by Anthology
He sets the tray on the counter and addresses Allie.
“More than occasionally,” he assures her, “do I like to have fun.”
She smiles. “I don’t doubt it.”
He extends a hand. “Dean West.”
“Allie Lyons. Welcome to The Happy Booker.”
“I brought you both coffee, but had to guess what you’d like.” He pulls a cup out and hands it to her. “Two mochas with whipped cream.”
“Perfect.” Allie leans toward me and announces in a stage whisper, “I love him.”
I grin at Dean. “He’s okay.”
He winks at me and hands me the second cup. “You’re here all day?”
“No, just for the morning so Allie can show me the ropes. I’m volunteering at the library this afternoon. I’ll pick up something for dinner on the way home.”
“Call if you need me.” Dean glances around the area in front of the cash register and buys two magazines, a bar of gourmet chocolate, and a hardcover history of the Civil War.
After handing him the bag, Allie cranes her neck to watch him leave. I do too because the back of Dean is as appealing a sight as the front of him.
“I mean it,” Allie says. “I love him. Where’d you meet?”
“Madison. I was going to the UW.” I twist my wedding ring around on my finger. “He’s a professor at King’s. Medieval Studies.”
“No kidding? Like romances of knights in armor and courtly love and all that? Wow.” She gives a dreamy sigh.
I decide not to burst her bubble by explaining that Dean is more interested in the concentric fortification of a castle. There was a time, however, when romances of knights captured his imagination. And courtly love… he is quite the expert on that.
I rub my arms against a shudder, remembering our hot encounter last weekend. Another tingle sweeps through me, and I’m already anticipating getting home to him tonight.
I started my period two days after I took the test, so I’m definitely not pregnant. And even though I’ve been unsettled by the pregnancy scare (why is it called a scare?), my new job and Dean’s work routine have settled things back to normal.
I think.
When Allie disappears into the backroom with instructions to “holler” if I need help, I make my way to the health section. Two shelves are filled with books about pregnancy and birth, while the shelf below is dedicated to child-rearing. I leaf through a couple of the I Want to Get Pregnant and I Am Pregnant—Now What? titles.
Then with a mutter of irritation, I push the books back onto the shelf and return to the front counter.
“A Miss Spider tea party!” Allie bounds out of the backroom, shoving her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Isn’t that a great idea? The kids can come dressed as their favorite insect and we can serve juice in tea cups and, like, bee-shaped cookies and gummy worms. Oh, and we can get some of that Halloween cobweb stuff for decorations.”
“Do you have kids, Allie?” I ask.
The suddenness of the question makes her stop. “Kids? No, not yet. Why?”
“Just curious. You’re really good at all this kids’ stuff.”
“Oh, yeah, I love thinking up things like this. My mom and I always had these elaborate birthday parties when I was growing up. My favorite was our Alice in Wonderland party when I turned ten. We had little cups with ‘Drink Me’ on them and a Red Queen cake. We played croquet, of course, and my uncle dressed up as the Mad Hatter. My dad even built this rabbit hole out of plywood and shrubbery, and the kids had to go through it to get to the party in the backyard.”
“Sounds nice.” It sounded more than nice. It sounded like a freaking Disney movie.
The memory of my own tenth birthday stabs the back of my head. I suppress a tide of nausea and focus on straightening the piles of bookmarks on the counter.
“Do you and Dean have kids?” Allie asks.
“No.” I’m not sure whether I should add not yet. “No kids.”
“Pity. You really need to ensure the propagation of your gene pool.”
Although she’s teasing, I think about what she said for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe that’s all it is, this weird preoccupation I have now. Maybe I just have a sudden urge to propagate Dean’s and my lineage.
When I get home, I set the table for dinner and divide portions of a store-bought roasted chicken and a green salad from the deli.
Dean comes home around seven and drops his briefcase and keys on the counter. He sheds his suit jacket, loosens his tie, and drags a hand through his hair.
He’s got that rumpled, “I have been thinking very, very hard about something esoteric” look to him. It’s a look he wears extremely well.
As self-possessed as he is, when he’s tired from working too hard, his whole demeanor softens with vulnerability… which makes me want to tuck him right beneath my heart and hold on tight.
The way he has always done with me.
He crosses to the kitchen and curves one arm around me, pressing a warm kiss to my temple. He pulls a glass from the cupboard and pours a couple fingers of scotch—his one vice, and only when he’s beat.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Long. Yours? Bookstore job was good?”
I nod. “I like Allie a lot, despite the massive crush she has on my husband.”
“A crush, huh? She has good taste.” He winks at me and tilts his head back to take a drink. I watch the column of his throat as he swallows, the ripple of scotch sliding to his chest.
“She does, indeed,” I murmur.
Heat simmers through me, though I tamp it down because Dean and I need to talk first. I occupy myself with cleaning the living room and give him an hour or so to wind down before we have dinner.
