by Nina Lane
“Oh. Hello, Olivia.” She slips her sunglasses on. “We didn’t know you were planning to come downtown.”
“Dean was going to the hospital, and I thought he’d want a chance to visit his father alone.” I feel exactly the way I did all those times I’d enter a classroom as the “new girl”—nervously wanting to please, and yet not knowing how my overtures would be received.
“You bought some things at Eclipse?” Paige glances at the name on my bag. “Let’s have a look.”
Well, hell. That’s all I need. The tags on the clothes say Maternity, the jeans have elastic stretch panels in the front, the skirt has an expandable waistline…
I make a show of looking at my watch. “Actually, I need to head back. I think Dean should be home soon, and we were going to… um, do something.”
Neither woman’s expression changes. I give them a wave and hurry in the opposite direction, aware that they’re probably going to talk about me now. Not that they haven’t before.
When I return to the West house, I go upstairs to unpack my things. I wonder if Joanna and Paige are having coffee or doing some shopping.
I can’t remember if I was ever that way with my mother. Mostly I remember being angry with her for dragging me from place to place or just not talking to her at all.
“You don’t even know how good you have it, Liv,” she told me once when we were on the road to yet another town.
I was in the passenger seat of our old Chevrolet, tucked close to the door to avoid a scratchy ridge of foam that had burst through the vinyl seat. I shoved my hand into a bag of potato chips. I’d eaten half the bag already and was feeling sick, but I kept eating because it gave me something to do with my hands and made it more difficult to talk.
My mother glanced at me from the driver’s seat. It was over ninety degrees out, and we’d rolled all the windows down. Hot air rushed into the car. Her wheat-blond hair whipped around her head and neck. She was wearing a yellow tank top and capri pants, her bare feet tan and dusty.
“Most girls your age would love such freedom.” She pulled her sunglasses off her head and slipped them over her eyes. “How many of them have seen as much as you have, done as much? None, I’ll tell you that. They’re too busy painting their nails.”
I spread out a hand and looked at my nails. Ragged and bitten to the quick.
“So cut out the attitude and be grateful,” my mother added. “And stop eating chips. You’re getting fat.”
I crumpled up the bag and wiped my greasy fingers on my shorts. I scratched a mosquito bite on my leg. I stared out the open window. I’d long ago devised a game of looking at passing cars and making up stories about the people inside.
The older couple driving a Cadillac had been married sixty years and were taking a trip to the beach together. The young, long-haired guy in the hatchback was on his way to meet his girlfriend after they’d gone to separate colleges. The four girls in the VW were taking a road trip to Manhattan for the first time.
I wondered what people thought of when they saw me and my mother.
Crystal. She’d told me to call her that when I was eight. Didn’t think it was a good idea if people immediately knew we were mother and daughter.
“Get out the map, Liv.” She nodded toward the glove compartment. “We’re looking for I-77. You remember Nadine from the grocery store? She’s got a brother who lives in Cleveland. Runs an auto-parts store or something. Nadine said to pay him a visit if we happened to be in town.”
“We don’t happen to be in Cleveland,” I muttered. “We’re going there on purpose.”
“Shut up, Liv, and look at the map. Why are you always such a pain in the ass?”
“Because we’re always moving,” I snapped. “Why did we have to leave Akron? I liked it there.”
I did, too. I’d been able to start fourth grade at the beginning of the year, which meant I wasn’t as much the “new girl” as I would have been if I’d started mid-year. I’d even made a few friends, and my teacher, Mrs. White, was nice.
“There’s nothing in Akron,” Crystal replied. “We need to go somewhere where things are happening.”
By the time we got to Cleveland, we were out of money and down to a quarter tank of gas. Turned out Nadine’s brother Tom worked at a garage, and my mother talked him into filling the gas tank and checking the car. Then she booked us into a cheap motel room and told me to wait for her there.
She was gone for two days. I watched TV and ate candy bars and chips from the vending machine. When Crystal returned, she smelled like cigarette smoke and had a wad of twenties in her pocket. Even then, I wondered what she’d done for them.
Now I shove aside all the old emotions, reminding myself that my life is completely different. It’s been different for over fifteen years. I’ll never be that uncertain and afraid again. And I will not be the kind of mother Crystal was.
I take the maternity clothes out of the bag and spread them out on the bed. The stretch panels mean I can wear them throughout the pregnancy. I do a little mixing and matching with some of my other shirts, then fold everything up and put it all in my suitcase. I realize I forgot to give Joanna the chocolates I bought her, and I put them on the dresser.
I change into yoga pants and a T-shirt and sit at the desk. I open my Liv’s Manifesto notebook. After a moment of thought, I write:
An unfamiliar feeling winds through me. I grip the pen harder and keep writing.
I put the pen down and reread the list.
You.
I turn on my computer and type a few words into a search engine. I’m perusing several lists when Dean comes in. He kisses me on the forehead and gives me an update about his father before he flops down on the bed and pulls a loop of string from his jeans pocket.
“Chaucer, huh?” I ask.
