Spiral of Bliss 01 Arouse (16 page)

“How’d you get started being a chef?” I ask.

“My parents owned a restaurant in Ohio, so I grew up in a kitchen. Except theirs was a diner, and my dad said he wanted me to do better than that. So I went to culinary school to learn more about fine dining, then opened a place in Cleveland before moving to Forest Grove.”

“Why did you move to Forest Grove?”

“Followed a girl.” He shoots me a half-abashed smile. “Didn’t work out.”

“Well, you ended up with a successful restaurant.”

“True. Ever been to Julienne?”

I shake my head. “Was that the girl’s name?”

He gives a shout of laughter. “Her name was Emily. You remember we learned julienning that first week? It’s a style of cutting food into thin strips. Also called matchsticks.”

“Oh, yeah. Hey, you should call your next restaurant Chop. Then you could start a series of others—Mince, Dice, Cut, Slice.”

“Actually…” He chuckles. “Not a horrible idea. Want to be a partner?”

“Nah. I like to eat too much to want to know all that goes on behind the scenes.”

“You should come over to Julienne sometime and check it out,” he says. “I’ll make you all my specialties. Filet mignon or seared tuna, roasted scallops, strawberry tart. You’ll enjoy it.”

“I will. I’m sure my husband would too.”

I don’t know why I said that. I wear a wedding ring, which I’m sure Tyler has seen considering the number of times he’s looked at my hands while I’ve chopped and diced and whisked.

We stop beside my car. He smiles again. In the light of the streetlamps, his smile is still gleaming white. He’s close enough that I can smell the scents of parmesan and chives clinging to his chef’s jacket.

“How long have you been married?” he asks.

“Three years.” I open the trunk so we can put my stuff inside. “Together five.”

“Hmm.” He puts my container-encased soufflé in the trunk. “Guess it worked out for you, huh?”

“I guess so.”

I guess so?
What the hell kind of answer is that?

I toss my satchel into the backseat. “Well, yeah. Of course it worked out. We’re very happy.”

“Good for you.” He slams the trunk and rests his hands on top of it as he looks at me. “Not many people are happily married these days.”

“Dean and I are.”

Why do I sound defensive?

I open the driver’s side door. “Thanks for walking me out here, Tyler. See you next week.”

“Sure, Liv. Bye.”

When I glance in the rearview mirror as I drive away, I see him standing there watching me.

Thoughts of my childhood appear to me in flashes, like cards shuffling. I try not to dwell on it, especially memories of my mother. Tonight, though, I have a dream about a boy I once knew.

My mother and I spent the summer in a beachside community in North Carolina. She’d hooked up with a man she met at a gas station and was supposedly cleaning his house in exchange for room and board.

This time, at least, we had our “own” place, since the guy let us stay in a room above his garage. It was small and hot, but there was a kitchenette with a fridge, and if you craned your neck while looking out the window you could see a pale strip of ocean in the distance.

The man—whose name I can’t remember—had a son a few months older than I. Trevor Hart. We’d have been in the same class if school were in session, but since it was summer we had nothing to do. He was a skinny, towheaded kid with bright blue eyes, freckles, and an utter determination to be my friend.

By the time I was nine, I’d learned to keep my distance from people, learned not to make friends too fast because chances were we’d be moving again soon.

But Trevor and his boundless enthusiasm were hard to resist. Plus I had no one except my mother, and when I was with her it was all about what she wanted, what she needed, what she had to do.

To get away from that for a while, I warily started hanging out with Trevor. The second week we were there, he hauled one of his old bikes from a shed and asked me to ride with him to the beach.

“I don’t know how to ride a bike,” I said, eyeing the rusted two-wheeler dubiously.

“Oh.” He scratched his head. “Guess you’d better learn.”

Every day for a week, that kid held the bike while I tottered to and fro, trying to learn how to balance. Every time I fell, he picked up the bike and asked if I was okay. Every time I pedaled, he cheered.

