Spiral of Bliss 02 Allure (28 page)

“Dean, stop it!” I grab his arm, tears blinding me as memories of that horrible day five years ago come flooding back. “He didn’t do anything. He
helped
me.”

And that, I realize suddenly, is exactly what has enraged my husband.

“Christ.” Archer stares at his brother. “I know I’m a fuck-up, but I’d never—”

“It’s… it’s nothing.” I tighten my hand on Dean’s arm. “Just a… a misunderstanding.”

Dean’s muscles are rock-hard beneath my grip. His fists clench and unclench. I pull on his arm, trying to get him back to the house.

“
He
knew you were having a miscarriage.” A vein throbs in Dean’s temple.

“No.” My throat aches. “He didn’t know.”

Archer lowers his hands. “I didn’t know.”

“Dean,
please
.”

His eyes still blaze at his brother, but he lets me pull him back to the house. I have a sudden fear that Joanna or Paige West might have seen this incident, but neither woman appears to be home. I manage to get us both back upstairs, fresh tears overflowing.

“He just drove me to the hospital.” I sink onto the bed and cover my face with my hands. “I couldn’t…couldn’t drive myself because I was so upset. He waited to drive me back to the house too. I didn’t tell him anything. He didn’t ask. He was… he made me a cup of tea and some toast.”

For some reason, that memory makes me cry harder. I can feel Dean’s anger, coursing through him like lava. Anger at himself for not being here. And a misdirected anger that his brother was.

“Liv.” Dean is in front of me again, grasping my wrists, moving my hands away from my face. “Liv… I’m sorry. So fucking sorry. I… I never should have left you. I don’t know what I was thinking, leaving you alone when you—”

His voice breaks. He hauls me into his arms, pressing his face into my hair, his body shaking. I wrap my arms around him and hold him tightly, the warm strength of his chest crushed to mine, the heat of him flowing into me.

His sheer solidity and presence is a balm, easing some of the wrenching ache. Slowly my sobs begin to calm. I tuck my face against his neck and breathe in the familiar scent of him.

He eases back to look at me, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with anguish. He brushes my hair away from my face.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “Are you all right? Did they check everything?”

I nod. “It’s… the doctor said sometimes women need D and Cs if things don’t… progress, but… I’m pretty sure I’m expel… uh, losing everything.”

He swears and pushes off the bed. He stalks to the window, his feet crunching against the broken glass of the picture.

My heart shrivels. I can see his hard-edged guilt and grief, an agony made all the blacker by the shadows of his past. By the heartbreaking knowledge that he wanted this child.

Tears flood my eyes again.

Will he blame me? Especially since I once told him I didn’t even want to have children?

“Did you talk to Dr. Nolan?” he asks.

“I called her yesterday when it started, then again after I got back from the hospital.”

When I see his jaw tense, I wish I hadn’t mentioned the hospital. He picks up my phone from the nightstand.

“Dr. Nolan’s office is closed by now,” I say.

“I don’t care.” He scrolls for her number, then demands that the answering service patch him through to the doctor. Once she’s on the phone, he assails her with questions about miscarriages, treatments, and follow-up.

Half an hour later, he finally hangs up the phone. I can’t help noticing he did not ask the doctor when it would be safe for us to try again to conceive.

“Okay.” He drags his hands over his face. “I’m going to take a shower. My mother seems to think you have a migraine, so we’ll leave it at that. Then I’m going to get things settled with my father and get our tickets back to Mirror Lake.”

“It doesn’t matter if I’m here or there, Dean.”

“It matters to me,” he says, striding to the bathroom. “I don’t want you to stay here anymore. We’re going home as soon as we can.”

Home.

He shuts the bathroom door behind him. A few seconds later, the shower starts. I wipe away my tears and go to clean up the broken picture on the floor.

As I’m dropping the bits of glass into the trash, I remember what had begun to alleviate my doubts. Why I was starting to anticipate the idea of having a child and raising him or her in Mirror Lake.

A faint hope surfaces. Dean comes out of the bathroom, dressed in boxers and still drying his chest with a towel. I wait until he’s pulled on a pair of jeans before I ask.

“Dean, at the university meeting… did you get it?”

