Spiral of Bliss 02 Allure (11 page)

“Girlfriend.” I rested my forehead against his chest. “I guess.”

“Not the best word, but it’ll do in public.” He kissed my temple. “In private, you can just be my beauty.”

Oh, he was good.
My lingering irritation melted in a surge of warmth.

“Give me a kiss, beauty.”

He whispered the words close to my ear, as he always did. I loved the way he could make that one phrase a command, a request, or a question, with just the subtle modulations of his deep voice. This time, it was a gentle command, one I was only too happy to obey.

I lifted my head and closed the scant distance between us to press my mouth against his. Heat flooded me. He slid his hand to the back of my neck and angled his head so our lips fit together seamlessly. After a long, deep kiss, he eased away and leaned his forehead against mine.

I was crazy about him. I loved the way he invested everything he did with such purpose, the way he focused his attention on me and really listened when I talked. I loved his brilliant mind, loved both the impenetrability and sheer dorkiness of medieval history. I loved the way he looked at me, stroked my hair, kissed me. I loved the million beautiful ways he made me feel.

I was starting to love
him
. Only I didn’t know it yet.

“Be with me, Liv,” he said. “Just be with me.”

I looked at him and thought that for the first time in my life, there was nowhere else I wanted or needed to be.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dean

January 16

ell, fuck.

My ex-wife is standing in the kitchen. Liv is hovering beside me, gripping my sleeve. Her tense posture tells me she knows exactly who this other woman is.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Helen bluntly.

She blinks and sets down the dish sponge. “Hello to you too, Dean.” She faces us, folding her arms. “I was with Paige when your mother called. I told her I’d stop by and straighten up while they’re at the hospital. The cleaning lady isn’t coming until tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m here now, so you can go.”

Her eyes harden. “I’m here for Paige and your mother, Dean, not you. They’re still my good friends.”

Her tone implies that I am anything but. We haven’t seen each other for over fifteen years. The only contact we’ve had was one email a few months ago when she told me she’d submitted a proposal for the Words and Images conference I’m organizing.

Helen’s gaze flickers to Liv. “I’m Helen Morgan. Dean and I were once married.”

“I’m Olivia West,” Liv replies. “Dean and I
are
married.”

The possessive tone in her voice does me some good.

“Liv and I are going to the hospital after we get settled,” I tell Helen.

“Good. I have coffee made if you want some before you leave.” Helen taps her finger on the counter, her gaze faintly triumphant.

She’s staking a claim in the kitchen of my childhood. That’s fine, because I sure as hell don’t want it anymore.

I guide Liv upstairs to my former bedroom, which thankfully bears no trace of the teenager who once lived there. Liv rubs her hand across my lower back.

“Okay?” she asks.

“Yeah. Sorry. Had no idea she’d be here.” I turn to face her. She looks better than she did on the plane, but is still pale. “You should lie down.”

“I’ll take a nap when we get back from the hospital.”

“You’re not feeling well, Liv. You don’t need to see my parents right now.”

“I’m better, really. It was just the motion of the plane.” She gives me a stubborn look and turns to go into the bathroom. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

I drag my hands over my face and tell myself she doesn’t need the extra stress of an argument. After we’ve both showered and changed, we go back downstairs. Helen gestures to a plate of muffins and hands me a cup of coffee.

“Still take it black?” she asks.

“Yeah, thanks.” I’m mildly surprised she remembers how I like my coffee.

“Don’t be surprised.” Her expression glimmers with amusement. “I had a fifty-fifty shot. Black or white.” She glances at Liv. “You?”

“No, thanks.”

I get a bottle of ginger ale from the refrigerator and hand it to Liv. Helen’s gaze follows Liv as she takes the bottle and sits at the table.

“Your flight was okay?” Helen asks, turning back to unload the dishwasher.

“Fine.”

“I offered to do some grocery shopping for your mother,” she says. “Stock up the fridge for the next few days.”

“That’s… uh, that’s nice of you,” I say.

“It’s no trouble.”

I watch her as she moves around the kitchen. She looks good—shorter hair, a little rounder, attractive. Beneath my surprise at seeing her again, there’s that old guilt.

Helen and I were supposed to be ideal. That was why I’d married her. A perfect match between a historian and an art historian. Prove to everyone, prove to myself, that my life was snapping together like a jigsaw puzzle, regardless of our family strife. Then the marriage ended up my biggest failure.

“So, Dean.” A bright note enters Helen’s voice as she sorts the clean silverware. “Medieval imagery. Great conference topic. My colleagues at Stanford have been talking about it. Have you seen my proposal?”

“Not yet. It’s gone to the other committee members first. I’m sure it’ll be accepted. They’ll love the interdisciplinary nature of it.”

“What about you?”

“It’s a great subject, sure.”

“I was thinking about icons in particular.” Helen glances at me. “The Pre-Raphaelite vision of the Middle Ages, especially through Keats. And Rossetti’s use of iconography from illuminated manuscripts.”

“You should look at the British Library’s
Roman de la Rose
manuscript,” I suggest. “I think you’d find a lot of stylistic connections to
Defense of Guinevere
.”

“I also want to talk about Ruskin’s ideas of vision and perception,” Helen says. “That all relates to the Pre-Raphaelite aesthetic.”

“I imagine that would be influenced by Tennyson and his Arthurian poems,” Liv remarks. “And how perfectionism is disconnected from everyday life, like Guinevere says of Arthur. ‘He is all fault who has no faults at all.’”

Helen just looks at her. Liv shrugs.