And when I finally managed to bike the length of an entire street, he ran alongside me the whole way, yelling, “You got it, Liv! You’re riding a bike! You’re doing it!”

We were inseparable for the rest of the summer. We spent most of our time biking to the beach where we played putt-putt, ate ice cream, and swam in the ocean.

Trevor Hart had plans. He wanted to be a firefighter, a paleontologist, a police officer, a construction worker, a deliveryman. He wanted to parachute jump, go to India, fly a plane, swim with sharks, climb Mount Everest.

He was the first person who asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully.

“You gotta be something,” he said, licking up a drop of melting ice cream from his cone. “What about a skydiver?”

“I don’t think I’d like that.”

“I saw this program about a circus college where people go to learn trapezing and tightrope-walking and stuff. You could do that.”

I was pretty sure I couldn’t, but I loved that he thought I could.

“Maybe I could be a clown,” I suggested. That actually sounded kind of fun.

“Yeah!” His eyes lit with enthusiasm. “That’d be totally awesome. You could have pink hair and drive one of those tiny cars. You’d be great at that.”

“You think?” I smiled, pleased. “Thanks.”

“You gotta tell me when the shows are, though,” he said, “cuz you never know, I might be at Everest base camp or something.”

I’d little doubt he would be.

“Come on.” He tossed his cone wrapper into a trashcan and headed back to our bikes. “Let’s go to the fun house on the boardwalk and you can practice.”

My mother and I had left town at the end of August, just as Trevor was getting ready to go back to school. We said we’d write to each other, and for a few months after that, I did. But of course my mother and I were always moving, so soon any return letters Trevor sent got lost somewhere on the road behind us.

The dream I have now about Trevor Hart is a collage of moments—his gap-toothed grin, his cheering me on, his belief in my future.

And when I wake, I wonder whatever became of the boy who’d been my best friend for just one summer. As I lie there staring at the pattern of sunlight on the ceiling, I think Trevor might have grown into the type of man Tyler Wilkes is.

The thought makes me surprisingly happy.

CHAPTER TWELVE

October 5

ny conclusions?” Kelsey pulls her sunglasses from her bag and slips them on as we walk down Avalon Street.

I don’t bother pretending I don’t know what she’s talking about. “No. Still in a rough patch. I didn’t handle the whole thing very well.”

“How’s Dean?”

“Okay. Busy. At least he’s got important stuff to do.”

I kick at a loose stone. I’m glum. Things with Dean and I aren’t bad, but they’re not great either. He’s busy with work, I stay occupied with the Historical Museum, the bookstore, and cooking class. We have sex every now and then, but still not nearly as often as we used to.

“And how’s the cooking class?” Kelsey asks.

“Fine. I’m not all that great at it, but I guess it’s fun.”

“Good Lord.” Kelsey stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “What kind of Debbie Downer are you becoming?”

I blink. “What?”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Her voice takes on a whiney note. “
I’m not good at it, I don’t do anything important, I fucked it up.
What’s up with that? So things with you and Dean are kind of crappy right now. Doesn’t mean you’re allowed to walk around flogging yourself.”

I can only stand there staring at her. Kelsey takes off her sunglasses and looks hard at me.

“If you’re letting Dean’s reluctance about a baby do this to you—” she spreads her arms out as if to encompass all my self-criticism, “—then what happens if you actually have a baby, Liv? Is that what you want to teach a kid? When the chips are down, you blame yourself and moan about how lousy you are at everything?”

Good God. She’s right. Not only do I dislike where things stand with me and Dean, I’m also not all that nuts about myself right now.

“Well?” Kelsey demands. “Is that what you want?”

“No. No way.” I frown back at her.

I’m not like this. It’s true I’m still searching for something, but God knows I’ve fought my way through pitch darkness before. I know I have the strength to somehow untangle this mess with my husband.

Dean and I both do.

