Spiral of Bliss 01 Arouse (9 page)

He holds on to me, easing the last tingles from my body, and then I go limp and just breathe against him while he strokes my damp belly.

After a few minutes, he tugs my nightgown back over my hips. I can still feel his erection and think I should do something about it, but he doesn’t seem to expect anything in return, and anyway I’m drained from all the tension of the past weeks and now this.

So I’m grateful when he pulls the quilt back over me and lies down behind me, wrapping one arm around my waist. There’s not a heck of a lot of room on the sofa for both of us, but it’s a warm, cozy cocoon, and I fall asleep with the movement of his breathing against my back.

I go to the bank the next day and get a cashier’s check. I consider writing a return letter to my mother, but I can’t think of anything to say. I put the check in an envelope and seal it, then scribble the address and drop it in the mailbox on the way home.

It’s unsettled me, the unexpected contact. I try not to think of my mother often, even though she’s still there like a shadow.

I don’t have many pictures of her or good memories either, but the letter ignites flashes of our life together—the hot, vinyl interior of our old car, the floorboards littered with crumpled potato-chip packages and candy wrappers.

The stares of other kids as I walked into what felt like the hundredth classroom. Sitting cross-legged on a beach boardwalk as my mother arranged her bracelets and necklaces for sale. The sound of her moans coming from a stranger’s bedroom.

There’s now a perpetual tight knot in my chest. I try to ignore it, try not to think about the fact that it’s tangled up with all the other confusion that has risen to the surface in the past few weeks.

After Dean leaves the following morning, I clean the living room and do a load of laundry before heading out. On my way to the Historical Museum, I stop to get a coffee at a place on Ruby Street.

“Mrs. West?”

I’m not accustomed to being called that, so at first I don’t respond.

“Mrs. West?”

I turn. Behind me is the blond grad student I’d met outside Dean’s office—Marcy… no, Maggie. She’s looking at me a trifle uncertainly, her pretty face bare of makeup, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. A heavy-looking backpack is slung over her shoulder.

“Maggie Hamilton,” she says. “We met last week. I’m one of Professor West’s students.”

“Yes, of course. How are you?”

“Busy.” She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Grad school is not for the faint of heart.”

“No, I imagine it’s not.”

“Everyone tells me I should be glad I’m working with Professor West, though.” Maggie holds up a finger to indicate that I should wait while she places her coffee order. Then she turns back to me. “You know, because he’s so brilliant, and it’ll be great to have his name behind my work.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.” I step back to add cream to my coffee. “Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.” She grabs two coffees from the server and puts them into a paper-cup carrier along with a few sugar packets.

“I’m meeting with him right now,” she continues before I can leave. “Thought I’d bring him a coffee too. We’re supposed to tackle my thesis topic again, so I figure a little buttering-up can’t hurt.” She gives me a half-grin. “But don’t tell him I said
that
.”

I shake my head and say nothing. Words jam up into my throat. I move to get some napkins while she waves and pushes the door open with her shoulder, balancing the coffee tray in one hand. I watch as she heads for a blue hatchback parked at the curb.

I’m not jealous—Dean has taught and advised plenty of pretty grads and undergrads, and I’ve never once had reason to be concerned. And nothing about Maggie Hamilton should make me apprehensive, except that she’s a young woman bringing my husband a coffee.

Which is exactly what makes the knot in my chest tighten.

As I walk down the street, I try to push Maggie Hamilton out of my thoughts, but she’s there and Dean’s there and they’re sitting in his office drinking coffee that she brought him and discussing her paper about medieval gynecology or whatever.

When I get to the museum, I hate that I’m giving in to a worry that shouldn’t even exist, but I call Dean on his cell phone and ask if he wants to meet for lunch.

“Sure, but it’ll have to be quick. I have a one o’clock departmental meeting before my Crusades seminar.”

The dullness of his afternoon schedule is oddly reassuring. I work at the Historical Museum for a few hours, typing up a new brochure and showing a group of kindergarteners around. Then I head over to campus.

We get sandwiches from one of the university eateries and sit on a bench in the quad. It’s a hot, end-of-summer day—bright sun, boats dotting the lake, blue sky. Students walk along the paths cutting through the grass, their backpacks hitched over their shoulders and their strides purposeful.

