I reach across the counter to squeeze her arm. "I'll be here."

"I know you will."

Happy at the knowledge that we've mended fences, I return home. Nicholas and Dean are out in the back garden, tossing a ball back and forth. I watch them from the big picture window for a few minutes. A bunch of thoughts tumble through my mind like a kaleidoscope constantly shifting and changing, but always bright and beautiful.

Dean and Nicholas stomp into the house with dirty shoes and gra.s.s-stained jeans. I make them take off their shoes and shoo them upstairs to change before we sit down for dinner. Afterward we settle Nicholas down with picture books and a cookie while Dean and I clean the kitchen.

"Any word from Hans yet?" I ask casually.

"No." Dean's expression is pensive as he takes the last dish from me and puts it in the cupboard. "Frances stopped by my office yesterday. She's been telling me for a while how good this offer is for both my career and King's."

As I dry my hands on a towel, I dig for courage and say the words I've felt since Dean first told me he was a frontrunner.

"You want the job, don't you?" I ask. "Your comments about office politics and the WHC not wanting an answer right away are wearing a bit thin."

A faintly sheepish expression crosses his face. "I did want to read the whole salary and benefits package. I had to find out exactly what I was saying no to."

I understand that. I'd have expected no less from Professor Dean West, in fact. He never takes action without examining all the angles first, leaving no stone unturned. Of course this would be no different.

Dean takes hold of my shoulders and turns me toward him again. He takes my face in his hands, his gold-flecked eyes fixed on mine.

"But, Liv, I would never..." His throat works with a swallow. "I would never ask you to give up everything for my sake. Never."

"I know you wouldn't." I curl my hands around his wrists. "But that doesn't mean you can't want what you want."

"I have everything I want right here."

"Wants aren't that rigid, Dean," I say, realizing only now the truth of that statement. "They're like water-constantly moving and changing. When I was five, I wanted a pony. When I was ten, I wanted a normal life and home. When I was fifteen, I wanted good grades. When I was twenty-five, I wanted to be with you more than anything. And while that will never change, I now have a whole other set of wants that center around our son and our marriage. When life changes, so do the things we want."

I loosen my grip from his wrist and put my hand on his cheek. "So it's okay to want an incredible opportunity. Heaven knows you've worked hard enough for it."

"Liv, I'm not going to-"

"You didn't answer my question."

Dean is quiet for a moment, his gaze on mine. I can almost see all the wheels and gears clicking through his beautiful mind-a.s.sessing, evaluating, thinking.

"I don't know if I want the job," he finally admits. "Yeah, it's a big deal. Probably the biggest opportunity a medievalist could ever have-helping protect sites around the world, working on a bunch of different projects.

"But at that level, there's more politics and red tape than I'd want to contend with... and in dozens of different countries. I'd have to give up teaching and writing. h.e.l.l, I'd have to give up my research. I don't even know if I'd have the time to finish the book I'm writing about illuminated ma.n.u.scripts.

"I'd have to give up working at Altopascio. I'd spend a lot of my time in meetings and navigating bureaucratic mazes. And while I'd love to research the sites, I'd probably have to delegate a lot of that work to other people because I'd be dealing with the bureaucracy and paperwork."

He reaches out to lightly tweak my nose. "Then there's you, Mrs. West. You and Nicholas. Taking you away from Mirror Lake, from the cafe, from the life we've built. Living in Paris might be an incredible experience, but I don't know how much time we'd have together.

"And I'd have to travel more than I already do. I don't like leaving you and Nicholas at all, but at least here I know you have Kelsey, Archer, Allie, everyone else. I couldn't leave you both alone in a foreign city. I won't."

Silence falls between us again, br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with the tension between the safety of what we have and the possibilities of risk and chance.

"But?" I ask gently.

He coils a few strands of my hair around his finger and brushes his thumb against my cheek.

"But," he says, "I remember our wedding and honeymoon. I remember staying in that little apartment with you and never wanting to leave Paris. I remember endless hours walking through the Louvre. I remember busy cafes, quiet restaurants, the look on your face when you tasted your first pistachio macaroon. I remember walking through Notre Dame and telling you everything I knew about its history. Not once did you yawn with boredom. Just the opposite, in fact-you wanted to know everything.

"I remember you sitting on the wrought-iron balcony of the apartment with potted plants around you and the rooftops of Paris behind you, like you were in an Impressionist painting. I looked at you and thought, G.o.d in heaven. That's my wife. Right there. My wife.

"I thought we could never leave Paris because surely it was too good to be true. If we left the city of lights, the spell would break. And even though it didn't, even though I'm spellbound by you for eternity, I still think about how it was just you and me there.