“So?” Kelsey waves her arms around again. “What’re you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” I admit, but there’s a very real, determined tone in my voice. “I’ll think of something.”

She steps back and nods. “Well. I guess that’s a start.” She pokes me in the chest with her forefinger. “And I never want to hear this whiney, I’m-a-piece-of-shit crap from you ever again.”

“Yes, ma’am. I love you.”

She sniffs and puts her sunglasses back on. “Don’t you dare hug me here in the middle of the sidewalk. Come on. You’re buying me a milkshake.”

As we continue walking, I can’t resist slinging an arm around her shoulders and giving her a quick squeeze. She mutters under her breath, but returns the gesture before we enter an ice-cream parlor.

After some debating, we agree that we each need our own milkshake, so we place the order then sit at a table by the window. She entertains me by grousing about her fellow professors and grad students, I tell her she needs to get laid, and she agrees heartily while we survey Avalon Street looking for a potential candidate.

“Hey, you and Professor Marvel be nice to each other.” Kelsey squeezes my shoulder as we part ways outside the ice-cream parlor. “And you be nice to yourself, okay?”

“Promise.” I subject her to another hug before we head in opposite directions.

I don’t feel like cooking anything tonight, so I stop at a deli on Ruby Street to pick up one of our routine meals of roasted chicken, green beans, and pasta salad. Because it’s still light out, I take a shortcut through the parking lots behind the buildings.

The instant I turn the corner, I sense someone behind me. My heartrate kicks into high gear, and I struggle to pull in a breath. I quicken my pace.

“Mrs. West?” a woman’s voice calls.

I stop and turn. A young woman approaches me, a backpack slung over one shoulder. I take another deep breath and will my pulse to stop pounding. As the woman nears, her features and her curly blond hair sharpen into clarity.

Crap.
I force a smile.

“Hi, Maggie.”

“Mrs. West.” Maggie stops in front of me, her own breathing fast. She glances behind me, a quick, furtive look. “Sorry, I saw you heading this way.”

“No problem.”

“Is… uh, is Professor West with you?”

“No.” Unease suddenly rises in my chest. “Are you supposed to meet with him or something?”

“No.” She shifts her weight to her left foot, her eyes darting from the lot to me and back again. “Just wondering.”

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

She stares past me again. Her lower lip trembles. Tears flood her eyes.

Oh, no.

“What’s wrong?” I put down my bag and move closer to her, my unease deepening. I know this has to do with my husband.

“He won’t approve my thesis proposal.” Maggie swipes the back of her hand across her eyes. “I told him my dad will freak out if I don’t get it approved this semester because he’s expecting me to apply to law school in the spring.”

“Law school?”

“My dad’s a partner in a law firm and wants me to follow in his footsteps.” She fumbles in her backpack for a tissue. “I have to get a master’s degree to get into law school because my undergrad grades were lousy. So my father agreed to let me major in history because I promised it would take only two years.

“I should be finished already, but I took a year off after Professor Butler retired then when I reentered the program, I had to switch to Professor West. Now
he’s
being a total hard-ass.”

She wipes her eyes. “My dad threatened to cut me off if I don’t finish by the end of the year since I’ve already been in grad school for three years already. But I can’t even get started until Professor West approves my thesis proposal!”

I have no idea what to say. None of this is my business. I don’t have the right to defend Dean because I don’t know why he won’t approve her proposal. I do know that he has a good reason for his decision, but it’s not my place to explain that to Maggie Hamilton.

“Do you want to go to law school?” I finally ask.

She heaves a sigh. “I don’t know. But my dad’s funding my education and made it clear that’s what he wants. And he’ll have a job waiting for me in his firm, so you know, how can you turn that down? And if I
did
turn it down, he’d cut me off right
now
, so… whatever.”

Though I find it difficult to sympathize with a girl who has obviously had a great deal handed to her on a silver platter, I do feel sorry that she’s so upset.

