We gazed at each other for a moment, an arc of energy resonating between us. I memorized the way my husband looked in that instant, standing beside the car with a slight breeze ruffling his hair, faded jeans hugging his long legs, that warm brown gaze containing a thousand thoughts meant for me alone. So different from five years ago when he’d stood on the sidewalk looking at me… and yet somehow exactly the same.
“Promise me you’ll unbend a little while you’re in Tuscany,” I said. “Get your hands dirty. Eat good food. Enjoy discussing all things medieval with your colleagues. Laugh. Remember why you love doing what you do. Promise.”
“I promise.” He reached into his coat pocket for his keys. “Say it for me.”
“I’m yours.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Say it back.”
“I’m yours. Always will be.”
He pressed his palm to his chest and lifted his hand to me. I gave him a little wave, then turned and went back inside so I wouldn’t have to watch him drive away.
He’s been in Italy for ten days now. And though I miss him terribly, I have things to do, goals to accomplish. I’ve been working at the bookstore every day, volunteering at the library, and helping organize a new exhibition at the Mirror Lake Historical Museum. And I need to find a new job, since Allie has lost the Happy Booker.
I go back to the children’s section and continue packing up picture books. I leaf through one about a boy and his pet dinosaur. Ever since the miscarriage, I’ve wondered at the aching sense of loss I feel, the realization that I’d started making plans. I’d even started imagining what it would be like—a baby wrapped up in a blanket, soft and warm as a muffin. Fuzzy tufts of hair, toothless smiles, tottering steps.
I’d pictured Dean cradling a newborn in his arms, and I’d felt that certain, bone-deep knowledge that he would love and protect our child with a fiercely devoted tenderness. That our child would be indescribably blessed to have Dean West as his or her father.
And while I hadn’t yet been able to imagine myself as a mother, I thought one day soon I’d be able to. I could at least see it on the horizon.
I still can.
“Liv, I’m going to label the boxes in the backroom,” Allie calls, her voice pulling me out of my thoughts. “Brent and I will get those loaded up first.”
I keep working on the picture books, pausing a couple of times to check my email. Dean and I exchange two or three emails a day, all wonderfully mundane messages about our work, a trip he took to Florence, a new sports shop that opened on Tulip Street, but we save most of our communication for our nightly phone calls.
After Allie and Brent head to the storage garage, I stay to help customers. At five o’clock, I start to lock up the store when my friend Kelsey March comes in, dressed in a gray pinstriped suit and heels, the swath of blue in her blond hair almost glowing.
“Hi, Kels. What’re you doing here?”
“Thought I’d see if you want to have dinner. I’ll even agree to go to that tearoom you like so much.”
“Matilda’s Teapot is closed for good now.” I pull on my coat. “How about Abernathy’s?”
“Whatever you want.”
I steer the conversation to her atmospheric science work as we leave the bookstore and walk to Abernathy’s. After we’re seated and have placed our orders, Kelsey sits back and looks at me.
“And what about you and Professor Marvel?” she asks. “When is he getting back?”
“I don’t know yet.” Neither Dean nor I have told Kelsey about the miscarriage or the sexual harassment allegation. The pain of the miscarriage is still raw, and we’re not supposed to talk about the allegation to anyone.
“Hey, since the Happy Booker is closing, I’m looking for a job again,” I say. “Remember last year you said you could get me something in the atmospheric sciences department? Do you think there are any openings now?”
“Probably not, since it’s midyear, but I can ask around. Sometimes there’s administrative assistant stuff.”
“Well, I was fired from my last administrative job at the art gallery,” I admit. “I guess that’s not my thing anyway. But I’ve applied for a cashier’s position at a couple of places. I was thinking I’d like to do something with food, since I’ve learned how to cook.”
In addition to searching the classifieds and online ads for career possibilities, I’ve applied for jobs at a French patisserie on Dandelion Street and a pie shop called the Pied Piper.
Though I know I want something more than a cashier’s position, I need a job—
any
job—sooner rather than later. So I think it might be fun to work at a pastry shop for a while, especially since I know how to work a cash register, and I have a deep, abiding love for baked goods.
