Awaken: A Spiral of Bliss Novel (Book Three) Page 2

  “And what about you and Professor Marvel?” she asks. “When is he getting back?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Neither Dean nor I have told Kelsey about the miscarriage or the sexual harassment allegation. The pain of the miscarriage is still raw, and we’re not supposed to talk about the allegation to anyone.

  “Hey, since the Happy Booker is closing, I’m looking for a job again,” I say. “Remember last year you said you could get me something in the atmospheric sciences department? Do you think there are any openings now?”

  “Probably not, since it’s midyear, but I can ask around. Sometimes there’s administrative assistant stuff.”

  “Well, I was fired from my last administrative job at the art gallery,” I admit. “I guess that’s not my thing anyway. But I’ve applied for a cashier’s position at a couple of places. I was thinking I’d like to do something with food, since I’ve learned how to cook.”

  In addition to searching the classifieds and online ads for career possibilities, I’ve applied for jobs at a French patisserie on Dandelion Street and a pie shop called the Pied Piper.

  Though I know I want something more than a cashier’s position, I need a job—any job—sooner rather than later. So I think it might be fun to work at a pastry shop for a while, especially since I know how to work a cash register, and I have a deep, abiding love for baked goods.

  “There’s also an opening at a photography studio over on Ruby Street,” I continue. “They’re looking for a marketing agent, whatever that is. I don’t know anything about marketing or sales, though.”

  “I think you’d be a great marketing agent or salesperson,” Kelsey remarks.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.” Kelsey sits back with a sigh of exasperation. “Liv, you’re such a… a mouse sometimes. It’s one of the reasons people love you, because you have this air of innocence and no guile whatsoever. You’re sweet. People want to take care of you. But sometimes you drive me nuts with your lack of confidence in your own abilities.”

  “I know! I drive myself nuts. I’ve just never been able to figure out what my abilities even are, so how can I have confidence in them?”

  “Well then, instead of assuming you can’t do anything, why don’t you assume you can do everything?”

  “I’m starting to, Kelsey. I’m trying, anyway.”

  “So make a list of things you like to do and can do well.”

  “I like to read,” I say. “And garden. I can still make a great cappuccino.”

  “What else?”

  “I’m good at refurbishing things like old furniture. I’ve also always liked decorating and organizing stuff. I’m helping plan the museum exhibit and editing the catalog. I’m a good cook, and I’ve loved working at the bookstore with Allie. Oh, and I’m a decent artist.”

  Saying all that aloud bolsters my ego. It’s not a bad list.

  “So there you go,” Kelsey says.

  “There I go what?”

  “You’re good at lots of stuff, Liv. You just need to put it to use.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m looking for a job. But I’m scared it’ll end up like all my other jobs. Just something to do rather than something I really want.”

  I push my plate away, no longer hungry. “My mother was always like that,” I say. “Odd jobs here and there.”

  “What does that have to do with you?”

  I stare at my plate, unable to confess even to Kelsey what I’ve discovered in the past couple of months—that my dependence on Dean and my lack of career or even job stability is downright frightening. Without Dean or my own financial security, it’s just a few short steps to a life of constant transition and uncertainty.

  “Well… I don’t want to end up like my mother,” I admit. “I’ve never wanted that.”

  “Does she have a ridiculously good marriage?” Kelsey asks. “Does she live in a great town and have a majestic friend named Kelsey who is willing to kick her ass when she needs it and then buy her a hot fudge sundae?”

  “No.”

  “Then stop using your mother as an excuse for not figuring yourself out.” Kelsey shakes her head. “Honestly, Liv, sometimes you have to put on your big girl panties and deal with shit.”

  She waves the waitress over and places an order for two hot fudge sundaes.

  As my majestic friend probably intended, her scolding echoes in my head after we’ve finished our ice cream and parted ways.

  I walk back home to Avalon Street, making a mental list of career possibilities based on my skill set. When I get home, I settle into my routine of cleaning, job searching on the Internet, and working on the museum exhibition catalog.

  As the clock nears ten, I go into the bedroom and change into one of Dean’s old San Francisco Giants T-shirts that I’ve been wearing to bed ever since he left. It’s comforting, all soft and worn, the faint scent of his shaving soap clinging to the cotton. I imagine I can still even feel the heat of his body. I brush my hair and return to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea.

  I go into Dean’s office, set the mug on the desk beside the computer, curl up in his big leather chair, and pull my ragged old quilt over my legs. This is a ritual I’ve come to love in the past ten days, as my whole body hums with anticipation.

  It’s five in the morning in Tuscany, so Dean’s day is starting just as mine ends. The instant the clock strikes ten, the phone rings. I press the talk button.

  “Hi, professor.”

  “I’m Indiana Jones out here, baby.”

  I smile. “You’re way sexier than Indiana Jones.”

  “Glad you think so.”

  “I know so.” I shift to tuck my legs underneath me. “What are you doing today?”

  “Missing my girl.”

  My chest tightens. “Your girl misses you too.”

  “Yeah? You talked to her?”

  I giggle as the ache eases a little. “Every day. And she says you’d better not be looking at any pretty Italian women.”