“That sounds unfair,” I say, well aware of the hollow tone to my words.

“Yeah, well.” Maggie swipes at her eyes again and hitches her backpack over her shoulder. “I’m going to visit my parents next week, and I want to tell my dad everything’s on schedule. Maybe… maybe you could talk to Professor West for me?”

“No, I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Please, Mrs. West? I could really use some support, you know, girl to girl?”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, more firmly this time. “I don’t interfere with my husband’s work. It wouldn’t be right for me to talk to him about a proposal I don’t know anything about.”

Fresh tears spill down her freckled cheeks. “Maybe if you explained about my dad and the—”

“Maggie, really. I can’t help you. But my husband is a reasonable man who has always been willing to work out solutions with students. I’m sure if you talk to him, he’ll—”

“He’ll tell me to review the damned research, like he always does, except there’s so much of it and I don’t know Italian well enough to read all the papers he’s given me. And he totally doesn’t get that I also have to start studying for the LSAT.”

“It sounds like you’re trying to do too much.”

“I don’t have a choice, Mrs. West! I could have started writing in the summer if Professor West had just signed the proposal. Please, will you talk to him?”

“I’m sorry.”

Her mouth hardens into a line. She dashes a hand across her eyes and tries to suppress a hiccupping sob.

“Maggie, if you’d tell my husband what you told me…”

“I
have
told him. He just cares about his star students like Sam and Jessica.”

“He cares about all his students.”

“Yeah, right.” Her voice is bitter. “Maybe he cares about some of them
too
much.”

The edge to her remark slices into me. I take a step back, my hip hitting the fender of the car behind me. “What?”

She hitches her backpack over her shoulder. “Sure your husband is willing to work with students, Mrs. West. Especially female students, just like his predecessor. Maybe he’s being such a hard-ass with me because he expects more than a thesis proposal.”

She spins on her heel and stalks back to the street. Part of my brain screams at me to follow her and demand an explanation, but I can only stand there staring after her. I can’t even form a coherent thought.

Was she… is she talking about… did I understand that… ??

My breathing is getting too fast again. I press a hand to my chest and count in my head as I draw in a breath and let it out slowly. Again. After a few minutes, my heartbeat settles but my mind is spinning.

I pick up my grocery bag and walk home. When I open the front door, I hear the sound of the shower running. I unpack the groceries and go into the bedroom. Dean left his muddy football clothes on the floor. I dump them into the laundry hamper and stare at the bathroom.

There’s a knot in my stomach. I swallow hard and go to ease open the bathroom door a little more. Fragrant steam billows through the room, fogging the mirror and the shower door. Behind the glass, I see the outline of Dean’s strong body, and my heart pounds.

Another step. I stop. His hands move as he soaps his chest, and I imagine wet lather slipping over his slick muscles, tracing all the ridges with my fingers… then his hand slides down to his groin. My gaze follows.

Even through the fogged glass, I can see that he’s hard. Unexpected lust jolts me at the evidence of his readiness. Before I can back away, he curves his hand around his cock and starts stroking.

My knees weaken. I grab the towel rack. I’ve seen him masturbate, of course, but never like this, never without him knowing I was there. His movements are easy and fluid, his body rocking slightly as he thrusts into the vise of his fist.

I suck in a breath, part of me thinking I should leave him in privacy and the other part mesmerized by the sight of such an intimate act. He presses one hand against the tile wall while the other works his erection faster. Heat blossoms through my entire body. I press my legs together as I start to throb in response.

How often does he do this?

What, or rather
who
, is he thinking about?

The thought dampens my own arousal a little. I continue to stare at him, at the length of his cock, the rapidly increasing movements of his hand. His head falls back, the hot water pounding across his skin as his body jerks with release. His rough groan filters into the steam. I wish I could feel its low vibrations against my skin.

He’s still pressing his hand against the wall, his head lowered against the spray, his chest heaving.