Always (Spiral of Bliss #7)

by Nina Lane

  I walk to the west shore, where the sun is still casting ribbons of light over the lake. Dressed in swimming trunks, Dean is sitting on a towel, his elbows on his raised knees as he keeps an eye on Nicholas and Bella.

  I let my gaze track over the golden-brown skin of his back, the streaks of light brown in his hair, the tanned muscularity of his bare arms and legs.

  Awareness tingles through me. I come up behind him and settle my hand on the back of his neck. He turns to look up at me.

  “Ah, my favorite mermaid,” he remarks.

  “Hi Mom!” Nicholas yells from the water as he does some sort of pinwheel-type splashing.

  I wave at him and Bella, who is digging a hole in the sand by the water’s edge.

  I sit beside Dean, sliding my hand over the warm tautness of his shoulder. Later tonight I’ll trace the same path with my lips.

  Oh yes. Olivia West gets her groove back once again. This time, for good.

  “I thought we’d have homemade pizza for dinner,” I tell him. “I’ll stop at the store and get all the ingredients.”

  “Sounds good.” He leans over to give me a kiss, one that tastes like sunshine and summer. “The kids show no sign of wanting to leave, but I’ll try to get them home by five-thirty.”

  “Okay.” I let my lips linger on his. “Happy anniversary, handsome.”

  “Happy anniversary, love of my life.”

  We part slowly. I wave at Bella and Nicholas again before walking toward the grocery store.

  As I pass a block of shops on the west end of Avalon Street, I stop and look across at the opposite row of buildings. Between a florist and a new pottery studio called Mrs. Potts’ Place, a narrow wooden door sits like a secret entrance leading to the apartment where Dean and I once lived.

  I lift my gaze to the wrought-iron balcony above. Fat, colorful planters overflow with marigolds and begonias, and a baker’s rack against the wall displays glazed plates painted with similar bright, Italian-inspired designs as the pottery in the shop window below.

  The French doors leading onto the balcony are open, with cream-colored, floral curtains rippling in the breeze. A woman parts the curtains and steps onto the balcony with a watering can.

  She’s young, in her mid-twenties, her light brown hair falling to her shoulders. Over capris and a T-shirt, she’s wearing an apron that says Mrs. Potts’ Place.

  She must be the owner of the studio. The last time I passed this way, the French doors were still closed and the balcony was empty, as if no one lived in the apartment. Now there’s this pretty young woman who makes beautiful pottery and clearly loves plants.

  Nice. Another reason to be happy.

  The woman looks up, something down the street catching her eye. A cute, curly-haired young man is climbing off his bike and fastening it to the bike rack. He looks up at the balcony and waves at the woman, a grin breaking out across his face at the sight of her.

  She smiles and waves in return. He quickens his pace and unlocks the door beside the pottery shop. The woman sets down her watering can and goes back into the apartment. The curtains flutter closed.

  I turn and continue walking, feeling warm and fuzzy inside. I’ll have to bring Bella to visit Mrs. Potts’ Place sometime soon. She’d love trying out a pottery wheel. So would I, as a matter of fact.

  After buying groceries, I return to the Butterfly House and get things started for dinner. The front door soon opens with a flurry of noise and excited chatter.

  I put down a spoon and go to greet my family. For some reason, Dean is the only one standing in the foyer. The front door is closed, the outlines of the kids appearing behind the stained glass windows.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  He holds up his hands beseechingly. “Don’t be mad.”

  I frown. “Why should I be mad?”

  “It was just really hard to resist,” he says.

  “What was hard to resist?”

  He flashes me his patented Dean West smile, which he knows perfectly well makes me all weak and mushy inside.

  “Well, your beauty, for one thing,” he remarks.

  “Dean West.” I cross my arms and steel myself against his charm. “What are you trying to hide?”

  Then I hear it.

  A bark.

  I push past Dean and open the door. Bella and Nicholas are crouched on the front porch, laughing at a small, rambunctious, and entirely adorable mixed-retriever puppy.