"And the idea of going back, but this time with both you and Nicholas, to work for an international organization dedicated to preserving history-and to live there... It would be another chapter in our great adventure."

Something loosens inside me, like a tangled string slackening, and then a deeply rooted knowledge of my husband surfaces into the light.

"When I first went to your apartment in Madison almost ten years ago," I tell him, "there was a box on the kitchen table filled with loops of string, some of them knotted and twisted together."

His eyes crinkle. "I remember."

"I thought it was so wonderfully dorky that you made string figures," I continue. "And somewhere way down deep, I've also always known how perfect it is."

"Perfect how?"

"That you, of all men in the world, are an expert at fastening string together," I explain. "Unraveling it, working out all the knots, and then making intricate, beautiful patterns. You do that in every other area of life-fixing, connecting, creating-it makes perfect sense you'd do it as a hobby."

A smile tugs at his mouth as he pulls me against him.

"You do it with me all the time." I slide my arms around his waist. "You know exactly how to unknot me."

"Hmm." His deep voice rumbles in his chest. "I think we've discovered I also know how to tie you up."

"Oh, yes, you do." I smile, a shiver of remembrance sliding down my spine. "Maybe you can do that again sometime soon."

"There's no maybe in kinky s.e.x, Mrs. West," Dean murmurs, moving his hands down to my bottom. "There's only, 'Yes, sir.'"

"Yes, sir." I stand on tiptoe to press my lips against his.

Warmth floods me, but just as Dean lifts his hands to tilt my head to the right angle, Nicholas shouts, "Milk!"

With a resigned laugh, I give Dean a quick, hard kiss and go to attend to our son. Dean pats me on the rear and mutters something about, "Not done with you yet."

With that promise humming in my blood, I take Nicholas upstairs for a bath and bed, while Dean picks up the scattered toys in the sunroom and heads up to his tower office.

After getting Nicholas into his train-patterned pajamas, I squeeze into the toddler bed beside him as he starts to fall asleep. I wrap my arms around him. His little body moves with the rhythm of his breath. I lie back against the pillows and look at the ceiling, where a projection of smiling sea creatures from Nicholas's nightlight floats in a slow circle.

I remember a paper Dean once wrote about medieval monsters-apes with spiked wings, leathery dragons, lion-clawed griffins, dog-headed men, giants, serpents with sharp teeth, and cloven-hoofed demons.

These dreadful creatures existed on the margins of illuminated ma.n.u.scripts and maps, a dire warning about the terrors that lay beyond the known world. Though the monsters inspired both fear and awe, the pervasive belief in them didn't stop people from launching expeditions and traveling to distant, unknown lands.

And as those explorers sailed right into possible storms and danger, they encountered unfamiliar territories, different people, strange animals, but no horned demons or five-headed serpents. If it weren't for their courage, their curiosity, their sense of adventure, they might never have discovered that the horrific monsters they'd envisioned didn't exist.

Dean, of course, has always been one such daring explorer-at least, in his secret heart-seeking new, exciting experiences, charting new territories, unafraid of imaginary dangers.

I, on the other hand, am the devoted scribe, sitting at my desk believing in scary things outside the boundaries of my own world, but content in the belief that if I stay here, I will never have to confront them.

I'm not ashamed of being that way. I make no apologies for it, not anymore. Because if it weren't for the scribes, there would be no bright, intricately illuminated ma.n.u.scripts, no textual representations of the past, no rich, detailed ill.u.s.trations of saints and angels, of flora and fauna, even of imaginary monsters.

And though I know Dean will never admit-maybe not even to himself-that he'd take the job in a heartbeat if it didn't mean leaving Mirror Lake, I don't ever want to be the reason he smothers his longing for risk and adventure.

I pull Nicholas closer. His breath puffs against my neck. Sometimes our son is fearless. When he's climbing the jungle gym, swinging on the monkey bars, running through the park-he has no obstacles, no worries about things that don't even exist, things that are just illusions.

As I slide out of the bed and pull Nicholas's blanket over him, I wonder at what point in life it becomes so much easier to be scared and so much harder to find courage.

Our great adventure. The adventure of Liv and Dean.

I press my lips to my son's forehead, leaving him to sleep in the soft glow of circling fish and mermaids. I take the baby monitor and walk up the spiral staircase to Dean's office.

"Dean?" I knock on the open door.

"Right here." He turns from his computer to smile at me.

My heart gives the same warm, little flutter I'd felt when I saw him for the first time all those years ago. I've spent so long believing it was possible to not only have everything, but to have everything be perfect.

Because if it was all perfect here, in Mirror Lake, then neither Dean nor I would ever need anything else except each other, our child, and our work. We would never have a reason to look beyond what we had already created. We wouldn't want anything to change.

