“That’s biblical, not medieval.”
I’m still smiling as I go into the kitchen. Helen is already there, looking elegant in slacks and a sage-green cashmere sweater. She and Paige are talking, but they both stop when they see me.
I greet them politely and put on an apron from the utility closet before finishing up the dinner preparations. Paige pours several glasses of wine and offers me one.
“No, thanks.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You’ve stopped drinking?”
What a way to phrase that question.
“I’ve never been much of a drinker,” I say, more for Helen’s benefit than Paige’s.
“Well, one glass won’t hurt.” She’s still holding it out to me.
“No, really, I’d prefer water.”
Paige stares at me for a minute, then shrugs. As she turns away, she and Helen exchange glances. I wonder what silent message has just passed between them. They’re both radiating coolness in my direction, which shouldn’t surprise me.
“So.” I take a glass and fill it with water from the refrigerator dispenser. “How long have you two been friends?”
“Since high school,” Paige replies. “Helen’s family moved in down the street when I was fourteen. She and Dean were in the same grade, right?”
“Mmm. Graduated the same year, though we didn’t start dating until grad school.”
Paige sighs and reaches for the wine. “You guys were so good together.”
Helen smiles tightly. “Oh, did I tell you my parents got back from Spain last week? They had a wonderful time.”
She and Paige sit at the table as Helen starts talking about all the places her parents visited. Paige hangs on every word, interjecting with awed remarks and questions. “They did, really? That must have been beautiful. Have you been there? What was it like?”
I can almost see the girl-crush Paige has harbored for years, the awe she has for this sophisticated woman. Paige must have been thrilled when her older brother married elegant, ambitious Helen.
A rush of sympathy goes through me. Paige has had it rough too. I know what it’s like to crave something stable and secure, which likely is what Paige has also done since childhood. When Helen and Dean married, Paige probably saw them as the epitome of the perfect marriage—a strong, familial unit her own parents never were. And then her illusion shattered when Dean and Helen divorced.
No wonder she doesn’t like me.
“Have you ever been to Spain, Liv?” Paige asks me.
I shake my head.“I’ve been to France a few times with Dean, though.”
It’s the wrong thing to say. Both women look as if I’d mentioned Dean in order to rub salt in their wounds.
Helen turns back to Paige and starts talking about Seville. I finish making dinner while listening, glad when Dean comes into the kitchen. He squeezes my shoulder in silent apology for having taken so long.
Paige helps me get dinner on the table. I eat in relative silence while Dean, Helen, and Paige talk, and Helen asks Dean if he’s interested in guest lecturing for one of her classes at Stanford next week.
“I have a class on the nineteenth-century design movement, so maybe you could talk about medieval aesthetics and architecture?” Helen asks, passing a plate of asparagus to Paige. “Maybe stained glass?”
“I don’t have a lecture written up on that, but I could put one together,” Dean says.
“It’s not a big class, just fifteen undergrads. You could make it more of a discussion.”
“Sure.”
Helen looks pleased. “I’ll send out an email announcement to the department. Some of the medieval history students will want to sit in, too.”
They launch into a discussion of what texts and pieces they should focus on.
I can’t detect any anger between Helen and Dean. No lingering bitterness or blame either, as if all the unpleasant emotions have been lost in time. They’re like polite colleagues now, discussing their work and mutual acquaintances.
After dinner, Dean and I wash the dishes and clean the kitchen, then tell the other women good night and head upstairs. Dean checks on his mother while I change into my nightgown and brush my teeth.
“Did she take your name?” I ask when Dean comes back into the bedroom.
“What?”
“Helen. Was she Helen West?”
“No.” He grabs the back collar of his T-shirt and tugs it over his head. “She kept her maiden name. She was always Dr. Morgan.”
I’m glad they didn’t share that.
“How do you… you know, feel? About her?”
“I wish her well.” He shrugs. “I’m sorry about what happened, but I’m glad we both got out when we did. I’m sure she feels the same way.”
“You’re so mature.”
He winks at me. “And you like me that way.”