After exchanging small talk, Sam and Jessica get ready to leave. As they pick up their backpacks, Sam pauses.
“Uh, don’t mean to pry, Professor West,” he says, “but did Maggie Hamilton ever change advisors?”
Wariness floods me. “No. Why?”
Sam glances at Jessica. “She’s been… well, she’s been complaining to the other students about you.”
“Has she?” I try to keep my voice even, though anger claws up my throat. “What’s she been saying?”
“Just crap about you being unfair and too tough on her and showing favoritism,” Jessica says. “The rest of us know it’s not true, but it’s kind of shitty, you know?”
I can feel Liv bristling. I wish Sam and Jessica had brought this up before my wife arrived. At least they don’t seem to know anything about the sexual harassment charge, but it could only be a matter of time before Maggie spreads lies about that.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I say.
“Sure.” Sam pulls his backpack over his shoulders. “It’s especially lousy that she’s doing this when you’re out of town and all.”
They say goodbye and walk outside. I turn toward Liv, hating the dismay in her brown eyes. I change the subject to a far more pleasant one.
“The café,” I say. “How’s the remodeling going?”
“Really well. Did I tell you Brent is going to leave his job at the inn to be our general manager? He has a ton of great experience.” Liv stirs a packet of sugar into her coffee. “What did you do this afternoon?”
“Looked at a house up in the Spring Hills neighborhood.”
Surprise flashes in her eyes. “A house?”
“Nancy Walker emailed me about it, and since I’m in town…” I shrug. “Figured it wouldn’t hurt to see it.”
“I didn’t know we were still looking for a house.”
“I didn’t either. Seems to make sense, though.”
Total bullshit. Of course it makes no sense to look for a house when my career is in danger. I have no idea why I even bothered.
“But you’re leaving again on Monday,” Liv says.
“So?”
“So how can you buy a house now?”
“I didn’t say I was buying a house. I said I looked at one.”
She frowns in confusion. “So why did you look at one?”
For some reason, irritation grips me. “If you want to have a baby one day, Liv, we’re not staying in that apartment. We’re going to have a house with a big yard, in a good school district. I made the plans when you were pregnant, and I’m not changing them.”
She blinks. “That’s why you looked at a house? Because you want to follow through on the plans you made when I was pregnant?”
I sit back. My heart is pounding. I hate fear. Hate letting it control me.
“I just looked at it, Liv. I’m not making an offer.”
“But one day you will?”
“One day we’ll have to.”
The admission settles in the air between us. Liv stares at me, as if she doesn’t know what to make of that statement. I don’t know either. She reaches across the table and puts her hand over mine.
“It’s probably best if we wait to think about a house anyway,” she finally says. “We don’t know what’s going to happen.”
My shoulders tighten again. I can’t stand the thought that my wife would ever doubt my ability to escape this harassment fuck-up alive.
Even if I doubt my own ability to do that.
“Come with me.” Liv pushes her chair back and reaches for her satchel. “I want to show you something.”
We go out to where her car is parked, and she gets in the driver’s seat. It’s nearing dusk, the sky holding a few reddish clouds, but the air is warm. Liv drives in the direction of the university, turns onto a street winding toward the mountains, and parks at the base of a dirt road.
“What’s up here?” I ask as we get out.
“You’ll see.” Liv takes my camera case out of the trunk. “I found your camera in the closet. I didn’t think you’d mind if I borrowed it.”
“Not at all. But for what?”
“Come on.”
We walk up the dirt road to where an old, abandoned house sits in a clearing. It’s a huge, spectacularly irregular Queen Anne-style house with a polygonal tower, a wide front porch, and patterned siding. Reminds me of a once-beautiful actress who has been long forgotten. Half-surrounded by trees, the house overlooks a view of the lake and downtown.
“It’s called the Butterfly House,” Liv tells me. “The Historical Society is launching a campaign to save it, but it’s been in limbo for a long time because of zoning laws. I’m helping with the campaign, and I wanted to take some pictures.”
She tells me the history of the place as we circle the grounds. The house is a disaster. The gabled tower is punctured by broken windows, the doors boarded up, graffiti scrawled over the walls, the porch balustrade falling apart. Liv stops to take a picture of the back of the house.
“Have you been inside?” I ask.
“I don’t have the key.”