CHAPTER FOUR
OLIVIA
“IT’S NOTHING,” I REPEAT, SLAMMING THE refrigerator door and putting the strawberry jam on the counter. “A cyst.”
Dean is standing on the other side of the central island, his arms crossed over his chest and his feet apart in that immovable stance I know so well. The one that indicates he’s not going to back down. Ever.
“If you don’t call Dr. Nolan,” he says, “I will.”
I turn away from him and open a jar of peanut butter. My hand is steady, but I can feel the trembles just below the surface. The start of an earthquake.
“Pen… goo… in.” Nicholas’s voice drifts from the sunroom, where he is eating breakfast and studying the back of the cereal box, which has fun facts about various animals. “Penguin.”
“Good job,” I call, spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread. “Penguins are one of my favorite animals.”
“Liv.” Dean’s voice is tense. “Am I calling the doctor, or are you?”
I throw an irritated look at him over my shoulder. “Really? You’re going to threaten me?”
His jaw tightens. “I am not threatening you. I want you to get this checked out.”
“And if I don’t want to because I don’t need to, then what?” I snap. “You’re going to drag me to Dr. Nolan’s office?”
“If I have to,” he replies curtly.
“Nice. I thought your caveman days were long gone. Guess I was mistaken.”
I know I’m picking a fight—for no other reason than to get us both off the subject of me needing the doctor to look at a lump in my breast.
“Liv.” Dean keeps his level tone, not rising to the bait. “You can stall all you want, but I’m not letting this go. Either you make the appointment, or I will.”
I slap strawberry jam on another slice of bread. My hands are shaking now.
A lump in my breast?
That can’t possibly be true.
But it’s there. I felt it, too. Last night, Dean guided my hand to the spot, and it was there. A hard, small lump, not much bigger than the size of a marble, just beneath the surface of my skin.
Of course it’s nothing. I’m thirty-six years old. I’ve had two children. Maybe it’s hormonal, or a change in the breast tissue. Or, like I told Dean, a cyst. Cysts are so common. At worst, it might be some sort of infection, though that would certainly require a trip to the doctor…
I feel Dean coming up behind me, the air growing warmer the closer he gets. Though I steel my spine, the weight of his hands on my shoulders is like a key turning in the lock of my defenses.
I swallow hard and concentrate on spreading the jam evenly over the bread.
“Liv, please.” His voice roughens. “Make an appointment. I know it’s probably nothing, but you’ve never had anything like that in your breast before, and you need to have the doctor take a look at it.”
I know he’s right. I don’t want to admit it, but of course he’s right.
I put my hand unconsciously over my left breast. It hasn’t hurt at all… or has it? I’ve been aware of some soreness there, but not once did I think to examine it further.
“Does it hurt?” Dean asks.
I shake my head. “There was… I’ve had some discomfort over the past couple of weeks, but I figured I just needed new bras or something.”
“You noticed something was wrong?”
“No.” I pull away from him and grab a sandwich bag. “Nothing is wrong, Dean. I noticed some irritation, that’s all. It’s probably related to my period.”
“And you need to talk to the doctor about it.” Dean steps closer to me, his mouth tightening with frustration. “One of us is making an appointment. Is it going to be you or me?”
I put the peanut-butter sandwich inside the bag and place it in Nicholas’s lunchbox before picking up my coffee and joining our son at the table. He’s still studying the cereal box, which makes me hope he wasn’t listening to our conversation.
Dean and I are quite careful about what we discuss in front of the children. The fact that we ignored Nicholas’s presence in the sunroom is a measure of how much a lump in my breast has unnerved us.
“So what does it say about penguins?” I ask, nodding to the cereal box.
“Look at this one.” Nicholas points to a penguin with a shock of yellow hair sticking straight up from his head. “What kind is it?”
“That’s a macaroni penguin,” I reply. “He must be like Yankee Doodle. Stuck a feather in his cap and called it macaroni.”
“Oh, hey, can we go see that new penguin movie this weekend?” Nicholas asks, shoveling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.
“We’ll see,” I reply, in the classic parental non-response.
A faint rustling noise comes from the baby monitor, which we still use to be able to hear the kids if they call us from their bedrooms. Dean goes upstairs to get Bella, while Nicholas and I finish breakfast.
“Hi.” Bella wanders into the kitchen ahead of Dean, rubbing one eye and clutching her beloved stuffed owl Hoot.
I hold out my arms. She comes to hug me, her warm body pressing against mine, her messy hair tickling my face. She smells like strawberries and shampoo.
“Sleep well?” I ask.