“What?” Dean glances up from twisting the string around his fingers.
“You wanted to name our kid Chaucer.” I look at him with a raised brow, my hands poised over the keyboard. “Not if you expect to stay married.”
He manages to look offended. “Chaucer is a classic name. Great historical significance.”
“You might as well put a teasing target on the kid’s back.”
“We could shorten it to Chet.”
“Chet West. Sounds like the name of a spaghetti western hero. Come see Ride ’Em, Cowboy, starring Tom Mix and Chet West.”
“Hmm. Not sure that’s a movie I’d want to see.” Dean unravels the string from his fingers. “So, what brilliant name ideas do you have?”
“I’ve always liked the name Elliott.”
“Great. Our kid will forever be associated with E.T. Everyone will be telling him to phone home.”
We glower at each other for a few seconds before I turn back to the computer. “What if it’s a girl? And don’t you dare say Hildegard or Goditha.”
“Isabella.”
I pause, my fingers on the computer keys. “That’s nice.”
“Bella for short.”
I look at him. “Really nice.”
Dean smiles. I get all soft inside. He looks pleased with himself.
“Just don’t tell me Isabella was some medieval queen who ended up getting burned at the stake,” I warn.
“Isabella of Angoulême became the queen of England. She was beautiful and fierce.”
“Say no more.” I like the idea of naming a daughter after a woman who was beautiful and fierce. As long as I don’t know if she met an untimely end. “Isabella if it’s a girl. And if it’s a boy?”
“Durwin.”
“No.”
“Arthur.”
“No.”
“Roland.”
“No.”
“Sedgewick.”
“Hell no.”
“Nicholas.”
I pause again. “Nicholas is a medieval name?”
“Lots of medieval Nicholases. There was a Pope Nicholas who started an artistic revival in Rome. There was a sculptor, a goldsmith, a philosopher...”
“Hmm.”
“Sounds good, doesn’t it? Nicholas West.”
I don’t respond immediately, for no other reason than to make him sweat a little. Finally I nod. “It does sound good.”
Dean looks almost surprised. “You agree?”
“Nicholas West or Isabella West.” My heart thumps as I picture a pink-cheeked baby. Our pink-cheeked baby. Nicholas or Isabella.
“That’s it?” Dean’s grinning like he just won an award. “Those are the names?”
“Those are the names.” I push away from the computer and go to lower myself into his lap. “Nice work, professor.”
“You too, beauty.” He rubs my belly in slow circles and then down between my legs.
“You sure you want to?” I ask as a warm tingle slides through my blood.
“As long as you feel okay.”
“I feel fine, but I am gaining weight, you know.”
“So?”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course not.” Dean pushes a lock of hair away from my shoulder. “What, you think you won’t turn me on when you’re bigger?”
“I still have a long way to go. It could get… awkward.”
“So we’ll figure it out.” He pulls me to him and eases his hand between my thighs again.
“You know, there’ll probably be a time when we won’t be able to manage much position-wise,” I warn him. “Or at least, I won’t. And I have no idea what happens hormonally when things progress. Maybe my sex drive will disappear.”
I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted when Dean starts laughing.
Before I can scowl at him, he pulls me closer for a long, deep kiss. I sigh and settle against him. Just as we’re getting into it, a knock sounds on the door. Dean mutters a noise of irritation as we separate. He pushes to his feet and goes to open the door.
Paige is standing in the hallway, her hands on her hips. She glances past Dean to me.
“What is it, Paige?” he asks.
“Archer called. He’ll be here in a couple of hours.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Olivia
I HAVE AN URGE TO ESCAPE, like a rabbit who senses an approaching wolf. Dean hasn’t seen his younger brother in five years, and I’m part of the reason why. If not the reason. I’d met Archer West once, during Thanksgiving weekend the first year Dean and I were together.
We arrived at the San Jose airport in late morning the day before Thanksgiving. Lines of traffic moved sluggishly over the highway. We drove out of San Jose and into the wealthy computer-money suburbs of Cupertino, Saratoga, and Los Gatos.
The sheer expanse and beauty of the West home was totally foreign to me, the girl who’d lived in cramped apartments and slept on sofas in strangers’ living rooms.
Richard West was a tall, broad-shouldered man with gray hair and an almost tangible shield of reticence. Joanna West looked like she’d been to finishing school with her model-like posture, coiffed hair, and designer suit. I might have had a hard time imagining her capable of an affair if I didn’t know quite well that people concealed all sorts of things behind their facades.
Everything about the West house and family seemed perfect. Direct from the glossy pages of a magazine.
“What do you do, Olivia?” Joanna West asked me during dinner.
I glanced at Dean. “Er, I work in a coffeehouse. Jitter Beans. And I’m majoring in literature and library sciences.”
“Oh. How nice.” She smiled vaguely, and that was the end of that conversation.
“And what do your parents do?” Richard West asked.
“My father passed away years ago, and my mother is in travel,” I said. “This fish is delicious. Whatever did you put in the sauce?”
