Part 6 (1/2)

I swing my gaze to Dean. ”Interviews for what?”

He shakes his head. Jessica glances from me to Dean and touches Hans on the arm.

”I think Professor Hunter was looking for you,” she tells him. ”We still have a few minutes before we need to leave.”

They both walk toward the main office. Dean hands Nicholas back to me.

”Interviews for what?” I repeat.

”Hans thinks I'd be a good fit for an open position at the World Heritage Center,” Dean says.

I blink in surprise. I know Dean's professional reputation is immense, extending beyond the scope of academia, but strangely enough, not once have I considered the possibility that another inst.i.tution might want to lure him away from King's University.

”What's the job?” I ask.

”a.s.sistant director.”

a.s.sistant director of the World Heritage Center, a division of the United Nations?

Before I can process that astonis.h.i.+ng idea, Nicholas whines and reaches for the sippy cup in his stroller. I turn, getting him settled and giving myself a second to regain my composure.

I love Dr. Dean West, summa c.u.m laude from Harvard, the brilliant professor, the distinguished scholar and archeologist, but I don't often think of him that way. To me, he's far more often my warm, s.e.xy husband, the doting father of our son, my best friend who brings home my favorite ice cream just because he thought I'd like some. The man who puts his hand on my lower back to guide me with such ease, as if I'm an extension of his body.

So it's something of a shock to remember just how internationally renowned he is, and to realize other people want him.

”So you're... you applied for the job?” I ask.

”No.” His expression pensive, Dean brushes his hand over Nicholas's hair. ”But the WHC knows my credentials. Last week when I was in Italy, Hans mentioned the board was eyeing me for the a.s.sistant director position.”

”And he asked you to take it?”

”He asked me to interview for it.” Dean pushes back his cuff to glance at his watch as Hans and Jessica round the corner from the office.

I step away from him, taking hold of the handle of Nicholas's stroller.

”I'm sorry, we've got to get going.” Dean leans in to brush a kiss across my cheek. ”I'll tell you more about it later, okay?”

I nod, but something inside me rustles with unease.

After Nicholas is asleep that evening, I take the baby monitor up to the b.u.t.terfly House's tower room, which is now Dean's home office. It's one of our favorite rooms-a circular s.p.a.ce lined with windows that show off a view of the lake and downtown, all nestled within the embrace of the mountains.

Last year during the final phase of renovations, Dean put in oak shelves, which are now packed with hundreds of books, and I created a little sitting area with a comfy sofa and chairs near the wood-burning stove that radiates a cozy warmth in winter. The wall s.p.a.ce is lined with framed family photos and various prints of medieval ma.n.u.scripts. Dean is seated at his big desk, which is cluttered with books and papers.

I gesture to the clock. ”Half past later.”

He turns to face me as I sink into an oversized chair beside the window and put the baby monitor on the side-table.

”So what did you tell Hans when he said they were considering you for the job?” I ask.

”I was going to say no,” Dean says, ”but since we're trying to get the World Heritage Center to put the monastery on the list of protected sites, I knew it wouldn't be a good move politically to turn them down right away.”

”What does the position entail?”

”a.n.a.lysis and evaluation of historic sites in different countries,” Dean says. ”The a.s.sistant director determines which sites should be listed by the WHC, how to protect sites in war zones, a.s.sesses landscapes, natural properties, conservation. Whoever takes the job has to get involved with cultural areas far beyond medieval sites. They'd chair the annual convention, deal with lobbying, fundraising, United Nations meetings.”

”You'd be an international diplomat.” I feel like I just said, ”You'd be president of the United States.”

”I went to college to be a historian, not a diplomat.”

”You went to college to learn how to study and preserve history,” I remind him. ”And this sounds like you could do that on an international level. Actively, too... working with the physical part of history like you've been doing at Altopascio. I know how much you love that.”

”I also love living in Mirror Lake and teaching at King's,” Dean says. ”It would be more of a change than we can make.”

”Why?”

”We'd have to move to Paris.”

My breath catches in my throat.

Paris. Sweet, hot memories fill my heart and mind.

Despite my nomadic childhood with my mother, I had never been out of the United States before Dean whisked me off to France almost seven years ago for our wedding and honeymoon. We'd gotten married at the family villa of a friend of Dean's before spending a soft-edged, intense month together in Paris. I'd felt like I was floating the entire time, as the world unfolded all the dreams I'd kept secret in my heart.

Even now the word Paris sparks thoughts of the museums and art galleries where paintings glow like jewels, the cafes with round tables and wicker chairs, the sandcastle facade of Notre Dame cathedral guarded by looming gargoyles, the lamp-lit bridges arching over the Seine. b.u.t.tery madeleines, fresh fruit at the outdoor markets, rich wine from Provencal vineyards...

Dean, carrying a fragrant bag laden with fluffy croissants, closing the door of the apartment that had once been an artist's atelier. Flowers blooming from window boxes, framing views of rooftops and chimney stacks, tall oak doors embellished with gold molding, scuffed wooden floors.

My new husband. My husband.

I stare at him now-the thick hair falling over his forehead, the stubbled planes of his jaw and dark-lashed eyes. He's wearing worn jeans and an old King's T-s.h.i.+rt, his feet planted on the hardwood floor in a solid stance that looks as if he's holding the earth in place. As if he's holding our life here in place.

”Move to Paris?” I repeat weakly.

”If I were even offered the job, I'd have to work from the World Heritage Center headquarters,” he says. ”But it wouldn't only mean a move to France. It's a position that requires global mobility, moving wherever the WHC sends me. Sometimes only for a few weeks or months. We'd have to completely uproot our lives.”

”Do you think you'd ever consider it?” I ask.

”No. It would be a full career move, not something I could do part-time from King's, like I'm doing with the Altopascio dig. I'd have to resign from King's and start all over again.”

Resign.

The word sticks me like a pin. He resigned from King's three years ago-for no other reason than to protect me from the hideous fallout of a false s.e.xual hara.s.sment allegation. And while the university asked him to rescind the request and keep his job-later rewarding him with full tenure-the very idea of Dean leaving the department he created elicits a wave of apprehension.

I can't imagine him resigning from King's again, not even for a good reason rather than a disgraceful one. In the few years since he started the Medieval Studies program, it's developed a widespread reputation for being one of the best and fastest growing history programs in the country.

Move. Resign. Start over.

”Um... wow.” I can't think of anything else to say. Because... wow.