month together in Paris. I’d felt like I was floating the entire time, as the world unfolded all the dreams I’d kept secret in my heart.

  Even now the word Paris sparks thoughts of the museums and art galleries where paintings glow like jewels, the cafés with round tables and wicker chairs, the sandcastle façade of Notre Dame cathedral guarded by looming gargoyles, the lamp-lit bridges arching over the Seine. Buttery madeleines, fresh fruit at the outdoor markets, rich wine from Provençal vineyards…