But how dull life would be if nothing ever changed. If it was always perfect. If we never tried to create something new.

"Dean." I stop beside my husband and rest my hand on his shoulder. "I have an idea."

Over the next few days, a great deal of discussion and persuasion follows the announcement of my idea.

"I've started researching how it would work." I sit across from Dean at the breakfast table with a blueberry m.u.f.fin. "And it's not actually as unnerving as it sounds. You said yourself that you'd have an incredible benefits package."

"That was for the a.s.sistant director position," Dean reminds me. "I turned it down already."

I eye him over the rim of my mug of coffee, knowing well that salary and insurance are not the issue here. Neither is the a.s.sistant director position.

"Dean, one of the reasons the WHC wanted to hire you was because of your negotiation skills," I say. "I'm certain they would be more than willing to work with you on a mutually beneficial agreement, especially if you go to them with the entire plan in place."

Which, of course, he would. Professor Dean West, master of rock-solid plans.

"I know part of the reason you turned the a.s.sistant director job down was because of me," I continue, holding up my hand to stop his immediate protest. "It's okay, Dean. We both know if I didn't have the cafe, or if I weren't so rooted here, you might have been more interested.

"But I also know there was a lot about the job description you didn't like, which is why you really need to talk to Hans Klasen and Frances Hunter about the Youth Experts program. They might very well say no, but you'll never know unless you try. And I know you would love to work with students from all over the world, especially on the conservation of historic sites."

He sits back and looks at me, his expression both tender and amused. "You know that, do you, Mrs. West?"

"Yes." I approach to sit on his lap, twining my arms around his neck. "Because I know you, Professor West. Sometimes better than I know myself."

"I can't let you do this for me, Liv."

"Yes, you can. Because you have to do something for me in return."

"I do?" Interest sparks in his eyes. "What?"

"I'll tell you later," I promise.

For the next few days Dean does research, writes a proposal, discusses the idea with Hans and Frances, talks to Jessica Burke, contacts World Heritage field offices in different countries, and sends out feelers to various universities.

Slowly the pieces begin fitting together, until a picture begins to emerge of a way in which Dean can still do what he loves to do, but on a more powerful, impactful level. A way that will allow him to mentor international students, work at the World Heritage Center and the Altopascio site, and live in Paris with his family without excessive travel.

And a way in which I have to let go of my fear, take a risk, and trust myself. I know I can do it, too, because everything I have in Mirror Lake will still be here waiting for my return.

That is the crucial difference, the one thing that solidifies my courage. In all my traveling and moving with my mother, I never knew where we were going, but I always knew we were never going back. Because there had never been a place to return to. Never the security of a home waiting for us.

It's not a surprise to me when Hans Klasen and the World Heritage committee are more than happy to accommodate Dean's proposal. They know exactly how good he would be as the director of the Youth Experts program. When Hans and the committee approve the creation and funding of a new position especially for Dean, there is no turning back.

Frances, who has approved of the idea from the start, arranges for Dean's leave of absence from King's, with Jessica Burke taking over his cla.s.ses and duties as a visiting professor for a one-year term, her contract renewable for a second year.

Dean's contract with the WHC is worded in much the same way-we'll move to Paris for at least a year so he can work on organizing the Youth Experts program, and at the end of the year, he will have the option of either staying or moving back to Mirror Lake.

After all the contracts have been signed and arrangements made, Dean approaches me one evening with a gleam in his eye. He pulls me close and presses a lovely, warm kiss against my lips. Tingles drift through me like snowflakes.

"Now," I say meaningfully, "I need you to do that something for me."

"Name it, beauty," Dean runs his hands over my back. "What do you need me to do?"

"I need you to buy a birthday party truck for the Wonderland Cafe."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.

OLIVIA.

Sailboats glide like birds over the sun-bright surface of the lake. Pedestrians walk leisurely along Avalon Street, pausing to look into shop windows. Bouquets of brightly colored balloons wave like flowers from benches around Wizard's Park and the terrace railing of the Wonderland Cafe.

The air is filled with the sound of children laughing-and occasionally screeching or crying. Three members of Slice of Pie, including the Pieman, are performing at a temporary stage, and the music and lyrics of "Cherry Pie" float over the park.

The Airstream trailer glows bright silver in the sun. The full-time team Dean hired renovated and decorated the trailer in record time-so quickly and beautifully, in fact, that I wish they'd been filmed for one of those before-and-after reality shows.

The sides of the trailer are adorned with a flowing design of clouds, poppy fields, hot-air balloons, and a tree in which the grinning Cheshire Cat sits. A cursive script reading The Traveling Wonderland Cafe is painted on both sides. A retractable, red-and-white striped awning extends from the trailer, and round tables are set up underneath.