He yanks on a shirt, his muscles knotted. “What?”

“Tenure.”

He turns to look at me. “Tenure?”

“Isn’t that why you went back?” I run my hands over my thighs. “I thought maybe that was the reason for the meeting, given that it was so sudden and important. Didn’t your department want to offer you early tenure?”

He just stares at me. Something flickers in his eyes. I can’t read what it is.

“Dean?”

“You…” He clears his throat. “You thought I went back because the department wanted to offer me early tenure?”

I nod. “And I thought you didn’t tell me because you wanted it to be a surprise.”

All the strength seems to go out of him as his shoulders drop.

“No,” he mutters. “I didn’t get tenure.”

“You turned it down?”

He lifts his head again to look at me. For a moment he seems stunned, as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing or hearing.

“Liv, they didn’t
offer
me tenure.”

“Oh.” I’d convinced myself so completely that was the reason for the meeting that I can’t quite process his statement. “Well, why not?”

“Liv, you really believed they wanted to give me tenure?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t they, with your reputation and the success of the Medieval Studies program? Not to mention the IHR grant. They’d be fools not to lock you permanently onto their faculty as soon as they can.”

He’s still looking at me with that disbelieving expression. I don’t understand. He knows how good he is.

Suddenly he crosses to me in three long strides and hauls me into his arms again, lifting me clear off the floor. He crushes his mouth against mine in a kiss that warms the icy places inside me.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says.

“Dean, stop.”

“I don’t.” He pulls away from me, dragging a hand through his hair. “I never have. I went after you because I was selfish and greedy and I wanted you so fucking badly. To anyone else, it would look different, right? It would look like
I
saved
you
.”

“You did save me.”

“No, I didn’t! You didn’t need saving, Liv. I was the one who was fucked-up, the insecure bastard who couldn’t make a move without trying to impress someone, to always be the goddamn best. You were the only person who didn’t give a shit what I did… you just cared about who I was. And the only time I
should
be at my best is when I’m with you.”

“I’m…” My heart constricts. “It’s the same with me, Dean. That’s what it’s about, right? We’re at our best together.”

“Then why the fuck do I keep failing you?”

“You don’t! I wouldn’t be with you if I thought you were failing me.”

I step toward him. He retreats. I stop.

The air is fraught with tension, unease, guilt. And something else, something I don’t understand and can’t identify.

He looks away, his expression shuttered. I move forward, cautiously, and put my hand on his chest. His heartbeat thumps hard and fast against my palm.

“I’m sorry,” he says, though I don’t know if he’s apologizing for the miscarriage or for not being here, or not being what he thinks I want him to be, or…?

“Please, Dean,” I whisper, my whole being aching for him. “I need you so much.”

He lifts my hand and presses a kiss to the scar on my palm, then moves away.

A sudden fear billows in me as I watch the door close behind him. I know my husband. I know he will never forgive himself for not being here.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dean

January 31

run seven miles first thing in the morning. Then I fix a leaky water pipe, replace some cracked bricks on the terrace, haul a few loads of old newspapers and magazines to the recycling center, repair the wall plaster in the bedroom. In between whatever work I can find, I hover around Liv like a wasp, asking useless questions because I don’t know what the fuck else to do.

Are you okay? How do you feel? Should I call the doctor? Can I get you anything? Can I do anything? Anything? Anything?

Her answers are always the same.
I’m fine. No, I don’t need anything.

I try not to think. Can’t.

The terror is there, lurking, waiting to crash through the walls and drown me. If I keep moving, I can avoid it.

Every time I catch a glimpse of her, her long ponytail swaying, my heart breaks. Every time I hear the murmur of her voice, guilt floods me. Every time she looks at me…

I can’t stand it. I can’t even comfort her. I don’t know how. I fucked it up every time with Helen.

In the early afternoon, I drive to the hospital to pick up my father. There’s a bustle of activity when he gets home, friends coming over to drop off food, offers of tea and cookies. I let my mother and sister deal with it. Archer stops by to see our father and tell us he’s leaving to visit someone in San Francisco.

