by Nina Lane
“It worked.” Tears sting my eyes as I gaze at the people, my friends, filling the café Allie and I opened together. “You did this all for me?”
“Yeah, but don’t get sappy about it.” Kelsey presses a glass into my hand. “Sparkling apple cider. Now go on, mingle. People want to see you and wish you well.”
I sniffle and try to compose myself. Dean hands me a tissue.
“You knew about this all along?” I ask.
“Yeah. Kelsey and Allie have been planning it for months. Drove me crazy with the catering menu. Should we have tea sandwiches or deviled eggs or salmon mousse? I picked all three.”
“What about the café?”
“Brent just put up a sign saying we’re closed until two for a private event, along with a pack of free meal coupons to appease any disgruntled customers,” Allie explains. “Now, go on, have fun.”
I walk into the café. Even with all the Alice in Wonderland and Wizard of Oz décor—the playing card curtains, curvy high-backed chairs, and colorful murals—I can’t get over the way they’ve transformed the rooms. The tables are arranged with careful precision, each decorated with a blooming lilac centerpiece and place settings of china, silver, and crystal. Huge bunches of helium-filled pink-and-blue balloons float toward the ceiling. Garlands of pink-and-blue paper lanterns crisscross the molding and provide a soft illumination. Two servers in white jackets walk around with silver trays filled with appetizers.
Dean presses his hand against my lower back to urge me forward.
“Don’t you need to get to the library?” I ask. “For the board meeting?”
He chuckles. “There’s no board meeting.”
“No crying, Liv.” A familiar female voice makes me look up. “You’ll smear your makeup.”
I watch in shock as Dean’s mother and sister approach. Joanna West looks lovely in a pale peach dress, her hair carefully styled. Beside her, Paige West is elegant as ever in a cream-colored sheath.
“Congratulations, Liv.” Joanna touches my arm and brushes her lips close to my cheek, the air around her smelling like flowers. “We’re so pleased everything is going well.”
Then, as if I couldn’t be shocked any more than I already am, Paige hugs me. These are women who once thought I wasn’t good enough for Dean. Somehow, without even being born yet, this baby has bridged a gap that I’d once thought was impassable.
“You look great, Liv,” Paige says.
“You… you came here from California for my baby shower?” I ask.
“Our flight got in last night,” she explains. “Dean picked us up from the airport.”
When I thought he was at a chancellor’s reception. I glance at him. The man is smiling like he just pulled off the heist of the century.
And I’m about to become a blubbering mass of goo unless I can pull myself together. I squeeze Paige’s hands too tight.
“I’m so glad to see you.” I take a breath. “I’m so… I can’t believe you came all this way for our baby shower. Thank you.”
I don’t think I can even explain to myself how much their presence means. By the looks on their faces, though, I don’t have to.
“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Joanna says. “Richard sends his best wishes. He’d have come along too, but of course he had to work, and he’s still not doing much traveling after his heart attack. We’ll catch up later, Liv. I’m sure everyone wants to talk to you.”
She and Paige ease back into the crowd. I watch them go, then turn to look at Dean. He reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear.
“My mother called a few weeks ago,” he explains. “She said they’d gotten the invitation and wanted to come.”
The fact that Joanna was the one who instigated the trip adds another layer to my surprised pleasure. I tighten my fingers around Dean’s.
“I’m really glad they’re here,” I say.
“So am I.”
I’m not sure even Dean can explain all the complexities behind that simple statement. But then, he doesn’t have to. We both already know.
We separate and start to socialize. Everyone I know is here—the café staff, my friends from the Historical Society, all the curators and volunteers from the museum, several colleagues from Dean’s department, a few of Kelsey’s friends, Allie’s father, even the librarian from the public library where I volunteered last year.
And my aunt Stella.
She’s standing with her husband Henry near the buffet table. I have to drum up some courage to approach her, especially after everything that happened with my mother last spring.
Though Stella was the one who took me in after I left my mother when I was thirteen, she’d never been able to rid herself of the reminder I was Crystal Winter’s daughter—or the belief that I might one day end up like her. For years, I’d feared the same thing, which was the reason I’d spent so long hiding in a shell.
Until I looked out one day and saw Dean.
I glance at him. He’s talking to Brent on the other side of the room. The sight of my husband eases my brief anxiety, and I approach my aunt.
“Aunt Stella, thank you so much for coming. You too, Henry. I really appreciate it. I had no idea Kelsey and Allie were going to do all this.”
“We’re glad for you, Liv,” Stella says, pursing her lips.
Henry nods. “Congratulations.”
He trundles over to the buffet table to grab a plate. Because I’m feeling magnanimous, I give Stella a quick hug. “Really. Thanks for coming. It means so much that you’re here. I’ll always be grateful for what you did for me.”
“Yeah, well, you were always a good kid.” She squints at me. “You get in touch with your mother?”
I nod, unsure how much I should divulge. But the truth is the truth, so I tell Stella about Crystal’s visit and that it ended with a goodbye.