“There’s also an opening at a photography studio over on Ruby Street,” I continue. “They’re looking for a marketing agent, whatever that is. I don’t know anything about marketing or sales, though.”
“I think you’d be a great marketing agent or salesperson,” Kelsey remarks.
“Really?”
“Yes,
really.
” Kelsey sits back with a sigh of exasperation. “Liv, you’re such a… a mouse sometimes. It’s one of the reasons people love you, because you have this air of innocence and no guile whatsoever. You’re sweet. People want to take care of you. But sometimes you drive me nuts with your lack of confidence in your own abilities.”
“I know! I drive myself nuts. I’ve just never been able to figure out what my abilities even are, so how can I have confidence in them?”
“Well then, instead of assuming you can’t do
anything,
why don’t you assume you can do
everything?
”
“I’m starting to, Kelsey. I’m trying, anyway.”
“So make a list of things you like to do and can do well.”
“I like to read,” I say. “And garden. I can still make a great cappuccino.”
“What else?”
“I’m good at refurbishing things like old furniture. I’ve also always liked decorating and organizing stuff. I’m helping plan the museum exhibit and editing the catalog. I’m a good cook, and I’ve loved working at the bookstore with Allie. Oh, and I’m a decent artist.”
Saying all that aloud bolsters my ego. It’s not a bad list.
“So there you go,” Kelsey says.
“There I go what?”
“You’re good at lots of stuff, Liv. You just need to put it to use.”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m looking for a job. But I’m scared it’ll end up like all my other jobs. Just something to do rather than something I really
want.
”
I push my plate away, no longer hungry. “My mother was always like that,” I say. “Odd jobs here and there.”
“What does that have to do with you?”
I stare at my plate, unable to confess even to Kelsey what I’ve discovered in the past couple of months—that my dependence on Dean and my lack of career or even job stability is downright frightening. Without Dean or my own financial security, it’s just a few short steps to a life of constant transition and uncertainty.
“Well… I don’t want to end up like my mother,” I admit. “I’ve never wanted that.”
“Does
she
have a ridiculously good marriage?” Kelsey asks. “Does
she
live in a great town and have a majestic friend named Kelsey who is willing to kick her ass when she needs it and then buy her a hot fudge sundae?”
“No.”
“Then stop using your mother as an excuse for not figuring yourself out.” Kelsey shakes her head. “Honestly, Liv, sometimes you have to put on your big girl panties and deal with shit.”
She waves the waitress over and places an order for two hot fudge sundaes.
As my majestic friend probably intended, her scolding echoes in my head after we’ve finished our ice cream and parted ways.
I walk back home to Avalon Street, making a mental list of career possibilities based on my skill set. When I get home, I settle into my routine of cleaning, job searching on the Internet, and working on the museum exhibition catalog.
As the clock nears ten, I go into the bedroom and change into one of Dean’s old San Francisco Giants T-shirts that I’ve been wearing to bed ever since he left. It’s comforting, all soft and worn, the faint scent of his shaving soap clinging to the cotton. I imagine I can still even feel the heat of his body. I brush my hair and return to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea.
I go into Dean’s office, set the mug on the desk beside the computer, curl up in his big leather chair, and pull my ragged old quilt over my legs. This is a ritual I’ve come to love in the past ten days, as my whole body hums with anticipation.
It’s five in the morning in Tuscany, so Dean’s day is starting just as mine ends. The instant the clock strikes ten, the phone rings. I press the talk button.
“Hi, professor.”
“I’m Indiana Jones out here, baby.”
I smile. “You’re way sexier than Indiana Jones.”
“Glad you think so.”
“I know so.” I shift to tuck my legs underneath me. “What are you doing today?”
“Missing my girl.”
My chest tightens. “Your girl misses you too.”
“Yeah? You talked to her?”
I giggle as the ache eases a little. “Every day. And she says you’d better not be looking at any pretty Italian women.”
“You’re the only woman I want to look at, beauty.” His deep, affectionate voice warms me to my toes. “The only woman I can see.”