“I saw one of your grad students at Java Works this morning,” I remark. “Maggie Hamilton.”

“She told me.” He pulls a sandwich from the bag and hands it to me. “She’s not one of the better students. Far from it, unfortunately.”

“How did she get into the grad program, then?”

“Her father is a big donor to the university,” Dean says. “The chairperson of the history department, Jeffrey Butler, was also the medieval history professor at the time. He accepted Maggie’s admission, but only worked with her for a year before he retired.”

“That’s why you ended up with her?”

He nods. “She took a year off, then reentered this summer. She thinks she’s entitled to be in the program.”

“Did you approve her thesis topic?”

“Not yet. She doesn’t get that she needs to review the existing research before coming up with her own original question. She’s got a lot of work to do.”

This, too, is oddly reassuring, though I don’t want to examine the reasons why. We eat in silence for a while, sharing a bag of pretzels and watching the passersby.

“How did you know you wanted to study medieval history?” I ask. I know he had a childhood love for the King Arthur tales, but I’ve never known how he got on that career path later in life.

“Junior year abroad,” Dean replies. “I went to Italy and Spain. Worked on an archeological dig. One of the professors liked the work I was doing on material culture and suggested a research project combining that with architectural analyses. I thought it was fascinating.”

“Fascinating?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Studying relics of times past, figuring out what people did, who they were. You’re reconstructing the memory of a society, changing and revising it when you discover something new. It’s important.”

“Aside from King Arthur, why medieval history?”

“It’s when a lot of modern institutions started. Important works of literature, printing press, religion. The bridge between the ancient and the modern worlds.”

I pick the crust off my sandwich and toss it to a nearby bird. “I was a library sciences and lit major because I like to read.”

He chuckles. “I didn’t apply to grad school thinking I’d change the face of medieval scholarship, Liv. Some things you learn as you’re doing them.”

Like parenting, I think, except people like my mother don’t learn anything.

I rub my chest, the knot still tight in the middle of my breastbone. Dean shifts to look at me.

“And?” he asks.

“Oh, hell. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m thinking about a baby because I have nothing else to do. And what if we did have children and I turn out to be like my mother?”

He puts his hand on my back. “You’re nothing like your mother.”

“God knows I did everything I could to prove that to myself,” I say.

“So why are you worried about being like her?”

“Because what if everything I’ve done in my life is to prove that I’m not? I finished high school, graduated from college, met and married you, tried to find a stable job, a career of some sort… all to convince myself I’m different from her.”

“Liv, you
are
different from her. You have nothing to prove to anyone, least of all yourself. You never have.”

“But I still haven’t
done
anything, Dean. I went to college thinking I’d start a career, do something important, but instead…”

“Instead you married me.” Tension threads his voice.

“I married you because I love you. I wouldn’t change that for the world. But what if I hadn’t? Would I have made something of myself or would I still be working at Jitter Beans? Or would I have headed off to some other city just like her?”

“What’s the point of wondering that, Liv? None of that happened. And you know I’ll support you in whatever you want to do.”

I toss the rest of my sandwich to the birds. Dean’s hand slips away from me. The ache in my chest expands.

He picks up our empty wrappers and throws them in a garbage can. He stands there for a minute, the afternoon sun glowing off his hair, his expression both pensive and remote.

I love him to my bones, but suddenly I’m wondering what I might have been without him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ven in the early part of our relationship, Dean didn’t give up on me. He could have—and I don’t think I would have blamed him if he had—but he didn’t. He didn’t give up on the idea of us. And his persistence made me believe in
us
too.

A few days after the museum lecture and our first date, he came into Jitter Beans and asked me to his place for dinner. I agreed, trying to suppress my nervousness. I was finally seeing a handsome, kind man whose smile made my pulse race. It was exactly the kind of
normal
I had been craving for years.

“It’s me, Liv.”

Just the sound of Dean’s voice through the apartment intercom sent a tingle over my skin.

It’s me.

Is it really you?

“I’ll be right down,” I called into the speaker.

I grabbed my coat and did a quick check of my reflection in the mirror. I was pleased by the flush of expectation coloring my cheeks and the sparkle in my eyes. I looked happy.

I
was
happy. I’d never had this kind of anticipation for a man. Despite my earlier anxiety, it felt good, like champagne bubbles zinging through my veins.

