by Nina Lane
It’s not a surprise to me when Hans Klasen and the World Heritage committee are more than happy to accommodate Dean’s proposal. They know exactly how good he would be as the director of the Youth Experts program. When Hans and the committee approve the creation and funding of a new position especially for Dean, there is no turning back.
Frances, who has approved of the idea from the start, arranges for Dean’s leave of absence from King’s, with Jessica Burke taking over his classes and duties as a visiting professor for a one-year term, her contract renewable for a second year.
Dean’s contract with the WHC is worded in much the same way—we’ll move to Paris for at least a year so he can work on organizing the Youth Experts program, and at the end of the year, he will have the option of either staying or moving back to Mirror Lake.
After all the contracts have been signed and arrangements made, Dean approaches me one evening with a gleam in his eye. He pulls me close and presses a lovely, warm kiss against my lips. Tingles drift through me like snowflakes.
“Now,” I say meaningfully, “I need you to do that something for me.”
“Name it, beauty,” Dean runs his hands over my back. “What do you need me to do?”
“I need you to buy a birthday party truck for the Wonderland Café.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
OLIVIA
SAILBOATS GLIDE LIKE BIRDS OVER THE sun-bright surface of the lake. Pedestrians walk leisurely along Avalon Street, pausing to look into shop windows. Bouquets of brightly colored balloons wave like flowers from benches around Wizard’s Park and the terrace railing of the Wonderland Café.
The air is filled with the sound of children laughing—and occasionally screeching or crying. Three members of Slice of Pie, including the Pieman, are performing at a temporary stage, and the music and lyrics of “Cherry Pie” float over the park.
The Airstream trailer glows bright silver in the sun. The full-time team Dean hired renovated and decorated the trailer in record time—so quickly and beautifully, in fact, that I wish they’d been filmed for one of those before-and-after reality shows.
The sides of the trailer are adorned with a flowing design of clouds, poppy fields, hot-air balloons, and a tree in which the grinning Cheshire Cat sits. A cursive script reading The Traveling Wonderland Café is painted on both sides. A retractable, red-and-white striped awning extends from the trailer, and round tables are set up underneath.
Inside, the décor is exactly what I’d imagined—playing-card patterns, whimsical clocks and tables, plus closets filled with birthday party costumes and supplies. A huge, red ribbon loops around the trailer, ending in a bow fastened to the front door.
“I can’t believe it.” Allie comes up beside me, looking pretty and summer-like in a green flowered dress that complements her red hair. “It’s incredible, Liv.”
I nod toward Dean, who is approaching from the direction of the stage with Archer and Nicholas. “He’s the one who did it all.”
I feel her looking at me.
“Do you remember when we were opening the café and you weren’t into using any of your and Dean’s money?” she asks.
“I remember.”
“So what changed your mind about letting him buy the trailer?” Allie asks.
I learned a lesson, I think as I watch Dean coming toward me. Professor West is a damned good teacher. And though I often have to fumble my way through things, I have always been an excellent student.
Dean’s gaze meets mine, a smile curving his beautiful mouth. A pleasurable shiver runs down my spine.
“I learned that sometimes it’s okay to take help when it’s offered,” I tell Allie. “And to graciously accept a gift someone has been trying hard to give you.”
Aside from that, I also wanted to leave Allie and Wonderland with a parting gift that will not only compensate for my past mistakes, but that will set the café on an exciting new path. The Traveling Wonderland Café proved to be the solution to several problems all at once. I just needed to get out of my own way in order to see that.
“You both ready?” Archer crouches beside the microphone and speaker next to the trailer and fiddles with the controls. “Slice of Pie is on their last song of this set, and they’re sending everyone back over here as soon as they’re done.”
The entire staff of the Wonderland Café, all wearing white jackets and purple aprons, gather around the front of the trailer. Parents and children drift over from the stage, and soon a large crowd is standing near the tables.
Archer hands me the microphone. I pass it to Allie. She blinks at me.
“You’re in charge now,” I remind her.
“Not for good,” she says. “You’ll always be my partner, whether you’re living in Mirror Lake or Timbuktu.”
“Aw.” I squeeze her arm. “Come on, then. We’ll do this together.”
We step in front of the ribbon encircling the trailer and face the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Allie says into the mic. “Boys and girls, thank you so much for coming to celebrate the opening of the brand-new Traveling Wonderland Café. With this venture, we plan to deliver peppermint twist cupcakes, lemon parfaits, and plenty of birthday parties all around Mirror Lake and beyond. With my partner Liv” —she pauses to clear her throat— “leaving on new adventures, we will continue to run the café with the much-needed help of numerous other people.”
She introduces the staff members who will be taking on new duties to help her run the café, including Brent, who is stepping up his responsibilities in my absence.
I glance at Dean. He’s standing to the side with Nicholas perched on his shoulders, his elbows resting on Dean’s head.
“And now,” Allie says, reaching for a pair of silver scissors. “Welcome to the opening of the Traveling Wonderland Café!”