I walk back outside with him. The fact that my brother was here, that
he
of all people was the one who helped my wife…

We stop next to his motorcycle. I force the words out. “Sorry for…”

“Forget it.” Archer picks up his helmet, glancing toward the house. “Is she… you know… okay?”

“I think so. Physically, anyway.”

“Good.” He climbs onto the motorcycle.

“Hey.”

He stops and looks at me.

“What was that sandwich you used to like?” I ask.

“Sandwich?”

“I think it was cheddar and… no.” I shake my head. “Swiss cheese and ketchup.”

“On raisin bread.” Faint amusement creases Archer’s eyes. “Used to love those.”

“I remember.”

He pulls his helmet on. “Well. See you.”

“Yeah.”

He lowers the face shield and revs up the bike. I watch as he heads down the driveway. The noise grows when he opens the throttle and hits the main road. I stand there until the roar of the bike fades.

I go around the side of the house and pull an old, manual mower out of the garage. It’s a moderately warm day with a clear sky, the sun still high.

I push the mower lengthwise down the lawn, turn, push it back up. Repeat. Up. Down. Across. The lawn is huge, and before long sweat drips down my neck. I swipe my damp forehead with the hem of my T-shirt and pull the mower back. I like the effort of pushing the machine, the sound of the chopping blades, the smell of fresh-cut grass.

“You know, this is the twenty-first century,” a woman’s voice says.

I look up to see Helen crossing the yard, a can of soda in her hand.

“We do have gas-powered and electrical lawnmowers now,” she continues.

“Those are for pussies,” I mutter.

“Then you should be using one.” She smiles and holds out the soda, then eyes me dubiously.

“You look like hell,” she remarks.

“Feel like it too.” I open the ice-cold can and take a swallow. The bubbly liquid tastes good going down my throat. I drink half the can and wipe my mouth on my arm. “Thanks.”

“We missed you at the tea party.”

“Don’t like tea or parties.”

“What’s going on?” Helen glances at the mower.

“What do you mean?”

“Paige says you’ve suddenly got your nose to the grindstone, cleaning and fixing everything in sight.” She plants her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes at me. For an instant, she reminds me of Kelsey. “So, what gives?”

I tilt my head back to take another drink. I’m tempted to tell her. That realization unnerves me. She’s my ex-wife. We had a lousy marriage, filled with anger and grief. We never wanted to see each other again after we got divorced.

Why should I want to tell her anything?

“I know you like to
do
stuff when you’re upset, Dean,” Helen says. “I remember that well enough. Is this all because of what’s going on at King’s?”

Even though there’s no one around, I appreciate her veiled reference. I shove the mower forward with one hand. The blades snap and rotate.

“Yeah, that’s all,” I say.

“Bullshit. If you only had one tiger by the tail, you wouldn’t be mad as a hatter and busy as a bee.”

I can’t help chuckling.

“You want to come clean?” Helen asks. “Have you told Liv yet?”

Jesus.
My fingers dent the soda can.

“No.”

“Okay.” Helen searches my face for a moment, then shrugs. “Let me know if you want to talk.” She starts back to the house, then pauses. “Just so you know, I’ve got nothing to gain by screwing you over.”

“I never thought you would.”

“Just making sure you know that.” She turns back to the house.

I watch her go for a moment before the confession breaks loose.

“She had a miscarriage.”

Helen stills. Turns slowly. She’s pale. “When?”

“Tuesday.”

“Oh, Dean. I’m so sorry.”

“We weren’t… didn’t plan it. The pregnancy.”

“I’m sorry.” She hesitates. “Your genetic tests were all normal, Dean. Sometimes no one knows why a miscarriage happens. So don’t think this is your fault.”

I can’t think anything else.

“When it happened with us…” I look past her to the house. My chest burns. “What did you want from me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I never felt like I was giving you… what you needed.” I swallow hard. “I don’t want that to happen with Liv.”

Helen studies me for a second, then says, “Liv and I are different people, Dean.”

“I know.”

“So what I needed from you might not be what
she
needs.”

I force my gaze to hers. “But what was it?”

