Taupe walls and ceramic-tiled floors dominate the rooms, accented with mission-style, walnut furniture, colorful pottery and paintings, and lush area rugs. I look out onto the garden, which hasn’t changed since the first and last time I was here five years ago. Huge, potted plants line the terrace around wooden patio furniture tossed with bright, overstuffed cushions.
Whoever decorated the West home would have a field day with that big house Dean wants to buy in Mirror Lake.
I pause at the fireplace in the living room. Framed photographs line the mantel and the built-in bookshelves on either side. I remember them—all pictures of the Wests smiling at the camera or displaying some accomplishment.
There’s one of Dean accepting his doctorate, another of Richard West shaking hands with the governor and various other people, Paige’s graduation picture, Joanna receiving some award. Archer West is the least represented, with only two photos of him as a gap-toothed boy and one of him in a formal family portrait.
I stare at the image of Archer West. Dean had said that his brother was on his way back from LA. I assume that means he’ll be here any day now.
Ignoring a flash of apprehension, I go into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. I have no idea what anyone’s dinner plans are, but I figure it won’t hurt to make something.
Buoyed by the idea of being useful, I scrounge around and decide to make chicken with onions and garlic, roasted asparagus, and rice pilaf. I’m halfway through mixing up a marinade when the front door opens. Paige’s and Joanna’s voices drift into the kitchen.
“Oh.” Joanna stops, her gaze going to the counter where I’m working on the mise en place. “Hello, Olivia.”
“Hi.” I give her a little wave, keeping my voice cheerful. I am no fan of either Joanna or Richard West, but I’ll be damned if I’ll contribute to this family’s tension. I’m going to do exactly what I told Dean I would do—be here for him and prove myself to the Wests.
“I just thought I’d make a few dishes,” I say.
“That’s nice.” Joanna puts her handbag on the counter. “I’m going to go and take a little nap. Paige, don’t bother waking me for dinner.”
After she leaves the kitchen, I glance at Paige.
“How’s your father?”
“Anxious to get the surgery over with.” Paige watches me as I start to peel an onion. “Helen is planning to join us for dinner.”
“That’s fine. There’s plenty of chicken.”
Paige gives a short nod before going into the living room. I peel a few cloves of garlic, losing myself in the mundane tasks of chopping, slicing, seasoning. The door bangs open again and Dean comes in, sweaty and energized from his run.
“Smells great.” He grabs a bottled water from the refrigerator.
I wrinkle my nose at him. “Unlike you.”
“Point taken.” He drops a kiss on the back of my neck and goes upstairs.
I finish marinating the chicken, wash and season the asparagus, and start the rice. Calculating I can have everything on the table in an hour, I follow Dean upstairs to change into something nicer for dinner.
I pull off my jeans, glancing at myself in the full-length mirror on the wall. I’m nine weeks pregnant and definitely growing. My belly bulges outward and my breasts are tender, but my nausea has waned. And I feel sexy, which is unnerving since it seems wholly inappropriate to want to be turned on when my husband is in the middle of a family crisis.
Then again, sex has always been an important part of our relationship—an intensely personal dynamic that we established early on. Even if hormones account partly for my lustiness, there is also the undeniable knowledge that Dean and I haven’t yet had a chance to focus entirely on us again.
Soon, I promise myself, thinking of the fantasy exchange I suggested and the possibility of renewing our vows. Or getting matching tattoos.
Amused by the idea of Professor West sporting a tattoo of an anchor or a heart, I dress in a gray skirt and white blouse. I smooth the skirt over my hips and hope it doesn’t look as tight as it is beginning to feel. I’m fastening on a pair of earrings when Dean’s cell phone rings on the nightstand.
“Your phone’s ringing,” I call over the sound of the shower.
“Can you get it?” he shouts back. “Might be the realtor.”
I pick up the phone and look at the caller ID, not recognizing the number. “Dean West’s phone.”
There’s a crackle of noise, then a man’s deep voice. “Hello? Is that Liv?”
“This is Liv, yes.”
“Liv, it’s Simon. Simon Fletcher.”
“Simon?” I smile with affection, picturing the big, bearded friend whom Dean has known since his graduate school days. “Where are you?”
“Tuscany. Can you hear me?”
“Yes. Hold on a sec.” I move toward the window under the unscientific belief that it will improve the connection. “Simon, how are you?”
“Great. I’m on sabbatical for the year to work on a dig. Medieval monastery not far from Lucca. Been here for three months now, spent the holidays in Rome. It’s good to hear you. How’re you and the professor?”