She moves aside so I can put my hand over hers. Together, we cut the red ribbon. The crowd erupts into applause, music bursts from the speakers, and three employees bring out huge sheet cakes and tiered trays of cupcakes.
A flurry of activity follows as we slice cake for everyone and hand out cupcakes to the children. I see Archer standing beside the trailer, his hands in his pockets and his gaze scanning the crowd. I bring him a slice of cake and a fork.
“Cake?” I ask, holding it out.
“No, thanks,” he replies. “I’m waiting for Kelsey.”
Though I don’t see why that precludes him from eating cake, I shrug and turn away. Dean is standing near the tables, and he and Archer exchange fleeting grins that seem to carry some brotherly secret.
It’s about time, I think.
I hand the cake to Dean, who takes it without hesitation. The thought of leaving Archer and Kelsey causes a sad pang in my chest, especially if Dean and Archer are finally starting to find their way to being brothers again. But Kelsey and Archer have assured me they’ll come to visit us in Paris and we’ll Skype regularly. Also, as Kelsey reminded me, “You’ll come back.”
And yes, we will come back. For visits, certainly, and someday to live again. We don’t yet know when—it could be years, depending on the job and the contracts—but the promise is like a little star.
I look at the expanse of Wizard’s Park, the silver trailer gleaming in the sun, the families gathered around laughing, eating, playing on the playground. In the distance, the railroad depot sits behind a row of trees, waiting for Archer and Mr. Jenkins to bring it back to life.
Allie walks around the tables, pouring fresh lemonade into paper cups, her face bright and happy. Florence and Mr. Jenkins are canoodling at one of the tables, eating cupcakes and drinking tea.
Kelsey comes toward Archer from the parking lot. He holds out his arms, and she walks right into them, her body curving against his like a comma fitting into place.
Nearby, Nicholas lets out a yelp as he runs after a Frisb
ee Dean has tossed. The red saucer spins in a perfect arc before Nicholas makes a flying leap and manages to catch it in his little fists. His face breaks into a huge grin. Dean gives a cheer and hauls Nicholas onto his shoulders, running around with him in a victory loop. Nicholas laughs and laughs.
I smile, my heart filling with a riotous combination of love and joy. I’ve learned in life that if you’re going to run, you should always run toward something. On the flip side, you should also have a place to run back to, if needed.
Mirror Lake will still be here if or when we return. But beyond that, a two-year-old boy and a certain medieval history professor are my safe haven, the place to which I will always return, my home anywhere in the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
OLIVIA
Three months later
THE FAÇADE OF THE LOUVRE SPREADS like wings around a central plaza leading to the vast expanse of the Tuileries gardens. Hungry birds, unafraid, flutter around seeking bread scraps dropped by people who purchased baguette sandwiches from the snack bars.
Dozens of Parisians and tourists wander around the wide pathways, some lounging in the sun and others walking toward one of the museums. Nicholas runs ahead of me, making a beeline for the large fountain that sits like a lake shimmering in the sun.
I catch up with him, huffing and puffing a little thanks to the extra ten pounds I’ve gained, and pull a small box out of the tote bag I carry with me everywhere.
“Les bateaux,” Nicholas announces in—to my ears, flawless—French before taking two walnut-shell boats out of the box.
Nicholas’s boat is bright red with a little blue flag attached to a toothpick and a tiny stick-figure sailor. My boat is glittery pink with a striped sail and a heart painted on the inside of the shell.
“Here’s the starting line,” I say, pointing to the edge of the fountain.
We set our boats in the water and together chant in commanding voices, “À vos marques.”
“Prèts!” I call. “Partez!”
We release the boats and watch as the light breeze pushes them along the water. When we first raced walnut boats in this fountain, we designated “over there” as the finish line, so we follow the boats around the water for a few minutes, each of us cheering our crew on. We mutually agree that Nicholas’s boat wins this particular regatta before we take a few more boats from the box and set them racing.
After the races are finished—Nicholas: 8, Mom: 1—we visit the playground and stop for an ice cream. Our afternoon is one of the ways Nicholas and I have spent the past few months in Paris. We’ve visited many parks, often finding the best ones packed with French toddlers and their mothers or nannies, and had many snacks.
Dean and I have timed visits to museums to coincide with Nicholas’s naps, and several times we’ve been able to stroll through the Louvre or the Orsay, pushing our sleeping son in his stroller.
One of Dean’s colleagues has a daughter, Marie-Laure, studying literature at the Sorbonne, and she has become our de facto nanny when I have French lessons or errands to run.
It’s not perfect, of course. The number of cars and people make me nervous when Nicholas is walking, but it’s cumbersome to navigate his stroller. He’s pitched fits in public—once loud enough to get us politely removed from a café—and I’m still too self-conscious to approach any of the women at the playgrounds to try and make friends.
Interestingly, through my French lessons, I’ve made friends with a German woman, a Canadian woman, and an American couple who invited Dean and me over for dinner one night. And Dean’s colleagues at the World Heritage Center have been exceedingly helpful and solicitous as we navigate our new world.
