"Of course." I rub my cheek against his shoulder. "It"s you. You"re my perfection."
"Ah." He pats my hip, his voice warm with tenderness. "Good one, beauty."
I smile, snuggling closer to him. We sit together for a long time, as the rain begins to lessen and the clouds slide away from the sky, revealing a sprinkle of stars and a perfect, spiral moon that will follow us wherever we go or wherever we stay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.
DEAN.
Archer"s motorcycle is parked outside the railroad depot. The doors to the train shed are open, work lights glowing from inside, a radio playing the Stones" "All Down the Line." Archer is crouched by the side of the engine, working something with a wrench.
"Hey." I stop near him, shoving my hands into my pockets.
"Hey." He glances at my suit. "Guess you"re not here to work."
"No. You got a minute?"
He nods and pushes to his feet. I sit on the steps of a cargo car, while Archer reaches into a nearby cooler and produces two cartons of chocolate milk. He offers me one. I take it, remembering how chocolate milk was a staple in our Castle tree house. Archer has never lost his love for it.
He sits beside me. I take a drink of the sugary milk, admitting it tastes pretty good. I set the carton down and rest my elbows on my knees, linking my hands together.
"You know that job I told you about?" I ask.
"The fancy European thing." Archer tilts his head back to take a drink. "Yeah."
"When I was in Geneva," I say, "they offered me the job."
Archer is silent for a minute before he says, "So what did you tell them?"
"They want an answer next week. I have to turn them down."
"You have to," Archer repeats, looking at the engine on the opposite side of the shed. "That"s different from you want to."
Silence falls. I don"t contradict him because he"s right.
"When I was a kid, I dreamed of something like this," I admit. "Traveling the world. Going to unknown places, having adventures. But when I met Liv, I thought she was all the adventure I"d ever need."
"Now you think differently?"
"No, that"s not it. I could live in a cave with her and be happy. It"s more that... she had a s.h.i.tty childhood and hated moving from place to place, being dragged around by her mother. She"s never seen the appeal of traveling, seeing new things, meeting new people. So part of me wants her to know what that"s like, and to have more adventures with her. With Nicholas. I"ve always wanted to give them everything, including the world."
"But?" Archer asks.
"But not like this," I say. "If I took this job, I"d have to be away from them more than I already am. And Liv and I have both been spending too much time at work for too long. Something has to give for both of us. So I need to step down as project director of the train restoration."
Archer is quiet for a minute.
"Well, d.a.m.n," he finally mutters.
"I don"t want to entirely quit," I continue. "It"s a great project, and I still want to help out. I just can"t direct it anymore. I was hoping you would."
Archer blinks. "You want me to lead the project?"
"You"re way more qualified than I am," I say. "And Mr. Jenkins respects you a h.e.l.l of a lot more too. Now that the project is funded, you could hire a few more guys, get the work done faster and better than I ever could. It"d be like running your garage, only with historic trains."
Archer looks somewhat baffled, like he"d never have expected me to ask him something like this. "You"re serious?"
"Sure. I can still help out with the research and stuff, but you need to be in charge."
He doesn"t respond for a minute.
"If it means I get to tell your sorry a.s.s what to do, I"m on board," he finally says. "Thanks, man."
"Yeah, well, keep in mind you also have to let Florence Wickham squeeze your biceps at least once a week."
He grins. I push to my feet. We hold out our hands at the same time and shake. When I leave the train shed, I feel lighter, like something heavy has been lifted off my shoulders. Something to do with my brother.
I head back to campus and call Florence to tell her Archer is taking over as project director.
"Oh, Dean, what a wonderful idea!" she says, with so much delighted enthusiasm my ego takes a hit. "He"s perfect for the job."
"I thought you said I was perfect for the job," I mutter.
"Oh, you"re perfect for many jobs, my dear," she a.s.sures me. "But perhaps not this one."
I grudgingly agree. After ending the call, I spend the rest of the afternoon working on a paper about castle architecture, which is much more familiar territory than old trains. I glance up when Frances Hunter knocks on the open door.
"This just came in for you," she says, handing me a padded envelope.
The stamps are postmarked from Paris, and the World Heritage return address is in the corner. I peel off the packing tape and remove several folders containing reports from the UN a.s.sembly.
"As young people say today," Frances remarks, "they think you"re the boss."
"I told Hans I can"t consider taking the job." I leaf through a report about how to engage local communities in heritage preservation. "I won"t."
"Clearly he thinks you can be persuaded otherwise," Frances says.
"You know I have a life here." I drop the report on top of the other doc.u.ments and push the whole pile to the side. "Liv owns a business. We have a son, a house, a lawnmower. And no way do I want some other medievalist coming to King"s and taking over the program I started. I still can"t believe you think I"d consider saying yes."
Before Frances can respond, there"s another knock on the door. Jessica Burke comes in with a worn paperback.
"Sorry for interrupting, but I wanted to return this," she says, handing me the book. "I found a copy online. I have some good ideas based on Chaucer"s portraits of knights and merchants."
"Great. I"ll look through my bibliography and see if there"s anything else I can find for you."
Jessica glances from Frances back to me. "So can I ask what"s going on with the World Heritage position?"
"They made an offer." I drag a hand down my face. "But I"m not actively pursuing it, Jessica. I can"t leave King"s or Mirror Lake."
