“Allie Lyons. Welcome to The Happy Booker.”
“I brought you both coffee, but had to guess what you’d like.” He pulls a cup out and hands it to her. “Two mochas with whipped cream.”
“Perfect.” Allie leans toward me and announces in a stage whisper, “I love him.”
I grin at Dean. “He’s okay.”
He winks at me and hands me the second cup. “You’re here all day?”
“No, just for the morning so Allie can show me the ropes. I’m volunteering at the library this afternoon. I’ll pick up something for dinner on the way home.”
“Call if you need me.” Dean glances around the area in front of the cash register and buys two magazines, a bar of gourmet chocolate, and a hardcover history of the Civil War.
After handing him the bag, Allie cranes her neck to watch him leave. I do too because the back of Dean is as appealing a sight as the front of him.
“I mean it,” Allie says. “I love him. Where’d you meet?”
“Madison. I was going to the UW.” I twist my wedding ring around on my finger. “He’s a professor at King’s. Medieval Studies.”
“No kidding? Like romances of knights in armor and courtly love and all that? Wow.” She gives a dreamy sigh.
I decide not to burst her bubble by explaining that Dean is more interested in the concentric fortification of a castle. There was a time, however, when romances of knights captured his imagination. And courtly love… he is quite the expert on that.
I rub my arms against a shudder, remembering our hot encounter last weekend. Another tingle sweeps through me, and I’m already anticipating getting home to him tonight.
I started my period two days after I took the test, so I’m definitely not pregnant. And even though I’ve been unsettled by the pregnancy scare (why is it called a scare?), my new job and Dean’s work routine have settled things back to normal.
I think.
When Allie disappears into the backroom with instructions to “holler” if I need help, I make my way to the health section. Two shelves are filled with books about pregnancy and birth, while the shelf below is dedicated to child-rearing. I leaf through a couple of the I Want to Get Pregnant and I Am Pregnant—Now What? titles.
Then with a mutter of irritation, I push the books back onto the shelf and return to the front counter.
“A Miss Spider tea party!” Allie bounds out of the backroom, shoving her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Isn’t that a great idea? The kids can come dressed as their favorite insect and we can serve juice in tea cups and, like, bee-shaped cookies and gummy worms. Oh, and we can get some of that Halloween cobweb stuff for decorations.”
“Do you have kids, Allie?” I ask.
The suddenness of the question makes her stop. “Kids? No, not yet. Why?”
“Just curious. You’re really good at all this kids’ stuff.”
“Oh, yeah, I love thinking up things like this. My mom and I always had these elaborate birthday parties when I was growing up. My favorite was our Alice in Wonderland party when I turned ten. We had little cups with ‘Drink Me’ on them and a Red Queen cake. We played croquet, of course, and my uncle dressed up as the Mad Hatter. My dad even built this rabbit hole out of plywood and shrubbery, and the kids had to go through it to get to the party in the backyard.”
“Sounds nice.” It sounded more than nice. It sounded like a freaking Disney movie.
The memory of my own tenth birthday stabs the back of my head. I suppress a tide of nausea and focus on straightening the piles of bookmarks on the counter.
“Do you and Dean have kids?” Allie asks.
“No.” I’m not sure whether I should add not yet. “No kids.”
“Pity. You really need to ensure the propagation of your gene pool.”
Although she’s teasing, I think about what she said for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe that’s all it is, this weird preoccupation I have now. Maybe I just have a sudden urge to propagate Dean’s and my lineage.
When I get home, I set the table for dinner and divide portions of a store-bought roasted chicken and a green salad from the deli.
Dean comes home around seven and drops his briefcase and keys on the counter. He sheds his suit jacket, loosens his tie, and drags a hand through his hair.
He’s got that rumpled, “I have been thinking very, very hard about something esoteric” look to him. It’s a look he wears extremely well.
As self-possessed as he is, when he’s tired from working too hard, his whole demeanor softens with vulnerability… which makes me want to tuck him right beneath my heart and hold on tight.
The way he has always done with me.
He crosses to the kitchen and curves one arm around me, pressing a warm kiss to my temple. He pulls a glass from the cupboard and pours a couple fingers of scotch—his one vice, and only when he’s beat.
“How was your day?” I ask.
“Long. Yours? Bookstore job was good?”