She nods, yawning. Nicholas is always ready to eat breakfast as soon as he wakes up, but Bella likes to curl up on the sofa first and look at picture books. I get her settled with a blanket and a set of books about Max and Ruby. Leaving Dean to finish the morning breakfast routine, I go upstairs to shower and dress.
I turn the water on hotter than I usually do. The act of taking off my robe and nightgown is no longer automatic, as I’m acutely conscious of my naked breasts. My left breast, which looks like it always has, despite the presence of something unknown.
Lump. It’s a horrible word, indicating spoilage and wrongness. Curdled milk, mold, rusted metal, bad mashed potatoes. Lumps are an indicator of ruin.
I try to avoid touching it as I shower and dress, but I can still feel it, burning beneath my skin.
Nothing, I tell myself repeatedly. It’s nothing. A cyst. At the very most dramatic, a fibroid tumor. Not… that.
I push aside the gnawing concern and finish getting ready for the day. I have to work at the café, volunteer in Nicholas’s classroom, take Bella to gymnastics, and make arrangements for the Traveling Wonderland Café to host two weekend birthday parties. I don’t have time to worry about a cyst in my breast.
When I return downstairs, Dean has Nicholas dressed and ready for school, while Bella is finishing a bowl of oatmeal.
“Go get your shoes and coat on, buddy,” Dean tells Nicholas, ruffling his hair. “I’ll be right there.”
Nicholas holds out his arms and makes a zoom zoom noise as he flies toward the front door where his shoes and backpack are waiting. Dean shrugs into his suit jacket and picks up his car keys.
“Make the appointment, Liv,” he says. “Please.”
I don’t look at him, but I nod. I realize it’s better if I can see Dr. Nolan sooner rather than later. Then, when she tells me it’s nothing to worry about, we can put this whole situation behind us and get back to normal.
“All right,” I finally say. “But I don’t want you to come with me.”
His jaw tightens. He pulls on his winter peacoat.
“I don’t need either of us to make this into a bigger deal than it is,” I add.
Dean pauses to look at me, reaching out to brush his hand over my hair. “All right. But call me afterward and tell me what Dr. Nolan says.”
I bend to help Nicholas zip up his jacket. I hug and kiss them both goodbye before getting Bella ready for preschool. When I return to the kitchen to get her lunchbox, I see a note stuck to the fridge:
The note makes me smile, and I tuck it into my purse as Bella and I head outside. It’s a cold, rainy day with an iron-colored sky arching overhead. Bella stomps around in her fire-engine-red boots, splashing through mud puddles and bending to look at worms.
“Come on, honey, let’s go.” I hold open the car door and watch as she runs toward me, her jacket hood already half-off.
I drop her off at preschool, then drive to the café. After locking myself in the office, I call Dr. Nolan’s number and explain the reason for my call to the receptionist. She asks me to hold for a minute.
“Mrs. West, we have a cancellation this afternoon,” she says when she comes back on the line. “Dr. Nolan would like to see you then. Can you be here at one-thirty?”
My heart stutters. I was expecting to make an appointment for a couple of weeks from now, and mostly just to appease Dean.
“I… yes, I’ll be there,” I tell the receptionist. “Thank you.”
I hang up and text Dean to find out if he can pick Bella up after school and take her to gymnastics. He responds: Yes. Call me right after the appt.
I toss the phone aside. His sense of urgency is annoying, especially since there’s nothing to worry about. And considering the number of times he’s resisted going to the doctor (“It’s just a cold, Liv, not the flu”), his insistence feels a bit hypocritical as well.
I struggle against the urge to do an Internet search about breast lumps—I remember searching for “dizziness” a few years ago, after I’d gotten light-headed during a café shift. The resulting search led me to think I had everything from anemia to heart disease—when really it turned out I’d just forgotten to eat lunch.
I go to the front counter, where Allie is icing a tray of fresh éclairs and Archer is hunkered beneath the cold case with his toolbox, trying to locate and fix the source of a small leak.
“Allie, I need to leave half an hour early today,” I say. “I’ll finish payroll later tonight.”
“Sure, that’s fine. Brent’s coming in at two, so I might be able to get to it, depending on how busy we are.” Allie steps back to admire her handiwork on the éclairs. “Kid-related issue?”
“No, I…” Something sticks in my throat. I shake my head. “Something just came up.”
I feel her glance at me, as if she senses I dodged the issue. Part of me wants to confide in her, knowing she’ll give me a bucketful of gentle reassurances.
Allie was the one who convinced me to take cooking classes in Paris, and she and I Skyped and emailed on a weekly basis while I was abroad. A couple of years ago, Dean and I made a special trip back to Mirror Lake to attend her and Brent’s wedding. Not even an ocean’s distance has affected our rock-solid friendship.