Later that night as Dean and I were getting ready for bed, I said, “I’m not sure they like me.”
“Doesn’t matter. I like you.” He kissed my forehead. “Don’t let them get to you, Liv. No one can meet their expectations.”
Including him. I knew that without needing to ask, but I still didn’t fully understand why. Dean West was the epitome of the perfect, successful son. Not even Joanna and Richard West could say a word against him.
Reminded me of me, I thought as I tucked myself against Dean in bed. I’d been the same way when I lived with Aunt Stella and Henry. Just in a far less prominent way.
I slept restlessly that first night, feeling out of place in the huge bed, waking at every sound the house made. Even the silence was strained, as if it were stretched tight.
The sky was just starting to lighten with dawn when I woke. The clock read five-forty. Dean’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets and covers rumpled. I crawled out of bed and trudged to the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash water on my face. I shrugged into my robe, finger-combing the tangles from my hair before heading downstairs. A rectangle of light came from the kitchen.
As I approached, the low rumble of male voices stopped me. My heart stuttered with a strange sense of foreboding.
“You fucked it up once, you’ll fuck it up again,” Dean hissed.
“Just because it’s not what you’d do,” another voice snapped. “Give me the goddamn money, and I’ll get out of here.”
“No.”
“Then welcome me home for Thanksgiving, brother.”
Archer. My breath stopped in my throat. The deadbeat brother had returned. Unable to stop myself, I peered around the kitchen door.
Dean stood with his back to me, clad in his running clothes, his shoulders rigid. Across from him was a tall, younger man with overlong, unkempt black hair and a sullen expression. Dressed in jeans and a dirty T-shirt beneath a worn leather jacket, he stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips in a stance of insolent defiance.
“You’re not staying here for the weekend,” Dean said.
“Aren’t I? Mom will love it. All of us together for the holidays.”
Dean’s hand shot out to grab the front of his brother’s T-shirt. “You little bastard.”
“Don’t fucking—” Archer stopped. His gaze jerked to me, pinning me to the spot. “Who the hell are you?”
Dean spun around. “Liv, what…”
“I… I couldn’t sleep. Must be the time change.” I pressed a hand to my chest and backed up a step. “I’m sorry.”
Archer looked from me to Dean and back again. Understanding dawned in his expression suddenly. He smiled.
Dean crossed the room and stopped beside me, putting a protective hand on my lower back.
“Hello.” Archer approached, his brow furrowing as he looked at me. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Archer West, Dean’s brother. And you’re Dean’s…?”
Yes, I’m Dean’s.
“Liv Winter,” I said.
“Liv.” He extended a hand.
Up close, Archer was handsome in a scruffy way, with thick eyelashes and a wide mouth. His features were smoother than Dean’s, almost pretty in the way his cheekbones sloped to his jaw, but his eyes contained a gleam that was unnerving at best.
I shook his hand, disliking the way his long fingers tightened around mine. As he drew his hand away, he slid a forefinger across my palm.
A shudder of revulsion raced through me. I pulled away and wiped my hand on my robe.
“Um, I’ll leave you to talk,” I said. “Sorry for the interruption.”
“No, stay,” Archer suggested. “Dean was just making coffee, right, bro?”
Dean shook his head. “Get the hell out, Archer. Liv, so
rry he’s such an ass.”
“Liv,” Archer said. “Short for…?”
“Olivia.”
“Shakespearean.” He raised a black eyebrow. “Nice. I like it. Reminds me of that quote, you know, live fast, die young. Do you live—”
Before he could finish, Dean stepped forward and shoved his brother to the side. Archer’s shoulder hit the doorjamb with a thud. Anger flared, and he whirled toward Dean.
Just when I thought Archer was about to throw a punch, Dean took another threatening step toward his brother. They locked gazes for half a second, then Archer retreated.
Hah.
“Asshole,” Archer muttered, embarrassment coloring his face.
“Come in, Liv.” Dean closed his hand reassuringly around my arm. “If he makes you uncomfortable again, I will fucking kill him, and he knows it. Right, bro?”
Archer shot me a glare, then grabbed a beat-up duffle bag by the refrigerator and stalked out of the kitchen. The instant he left, Dean’s shoulders sagged.
“Sorry.” He pulled me against his side. “I didn’t expect him to come back. No one did.”
“He doesn’t come home for the holidays?”
“He doesn’t come home unless he wants something,” Dean replied, his tone bitter. “What he wants is the money my grandfather left him.”
“Why does he want it from you?”
“My grandfather set what’s called a condition precedent for Archer’s inheritance. That means Archer has to finish college, get a steady job, prove he’s capable of handling the money. My grandfather also designated me as the person who determines if and when Archer has fulfilled the conditions and what percentage of the money he should get at any given time.”
“You?” I wondered why Richard West wasn’t the designated “person in charge,” then remembered that Dean told me his father and grandfather had been estranged.
“Has Archer received any of his inheritance yet?” I asked.
“No.”
“And that’s why he’s mad at you.”