by Nina Lane
I stared at him, feeling as if I were poised on the brink of something both exhilarating and terrifying. Something I had never had before. Never expected to have.
“Liv, I told you once that I’ve never been able to start a new life,” he said. “But I want to now. And I want to start it with you.”
I felt something loosen inside me, something that had been knotted for longer than I cared to remember. The sick guilt and shame I’d harbored since Fieldbrook seemed to dissolve, as if it were being overwhelmed by the urgency in Dean’s voice, the heat we generated, the growing certainty of our belonging together.
Belonging. For the first time in my life, I had the chance to know what that word meant.
And so did Dean.
My heart thumped. A wild tenderness filled me as I looked at him standing there in his wrinkled shirt and torn jeans, his face still scratched, his hair spilling across his forehead.
I couldn’t bear to let him out of my life. And I knew I could be everything for him that he was for me. I could heal his wounds, be his anchor, treasure him. Together we could create our own world, one of warmth and affection, protected from the slings and arrows of the world.
For despite our differences, our struggles, our childhoods at opposite ends of the spectrum… Dean and I were the same.
We had both been weighted by destructive secrets at too young an age. We’d both been forced into actions we hadn’t wanted, and then we’d blamed ourselves when things went horribly wrong. At thirteen, our lives had changed drastically, starting us on a twisting path toward freedom and redemption.
Dean had tried to appease his guilt by caring for his sick grandfather. I’d escaped back to Twelve Oaks. We had both worked so hard to uphold an ideal image of who we thought we should be. But even as we struggled to extricate ourselves from our pasts, we’d become inevitably tangled up in them.
Until now.
Our gazes locked and held. We understood each other down to our very bones. We were the only people who ever would.
“Say yes,” he said.
I said yes. There was no other response.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DEAN
JANUARY 26
don’t remember much about my brother as a boy. That is, I’m not sure if my memories are real or fabricated. I know we used to toss a football around in the backyard. I know he struggled in school. I know he liked Legos and trains.
That’s all I know for sure. The rest is hazy, cut off by the twenty-five-year-old incident that has always been like a living thing, venomous and cold. I think my brother played soccer. I think he had a rock collection. I think he liked bugs. I think his favorite sandwich was something strange, like cheese and jelly or peanut butter and bologna. I can’t remember.
I wait for him in front of the garage. It’s a clear day, cool, like a thousand other California days. The sound of his motorcycle vibrates through the air as he turns onto our street.
Tension stiffens my spine. His bike roars into the driveway. He stops and pulls off his helmet. Looks at me. Even from a distance, I sense his wariness.
Good.
I walk toward him. He’s unshaven, his hair too long, wearing a ratty jacket and torn jeans. He’s thinner too, with dark circles under his eyes. A slight bump on the bridge of his nose.
“My wife is here.” I stop in front of him. “You say one rude thing to her… you even look at her wrong, and I’ll take you down.”
His expression hardens. “Hold a grudge much, bro?”
“Understand?”
Archer mutters something under his breath. He shoves off his bike. “Good to see you too.”
“I told Mom you were on your way.” I walk toward the house. He follows. “Where are you staying?”
“With a friend in Campbell.”
“Leave Mom the contact info. She’s been complaining she can’t reach you.”
We go into the kitchen. Archer yanks open the refrigerator and peers at the contents.
“Where’s your wife?” he asks.
Avoiding you. “Went to run a couple errands.”
“What’s her name again?”
My jaw tightens. “Olivia.”
“Yeah. Shakespearean, right? When did you marry her?”
“Three years ago.”
He pulls a soda out and twists off the top. “Going well?”
“Fine. Heard you told Mom you were getting married.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, tilting his head back to gulp the soda. He swipes his mouth with his sleeve. “Didn’t work out. Better now than getting a divorce, huh?”
He shoots me a smile that’s not a smile.
“Where’s Paige?” he asks, leaning against the counter.
“Out with Mom.”
“How long’re you staying?”
“Week or so. Until Dad is out of the hospital.”
Archer doesn’t bother asking how he’s doing. I wait for him to ask for money. I hate that our grandfather left me the custodian of Archer’s inheritance, but it’s a responsibility I can’t escape. Archer has five years left to fulfill our grandfather’s conditions. If he doesn’t, the money all goes to charity.
Silence falls. I fold my arms across my chest. The clock over the kitchen table ticks.
“You all right?” I finally ask.
Archer shrugs. “Sure.”
“Working?”
“Was. Installed hardwood floors for a few months. Bet you don’t know the difference between red oak and white oak.”
“Red oak has a stronger grain. White oak is harder and more durable.”
Archer laughs. I turn as the front door opens and Liv comes in, giving me a faint smile. She’s seen Archer’s bike in the driveway, and her expression is wary. She looks past me into the kitchen.
“Hello, Archer.”
He lifts the soda in a salute. “Olivia.”
“Liv.”
“Yeah.” He takes another drink. Doesn’t look at her.
Good. I hope he’s embarrassed. Ashamed.