“I was a literature major,” she explains.

“Oh.” Helen turns to close the dishwasher.

Liv winks at me. Warmth dissolves more of my unease.

“So should we go to the hospital now?” Liv asks, pushing away from the table.

“Sure.” I put my cup in the sink. “Thanks, Helen.”

“No problem.”

Liv and I get our stuff and go back out to the driveway. I open the car door for her, then settle into the driver’s seat.

“She seems… nice.” Liv sounds like she’s choosing her words with care.

“She’s not a bad person,” I say. “And she was dealt a shitty hand with the miscarriages. She and I were just totally wrong. And that’s one hell of an understatement.” I reach over to pat Liv’s thigh. “Whereas you and I were meant to be.”

That seems to ease any trepidation Liv might have. The last thing I want is for her to worry about Helen, though I know Liv can hold her own if she needs to.

After parking at the hospital, we go inside. White walls, antiseptic smells, an air of sickness. My head fills with memories of my grandfather, his body wasting to skin and bones, the rasping, phlegmy cough. The angry way he faced his impending death.

“Let’s get some flowers.”

Liv’s smooth voice washes away the ugly thoughts. Before I can respond, she turns toward the gift shop and chooses a display of yellow and pink flowers that I’m sure my father will hardly notice.

“Dean, finally.” When we enter the cardiac unit, my sister gets up from one of the vinyl chairs. Paige is a younger version of our mother, all understated polish in some sort of knit dress that probably cost a fortune.

After we exchange a brief hug of greeting, Paige gives Liv a narrow look. I step in front of Liv to deflect it.

“Hello, Olivia.”

“Nice to see you, Paige.”

“You didn’t tell me Helen was at the house,” I tell my sister.

A humorless smile tugs at Paige’s mouth. “Would you have come home if I did?”

Good question.

“How’s Dad?” I ask.

“Sleeping. Mom is in there with him right now.” Paige tilts her head toward the corridor leading to the private rooms. “Room three-eleven.”

Liv and I go to the room. I knock on the door before pushing it open. My mother is sitting in a chair by the window, staring at the opposite wall. She looks the same, dressed in one of her designer suits with elegant, tasteful jewelry, and her face made up flawlessly.

“Oh, Dean.” A look of relief crosses my mother’s face. She rises to give me an embrace that smells like perfume and hairspray. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

I look past her. My chest tightens when I see my father lying in the hospital bed. Though we’ve always had either a strained relationship or none at all, he has nevertheless been a big presence in my life—like my grandfather before the cancer diagnosis. Now my father looks pale, weak. Small.

Like my grandfather before he died.

I detach myself from my mother and put Liv’s flowers on the bedside table.

“How are you, Liv?” my mother says.

“Fine, thank you, Joanna. I’m sorry about Richard.”

“The doctor said he might need surgery, but we don’t know what kind yet.” My mother looks at my father. Her hand goes up to fiddle with her pearl necklace. “I’ve let his office know. He was supposed to go to Sacramento next week.”

“You said Archer is coming back?” I ask.

“He left a message. I haven’t been able to reach him. His number is by the phone in your father’s library. See if you can find out when he expects to arrive.”

“I’ll try.” Though not very hard.

“I hadn’t heard from him in a few months,” she continues. “The last time I did, he mentioned some woman he was thinking of
marrying
. God knows what a disaster that would be.”

Her eyes barely flick to Liv. I struggle to control a wave of resentment.

“At any rate, I would certainly expect Archer to be here within a day or so,” my mother says. “People have already been asking where he is.”

I feel Liv’s worried gaze on me. She doesn’t need to be dragged into any of this again. Neither do I, but I’m here and I can already feel myself surrendering to the inevitable.

“I’ll look into it, Mom.”

“Good.”

“Dean.” My father opens his eyes, his voice a raspy whisper. “When did you get here?”

“Few hours ago.” I move to his bedside. “How do you feel?”

“They tell me I’ll make it.”

“Do you need anything, Richard?” my mother asks. “Water?”

My father shakes his head. His gaze shifts to the flowers. “What’re those?”

“Flowers from Liv.” I step aside so he can see Liv standing by the door.

She gives him a wave. “Good to see you, Mr. West. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“How long are you both staying?”

“Until you’re released from the hospital,” I say.

Liv touches my arm and tells me she’s going to the restroom. As soon as she leaves, my parents and I fall silent. I can’t remember the last time I was alone with them. The silence almost vibrates, filled with unpleasant memories.

My mother smooths the blanket, picks up a few fallen flower petals, refills the water pitcher, straightens the stuff on the bedside table.

Then, for lack of anything else to do, she picks up her purse. “Well, I suppose the doctor will be in soon. Dean, Paige and I will go home, now that you’re here.”

She gives my father a perfunctory kiss. Her heels click on the floor as she leaves.

“She says Archer is coming back,” I tell my father.

He shrugs. He resigned himself years ago to the idea that
this
is how things have to be. Thirty-five years of pretending means nothing will ever change. My parents would have divorced if my father had retired from the bench and gone into private practice, but he’s been associate justice on the California Supreme Court for over twenty-two years, having been elected and retained by voters in three elections. For him, divorce fell off the radar long ago.

Despite staying married, for all practical purposes, he and my mother are separated. My father spends most of his time hearing cases in San Francisco, Los Angeles, or Sacramento. He has an apartment in the city and, more than likely, several mistresses. My mother travels a lot on her own little vacations. They maintain the “perfect marriage” act when they’re both in town, and I suppose they’ve come to some sort of understanding about it.