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 astonishing 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-shirt, 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.

Dean shrugs, like it's no big deal. "I appreciate the interest, but we could never make it work."

Of course we couldn't. But I wonder how he's figured that out in the week since Hans told him about it.

Though I'm aware of a faint relief that Dean doesn't seem interested, it's not like him to do something without considering all the angles first. I mean, this is the man who looked up the university rules before he even asked me out, just to make sure there would be no repercussions if a professor dated a student.

"Do you think you'd want the job?" I ask.

"It doesn't matter if I want it or not," he replies. "We have Nicholas, I have tenure at King's, you're busy running the cafe and all your other activities... Why would we even consider moving anywhere?"

"So what's this business about the interviews?"

"That's what Hans and I were talking about," Dean explains. "Once a year, the World Heritage representatives meet at a United Nations a.s.sembly to vote on which sites to add to the protected list. With the Altopascio proposal still under consideration and the a.s.sembly meeting in July, it wouldn't look good if I turned down the job right away. If the representatives think I'm still a strong candidate, that will help our case. And with the earthquake damage, the site needs all the help it can get."

I know Dean wouldn't hesitate to pick his family over any professional opportunity. I also know he's not the kind of man to sit complacently in one place-he's a natural leader who likes to move, to do things, to effect change. And what greater influence could he have than to actively help save historic sites throughout the world?

I gaze out the window at the gla.s.sy darkness. Condensation clings to the edges, framing my image. Sometimes when I see my reflection, I see Liv the confident woman, the capable mother, and other times I still see a ten-year-old, uncertain girl.

Those glimpses make me realize that girl will always be a part of me. I wonder if that's true for everyone-do we all still sometimes feel like the children we no longer are?

I look away from the window at my tall, strong husband. It's in him too-the twelve-year-old child who fought with his brother and divulged the secret that tore them apart. The son whose father pushed him excessively to be the best. The young man who believed in chivalrous knights and bold, momentous quests.

The boy who dreamed of traveling to far-flung, exotic places, seeking adventure, leading the troops to victory.

Discomfort hits me. It's also not like Dean to pretend to be interested in something he's not.

"So what's going to happen when the WHC committee discovers you're not really considering the job anyway?" I ask.

"Nothing's going to happen." A crease appears between his eyebrows. "I don't like not being able to say no right away, but I also don't like the idea of doing something that could thwart all the progress we've made."

"But they'll think you're interested in the job," I point out. "That sounds a bit..."

Unethical. I don't like that either. Nothing about Dean has ever been unethical. Just the opposite.

"I'm trying to save an important site that's been badly damaged by an earthquake and is now in danger of being destroyed," Dean says in a measured tone, faint tension lacing through his body. "And I'm not hiding my position. Everyone knows I'm advocating for the site."

And that's just one of the reasons they want him. The World Heritage committee can easily see how Professor Dean West's undeterred advocacy and persistence on behalf of a medieval monastery could extend to sites around the world.

I walk to the other side of the tower and look out the window that affords a view of downtown.

It's silly, I know, this feeling of something perilously close to fear. It also reminds me that no matter what else we do in life, some things run so deep they're engraved in our bones. I don't like instability, restlessness, unpredictability. I crave safety and permanence.

That's just one of the reasons I love the lake-the water moves and shifts, but stays in one place, encircled by trees whose roots run deep into the earth, by rocks and boulders that have been there for centuries, by a town that was founded two hundred years ago by people who were looking for a home.

The lights of Avalon Street shine in the darkness like the stars of the Milky Way. Our little apartment is down there somewhere, the place where I'd be reading in a cushy chair by the French doors when Dean would come in from his bedroom office, rumpled and scruffy, kiss the top of my head, and tell me he was going to the corner bakery to pick up some doughnuts.

"Liv, there are dozens of other candidates being considered for the job," he says from behind me. "A request to interview isn't a job offer."

"What if it turns into one?"

"I'd say no. Hans already knows I'm not going to uproot our lives."

Because we both have everything we always wanted right here. Right now.

Neither of us has to say those words aloud.

We've worked so hard. We have so much. I'd been so over-the-moon happy when Dean was offered tenure at King's almost three years ago, solidifying his position there and ensuring we could stay in Mirror Lake as long as we wanted.

Never did I imagine that either of us might one day not want to stay.

But if I block out everything else, I can see this for Dean, like a single, crystal-clear star. It's in his nature, the very core of him. Everything he is centers around his fierce, basic urge to protect.

Since becoming a mother, I've understood Dean's protectiveness on levels I never had before, solidifying the bone-deep knowledge that I would do anything to keep my child safe.

Now, as I think of Professor Dean West merging his intense, protective instinct with his love of history, it's painfully obvious that no one on earth is more perfectly suited to advocate for the global protection of historic sites.

I swallow hard. "I wouldn't want you to miss an incredible opportunity."

"I'm not missing anything," he says. "We have a life here I don't want to change."

And yet he didn't say he doesn't want the job.

I let out my breath in a long rush. I have never understood the meaning of the word wanderl.u.s.t. I was not the college girl who had dreams of backpacking through Europe or South America. I will never understand Kelsey's love of packing her truck and hitting the road for weeks on end, chasing storms and sleeping in roadside motels.

My travel journey has been an inward one, mapping out all the rivers and valleys of my soul, finding my way, charting new territory toward a place that I could call home.

I've done that now. I know who I am. I have bloomed right where I was planted.

And while change has always been a nerve-wracking concept for me-as a child, change never led to anything good, and it's the thing that has caused the most rifts between me and my husband-I'm not as afraid of it as I used to be.

But for me, change is having a toddler who is learning something new every minute, restoring and moving to the b.u.t.terfly House, figuring out ways for the cafe to reach into the community, visiting Altopascio one day, enrolling Nicholas in preschool, trusting my ability to plan a town festival.

It's not giving up what we've built here and moving overseas.

"If we were living back on Avalon Street," I say. "In our little apartment, just you and me, no child yet... would you want the job?"

"Not if you didn't want to consider moving."

"That's not an answer."

He pushes to his feet and goes to the window, looking out at the expansive view of the lights. His profile is like that of an ideal king or emperor-strong and beautiful with a straight nose and angular jaw. His hair is getting longer, in need of a cut, the thick strands brushing the back of his collar.

"You spent enough time supporting me when we were first married," he says. "I wouldn't ask you to uproot your life again, especially on this scale."

The unease inside me intensifies, like a wave building slowly beneath the surface of the ocean.

"That's still not an answer, Dean."