I let out a breath and rest my head against the back of the chair. Even though I know Dean needs to be away from Mirror Lake right now, even though I was the one who first told him to go, there’s no question that our separation still hurts. And it hurts because it shouldn’t have to be this way.
My husband should be stretched out on the sofa right now, winding a loop of string around his fingers. I should be tucking my body against his at night and sliding my hand over his chest. We should be having dinner, talking about our days, making summer plans. We should be together.
“So did you find anything interesting yesterday?” I ask.
“Few liturgical things.” Dean tells me about their findings, the scientific processes of the excavation, his work with another professor from Cambridge, the progress of the conference King’s University is hosting in July.
I press the phone close to my ear, feeling his voice wrap around me like one of his warm, protective embraces.
“What did you do today?” he asks me.
“Worked at the bookstore, then had dinner with Kelsey. She told me I was a mouse and scolded me for being wishy-washy.”
The instant the words are out of my mouth, I can almost feel Dean bristle with irritation.
“Why’d she do that?” he asks.
“For my own good. She’s right in some ways, I think.” I pause for a second. “Have you ever thought of me as a mouse?”
There’s a brief hesitation that speaks louder than words. My heart sinks a little.
“Really?” I ask. “You think I’m mousy?”
“I’ve never thought of you as weak or cowardly,” Dean says. “Just the opposite, in fact. But when we first met, I thought you were shy like a mouse, kind of skittish. Like you wanted to be brave, but were scared of what would happen if you let yourself. It was just one of the reasons I liked you so much.”
I consider that. Objectively, it makes sense. I’d been so drawn to Dean from the beginning because I knew I could take chances with him that I’d always been too scared to take before.
“Well, at least mice are cute,” I mutter.
“Maybe you could dress up as Minnie Mouse when I get back,” he suggests. “Short, ruffled skirt, bow in your hair, heels…”
I laugh, though the idea is rather appealing. “Your fantasies are getting creative, professor.”
“They’re all I’ve got without you here.”
Warmth tingles through me at the thought of him fantasizing about us. Though we did a lot of touching and holding in the days before his departure, this has been the longest Dean and I have ever gone without some form of sexual intimacy. Even during our nightly phone calls, neither of us has yet shifted the conversation to overtly sexy talk.
But I’m not foolish enough to think Dean hasn’t wanted it. Our sex life has always been so good because, frankly, we turn each other on. Whatever animal magnetism or chemistry is responsible for driving our attraction, we have it in truckloads.
Sex is an explosive, overwhelming pleasure for me and my husband. It’s an intense craving, an unabashed joy, the place where we can forget everything but each other, where everything is right and pure. It’s the one place where I can surrender without fear.
I want all that again as much as Dean does. And just within the past few days, I’ve finally felt the awakening of my arousal again. I’ve even started having some rather lusty and imaginative dreams about us, and the sheer enjoyment of such dreams is most welcome.
And though I’m already anticipating getting sexy with Dean again, I can’t help believing that a little bit more restraint right now will help put us back into balance, reminding us why we just
like
each other.
I close my eyes and picture my husband sitting in the chair, me in his lap, his arms strong and tight around my waist. I can smell the delicious, woodsy scent of his shaving soap, feel the scrape of his whiskers against my cheek.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Hey, Liv.”
“Are you okay with us putting that on hold for just a little longer?”
“As long as you’re okay with me imagining you naked and sweaty most of the time.”
“I’m not only okay with that, I encourage it. Except for when you’re digging up a medieval skeleton or something.”
“Don’t worry, I’m discreet.” He pauses. “And it’s not the only thing I’m thinking about.”
“I know.”
“Abstinence is actually part of the philosophy of courtly love,” he tells me. “The knight suppresses his erotic longing in favor of exalting his lady’s soul and spirit.”
“Really? You think you can do that?”
“I’ll exalt your spirit, but there’s no chance in hell I’m suppressing my erotic longing for your body.”
I smile. “I love that you love me, professor.”
“I love loving you, beauty.”
An intense, rich adoration floods my heart. Once upon a time, I didn’t know men like Dean West existed. I certainly never believed I’d ever have someone like him in my life, and our separation only intensifies my gratitude.