A flash of disappointment crosses her face. "I figured you"d say that. Did you and Hans talk about the Youth Experts program?"
"I told him the WHC should get it up and running again," I say. "And, Jessica, if you want to spearhead the organization of the program, I"d be more than happy to put in a good word for you."
"Me?" Jessica"s eyebrows lift. "I don"t want to organize the program."
"Why not? You"re the one who"s been advocating for it. You"d be great at directing and organizing."
"No way." Jessica shakes her head. "I"m trying to finish my book, teach cla.s.ses, apply for jobs. Now that my father is gone, my mom really needs me. I want to help with the Youth Experts program as much as I can, but I can"t take full responsibility for it right now. I was hoping you would."
"How could I?"
"As a.s.sistant director, you"d be in charge of a bunch of different programs," Jessica explains. "You could make the Youth Experts a priority."
It"s an idea I"ve found intriguing since she first mentioned it a few weeks ago. Working with students has always been one of the most rewarding parts of my career, and the idea of collaborating with young people around the world to protect historic sites is highly appealing.
But...
"As a.s.sistant director, I might be able to help the Youth Experts," I tell Jessica. "But you know the job is highly political and involves a ton of negotiations and bureaucracy. Chances are slim I could even get the Youth program funded, let alone involved in specific projects."
Jessica shrugs, not looking convinced. "You"re the only one who cares enough to try. Certainly you"re the only one with enough influence to make a difference."
"It would be right in your wheelhouse, Dean," Frances adds.
"You saw the a.s.sistant director job description," I tell her. "I don"t know how I"d get all that done in a day, much less have time to organize the Youth program."
"So there"s no way you would take the job?" Jessica asks.
I shake my head, aware of Frances"s gaze. "I can"t."
That"s not a phrase I often use, and they both know it. Jessica and Frances exchange glances and turn to leave. I watch them go, hating the sense that I"ve somehow deeply disappointed them both.
I stop in the kitchen doorway and look at my wife. She"s washing dishes, her head bent as she rinses one of Nicholas"s cups. Her hair is tied up into a ponytail that exposes the graceful curve of her neck. A few strands are loose, drifting around her face and shoulders. I let myself gaze at her for a good long time-the shape of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and hips, the length of her legs beneath her skirt, the pretty curve of her rear.
I move into the kitchen and come up behind her, sliding my arms around her waist. She startles before giving a little laugh.
"I didn"t even know you were there."
"Nicholas just fell asleep." I press my lips to her warm nape and spread my hands over her torso. "And you look so good doing the dishes."
"Mmm. You should watch me when I"m vacuuming. I"m hotter than a firecracker the way I shimmy my hips around."
"Maybe you could do a private show for me one night." I move my hands around to squeeze her gorgeous a.s.s. "Maybe you could do one right now."
Liv flicks soap bubbles over her shoulder at me. "I need to finish these dishes and then work on some festival reports for the town council. I also want to get started on thank-you notes to all the people who painted chairs for the auction."
Clearly this is a challenge. I reach around her to turn off the water and push my groin up against her. Ah, d.a.m.n, so soft and yielding. There are few things more perfect in the world than my wife"s a.s.s.
"Dean." Liv squirms a little and nudges me with her elbow. "I have to work."
"Me too. I have to work my c.o.c.k in and out of your sweet, tight p.u.s.s.y."
"Dean!" Liv gasps, her breath catching with that little noise that makes me hot in two seconds flat-as if I weren"t already getting hot just pressing my d.i.c.k against her.
"Come on, beauty." I work my hands underneath her ap.r.o.n and slide them into the waistband of her skirt. l.u.s.t fires through me at the sensation of her soft, warm belly against my palms. "Let"s f.u.c.k."
She gives another breathless laugh and shakes her head, her ponytail swishing against my chest like a swath of silk.
"Later," she promises.
I groan. "I have a conference call in twenty minutes. No idea how long it will take."
"Well, now that I know you wanted a quickie, you can darned well wait until you have time to service me properly," Liv remarks.
"Don"t I always?"
"Yeah, you do all right." She turns in my arms, her expression amused. "Go take your call, professor. Who are you talking to?"
"A couple of the medievalists who were at the UN a.s.sembly. They"re interested in working with me on conservation techniques."
Liv studies me, her eyebrows pulling together. "You know, with all that"s been going on, I"ve neglected to tell you how proud I am of you."
"You don"t have to-"
She shakes her head to stop my words. "Really, Dean. It"s incredible, what you"ve done. What you"re doing. I"ve been so caught up in how all the changes would affect me-us-that I haven"t even told you how extraordinary your work is. The impact you"re having on both history and the present... it"s beyond impressive. I"m so proud of you."
I brush a stray eyelash off Liv"s cheek, thinking that her praise means more to me than anything the World Heritage Center-or anyone else on the planet-could offer.
"Thanks," I say, aware of the painful inadequacy of the word.
But all Liv has to do is look at me to see right into my heart.
"You"re welcome." She smiles. "Go take your call, hotshot."
I tug her ponytail, tilting her head back and pressing my lips against hers. "Be ready for me."
"Don"t take too long." She brushes her hand over my chest and turns back to the sink.
I head to my office and dial in to the conference call. It"s lengthy and detailed, covering conservation techniques for several different sites in Europe and South America. After the call, I check my email, which includes a message from Hans Klasen confirming our phone appointment on Monday.