As I spoon out a portion of seasoned rice, I glance across the table at him. “So I gave Dr. Nolan a call.”
A frown creases his forehead. “About what?”
“My period being late. Just because I’m usually so regular.”
“Did she think it was a reason for concern?”
“No. She said to keep track of my cycles and let her know if the irregularity continues. She said she could put me on birth control pills to regulate them, if it becomes an issue.”
“The pills made you sick, remember?”
“Yeah, well, I… I was wondering if maybe you wanted to give it a go without any birth control at all.”
That didn’t come out quite the way I’d expected.
My heart is pounding hard as Dean looks up. That shutter descends over his face again, like a transparent shield that allows me to look at him without really seeing him. My insides twist.
“You want to try and have a baby?” he asks.
I haven’t even explicitly asked myself that question yet. I poke at a grain of rice.
“Liv.”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“If you don’t want to use birth control, you should know.”
Of course he’s right. Silence stretches taut between us.
“Liv.” Dean reaches across the table and tilts my head up to look at him. “You told me before we got married that you didn’t want children.”
“That means I can’t change my mind?”
“Have you?”
“I don’t know.” For some inexplicable reason, tears spring to my eyes. I push away from the table and stalk to the living room, tension coiling through me. “What if I did?”
“Then we’d have a lot to discuss.” Dean follows me and stops in the doorway, his gaze level. “Is this all because your period was late?”
“It’s not all because of that.”
“Then what?”
“I just want to talk about it.” I turn to face him. “Haven’t you thought this might be a good time to consider starting a family?”
“No, because we’d never intended to have children.”
“But we’ve been married for three years, we’re
settled here for the foreseeable future, you’re financially secure, you have a tenure-track job, and I—”
My voice breaks like a dry twig. I… what?
“You what?” Dean asks.
His question is low and quiet. I look at the floor.
I’d be a good mother? My doubts about my abilities are just one of the reasons I’ve never wanted children. I spent most of my own childhood yielding to my beautiful, self-centered mother, who was anything but nurturing.
“I was just thinking about it,” I mutter.
“Because you’re looking for something to do?”
I’m so shocked by this question that I can only stare at him. I can’t even speak. He continues looking at me, and worse than the actual words is the fact that he doesn’t try to apologize or take the question back—not that that would do any good.
“I’m…” My throat tightens. I force the words past the constriction. “That’s what you think?”
“I’m asking if that’s what you think.”
“No! No, of course not.” I can’t stop the rush of tears, the ache spreading through my entire being. “God, Dean, you think I brought up the idea of a baby just to give me something to do? What the hell?”
“You’ve never mentioned it before, Liv,” he says gently, but with annoying reason. “And I know you’ve been at loose ends, that you—”
“So I must think of a baby as a hobby? Something to pass the time in between soap operas and grocery shopping?” Anger erupts in me and I stride across the room to shove him in the chest. “I might not have an illustrious academic career, but I’m not an airhead, dammit. I’ve been thinking about a baby because I fucking love you and I thought we had a good life, and it’d be something we could go through, you know, together—”
“Liv, you don’t go through having a baby. There’s no end to it.”
“I meant…” What the hell did I mean?
I take a breath. “Look, we’ve gone through a lot already, right? You and I? But we’re happy now. Secure. Isn’t this the next logical step?”
Dean shakes his head. “Liv, I don’t think of having a baby as a step in some process. A baby would change everything, change us, forever. If that’s what you want, then yes, we need to talk. But stopping birth control and leaving things up to chance is a lousy way of going about it.”
Of course he’s right again. That makes it no easier for me to contend with this sudden tangle of emotions.
“Liv, you need to be sure about what you want and why you want it,” Dean says, his voice softening as he approaches me. “But there’s no hurry. The timing’s bad anyway.”
“Why is the timing bad?”
“I just started this job.”
“Almost two years ago.”
“Yeah, but I’m spearheading a whole new program with half-a-dozen other departments,” he says. “I’m organizing an international conference, I’ve got a book deadline, classes, journal editing. It’s a lot of work.”
“It’s not going to get easier, Dean,” I say, “if that’s what you think has to happen before we even consider having a baby. We’re settled here, right?”
“If the establishment of the Medieval Studies program goes well,” he replies. “If I’m not offered something better somewhere else. If I get tenure.”
“So we just put the idea on hold until you know the answers to all those ifs? That could take years.”
“It won’t take years.” He brushes my hair back from my forehead.
“Then how long?”
“I don’t know.”
That is not a phrase Professor Dean West often uses.
For a minute, we just look at each other. And then, because it seems like an earthquake is starting to tremble beneath our feet, I lean my forehead against his chest and spread my hand out to feel his heartbeat.
Ugly thoughts pop and blister in the back of my mind. A shudder splits my heart. I try to breathe. Dean tightens his arms hard around me.
“Okay?” he asks.
The word fine sticks in my throat. This time, I can’t respond.