  “Oh. My. God.” I stare at the dog, then at Dean. “You did not buy a dog.”

  “No,” he assures me hastily. “I didn’t buy a dog.”

  “He was free,” Nicholas says gleefully.

  The puppy comes running over to sniff my legs, its tail wagging like a motor as it jumps up to greet me.

  “The Humane Society had a rescue animal van in the beach parking lot,” Dean explains. “And we saw…uh, this little guy, and well, he seemed really friendly and…”

  “Keep him, Mommy, please?” Bella begs, turning her imploring gaze on me.

  The dog grabs the hem of my skirt between his teeth and tugs.

  “I don’t think we can take care of a dog,” I say, though one look at the dog’s eager brown eyes cracks my defenses.

  “I promise I’ll feed him and walk him and everything,” Nicholas says.

  “It would be nice for the kids to have the responsibility of taking care of a pet,” Dean adds.

  I look down at the dog, whose furry little body is vibrating with energy and excitement.

  “Pleeese can we keep him?” Bella asks again.

  “He can sleep in my room,” Nicholas says. “And he’ll be a great friend for Patch. Patch doesn’t know any other dogs yet.”

  “He’s so cute,” Bella squeals. “Mommy, he’s smiling at you.”

  I sigh. “He’s also peeing on my shoe.”

  The dog, Fitzy Darcy, follows Dean around like…well, like a loyal dog wholeheartedly devoted to its master. And I eventually admit that puppy energy is—sometimes—nice to have around the house.

  As summer draws to a close, I start putting the kids to bed at eight so they’ll be accustomed to an earlier bedtime when school starts. This tactic also gives Dean and me more time alone in the evenings, which is welcome after full days spent with our children in serious pursuit of summertime fun.

  One evening in August, I find him sprawled on the sofa in the sunroom with a thick book, his features set in that “I’m thinking very very hard” expression. Fitzy Darcy is lying on the rug near him, enjoying a restful sleep without interruption from the kids.

  “A little bedtime reading?” I ask Dean, nodding to the book as I settle in beside him on the sofa.

  “I’m thinking of writing a book about a boy’s journey to knighthood,” he explains. “Training, weapon skills, duties, that kind of thing.”

  “You already wrote a book about knighthood.”

  “Not a children’s book.”

  I look at him in surprise. “You’re going to write a children’s book?”

  “Maybe.” He scratches his head. “Nicholas was asking me about apprentice knights and pages, so I started telling him a story about a boy apprentice who goes on crusade. He really liked it and said I should write a book.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  Knights, I think. Another drawing to add to my North-inspired artist’s book, which I’ve continued filling with things that make me happy. And one knight in particular makes me very happy.

  I reach for a loop of string sitting on the coffee table. I sense Dean glance at me as I fasten the string around my fingers. I’d memorized the steps of the pattern, and I repeat them silently to myself as I twist and coil the string around my fingers. Then I spread the pattern out and hold my hands up to show him the rectangular box containing a perfect heart.

  He smiles. “When did you learn how to do that?”

  “Not long ago,” I say. “You’re not the only one who can do research, professor.”

&
nbsp; I untangle the string from my fingers and shift closer to him. He puts his arm around me, and we sink into each other. I rub my cheek against his shoulder, everything inside me settling and at peace.

  Dean slides his hand beneath my chin and lifts my face to look at him. In his eyes, I see the rescuer who crouched beside me on a sidewalk and touched the sleeve of my gray sweatshirt. I see the professor who eased me into both love and lovemaking with slow, assured gentleness.

  I see the brother and son who tried so hard to make things right for his family. I see the scholar who is fascinated by the esoteric details of the past. I see the father who plays baseball with his son and has stuffed animal parties with his daughter.

  I see the man who has stood beside me in both the dark and the shining light. I see the husband who can withstand anything except the thought of losing me.

  I see my Dean, who believes to the heart of his unwavering soul in our intense, imperfect love.

  “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  And the world falls together the instant our lips touch.