“Well, we were never in a good place when it came to getting pregnant,” she admits. “I realize that now. I had this idea that we should have it all, be this young powerhouse couple with perfect, illustrious careers, a great marriage, two kids, et cetera. That was why I pushed it so hard, even though our marriage was bad. I suppose it was a blessing in a very rough disguise that we never had a successful pregnancy.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Whatever I did or didn’t do to screw it up.”

“You always kind of… shut down, you know?” Helen says. “I know we didn’t have a good relationship, but it would have been nice if you were there. That third time it happened, you left the following week for a research trip to Spain. By then, we were totally broken, but it still sucked to deal with it alone.”

“I thought you
wanted
to be alone.”

She blinks. “Why would I have wanted to be alone?”

“We had that huge fight, remember? You wanted to try again, go to a fertility clinic. I didn’t. We were both stressed out about work, our dissertations, money, our parents. You said we never should have gotten married.”

“And you took that to mean I wanted to be alone?”

“How else should I have taken it?”

Helen shakes her head. “Oh, Dean. No. We didn’t work at all together, did we? I don’t think you even realized that the miscarriages didn’t just happen to me. They happened to you too. Maybe that’s what you need to realize now.”

I’m silent. Not sure I get it.

“Look, even I can see that you and Liv have something strong.” Helen retreats a few steps. “And you don’t need me to tell you what your wife needs. You already know. You just have to stop running.”

She walks toward the house. “Shit happens, Dean, and sometimes no one can do anything about it. Not even you.”

That is exactly what makes me want to break something.

I finish the lawn and put the mower back in the garage. A bunch of people are in the living room, voices rising in a chatter, and I go through the kitchen to the stairs. Liv is in the bedroom packing her suitcase.

“Just getting a head start,” she says, reaching to close the lid.

I see the maternity clothes she bought last week. Folded neatly in the suitcase, their tags still on.

Words crash in my brain. There is nothing I can say, nothing I can do, to make this better for her.

“Are you all ready for the lecture?” Liv asks.

I nod. “I confirmed our flight reservations too. I’ll check us in tonight so we don’t have to bother in the morning.”

After my lecture at Stanford on Friday, we’ll head directly to the airport and be back in Mirror Lake by evening.

I go to change into a clean T-shirt. I know I can’t put this off any longer.

“Liv.”

Sensing the tension in my voice, she turns.

“I need to tell you something.”

“What?” Wariness sparks in her expression.

“Sit down.”

She sits on the edge of the bed, curling her hand around the bedpost. Her gaze never wavers from my face as I tell her the whole sordid story—how Maggie Hamilton implied she’d do something sexual, the emails from Frances, the Office of Judicial Affairs, the questions, the reason I had to go back to Mirror Lake, the possibility of an investigation.

When I’m done, part of me feels lighter, as if telling my wife has alleviated some of the burden.

“Dean, I—”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.

“You have nothing to be sorry about.” She’s quiet for a minute, her jaw tight, her gaze on the floor. “There’s no way to confront her?”

“No. She could go to the OJA and use it as proof of further harassment. I can’t have any contact with her at all. I don’t want to.”

“What could happen?”

My heart is pounding. “It could… if she files a formal claim, it could end up in court.”

“How long does she have to make a formal claim?”

“I don’t know. Right now it’s not… not public knowledge or anything. They try to keep it confidential because they don’t want it to affect the university’s reputation. Though there’s nothing to stop Maggie from spreading rumors.”

Liv pushes away from the bed and comes toward me, reaching to take my hands in hers. I can see the anger sparking in her brown eyes, but I know it’s not anger toward me. It’s anger for me.

“Okay, professor.” She squeezes my hands and takes a deep breath. “Let’s get ready for defense. Pull up the drawbridge, boil the oil, station crossbows along the allure.”

My tension eases a little more. I disentangle one of my hands from hers so I can brush my thumb over the notch just beneath her lower lip.

“The allure, huh?”

“I’ve learned a few things about castle architecture over the years.” Liv wraps one arm around my waist. “The allure is a passage behind the parapet of a castle wall. Great for defense when the enemy is approaching. You know you’re safe on the allure.” She tucks her head beneath my chin, twining her hand with mine. “Like we’re safe with each other.”

“No doubt about it, beauty.” I press my face against her sweet-smelling hair. “You’ll always be my allure.”