“How are you?” Liv asks him.
“Never better.”
“Nice to see you again.” Liv touches my arm and indicates that she’s going upstairs.
I wait until I hear the bedroom door close before I turn back to my brother. “You visit Dad, tell Mom how to reach you, and don’t say or do anything to cause trouble.”
I shouldn’t care what Archer does or doesn’t do. But I’ve spent so many years trying to maintain peace that the order comes instinctively. I expect a snide response, a glare at the least. Archer shrugs and takes another swallow of soda.
I leave the kitchen and go into the library. I sink into the leather chair behind the desk. I’ve told myself the same thing for the past four years. I can’t fix my family’s mistakes. I can’t fix my mother’s betrayal, the fact of Archer’s paternity, my parents’ shitty marriage. I can’t blame myself anymore.
Especially now that I’m going to be a father.
I swivel in the chair toward the computer and distract myself by reading a few news websites and financial reports. Then I log in to my university email account. There’s another message from Frances Hunter.
The first word makes my stomach twist. Dean.
All the professors are, of course, on a first-name basis, but in correspondence we usually refer to each other as Professor So-and-So. Especially if the email is being CC’d to others.
First names are reserved for informal, private messages.
Frances Hunter has never sent me an informal, private message.
I scroll down to view the full message.
Dean,
You’ll be receiving a letter about this soon, but I want to let you know in advance because I know you’re out of town. Your student Maggie Hamilton is threatening a sexual harassment claim against you.
The director of the Office of Judicial Affairs (OJA) wants to meet with me on Monday afternoon. I don’t know if it’s possible for you to be here, but I’d strong
ly recommend it.
While this is absolutely not a formal investigation of any kind or an opportunity for you to respond to the claim, it’ll give you a chance to start compiling information.
I respect you as a professor and feel that you should not be blindsided by accusations, regardless of their truth or falsity.
Sincerely,
Frances Hunter
Bile rises into my throat. That phrase has spelled the death of more than one career. Sexual harassment.
Images pummel me—all the times I’ve spoken with Maggie Hamilton, her in my office implying sexual favors, our conflict about her thesis proposal. I see myself in a fucking deposition: “No, I didn’t touch her. No, I swear, I never looked at her or thought about her inappropriately.”
Anger floods my chest. The little bitch. I want to call Maggie Hamilton and demand to know what the fuck she thinks she’s doing.
I take a few breaths and try to think straight. I know I can’t make any contact with Maggie, but I have to take Frances’s advice. Whatever Maggie is accusing me of, I need to go on the offense with whatever information I can get.
I send Frances a quick reply.
Thank you, Frances. I’ll be at the meeting. Please send time and place.
—Dean
Then I go in search of Liv.
My heart races. She’s not upstairs, not in the living room or the kitchen. Neither is Archer, and his motorcycle is gone from the driveway. Good.
I go out to the terrace. Cross the flagstone pathway to the garden. Liv is sitting in the gazebo, a book open across her lap.
I stare at my wife. The glow of sunlight on her long, loose hair, a few strands falling over her cheek. The slight swell of her belly beneath her skirt.
Holy shit.
Sexual harassment?
Liv lifts her head at the sound of my footsteps. I swallow a rising panic. Steady my expression into one of nonchalance.
She smiles. “Hey, handsome.”
I wipe my palms on my jeans and climb the gazebo steps.
How can I tell her? I know I have to. I’m not stupid. I won’t repeat my mistake of keeping secrets from my wife. I have to tell her the truth.
“Liv, there’s a departmental meeting at King’s on Monday. I just heard about it. It’s important. Frances Hunter asked me to be there.”
“What kind of meeting?”
The question throws me. Maggie Hamilton hasn’t filed a formal charge. Maybe this meeting is to find a way to prevent one. It would be a helluva lot easier to tell Liv about this if I could conclude with, “But nothing happened, so it’s over.”
I ignore a stab of guilt.
“Just department stuff.” I brush a lock of hair away from Liv’s forehead. “I can fly out tomorrow and come back here on Tuesday.”
“You need to fly all the way back to Mirror Lake for one meeting? Can’t you join by teleconference or whatever?”
“No.” I have no idea how to explain why I can’t. “It involves the Medieval Studies program, so I need to be there. You can come with me, then just stay in Mirror Lake. I’ll have to come back here because of my father. I also promised Helen I’d guest lecture at Stanford next Friday.”
Liv hesitates, indecision flashing across her expression. “I told you I wanted to be here with you the whole time.”
“I’ll only stay a week longer, then come home.” I try to think of another way to convince her. “Remember how sick you got on the plane? You don’t want to take an extra two trips. I won’t let you.”
Liv bites down on her lower lip. “Why don’t I stay here then?”
“Why should you stay here?”
“I can still help out while you’re gone,” she says. “I haven’t felt sick in the past few days, but you’re right, I don’t want to get on a plane more than I have to. If I stay here and we leave next weekend, I’ll be closer to my second trimester. By then, morning sickness is supposed to lessen quite a bit, so maybe the flight back won’t be so rough.”