  “You’re the only woman I want to look at, beauty.” His deep, affectionate voice warms me to my toes. “The only woman I can see.”

  I let out a breath and rest my head against the back of the chair. Even though I know Dean needs to be away from Mirror Lake right now, even though I was the one who first told him to go, there’s no question that our separation still hurts. And it hurts because it shouldn’t have to be this way.

  My husband should be stretched out on the sofa right now, winding a loop of string around his fingers. I should be tucking my body against his at night and sliding my hand over his chest. We should be having dinner, talking about our days, making summer plans. We should be together.

  “So did you find anything interesting yesterday?” I ask.

  “Few liturgical things.” Dean tells me about their findings, the scientific processes of the excavation, his work with another professor from Cambridge, the progress of the conference King’s University is hosting in July.

  I press the phone close to my ear, feeling his voice wrap around me like one of his warm, protective embraces.

  “What did you do today?” he asks me.

  “Worked at the bookstore, then had dinner with Kelsey. She told me I was a mouse and scolded me for being wishy-washy.”

  The instant the words are out of my mouth, I can almost feel Dean bristle with irritation.

  “Why’d she do that?” he asks.

  “For my own good. She’s right in some ways, I think.” I pause for a second. “Have you ever thought of me as a mouse?”

  There’s a brief hesitation that speaks louder than words. My heart sinks a little.

  “Really?” I ask. “You think I’m mousy?”

  “I’ve never thought of you as weak or cowardly,” Dean says. “Just the opposite, in fact. But when we first me
t, I thought you were shy like a mouse, kind of skittish. Like you wanted to be brave, but were scared of what would happen if you let yourself. It was just one of the reasons I liked you so much.”

  I consider that. Objectively, it makes sense. I’d been so drawn to Dean from the beginning because I knew I could take chances with him that I’d always been too scared to take before.

  “Well, at least mice are cute,” I mutter.

  “Maybe you could dress up as Minnie Mouse when I get back,” he suggests. “Short, ruffled skirt, bow in your hair, heels…”

  I laugh, though the idea is rather appealing. “Your fantasies are getting creative, professor.”

  “They’re all I’ve got without you here.”

  Warmth tingles through me at the thought of him fantasizing about us. Though we did a lot of touching and holding in the days before his departure, this has been the longest Dean and I have ever gone without some form of sexual intimacy. Even during our nightly phone calls, neither of us has yet shifted the conversation to overtly sexy talk.

  But I’m not foolish enough to think Dean hasn’t wanted it. Our sex life has always been so good because, frankly, we turn each other on. Whatever animal magnetism or chemistry is responsible for driving our attraction, we have it in truckloads.

  Sex is an explosive, overwhelming pleasure for me and my husband. It’s an intense craving, an unabashed joy, the place where we can forget everything but each other, where everything is right and pure. It’s the one place where I can surrender without fear.

  I want all that again as much as Dean does. And just within the past few days, I’ve finally felt the awakening of my arousal again. I’ve even started having some rather lusty and imaginative dreams about us, and the sheer enjoyment of such dreams is most welcome.

  And though I’m already anticipating getting sexy with Dean again, I can’t help believing that a little bit more restraint right now will help put us back into balance, reminding us why we just like each other.

  I close my eyes and picture my husband sitting in the chair, me in his lap, his arms strong and tight around my waist. I can smell the delicious, woodsy scent of his shaving soap, feel the scrape of his whiskers against my cheek.

  “Hey, Dean?”

  “Hey, Liv.”

  “Are you okay with us putting that on hold for just a little longer?”

  “As long as you’re okay with me imagining you naked and sweaty most of the time.”

  “I’m not only okay with that, I encourage it. Except for when you’re digging up a medieval skeleton or something.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m discreet.” He pauses. “And it’s not the only thing I’m thinking about.”

  “I know.”

  “Abstinence is actually part of the philosophy of courtly love,” he tells me. “The knight suppresses his erotic longing in favor of exalting his lady’s soul and spirit.”

  “Really? You think you can do that?”

  “I’ll exalt your spirit, but there’s no chance in hell I’m suppressing my erotic longing for your body.”

  I smile. “I love that you love me, professor.”

  “I love loving you, beauty.”

  An intense, rich adoration floods my heart. Once upon a time, I didn’t know men like Dean West existed. I certainly never believed I’d ever have someone like him in my life, and our separation only intensifies my gratitude.

  “So I have a poem for you,” Dean says.

  “A poem?”

  “Written by Guillaume de Machaut, a fourteenth-century composer of love poetry. Want to hear it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay.” He clears his throat.

  I want to stay faithful, protect your honor,

  Seek peace, obey,

  Fear, serve and honor you,

  Until death, peerless Lady.

  For I love you so much, truly,

  that one could sooner dry up

  the deep sea and hold back its waves

  than I could restrain myself

  from loving you.

  “Wow,” I whisper. “That was something.”

  “Want to hear it in French?”

  “You need to ask?” I love hearing Dean speak French.