“I don’t think I’ll ever see her again.” I expect the words to hurt, even brace myself for the pain.
But there is none. There’s sadness. Maybe pity for the woman my mother has chosen to be. And there’s relief that I no longer have to contend with her.
Stella sighs. “Ah well, Liv. That’s probably the best kind of relationship you can have with Crystal. No relationship at all.”
I stare at her for a moment. Stella hasn’t told me much about her own relationship with her sister-in-law—what there was of it, anyway—but I suddenly have the sense it might not have been very different from my own.
“There’s only ever been one person Crystal cares about,” Stella continues, “and that’s Crystal. Took your father a long time to figure that out.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just nod.
“Anyway,” Stella continues. “I hope you’ll bring the baby around to visit.”
“I will. Of course.”
“Good.” She heads toward the buffet.
I push thoughts of Crystal away and join several café staff members. I spend the next couple of hours basking in the warmth of friends and family, eating two platefuls of food, and then opening a bunch of presents. There’s a lot of laughing and picture-taking followed by cake and coffee.
By the time everyone leaves, I’m starting to yawn. Dean gives my ponytail a gentle tug and kisses the top of my head.
“Ready to go home?” he asks.
I look at the disarray of the hall. “I should help clean up.”
“Don’t you dare.” Kelsey stops by the table with her hands on her hips. “We have cleaners coming in five minutes and, Dean, would you please tell your mother she does not have to clear the plates?”
Dean heads over to where Joanna West is stacking dirty dishes, then gestures to me that he’s going to accompany his mother and sister outside. When the cleaners arrive, Kelsey shoos me away so they can get to work.
I give her as tight a hug as my belly wi
ll allow.
“I love you.” Tears crowd my throat again. “Really, Kelsey. I’m so grateful to have you. Thank you for everything.”
“Yeah, well…” Her voice is gruff, but her grip on me is just as tight. “You and that husband of yours are important to me and with a baby on the way, so… whatever. You know.”
“Yes.” I pull away and smile at her. “I know.”
“Go.” Kelsey pats my belly and waves me toward the door. “We put the presents in the office, and Dean said he’ll come by later to pick them up. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I find Allie in the kitchen and give her an equally mushy thank you before I go outside.
Dean is waiting at the bottom of the porch steps for me when I step out into the bright sunshine. For a moment, I just look at him. He’s leaning against a post, his hands in his pockets, his tall, lean body relaxed. Sunlight glows on his dark hair. He sees me and smiles.
Even after six years together, the sight of him takes my breath away.
No longer will I harbor any regrets or sorrow about the past. How can I when my past led me to this present?
As I walk down the steps, my pulse suddenly stutters. I press a hand to my belly. I’ve been experiencing this since I was twenty-three weeks pregnant, but every time it happens, it feels like the first time all over again. I stop, curling my hand around the railing.
“Liv?” Dean comes up the porch steps toward me, concern etched on his face.
“I’m okay.” I shift my weight and press harder, just below my belly-button on the left side.
A fluttering, like bird wings against my palm. Rhythmic. Soft.
As I always do when Dean is nearby, I take his hand and put it on my belly, then spread my fingers below his as the movement continues—a kicking foot, a waving hand, hiccupping, I don’t know what it is, just a gentle, cadenced tapping that reverberates through my arm and directly into my heart.
Hello there, baby. We can’t wait to meet you.
CHAPTER THREE
OLIVIA
JOLLY SANTAS, RED-NOSED REINDEERS, AND SMILING snowmen plaster the windows of the shops lining Avalon Street. By early December, a light snow heralds the approach of winter.
With the pregnancy and my business with the café, Dean and I have put our plans to renovate the Butterfly House on hold. The paperwork and process of obtaining permits is both long and daunting, so while Dean still works sometimes on weekends clearing out the house and making plans, we’ve decided to wait until spring to start the work. Even then, we’ll stay in our Avalon Street place for at least the next year.
Thanks to our friends, we have all we need for the baby, and lo and behold everything fits in our little apartment. I put all the newborn clothes in a dresser and packed the others away for when the baby is older. We have a pack-n-play in the bedroom, a swing in the living room, and a bouncy chair by the kitchen table. Diapers and lotions are arranged on a cart beside the bed, baby books line the bookshelf, and there’s a bunch of toys in a box underneath my desk.
I continue to work at the café, though none of my colleagues will let me lift so much as a tea tray. By default, my responsibilities turn more toward office work and payroll while Allie and Brent handle things in the front of the house. I love what Allie and I have created, love the work, my fellow employees, the whole atmosphere of the café.
One afternoon, I head home a little early because I’m accompanying Dean to his department’s holiday party. He’s already home, so I take a quick shower and dress in black pants and a red maternity blouse with a ruffled neckline.
“Pretty.” Dean pats my belly and kisses my temple as I’m fastening on silver earrings. “Pregnancy suits you.”
