Part 27 (2/2)
”I'm just waiting for four more chairs to be delivered, then we can get the catalog printed,” I tell Florence. ”I'll send the mock-up to Patrick so he can start studying it.”
”Oh, dear.” Florence straightens, her forehead creasing. ”Did you get Patrick's email? His son just bought a house in Florida, and he and his wife are going down this week to help with some work before they move in. He won't be able to fulfill the auctioneer duties.”
Dread pools in my belly again. I take out my phone and scroll through the messages. Patrick's email is buried under all the other ones I missed. I battle back a fresh wave of anxiety and tell myself this is not an unsolvable problem.
”So we need a new auctioneer.” I force a light note into my voice, trying to sound like this will be no more trouble than needing a fresh carton of milk. ”That shouldn't be too difficult.”
”The professional auctioneers charge quite a fee,” Florence replies worriedly. ”Patrick was doing it as a favor, just to help us.”
To help us.
A bright light suddenly flashes in my mind, illuminating the solution to several problems all at once. Yes! Not only will this save the auction, but it will also repair the new tension between me and my husband.
”I'll ask Dean,” I tell Florence, a welcome relief filling me. ”He offered to help with the festival, and he'll be happy to serve as auctioneer.”
”Oh, wonderful!” Florence claps her hands. ”What a marvelous idea. With his voice, that man will make a metal folding chair sound like a king's throne. The women are going to bid small fortunes.”
”I'll talk to him tonight,” I say, tucking my phone back into my bag. ”I promise, Florence, everything will be fine.”
And it will be about freaking time.
I pull the blanket up around Nicholas and pick up the baby monitor before heading up the spiral staircase to Dean's office. I knock once and push the door open.
”Dean?”
He's at his desk wearing his pajama bottoms, the phone cradled against his shoulder and his attention on the computer screen. He gestures for me to hold on as he continues the call.
Rather than focusing on what he's saying, I listen to the deep, measured cadence of his voice and admire his sculpted shoulders, the muscles of his chest and back...
A tingle of awareness goes through me. To avoid the temptation of jumping his bones-clearly, my comeback is here to stay, regardless of the fact that everything else is going wrong-I look out the windows and wait for him to finish the call. When I hear the click of the phone, I turn back to him.
He swivels in the chair to face me, his expression one of distracted concentration. For an instant, I wish I'd come up here with another hot encounter in mind, but Dean and I have a history of using s.e.x as an easy and delicious escape from both reality and our own problems. Unfortunately, the problems are always still waiting when we emerge from our l.u.s.tful fog.
”I have a favor to ask you.” I approach him, reaching out to run my fingers over his corded forearm. ”I need a new auctioneer for the Chair Fair, and I was hoping you'd volunteer. I mentioned the idea to Florence, and she's all over it.”
Rather than immediately agreeing, which was the response I was hoping for, a shadow pa.s.ses over Dean's eyes.
”The UN a.s.sembly starts next week in Geneva,” he says. ”They're going to vote on our proposal to put the site on the protected list.”
I nod. ”You told me. Simon and Mateo are going to give the presentation, right?”
”Yeah.” He leans in to click something on his computer screen. ”I didn't think I'd have to go. I'd already told Hans I wouldn't be there.”
But...
The unspoken word sparks apprehension inside me. I know the World Heritage Center pushed the proposal through partly because they're courting Dean for a high-level job. And it takes me a second to realize he's telling me something without outright saying it. My heart starts beating too fast.
”But now you do have to go?” I ask.
Dean nods, turning to straighten a stack of papers on his desk.
”But that means...” You're going to miss the festival.
A weighty, thick silence falls between us. A hundred unwanted images flash through my mind. I can see my husband navigating an international convention with his steely self-a.s.surance.
The pictures are crystal-clear-Professor West, clad in his tailored navy suit, his silk tie knotted perfectly, his dark hair burnished by the lights as he shakes hands and extends greetings in French, German, Italian. I hear him discussing Roman aqueducts, building strategies, site management, and cultural landscapes.
I see the United Nations offices in Geneva, a vast conference room with delegate tables arranged in a half-circle before the rostrum where the World Heritage officials sit. I see Dean standing at a podium before fifty diplomats, all identified by plaques announcing their country affiliation. Armenia, Portugal, Mali, Finland, j.a.pan.
They wear identification badges and translation headphones, and their desks are stacked with binders, papers, laptops. There are interpreters' booths, a sound control room, a viewing gallery, a ma.s.sive screen where renowned historian Dr. Dean West displays photos and maps and explains why the committee should vote to restore and protect a medieval monastery.
My whole body tenses, as if in defense against the images I don't want to see, the truth I don't want to acknowledge.
”You can't go,” I manage to say, though of course what he's going to do is far more important than helping me with a chair auction.
”I have to, Liv.”
”Why?” I curl my hands around the back of a chair, trying not to shake. ”If Simon and Mateo can handle the presentation...”
”Hans called me about an hour ago, asking if I would lead a break-out session on medievalism. And Jessica Burke asked me to talk to Hans about the Youth Experts Program, which is badly in need of help.”
I should be so proud. And I am-part of me is, anyway. A part I'm having a hard time finding beneath a sharp, growing apprehension.
I tighten my grip on the chair and tell myself to breathe. I catch the frustrated regret in Dean's eyes as he goes to the table where his briefcase sits open. I know exactly the source of that regret-the push and pull between his loyalty to me and his commitment to his work.
”If the vote pa.s.ses, it's more than the site being placed on the list,” he says, almost as if he's trying to remind himself as well as me. ”It means funding to repair the quake damage and support for dozens of people who have been working at Altopascio much longer than I have. It means revenue for the town and government. It means conservation and legal protection for a monastery that's important both historically and culturally. I have to fight for this.”
Of course he does. I know that. This is the United Nations. Global education, intercultural understanding and solidarity, democracy, freedom of expression. Dean can't walk away from this fight for anything, not even me. He won't.
I stare at the photographs still on his desk-the images of the dig zones, the tools, a gold disk that was once buried deep in the soil.
”Why...” I swallow hard. ”Why didn't you tell me sooner?”
”Because I didn't know.” Dean stuffs some papers into his briefcase. ”I knew about the vote, but not about the medieval session. And considering the delegates who are going to be there, plus my work on the Conservation Committee, I have to go.”
I cross my arms tightly over my chest, suddenly feeling as if my husband is moving away from me, inch by painful inch, and into the vast unknown of the world where I will no longer be able to reach him.
And that, more than anything, floods me with raw, painful fear. Because Dean has always been so comfortable and secure in the world, so confident, and if that is where he truly belongs, then what happens to us?
I take a breath, feeling the start of a fracture. The moment in which I'm forced to admit Dean and I might never find our way back to each other, at least not the way we both want to. Too many other things are crowding into the place of Liv and Dean. Separating us.
”Who are you going as?” I ask. ”Professor Dean West of King's University or a.s.sistant Director of the World Heritage Center?”
”As a historian trying to save a medieval monastery.” Dean drags a hand through his hair with a sigh. ”I don't want to leave again, Liv, but this is critical. If the UN votes no, we'll face a huge loss of support and revenue.”
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