by Nina Lane
Then she and Dean launch into a discussion of the roof, the heating system, the warranty on the appliances, the property taxes, the size of the lot. Their voices almost echo in the vast spaces of the multiple rooms. The kitchen alone looks like it’s the size of our apartment.
“What do you think, Liv?” Nancy asks.
She and Dean are both looking at me expectantly.
“It’s beautiful,” I say truthfully.
“I’ll leave you two alone to talk for a few minutes.” Nancy digs her phone out of her purse as she heads back to the foyer.
“Do you like it?” Dean asks me. “If you like it, we’ll buy it.”
“Dean, love of my life, you don’t have to buy a house just because I like it.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.”
“Do you like it?”
“What’s not to like? We can’t live in that apartment forever. With the baby, we’ll need more space, a yard, another bedroom. This is a great school district. We wouldn’t have to think about moving anytime soon. It’s close to both the university and downtown. Not to mention it has an amazing view of the lake.”
The knots pull tighter in my stomach. “It… um, it must be terribly expensive.”
“We can afford it. The trust fund my grandfather left me has been sitting there for years, and I’ve gotten a great return on my investments. We wouldn’t even need to take out a mortgage, unless it makes financial sense.”
He looks through the large kitchen window at the backyard. “I like that it’s on a quiet street. Property values in this neighborhood have been stable for years, so if we did need to sell we likely wouldn’t have to take a loss. Good investment, in addition to being necessary.”
I run my hand over the gleaming quartz countertop. I’ve never thought of a house as necessary. Houses put you into debt and create a thousand worries. It’s hard to leave a place if you own a house. Or if you lose a house for some reason, you could end up with nowhere to go. When I was living with my aunt Stella, I was always afraid that she might kick me out of her house. Like my mother’s parents did to her when she got pregnant with me.
“Better that we buy now when we have time to get organized,” Dean says, turning back to face me. “Our apartment lease expires in July, so we can spend the next few months figuring out what we need to buy. We can stay at the apartment until the house is furnished and we’re ready to move in. There’s that huge furniture store over near Rainwood. We can probably buy everything there, including the crib. Plenty of time to fix anything that needs fixing, hire a cleaning service, get tools and a lawnmower, change our address on all our paperwork.”
“We don’t have to do all of that right now.”
“We’re not waiting until you’re seven or eight months pregnant before we buy a house,” he argues. “You don’t need that stress.”
“I mean… we don’t have to buy a house anytime soon. Babies are tiny, right? Our apartment is fine for now.”
“Liv, it’ll be a lot more hassle trying to close on a house when we have a baby.” He studies me. “Don’t you want this house?”
Although his tone is curious and not reproving, I feel about two inches tall and horribly ungrateful. What kind of person wouldn’t leap at such an offer?
I loosen my fingers from the edge of the counter. “I just don’t want you to think you have to be so extravagant.”
“It’s a necessity, not an extravagance. Yeah, we could get something smaller, but with this place there’s no worry about running out of space or having to move because of the school district. It’s a great, safe neighborhood too.”
“What about work?”
“What about it?”
“What if you get a better job offer somewhere else?”
“Then we’ll deal with that, if it happens. But I can’t imagine an offer that would be better than what I have at King’s. The conference is coming up, I have classes and papers, students to advise, tenure track, a top-level salary. There’s no good reason for me to look for another job. And now that you’re pregnant… what better place for us to stay than Mirror Lake?”
He’s got it all figured out. I have no counterargument, and I don’t want to think about my reasons for trying to come up with one.
“It’s a beautiful house,” I repeat.
He gives me a smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“So, what are we thinking?” Nancy chirps as she returns to the kitchen.
Dean turns to her and starts talking about a potential offer, how much movement there is on the asking price, what kind of allowances we should make for improvements, if we should apply for a mortgage, what current interest rates are like.
I watch Dean as he talks. He’s standing with his arms crossed, his back straight, his feet apart in that sure-footed stance that seems to be holding the world in place. He’s reeling off words like equity, amortize, and depreciation with the same ease he uses to discuss clerestory windows and quatrefoils.
He’s not afraid.
No. He’s not only not afraid, he’s fearless. I’m pregnant, he’s going to be a father, and instead of gnawing over a bunch of worries that he would be well within his rights to have, Professor Dean West has made a definitive plan. Now he’s going to implement his plan and ensure everything goes exactly the way he wants.
I should find this reassuring. Instead, his confidence only intensifies my own uncertainty.
“Dean, we’re meeting Kelsey in ten minutes,” I remind him.
We retrieve our coats and go back outside. Dean and Nancy continue to discuss the offer, and she promises to be in touch with more information.
“I have an appointment next week with my lawyer,” Dean tells me as we get back in the car and return to downtown. “See about the process of amending the will and trust after the baby’s born. If something happens to me, everything I own goes to you, but we’ll have to get the baby added as a beneficiary. And I’ll increase my life insurance benefits too.”