He moves to take his clothes from the closet. I like watching him dress—the adeptness of his fingers as he fastens the buttons, the smooth way he tucks in his shirt and slides his belt through the buckle, the effortlessness with which he knots his silk tie. Then, of course, I like to imagine watching him undress, which is even better.
We drive to a reception room on campus, which the department has reserved for the party. It’s a big crowd because collaborating professors and students from other departments have also been invited. There’s lots of holiday cheer, sparkling lights, and a great deal of food and eggnog.
Dean gets me a glass of mineral water, then squeezes my hand and heads off to socialize. I make small talk with several people I know, introduce myself to others whom I don’t know, and eat a lot of canapés. I glance at Dean from across the room. He catches my gaze and winks. My heart does its usual flip-flop.
I’ve seen him in this kind of social interaction before, but I forget how good he is at it. He moves from person to person with such ease, his focus intent on whomever he’s speaking with, his interest in the subject evident. And people respond to him with admiration, eager to earn his attention, anxious to impress him.
So proud. I am so damn proud of that man.
I turn to introduce myself to a new group of people. For the next few hours, I’m aware of the tide of conversations—often about holiday plans and the like, but also a great deal about medieval studies and research. Musical words float between the clusters of people—pastoral, mystification, Avignon, allegorical, marginalia, Lindisfarne, Neoplatonic, palimpsest. It’s like they’re speaking a secret language.
When the party begins to wind down, Dean finds me again and slides his hand over my lower back. “Ready to go?”
I nod. We say our goodbyes and return home. Dean pushes the door open for me and tugs at the knot in his necktie as he follows me into the apartment.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Hey, Liv.”
“I was thinking… maybe sometime you could tell me about your research.”
He pauses in the motion of unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt. “I tell you about my research all the time.”
“Not all the time, you don’t.” A flush crawls up my neck, and I look past him at the wall. “And, um, when you do I don’t always listen.”
He doesn’t seem surprised to hear this. Maybe my yawning when he talks about Franciscan ideologies is evidence enough of my disinterest.
“So, what, you want to start listening?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I reply cautiously. “Working at the historical museum opened up a window for me, you know? I like learning what people did in the past. What they wore, what they ate, how society worked. And I think I’d find your research really interesting if I paid attention to it.”
For a minute he just stands there looking at me. An irrational fear rises in me that he might want to keep his work and his home life separate, which of course is stupid since the man works from home much of the time.
“Of course, if you don’t want to…” I hasten to add.
“Liv. I’d be happy to talk to you about my research.”
“Even if I don’t always get it?”
“You don’t have to know Latin and Greek to understand medieval history.” Dean approaches me and brushes a lock of hair away from my shoulder.
“So maybe we could discuss illuminated manuscripts sometime,” I suggest. “When I went to your lecture at the conference, I thought of about ten questions I wanted to ask you.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. They were sort of basic.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “Can I tell you something?”
“Sure.”
“I have had two great loves in my life.”
“Um.” My heart stutters a little. “Two?”
“The first is you,” he says. “You’re the most important. The one I can’t live without.”
“Who’s the second?”
“Medieval studies.” He shrugs. “I know it’s not like being a brain surgeon or research scientist. In the grand scheme of things, the relative importan
ce of iconoclastic aesthetics is probably not all that high. But when I went on my first archeological dig and started unearthing objects from hundreds of years ago… it was like I was connecting through time with people who didn’t want to be forgotten. Like I had a duty to them.”
“And that was it?”
“That was it. Since then, I never once looked back. Never wanted to.” He brushes his thumb across my mouth. “Same thing happened with you, Mrs. West.”
Oh, Lord. I’m melting.
“And I can think of few things I’d like better than to introduce my first love to my second one,” he adds.
I smile. “We’re sure dorky, aren’t we?”
“Uh huh. Good thing we have plenty of explosive sex to counteract that.”
A shiver runs through me. Good thing, indeed.
“You know, not that you’ll have the time, but you can take a class at King’s, if you ever want to,” Dean says.
“Any class I want?”
“Any class you want. Just apply as a non-degree student, and you can officially enroll in courses.”
“Could I take one of your classes?”
“Sure. Next time I teach I’ll be offering my intro class on illuminated manuscripts.” He frowns, still rubbing his thumb across my lower lip. “Though don’t expect any special treatment.”
My lips are starting to tingle. “You mean I won’t be the teacher’s pet?”
“Oh, you’ll be the teacher’s pet, all right,” he says, “but you’ll have to earn your A.”
“I’ve always been a good student.”
“I know.”
Suddenly it feels like we’re no longer talking about illuminated manuscripts.
Though I know I won’t have time to really take one of his classes, it’s a fun thought. I imagine myself sitting in a lecture hall, my pen poised over my notepad, listening to my husband as he speaks authoritatively about imagery in the Canterbury Tales, then strides to the board to write down an arcane word or point out a detail on a slide…