“Hi.” Dean was waiting in the foyer, a smile creasing his face.

My heart gave a leap at the sight of him. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt open at the collar to reveal the column of his throat. For an instant, I wondered what it would feel like to press my lips against his taut skin.

“Hi,” I replied somewhat breathlessly. I extended the potted plant I’d brought him. “It’s called a peace lily. It has white flowers that bloom in the spring.”

“This is for me?” He took the plant with a bemused look as we walked out to the car.

“Yeah. It’s really easy to care for. Just water it regularly, about once a week, and make sure it gets some sunlight. The leaves will start to droop if it needs water.”

“I’ll just call you if I need plant advice.” He shifted the pot to one arm and opened the passenger side door for me. “Thanks. No one’s ever given me a plant before.”

He set the plant on the floor of the backseat and got behind the wheel, then drove to a colonial-style building located on the west side of town. I followed him into his apartment on the third floor. Despite the ideal location, the furnishings were utilitarian and spare with a chipped Formica table, plastic chairs, and a plaid sofa.

I approached a wall of large windows that overlooked a quiet, tree-lined park. The evening light spilled over the expanse of grass and illuminated a playground in the distance.

“Nice place,” I remarked.

“Comes with the job. Should I put the plant by the windows?”

“Sure, but it shouldn’t get too much sunlight.” I took the plant from him and set it on the table. “Are you going to decorate at all?”

“Hadn’t intended to, no.” He pulled the cork on a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.

“You should. Hang some pictures, get some curtains, a few more plants. Maybe a couple of throw rugs.”

“I don’t need that kind of stuff,” Dean said. “I’ll only be here until the end of spring semester.”

A strange feeling uncurled in my chest at the reminder that his stay in Madison was temporary. He seemed to realize it too, because a faint consternation darkened his expression.

“So how do you like Madison?” I asked in an effort to dispel the sudden strain.

“It’s great. Lots to do, good students.” He handed me a glass, then slid his gaze over me. “And there’s this really pretty girl I like.”

Pleasure heated me from the inside out. I was wearing a loose black skirt and a scoop-necked white T-shirt that was apparently flattering, given the way Dean’s eyes lingered on the swells of my breasts. My nipples budded in response, and I knew he’d be able to see the hard peaks through the thin cotton of my shirt and bra.

Our gazes met again with a spark. I turned away from him.

“How did you get the UW position?” I asked, going for a curious-and-friendly tone.

“Usual application procedure. I didn’t work at all last year, so I wasn’t sure they’d make an offer, but they did.”

“Why didn’t you work?”

“I was writing a book, and my grandfather was sick, so…” His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. “Because of that gap, I want to take a few more postdoc positions before settling into something permanent. Good diversification too.”

“Spoken like a true professor.” I curled up on the sofa and took a sip of the wine, which was probably a fancy, expensive vintage—not that I could tell the difference. “And where do you want to end up?”

“With whoever makes the right offer,” Dean said.

“What’s the right offer?”

“A university with plenty of funding, tenure, research opportunities. Either a place that already has a solid Medieval Studies program, or an institution that wants to create one. There’ve been a few openings in recent months, but none I was interested in.”

“So you’re still waiting for the right one to come along?”

“The right one is always worth waiting for.” He winked at me.

My face heated with a flush of pleasure. Dean settled on the other end of the sofa, the lines of his body relaxed.

I let my gaze sweep over him, appreciating the way his shirt stretched over his muscular chest, the jeans molding to his long legs. As much as I liked the way he looked in his tailored suits and ties, I loved the way casual clothes fit him to perfection, loved the rumpled look of his hair and stubbled jaw.

“What about you, Olivia Winter?” he asked. “What are you going to do with your life?”

“I don’t know yet,” I answered honestly. “I’m hoping for library work or maybe something with a publishing company.”

“And where do you want to end up?” Dean asked.

“Wherever I feel at home.” The confession slipped from my mouth before I realized it was out. I ducked my head to take a sip of wine, embarrassed by the Pollyanna nature of the remark. “So, uh, what’s for dinner?”

I felt his gaze on me, intent and curious, then he unfolded himself from the sofa and stood. “Baked eel, pickled cabbage, and parsnip pie. Recipes from a medieval cookbook.”

“Oh.” I tried not to look disconcerted.