CHAPTER FOUR
August 20
The promise of autumn is in the air. Breezes sweep from the surface of the lake, trees rustle, and ducks waddle along the beaches. The tourists are leaving town, and university students bustle around with their backpacks and laptops. Dean is mired in planning fall semester classes, advising, department meetings, committees. We talk, but not about anything important. Not about us.
I’ve agreed to work three days a week at The Happy Booker, and I volunteer for a few hours at the public library and the Mirror Lake Historical Museum. After an afternoon spent organizing an exhibition on colonial currency, I stop at a coffeehouse for a mocha. The scent of roasting coffee beans makes me think of my first few months with Dean.
I was twenty-four years old and had been accepted to the University of Wisconsin-Madison as a transfer student. I’d spent the previous three years in rural Wisconsin, working at a clothing store and taking night courses at a community college to earn transfer credits.
When my application was accepted at the UW, I’d packed up everything I owned and moved to Madison to start what I hoped would be a new life. The day I registered for classes, a woman at the registrar’s office gave me a hard time about the transferability of my community college work.
I was upset, trying not to cry while pleading with Mrs. Russell to work out a solution.
“There must be something we can do,” I said.
“Miss Winter, the courses you took won’t cover the requirements,” she informed me.
“But I wouldn’t have taken them otherwise. If I can’t get them to transfer, it puts me behind an entire semester.”
“Look.” Mrs. Russell swept the papers into a stack and pushed them toward me. “It’s all in the catalog, if you have questions. We can’t retroactively allow the credits to transfer.”
“I’m not asking you to do it retroactively!” I said. “This is my first semester here, and I’m trying to get my courses in order. If I have to take another foreign language translation class, then I’m already behind. And those classes are full already anyway.”
“The courses you took aren’t equivalent to the requirements for your academic program.” Mrs. Russell glanced pointedly at the line of students behind me. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
I blinked back tears, refusing to budge. “Why would they have told me the credits would transfer if they’re not equivalent?”
Then a tall, handsome man approached from another section of the office, his dark eyes fixed on me, his deep voice rolling over my skin like a wave of heat on a cold winter night.
“Can I help with this?” he asked.
My breath stopped in my throat. The sight of him jolted something loose inside me, and for an instant I could only stare at him, struck by the sharp, masculine planes of his face, the steadiness of his expression, his aura of complete control and self-possession.
He was wearing black trousers and a navy blue shirt open at the collar to reveal a V of taut, tanned skin. His hair shone under the fluorescent lights, and I was seized by a sudden urge to tunnel my fingers through the strands to see if they felt as thick and soft as they looked.
Unnerved, I jerked my attention back to Mrs. Russell, who was explaining the situation to him. She called him “Dr. West.” Likely a professor, then. I wondered what he taught.
Dr. West listened patiently, glancing at me every so often. “What classes are you trying to take?” he asked me.
“She’s a library sciences major, and she has to register for foreign lit translation and intro to biology,” Mrs. Russell said.
“But I shouldn’t have to take those because my credits should transfer,” I persisted.
“Make an appointment with a guidance counselor, Miss Winter,” Mrs. Russell suggested. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“By the time I do that,
classes will already have started.”
“You have a couple of weeks yet to finalize your courses,” she continued. “I’m sure they’ll help you sort this out.”
I knew by the tone of Mrs. Russell’s voice that she wasn’t going to give in, and the hopelessness of the situation crashed over me.
“The professors can—” Dr. West started.
“Never mind.” Because I didn’t want to start crying in front of him, I grabbed my bag and left the office.
Halfway down the sidewalk, my vision blurry with tears, I tripped on an uneven piece of concrete and went sprawling onto my hands and knees. My open satchel thumped onto the ground, papers spilling out.
“Are you okay?” Then he was there, crouching beside me to pick up the papers before the wind caught them. He reached out a hand but stopped an inch from my arm, his fingers brushing the sleeve of my gray sweatshirt.
“I… I’m okay,” I said.
He could have touched me. He was close. Close enough that I caught a whiff of him, a clean, soapy smell that settled in my blood and loosened the knot of frustration stuck in my throat. Close enough that I noticed the size of his hands, his long fingers and the dark hairs dusting his forearm where his sleeve inched up.
Awareness shot through me. I dusted the grit from my palms and straightened. He stood between me and the street, waiting in silence for me to collect my composure. A few people passed behind me, forcing me a few steps toward him.
He held out my satchel, his gaze moving over me, eliciting a surge of heat. I pushed strands of hair away from my face and looked at him. My heart hammered, my chest pooling with warmth. I was shaken all over again by the way my body reacted to him, with this hot pull of attraction I had never experienced before.
Not for any man. Ever.
“Thank you.” I took my satchel from him and straightened the papers. All I had to do now was turn and walk away.
I didn’t. He was still looking at me, his hands in his pockets, his hair ruffled by the breeze.
“Are you a professor here?” I asked.