“I don’t want you to stay here alone.” Frustration grips me. “Especially with Archer around.”
“I’m not worried about Archer.” A resolve seems to click inside her, born of that inner strength she sometimes forgets she has. She closes her book. “I’ll stay here, Dean. It will be fine.”
“I want you with me.”
“It’s only for two days. I can go with your mother to the hospital if necessary, still help out with cooking. Paige told me she’s going back to work tomorrow, so your mother would probably appreciate having someone around.”
She doesn’t look certain about that. I’m not either. Under normal circumstances I’d argue and insist that she come with me and stay in Mirror Lake.
But these are not normal circumstances. And if she does stay here, I’ll have two days to figure out how to explain this mess to her.
“I told Archer to stay away from you,” I say.
“He won’t bother me.”
“If he—”
“He won’t. I’m not scared of him.”
I don’t know what else to say.
“Hey.” A crease appears between Liv’s eyebrows. She tugs at my hand. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” I swallow hard. “I’m going to check on flights.”
She lets go of my hand. I feel her gaze on me as I head back to the house.
I can’t hide from her. I don’t want to. I do, however, need more information. I’ll tell her after the meeting. Couple of days, at most. When I know more about what the hell is going on.
I return to the library and check airline websites. I manage to find a seat on a two-stop flight that leaves early tomorrow morning. I purchase the ticket with a Tuesday return.
I pull up Frances’s email again and stare at it.
Maggie Hamilton could destroy my career and my reputation because I didn’t approve her goddamned thesis proposal.
Black thoughts crowd my brain. I could get fired, disgraced, blackballed, forced to pay exorbitant legal fees. A court case could drag on for months and be written up in the press, all during my wife’s pregnancy and the birth of my first child…
No way. No fucking way.
Rage swamps me, hard and fast. An explosion bursts behind my eyes. I slam a fist on the desk. Sweep my arm across the clutter. Paperweights, pencil holders, folders all spill to the floor. The lamp crashes and breaks, shattering green glass onto the carpet.
“Dean?”
Shit. Darkness edges my vision. I pull my gaze to the doorway. A woman is standing there.
Not Liv.
Helen.
I draw in a breath and try to settle my racing heart. She steps warily into the room, glancing at the cluttered mess.
“Are you all right?” She pauses halfway to the desk and gives me a faint smile. “I guess that’s a silly question.”
I bark out a laugh and sink back into the chair. I rest my head in my hands. Sexual harassment. This could be bad. Really bad.
“Is there anything I can do?” Helen asks.
“No.” I sit back and look at her.
She glances from me to the computer screen and back again. “Bad news?”
“You could say that.”
“Well.” She smooths her skirt over her hips and steps back. “Let me know if I can help.”
She’s almost to the door when I stop her. I don’t think. Can’t think too much, but if I don’t tell someone this will burn a hole in my brain. And Helen has been in academia as long as I have. She knows how the politics work.
“Helen.”
She turns.
“You ever been involved in a sexual harassment claim?”
Helen stares at me, her hand at her throat. “Oh, Dean.”
“Yeah.” I rest my head against the back of the chair. “Nothing formal.”
Yet.
Helen approaches the desk again. “What happened?”
“Student’s upset that I won’t approve her thesis proposal, so she’s threateni
ng to say I sexually harassed her.” I look at her. “It’s not true.”
“I know that, Dean.” Helen leans her hip against the edge of the desk. “We had a rough time, but I never doubted your integrity.”
The black thoughts encroach again. Liv. My beautiful, pregnant wife…
“Dean? Jesus, you’re sweating.” Helen grabs a box of tissues from the mess on the floor. She hands it to me. “Okay, look. Tell me what happened.”
I do. I start at the beginning—Maggie’s nepotistic admittance to the university because of her big-donor father, her work with a professor who left King’s the year before I was hired, her plan to apply for law school, her lousy work ethic and sense of entitlement. Her anger that I wouldn’t approve her thesis.
Her suggestion that she’d do something sexual in exchange for my academic support.
“I did everything right, Helen,” I say. “Never stood too close to a female student or professor. Always kept the office door open during meetings. Never met with a student alone outside of the university. Knew all the university policies. Never made inappropriate comments or—”
“Dean.” Helen puts her hand on the desk. “I know that. So this girl hasn’t made any kind of formal charge?”
“Not yet. I’m going back for a meeting with the department chairperson and someone from the Office of Judicial Affairs. I guess he’s gathering information.”
“I’ll bet you dimes to doughnuts that the little hussy will approach you again before filing a formal charge,” Helen says.
I can’t help smiling. Helen has always been prone to using anachronistic phrases that make no sense to me.
“What does that mean, anyway?” I ask. “Dimes to doughnuts?”
“I’ll put up the same amount of dimes to your doughnuts because I know I’m right,” Helen replies. “It was a phrase coined when you could get a lot of doughnuts for a dime. I mean it, too. She’s going to come to you telling you she’ll drop the charge if you sign her proposal.”