  Epilogue

  Dean

  Ten years later

  The San Jose airport is crowded with summer travelers going to and from California. People rush between gates, dragging suitcases and pausing to check the departures board. I pay for a few items at a coffee-stand before heading to the gate where my family is waiting for news of our delayed flight back to Mirror Lake.

  Seventeen-year-old Nicholas is busy with his phone, earbud wires trailing from his ears, his long, lanky body slouched in the chair. I toss him a granola bar, which he catches with one hand without looking up. Beside him, Bella idly sketches in her notebook and twists a strand of straight, dark hair around her finger.

  Liv is bending over to adjust something in her travel bag, her skirt stretched across her hips and rear. It’s such a tempting display that I can’t help patting her round, perfect ass.

  “Dad,” Bella groans, rolling her eyes in embarrassment.

  I shrug unapologetically and sit across from our daughter.

  “That was nothing,” I tell her. “Your mom is so hot I’m tempted to give her a long, deep kiss right this second.”

  “Dad.”

  “Dean.” Liv’s voice is mildly disapproving, then she winks at me and mouths the word, “Later.”

  Damn right later.

  I hand Bella a blueberry muffin and reach into the coffee tray for Liv’s latte. She takes the cup and sits beside Bella, murmuring a comment about the drawing.

  “North said the next time we visit, he’ll show me how to carve scenes into white pine,” Bella says, holding the paper a distance away to study it. “Can we come back to Twelve Oaks later this summer?”

  “Possibly,” Liv says. “Or maybe you can come for a few days on your own.”

  “Really?”

  “Fourteen is old enough to travel alone,” Liv says, glancing at me for agreement. “And North would meet you at the airport, so we can probably figure something out.”

  “Wow, that would be so cool, Mom. Thanks.” With a smile, Bella returns to her drawing.

  Our daughter, as I had always known she would be, is a beauty like her mother—long dark hair, thick-lashed eyes, and fine, lovely features. Though at fourteen, Bella draws male attention in a way that makes my blood boil and my fists clench, she is also a straight-A student, a talented artist, a karate black belt, a Girl Scout, an advocate for marine conservation, and a sometimes sulky teenager who likes to experiment with dying her hair any number of colors.

  “I’m going to see if there’s any news about the flight,” Liv says, putting her cup on the floor beside her travel bag.

  She gets up and walks over to the gate agent’s desk. I watch her go, admiring the curve of her breasts under her shirt, the length of her pretty legs, the way her shiny hair falls in a curtain to her shoulders.

  Later, I remind myself, turning my attention to the coffee before my thoughts start getting away from me.

  Bella shifts, taking her phone out of the pocket of her King’s University sweatshirt. She looks at the screen and heaves a sigh before swiping and tapping with irritated movements.

  Then she shoves the phone back into her pocket and slumps in her chair, her beautiful face creasing with a frown.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She shrugs and doesn’t respond. She scrubs at her drawing pad with her eraser, her frown deepening. I search in Liv’s bag for a pencil and paper and make a quick sketch:

  I tear the page from the notepad and reach over to drop it into Bella’s lap. She gives me a narrow look before picking up the paper and reading it.

  She rolls her eyes, but a reluctant smile tugs at her mouth.

  “It’s nacho problem, Dad,” she mutters.

  “Yeah, but sometimes I like to get jalapeño business.”

  Bella laughs, which makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery.

  “Okay, stop,” she says. “God, you are such a dork.”

  She tucks the taco note into her pocket and puts her pencil down, her mood sobering again.

  “It’s stupid,” she says. “Just that guy Jake.”

  I know “that guy Jake.” That guy Jake is the boy Bella has had a crush on for the past few months. He’s the guy all the girls like—good-looking, good at sports, good at getting what he wants.

  But not—by any stretch of the imagination—anywhere near good enough for my daughter.

  “He told me he wanted to hang out with me when I got back from Twelve Oaks,” Bella continues, scrubbing again at her drawing with the eraser. “But Anna just posted a picture of him at a party with Julie, and they were kissing. It’s so stupid.”