Nicholas and I take the bus back to the Latin Quarter, where our apartment sits in a nineteenth-century building. We stop at the boulanger, where we buy our bread and croissants daily from Mme Cassin, and greet the grocer who is stocking the fruit bins in front of his shop.
We walk up four flights of stairs to our apartment, a two-bedroom place about the size of the Butterfly House’s kitchen and sunroom. It’s bright and airy, with a wrought-iron balcony that overlooks the narrow avenue. It reminds me of our little apartment on Avalon Street.
I settle Nicholas in his room with some books and stuffed animals, leaving the door partly open so I can hear him if he calls. No need for a baby monitor here.
While he naps, I get dinner prepped—in a blossoming haze of ambition I’ve taken to trying recipes from the cookbooks of Jacques Pepin, Julia Child, and Paul Bocuse, albeit with varying degrees of success.
In my most recent Skype call with Allie, she again suggested I take classes at Le Cordon Bleu, and while I laughed the idea off initially, I contacted the school the next day asking about classes. In other words, I haven’t ruled it out, even mentioning the idea on my blog Liv in a Parisian Wonderland, which elicited dozens of excited and encouraging comments from my mom friends and fans.
Tonight’s dinner menu is ham with remoulade sauce, cucumber salad, and for dessert, plum sherbet and cinnamon-lemon cake. Nicholas wakes just as I put the ham in the oven, and close to six, a key turns in the lock of the front door. Nicholas bolts upright from lounging on the sofa.
“Daddy!” He rushes toward the foyer.
I follow, happy as always at the sight of Dean, so handsome in his tailored suit and five o’clock shadow, his tie loose around his neck. A warm glow lights in his eyes as he picks Nicholas up for a hug. He listens with interest to Nicholas’s excited babbling about the walnut-shell regatta before Nicholas squirms to get down.
Dean sets our son on the floor and approaches me, pulling me into the strong circle of his embrace. He spreads one hand across my rounded belly and bends to press his mouth against mine.
“Hey, beauty,” he says.
“Hi, professor.” I tighten my arms around his waist, feeling a delicious glow of happiness and contentment. “Welcome home.”
EPILOGUE
Dear North,
Cobblestone streets, tree-lined boulevards, the Eiffel Tower parting the clouds like curtains. Bustling metro stations, colorful street markets, the endless flow of the Seine. Fresh baguettes. Paintings glowing like jewels, marble statues captured in time, the sandcastle facade of Notre Dame, the silky sweetness of vanilla mascarpone cream enrobed in white chocolate.
Expansive gardens, glittering shop windows, booksellers and street performers. Drinking coffee at a Latin Quarter cafe with my husband. Watching our son chase birds. Finding a new place.
A girl this time. Her name is Isabella. She has just enough hair to wear a little red ribbon.
Our adventure continues.
Love,
Liv
Thank you for reading ADORE. Please consider providing a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. I hope you enjoy Liv and Dean’s story.
“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
—Emily Brontë
CHAPTER ONE
OLIVIA
October 22
“OH MY GOD.” I STARE AT my husband in disbelief. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
Dean looks as if he doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed or defensive.
“No, I’m not kidding you,” he says.
“How is that even possible?”
He shrugs. “I just never got around to it.”
“You’re a professor,” I say. “A PhD summa cum laude. A graduate of Yale and Princeton. You’ve taken a million honors classes in your lifetime. You’ve read the Magna Carta in the original Latin, for crying out loud.”
“I know.” He’s starting to look faintly irritated. “That doesn’t mean I’ve read every book ever written.”
“But how could you miss this?” I wave the paperback in the air. “In all your years of history and literature classes, you’ve never read Pride and Prejudice?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“I want a divorce.”
Dean laughs, pushing to his feet and crossing the sunroom to where I’m almost vibrating with righteous indignation over the fact that the man I love and adore beyond all reason has been—this whole time—ignorant of the restrained passion of Lizzy and Mr. Darcy.
Dean settles his hands on my hips and pulls me against him in that effortless way that fits our bodies together like puzzle pieces locking into place.
“If you tried to divorce me, Mrs. West,” he says, his gaze warm as he looks down at me, “I would spend the rest of my life fighting to get you back. I’d scale the tallest buildings, climb the highest mountains, cross the most treacherous rivers and deserts, all just to prove how wildly and passionately I love you and to bring you back home to me.”
Okay, so that wasn’t bad.
“But…” I narrow my eyes and tap his chest with the book. “Would you go to great lengths to make a rogue marry my sister to preserve my family’s honor?”
“Uh…” Dean scratches his head. “Yes?”
“You’d better.” I give a little sniff of disdain. “And just so you know, Mr. Darcy is my top romantic hero. Fictional, I mean,” I add hastily, when Dean’s expression starts to darken.
He takes the book from me and looks at the synopsis on the back. “Isn’t Darcy a girl’s name?”
“His first name is Fitzwilliam.”
“Does everyone call him Fitzy Darcy?”
I give him yet another look of disapproval. “Mr. Darcy is extremely handsome, masculine, and noble. He’s also uncompromising and overly proud, but he casts that aside to confess his ardent love for Lizzy.”