I go into Dean’s office and sit at the swivel chair in front of his desk. I look at all his papers, flip through legal pads covered in his scrawled handwriting, page through books marked with Post-Its.
I turn on his computer. The desktop appears as a grid of PDF files, documents, images. I open a few of them. An article about the San Clemente church in Rome, another about “architectural polychromy.” A draft of Dean’s paper for an archeology journal. Pictures of medieval cathedrals, town plans, archeological sites.
I open a web browser and look at his browsing history of news and sports websites, email, conference information.
I click on Dean’s university email. The password is saved, so I log on. There are messages about classes and papers, the conference, airline and hotel confirmations. Halfway down the message list, I see the name that makes my breath stop.
Helen Morgan.
With a shaking hand, I click on the message to open it.
TO: Dr. Dean West, King’s University
FR: Dr. Helen Morgan, Stanford University
SU: Conference
Dean,
I wanted to let you know that I’m submitting a paper for inclusion in your Words and Images conference. The topic is about the Pre-Raphaelite use of medieval icons. I’ve been working with several medievalists recently, and the conference would be a way for me to expand my research into more interdisciplinary areas.
Since I do not want to miss a professional opportunity, I thought I would let you know (as a courtesy) of my intentions.
Sincerely,
Helen
There’s a reply from Dean.
Thanks for letting me know. Best of luck.
Dean
I stare at the message. My heart freezes.
My husband lied to me again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
October 23
ver the next couple of days, I refuse to curl up and hide. Even though my chest is tight with dismay, I get through my hours at the bookstore and Historical Museum, then attend cooking class on Tuesday evening.
I can hardly look at Tyler. I think of my sex dream every time I catch sight of his blue eyes and blond hair. Every time he flashes me a smile, which I do not return.
When he reaches over my cutting board to point out my uneven dicing of a pepper, I stare at his hand and remember imagining how it would feel on my skin.
Class seems to last forever, and I quickly clean my station and pack up my things when it’s over.
“Everything okay, Liv?” Tyler stops in front of me, a crease of concern between his eyebrows.
“Fine.” I shove my notebook into my satchel. “Why?”
“You seem a little stressed out tonight, not really focused. I didn’t make things weird for you with your friend, did I?”
“What… oh, Kelsey. No. Not at all. I’m just… no. Everything is fine.”
I stare at his throat. I’d dreamed about flicking my tongue into the hollow just above his collarbone. Dreamed about him pressing his hand to the back of my neck, exactly the way Dean does.
Jesus. I’m a fucking mess.
Tears sting my eyes. I duck my head and grab my satchel. “See you next week.”
“Hey, Liv.”
I stop, but don’t turn to look at him. He grasps my wrist, turns my palm up, and presses a piece of paper into it. I glance down.
“My phone number,” he says, his voice low enough so the others don’t overhear. “Don’t mean to be presumptuous, but call if you want to talk or anything. You know, as friends.”
“Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”
I make it out to my car before the tears start falling, scraping my throat. I manage to compose myself and leave the parking lot before my fellow students or Tyler come out.
Out of sheer exhaustion and the need for escape, I sleep through the night—a bleak, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, I dress in warm clothes, then take a walk along one of the mountain trails. A touch of winter is in the air, the trees shedding their red-and-gold leaves, geese hovering around the lake. After a couple of hours, I return home to wait for Dean.
I finally hear his key in the lock at around three. He comes in all rumpled and travel-weary, wraps his arms around me for a tight hug, then goes off to shower and change.
“Kelsey’s preserves.” He puts a few jars of peach preserves on the counter. “And some for you. Great on toast.”
“How was the conference?”
“Good. I’m starting up a project with three European students on medieval guildhalls and public architecture.” He goes into the kitchen and grabs an orange, telling me all the details of the project and the archeology it will involve.
I know the routine. And I know enough not to confront him right when he gets home. So I wait a few hours while he unpacks and winds down, checks his email, organizes his notes and books.
It’s almost dinner before he realizes I’ve barely said a word since he came home. I place an order for Chinese take-out. Dean stretches out on the sofa.
“You have your cooking class last night?” He reaches for the remote control and glances at me. “How was it?”
“Fine.”
“What did you make?”
Chicken? Fish? “Veal. Veal scaloppini.”
“How did it turn out?”
“Okay. A little dry. But good, I guess.”