“Dean, I was talking to Allie earlier about maybe helping her out with a loan for the bookstore.” The words escape me in a rush. Until now, I haven’t realized how much I want Dean’s support for this idea.
“How much does she need?”
“I don’t know yet. But I mean, not a loan from you. I was thinking about applying for a business loan and… uh, maybe partnering with her.”
“Oh.”
“Oh good, or oh bad?”
“Good, but investing in a troubled business is no easy task.”
“I know.” I don’t, actually, but I want to learn.
“You can’t overdo it.”
“I won’t.” Irritation prickles at me. “I don’t intend to put myself or the pregnancy at any risk.”
“I’ll give you the—”
“Dean, if I needed the money from you, I would ask. But I want to do this by myself.”
“Liv, to get a business loan, you need to have collateral and a—”
“Dean, please.” My stomach is getting twisted up again, the way it used to when I first met him and allowed myself to dwell on the differences between us. “I’m not training for a marathon. I’m just going to try and help out a friend. I really want to do this.”
He turns onto Ruby Street. “Okay, but you don’t even need to ask if you want to use our money.”
“I know.” And I do.
He parks the car by the curb, then puts his hand on the small of my back as we navigate patches of ice on the sidewalk. I can feel the warmth of his touch even through my coat—his gesture of I’m right here that I have always loved.
“You’re late.” Kelsey March glowers at us from the front porch of Matilda’s Teapot, where she is hunched into her coat. Her blue-streaked blond hair shines in the overhead light, an
d her face—devoid of makeup aside from bright red lipstick—is pinched with cold.
“Why aren’t you waiting inside then?” Dean asks.
Her glower deepens, and I subject her to an effusive embrace. “You look great. How’s your mom?”
“Fine. She sent you some blinchki.” She thrusts a Tupperware container at me and jerks her head toward the door. “I’m starving. Dean, you’re paying.”
“For you, anything.” He gives her one of his patented Dean West smiles, which would make any other woman melt.
On Kelsey, however, it has all the impact of a feather against stone. She rolls her eyes at me and strides into the tearoom, which is in an old, converted Victorian house. Chintz tablecloths and curtains dominate the interior, the clientele consists mostly of elderly ladies, and the tea and sandwiches are served on china plates and cups.
“So, what’s going on with you two?” Kelsey flips open the parchment menu and studies me and Dean through her rimless glasses. “Everything okay?”
Kelsey knows a lot of what happened between me and Dean, and she was the one I stayed with when we were apart. She doesn’t, however, know everything.
“We’re good,” Dean says.
Kelsey gives me a look. “Liv?”
“We’re good,” I agree.
It’s too early to tell anyone about the pregnancy, even Kelsey. At least Dean and I have talked about it, and we’re both doing what we’re supposed to do. He makes me a cup of horrible no-caffeine coffee in the morning and puts my prenatal vitamins on my plate. I walk on the treadmill at the gym, have scheduled my next two checkups, and when I’m not feeling nauseous, I eat lots of fruits, vegetables, and whole grains.
I try not to dwell on my fear that I don’t know how to be a mother. For most of my life, I didn’t even want to be a mother.
“So then she made this huge iced bread, which is called a krendel, and she knows I love it except that I eat it like a freaking cow, so she made me deliver it to the neighbors but only because their son is newly single after…”
Kelsey, thank God, is rambling about her own mother. I love Kelsey’s mother. She is a plump, cheerful woman who epitomizes one of my dream mothers.
I’ve had a lot of dream mothers. The sharp-tongued feminist, the happy homemaker, the driven career woman, the nurturing earth goddess. They’ve flitted in and out of my mind since I was a child. Now that I’m pregnant, they’ve appeared with new strength as I try to imagine what kind of mother I’m going to be.
Well, I know one thing about being a mother, at least. I know I don’t want to be the kind of mother my own mother was.
Kelsey goes on and on about her Christmas while we eat. Well, Kelsey and Dean eat. I’m feeling a little queasy, so I just pick at a slice of quiche.
“Not hungry?” Kelsey glances at my plate.
“Uh, not really. Hey, did Dean tell you about his IHR grant?”
“What?” Kelsey is properly awestruck by this news and peppers him with questions and congratulations.
“You going to campus tomorrow?” Kelsey asks Dean as we get ready to leave. “Up for a few games of racquetball?”
“Not tomorrow.” Dean fishes for his wallet. “Prepping for a seminar.”
“Did I tell you my department scheduled me for three seminars?” Kelsey drains the last of her tea. “And I have a new grad student starting this semester. You know what that means.”
Dean pushes back from the table so abruptly that the chair legs screech across the hardwood floor. He grabs my coat and holds it out for me. “Ready to go?”
“Sure.” I throw him an odd look as I shrug into the coat. “Don’t forget to use the gift certificate. What’s the hurry?”
“No hurry.” He heads off to take care of the bill as Kelsey and I gather our satchels.