  She scribbles something on the paper, her forehead still creased and her brown eyes shadowed with hurt.

  I smother the swarm of protectiveness I’ve felt countless times over the years on my children’s behalf. I push to my feet and cross the aisle to sit beside Bella.

  I look at her sketchpad, the page covered with a detailed drawing of an imaginary forest. Twisting tree trunks are perforated with curved windows and doors, vines with heart-shaped leaves trail from the branches, and mushrooms sprout over the moss-covered ground.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time when I was dating your mother, and I waited over three hours at a restaurant for her?” I ask.

  “About a million times, Dad, yeah,” Bella mutters.

  “Everyone in that place was sure I’d been stood up,” I continue, ignoring her sarcasm so I can relive the memory. “Your mother didn’t call or text, and I had no idea where she was. Some men would have thought she’d forgotten or that it was a lousy break-up. But I waited. I knew she’d show up eventually.

  “And she did, apologizing over and over because her phone was dead, and she didn’t have her charger with her, and she hadn’t memorized my number. But someone at Jitter Beans had called in sick and she had to help cover their shift. And she hadn’t called the restaurant because she couldn’t remember the name of it, so she’d hurried up and down State Street, going into half a dozen different restaurants until she found me. Because she knew I’d still be waiting.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Bella sighs. “And you and Mom, like, saw each other across the crowded room or whatever, and she ran over to leap into your arms or something, and you probably had some goopy kiss. And then you stayed at the restaurant for hours, unable to take your eyes off each other, eating and talking and drinking wine. And it was all so disgustingly romantic that you paid the owner to let you stay past closing before you brought Mom home well after two in the morning, but please, God in heaven, don’t tell me what you did after that.”

  I’ll never tell anyone, though that particular memory still simmers hot at the back of my mind.

  “My point,” I tell my daughter dryly, “is that I waited for her. It wasn’t the first time I’d waited for her, and it was far from the last. But I’d have waited longer, if I had to. I
’d still wait forever for your mother. And any guy who wants to be with you will do the same. If he’s not willing to wait, he’s not worth your time.”

  She doesn’t respond, her pencil moving swiftly over one of the forest tree branches.

  “The right guy will not tell you one thing and then go do something else,” I say. “He won’t lead you on. He won’t break promises. He won’t lie, cheat, or go after another girl when you’re not around. He’ll be honest with you. He’ll open doors for you, look you in the eye when he’s talking to you, and work hard to make things right for you. He’ll laugh at your jokes, want to fix all your problems, and give you his jacket when you’re cold.”

  I push to my feet as Liv approaches from the gate.

  “And,” I tell Bella, “the right guy will always let your dad win at football.”

  A smile tugs at her mouth. She continues drawing, but the lines on her forehead ease and her pencil doesn’t dig quite so hard into the paper.

  “Half an hour until takeoff,” Liv says. “They should start boarding in about ten minutes.”

  She starts to pass me to return to her seat. The scent of her—peaches and vanilla—fills my head, the air between us warming with her body heat.

  I slide my hand around her waist and pull her closer, pressing my mouth swiftly against hers. She surrenders easily, putting her hand on my chest as she returns the kiss. When we part, the promise of later still heats her dark eyes.

  “Hey, Dad.” Nicholas pulls an earbud out of his ear and indicates his phone. “Aunt Kelsey says she can get me a few college credits if I work with her and Uncle Archer on the Spiral Project this summer.”

  “Great. Just make sure the credits will transfer to the colleges you’re interested in applying to.”

  “What did Kelsey say you could do?” Liv asks Nicholas.

  “Some of the forecasting and modeling.” He scrolls on his phone. “But Uncle Archer still won’t let me drive.”

  I make a mental note to thank my brother.

  We return to our seats to wait for the boarding call. A second and a lifetime have passed since Nicholas and Bella were born. Years of school, sporting events, gymnastics, homework, science fairs, assemblies, vacations, music performances, contests, friendships, and holidays are like a spinning kaleidoscope in our past.