He chuckled. “I’m kidding. We’re having manicotti, green salad, and focaccia bread.”

“That sounds much more appetizing.” I followed him into the kitchen as he took a pan of bubbling pasta and cheese out of the oven. “Did you make it?”

“No, sorry. Ordered it from a restaurant downtown. I can’t seduce you with my cooking.”

“You don’t need cooking to seduce me,” I said without thinking.

Wow. Where did that come from?

Dean flashed me his gorgeous, hint-of-wicked grin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

After he showed me where the utensils were, I set the table in the dining room while he finished getting the food together. I moved an open shoebox from the table to the windowsill, noticing that it was half full of various types and lengths of string.

I picked one up. It was a worn piece of white string, the frayed ends tied together in a knot. Why would anyone have a shoebox filled with loops of string?

Dean came in with the plates and put them on the table.

“What’s this for?” I asked, holding up the string.

“String figures.”

“What?”

He took the string from me and looped the ends around his middle fingers, then did some quick maneuvers with his other fingers, tucking them under the loops and pulling the string taut. He extended his hands to reveal a pattern of three triangles between two parallel lines.

“It’s like the game cat’s cradle,” he explained. “You make figures and patterns with a loop of string.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s…”
…about the dorkiest thing I have ever heard.

It also made me like him even more.

“… interesting,” I finished. “Where did you learn to do that?”

He shrugged. “Practiced a lot when I was a kid.”

“Kind of a different hobby,” I remarked.

“Yeah.” He unhooked the string from his fingers. “Spent a lot of time in my room. String figures and the knights of the Round Table.”

“You were into medieval history even as a kid?”

He nodded. “The King Arthur tales anyway. Excalibur, Mordred, the Holy Grail, all that stuff. Guess that planted the seed.”

I had the sudden sense he’d just revealed more about himself in those few lines than anything else he’d told me so far.

“Did you have a favorite knight?” I asked.

He gave me a wry smile. “Galahad, of course. Proclaimed the greatest knight ever.” He tossed the string back into the box. “I’ll show you how to do string figures one day.”

“Can’t wait.”

He chuckled at my less-than-enthused tone, then went to retrieve the food before we sat down. My nervousness eased a little now that I had a bit of insight into his childhood. Still a polar opposite to mine, though. At least he’d had a room to call his own.

Over dinner our conversation flowed comfortably—I told him about the classes I was taking, he talked about his research, we discussed the different things to do in Madison and Chicago.

We went back to the sofa for coffee and chocolate cake. As Dean put a cup on the table in front of me, he reached out to push a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my cheek, and a tingle skimmed through me.

My reaction to him was both exciting and unnerving. String figures aside, he was experienced in ways that were foreign to me, his confidence born of an assurance I couldn’t imagine and didn’t know if I could handle.

And still, I wanted to try.

“So.” I pleated the folds of my skirt. “You don’t have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I have a girlfriend,” Dean said. “She’s just out of town right now.”

He grinned when he caught the look on my face. “Liv, of course I don’t have a girlfriend. And I’m very glad I don’t because otherwise I wouldn’t be here with you.”

“Oh.” A blush warmed my cheeks. “That’s nice. Thanks.”

He still looked amused. “You’re welcome.”

I gathered my courage and pressed forward. Better to know now what I was getting into. “But I’m sure you’ve had a lot of girlfriends, right?”

“I’ve had girlfriends, sure.”

I certainly didn’t expect a different answer, but my heart still shrank a little at his admission. “Any serious ones?”

“Depends on what you mean by serious.” He sat across from me. A shuttered darkness concealed his eyes. “There was a woman in grad school. Helen. She was a close friend of my sister’s. Still is. She also became close to my mother. They stay in touch.”

“Was that how you met her?” I asked. “Because she was a friend of your sister’s?”

“I’d known Helen for a couple of years through my sister. Then we both ended up at Harvard for grad school. She studied art history.”

“How long were you together?”

“About three years.”

“Why did you break up?”

“Different goals.” A tense undercurrent threaded his voice. “Among other things.”

I wondered how two PhDs—in history and art history, no less—could have different goals. “And she lives in California now?”

“She took a job at Stanford while she was still finishing her dissertation. Not far from where my parents and sister still live.” He reached out to refill our coffee cups. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about them right now.”