  “Je veux vous demeurer fidèle, protéger votre honneur,” he murmurs in that baritone voice that I feel pulsing in my blood, “assurer votre paix, vous obéir, vous craindre, vous servir et vous honorer, jusqu’à la mort, gente dame…”

  By the time he’s finished, I’m melting. “That was the kind of poem a knight would use to woo his lady?”

  “Better than ‘roses are red,’ huh?”

  “I’ll say.” I smile into the receiver. “Thanks.”

  “Just trying to get a start on courting you.”

  “That’s a lovely start. And you’ll call me tomorrow?”

  “When the clock strikes ten, my peerless lady.”

  We say goodbye and hang up. I sit in his chair for a while longer, then get up to tend to my houseplants that are arranged on a rack near the balcony. As I’m plucking dried leaves from the stems, I notice my peace lily has bloomed, the creamy white flower turning its face toward the sun.

  I do not think I have ever owned big girl panties. So after cashing my last paycheck from Allie, I go to the store to buy some. Old Liv is whispering that this is a complete waste of money, but New Liv is tackling life again, and new panties seems like an unexpectedly good place to start.

  The lingerie shop is a haven of lace and loveliness—flowered wallpaper, a glass chandelier, vintage chairs and vanities, open cabinets filled with neatly folded satin robes. The scent of vanilla spice wafts through the air, and a Mozart sonata plays on hidden speakers.

  The saleswoman approaches me with a welcoming smile. Her nametag reads Sophia, and she’s an attractive woman in her forties who looks like she knows all about the importance of what you wear beneath your clothes. After I tell her I need new underwear, she gets me measured right and explains all the various styles of panties, which I had no idea existed.

  “What kind do you usually wear?” she asks.

  I’m a little embarrassed by my answer. “Just cotton briefs.”

  “And you’re looking for something different?”

  “I think so.” I dubiously eye the racks of V-strings and thongs, then pick up a pair of panties called “cheekies” which look like they’d give me an atomic wedgie.

  I put the cheekies back. “But, uh, maybe not quite that different.”

  I pick up a package of briefs and study the label. I can almost feel Sophia’s dismay.

  “Well, briefs are comfortable,” she remarks, taking my arm and steering me toward another rack. “But you might want to try the hiphuggers. They’re a cross between boy shorts and bikinis, so they offer you good coverage without being… dowdy.”

  “I don’t want to be dowdy,” I agree.

  Kelsey did say big girl panties, not granny panties.

  “Here, these are your size.” Sophia takes a few hiphuggers off the rack and hands them to me. “They’re sexy, flirty, and comfortable. Go try them on and let me know what you think. Would you like the matching bras too?”

  I start to decline, but then figure I might as well try them on. Sophia gives me a pair of nylon panties to put on underneath and, with an armful of silky lingerie, I head to the dressing room.

  After stripping down and putting on the nylon panties, I pull on a pair of lace-trimmed, floral hiphuggers and the matching push-up bra. I turn to look at myself in the mirror.

  Well, damn.

  I’ve never been thin and willowy, but… wow. My curves are a good thing. The bra pushes my breasts up into a bountiful cleavage that complements my tapered waist, and the panties look both pretty and sexy stretched around my hips and rear end.

  Aft
er examining myself from all angles, I do a few squats and stretches to make sure the panties don’t ride up.

  “How do those feel?” Sophia calls from outside the room. “Would you like to try on the boy shorts too?”

  “Sure.”

  “We also have baby dolls and cami sets on sale. They’re very comfortable. Shall I bring you a few?”

  “Why not?”

  I spend the next two hours trying on more bras, as well as silk slips, teddies, and camisoles with matching shorts or little skirts.

  By the time I leave the store, I have a bag filled with three hiphuggers and matching bras (on sale, three for the price of two), and three pairs of boy shorts and matching bras (on sale, twenty-five percent off), plus a camisole top and shorts, two halter-style nighties with a matching robe, and three fitted lace slips. Though the splurge cost almost my entire paycheck, New Liv is off to a good start.

  As I walk home, a rush of excitement goes through me as I think about Dean’s reaction when he sees me in the lacy bra and panties. And I wonder why I’ve never bothered buying pretty lingerie before, even for his sake.

  The answer comes without any thought. Because he’s always loved me exactly the way I am. Cotton briefs, plain white bras and all. Never once has my husband wanted me to be different from what and who I am.

  Just the opposite, in fact. He’s never wanted me to change.

  But I have changed. I’m a different person than I was six months ago. Hell, one month ago. No, I still haven’t figured out what I want to do, or how to put to use all the things I’m good at, and maybe I’m still not all that confident about my abilities—

  “You’re such a mouse, Liv.”

  Kelsey’s voice in my head stops my self-defeating train of thought.

  Before Dean left, I told him that I desperately wanted to find a way to prove myself to myself. To be self-reliant and find my own path.

  I know I can do it.

  I’m smart. Dedicated. Loyal. Organized. I always carry an extra pen. I’m hardworking. Reliable. I know how to get stuff done. I’ve made mistakes and learned from them. I’m a good student. I’ve been knocked down and gotten back up.