“Hey, really.” Kelsey gets all serious for a second and reaches out to squeeze my arm. “You guys okay?”
I watch my husband as he makes his way to the front counter, his dark hair and black peacoat a striking contrast to the yellow chintz and lace décor.
“Yes,” I tell Kelsey. “We’ll be fine.”
A cloud cover has made the evening gloomier than usual, and Dean makes sure Kelsey gets back safely to her car before he and I head to Avalon Street. When we get home, he settles on the sofa to watch the news. I busy myself watering my houseplants and straightening the living room.
I stack a pile of Dean’s sports magazines on the coffee table and pick up the newspaper. I didn’t read it this morning, so I look over a few of the articles, then turn to the Help Wanted section.
I skim the ads. Energy consultant. Systems administrator. Early childhood educator.
Nothing I’m qualified for or have experience in, though I suppose it doesn’t matter now that we’re going to have a baby.
I sit at my narrow desk and take a notebook and a pen from the drawer. I stare out the window for a few minutes, watching reddish clouds sweep over the snow-frosted mountains.
Then I write:
I look at the list for a minute, then add:
I reread the list, then close the book and write on the cover:
After slipping the book back into my desk, I power up my laptop and type “small business loans” into a search engine.
I study websites about different organizations, loan programs, application types. I write down the contact information for our local bank’s loan office and start to fill out the online application. Less than a quarter of the way through, there are boxes for details about credit reports, taxes, collateral, accounts, a business plan. I turn to ask Dean for help, then stop.
There’s no information requested on the application that I can’t find myself or get from Allie—I just need to research and figure it out. I email Allie asking her about the business plan, then I save the application to finish later and log off the site. Even though I have a lot of work to do, it feels like a good start.
Dean is working in his office by the time I get ready for bed. I fall into a comfortable sleep with the pleasant knowledge that he’ll soon slide under the covers beside me.
The sun is already streaming through the window when I wake the next morning. I’m tucked against Dean’s long body, my leg across his. We have a king-sized bed, so usually we end up apart from each other on either side of the mattress, but sometime during the night I’ve scooted across and draped myself over him.
That’s happened often since we reconciled. It doesn’t take a genius to explain why I now have a tendency to latch on to my husband during the night.
I push my hair away from my eyes and look up at him. He’s awake, one arm trapped beneath my shoulder and the other resting on his stomach.
“Morning,” he says.
“Hi.” I shift. “Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry… crap.” He winces as he pulls his arm out from underneath me.
“Pins and needles?” I massage his arm with quick strokes. “Seems to be the only part of you that’s asleep.”
I glance at his impressive erection, which is tenting the sheet.
“Considering the way you were rubbing up against me,” he says, “that shouldn’t be a surprise.”
“I was sleeping. How could I have been rubbing up against you?”
“Very seductively. I thought you were having a sex dream.”
I feel my face heat up. No need to tell him my dreams have been getting somewhat erotic lately.
Since I know quite well he’ll see the blush, I shove away from him and sidle out the other side of the bed. He’s still watching me as I head to the bathroom. I shoot him a glower.
“Quit it,” I say.
“If you’re still turned on, I can help you with that.” He looks pointedly at his cock.
“I am not still turned on.”
I’m getting turned on, but don’t see the need to tell him that either. At least, not now with him starting to look smug.
He wraps his hand around his erection and starts to stroke himself—the sight of which he knows very well makes me hot in two seconds flat. Still I manage to resist him, just to make a point, and go into the bathroom.
In the shower, I have to bring myself to a quick, strong orgasm to take the edge off, because yes, I did have a sexy dream even if I can’t remember the details. After the vibrations ebb, I feel silly for masturbating when I’ve got Dean hard and ready just on the other side of the door.
Must be pregnancy hormones making me irrational, because otherwise I’d be out there bouncing up and down on him like he’s a carnival ride.
When I step out of the shower, I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror. I turn sideways and squint, wondering if my belly is getting rounder and my breasts are getting bigger or if I’m just imagining it.
I do a quick calculation in my head. Almost nine weeks. In another three weeks, I’ll already be in my second trimester.
Can’t wrap my brain around that.
I put my robe on and open the door. Dean has already finished himself off and is lying there with his eyes closed, looking relaxed and sleepy.
“You done?” I lean a shoulder against the doorjamb.
“I’ll be ready to go again in a few, if you’re interested.”
“Maybe later.”
He opens his eyes to look at me. “Playing hard to get, pretty lady.”
“You didn’t seem to have any trouble without me.”
“I had a lot of trouble without you.”
A twinge tightens my heart. I push away from the doorjamb and go to stroke my fingers through his messy hair.
“You won’t be without me again,” I promise.
He grasps my wrist and presses a kiss against my palm before climbing off the bed. After he goes into the bathroom, I stretch out on his side of the bed. The sheets are warm from his body heat. I rest a hand on my stomach and try to imagine what it will feel like when the baby starts to move.