But I don’t want to worry her for no reason. I pick up the coffeepot and turn to the counter, where Florence Wickham is sitting with her paramour, Mr. Jenkins.
“Hey, Liv, what do you call a fake noodle?” Mr. Jenkins asks.
“What?” I reply dutifully.
“An impasta!” He chortles and claps his hands.
I smile in response. “Are you packing enough jokes for your trip to Florida?”
“Oh, he has a suitcase full,” Florence says with a sigh, though she gives Mr. Jenkins a look of pure devotion. “By the way, Olivia, thank you for checking in on the house watering the plants while we’re gone. I’m a little worried about my peace lily.”
“Happy to do it.”
“I need either a stiff drink or a cookie,” announces a female voice. “Maybe both.”
We all glance up as Kelsey comes through the front door, her red heels clicking on the floor as she strides to the counter. Archer slides out from under the cold case and gets to his feet, his gaze going to her like an arrow.
“Oh no.” Kelsey holds up her hand. “Don’t give me that look, Archer West.”
Instead of seeming affronted by her sharp tone, a slow grin spreads over Archer’s face. “Are you a premier member yet?”
“I am,” Florence says.
“Florence, I’m surprised you’re not the president,” Kelsey remarks, sitting on a stool beside the other woman.
“What’s going on?” Allie asks.
Kelsey reaches into her bag for her cell phone as Archer approaches the counter. For some reason, he looks rather pleased with himself.
“Insufferable,” Kelsey mutters, scrolling on her phone. “That’s what he is. Insufferable.”
She holds out her phone to show us the ending of the clip of Archer’s dog rescue. The screen flashes with the words:
Join the Archer West Fan Club
All Archer, all the time!
www.archerwestfanclub.com
“Really?” Allie says with delight, grabbing the phone from Kelsey. “Archer has his own fan club?”
“A very well-deserved one,” Florence says warmly, reaching across the counter to squeeze Archer’s biceps.
I peer over Allie’s shoulder as she pulls up the fan club website, which is filled with Storm Hunters screenshots of Archer, as well as candid shots that someone in town must have taken. There are clips of his appearances on Storm Hunters and message boards to discuss “All Things Archer West.”
“Seven hundred members already,” Allie says. “Look at these topics. Your Favorite Archer Episode. Archer Encounters. All About Archer. Oh my God.”
She stops and looks at Kelsey. “Did you see this?”
“See what?”
“This.”
Allie holds out the phone to show us the forum topic Archer and Kelsey.
“Uh oh,” I mutter, knowing Kelsey and Archer have always been careful about revealing too much about their personal relationship on Storm Hunters. Viewers know they’re together, but they make a point of being professional on-screen to maintain as much privacy as possible.
So much for that, apparently.
Allie scrolls through the forum messages, which reveal two factions—the “’shippers” who are all for a relationship between Archer and Kelsey (“Archey for life!”) and those who would rather see Archer with anyone but Kelsey (“Omigod, she is so wrong for him! He’s such a hottie!”).
I get a chocolate-chip cookie out of a jar and put it on a plate for Kelsey. “How long has this been live?”
“Two days.” Kelsey bites into the cookie. “The hottie over there told me he set up an account for me so I could participate in the fangirling.”
“Well, you’re all over me every day anyway.” Archer shrugs. “Might as well make it official.”
Kelsey throws me a how do I live with him? look.
“Whoa.” Allie’s eyes widen as she scrolls through the website. “Did you see this one? They’re calling you Cruella de Vil.”
“What?” Kelsey grabs the phone back.
I move to look over her shoulder. Sure enough, a whole faction of Archer fans is deriding Kelsey for calling the dog a “mangy creature” and refusing to let it into the back of the armored car.
She is SUCH a Cruella de Vil! How can Archer even like her? She totally would have made a coat out of that dog if HE hadn’t rescued it! Does PETA know about C de V?
“I didn’t want the dog in the car because we had all the computer equipment in the backseat,” Kelsey says in exasperation. “The dog would have gotten it all wet and muddy and ruined it completely. And for the record, it was a mangy creature.”
“Well, the battle lines are clearly drawn,” Allie says.
Archer and Kelsey lock gazes. A sizzle of heat flickers between them.
“Good thing we’re on the same side,” he remarks.
“Choose your weapons, tough guy,” Kelsey murmurs.
“Prepare to surrender, storm girl.”
“Oh my God, get a room, you two,” Allie says.
A rustle of laughter rises. I turn away, suddenly uneasy at the talk of battles and weapons.
My phone buzzes inside my apron pocket. I glance at it to see a call from Dean lighting up the screen. I turn off the phone without responding and head into the kitchen.