CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OLIVIA
December 12
I NEED TO BE THE STRONG one, the one who keeps our ship sailing on calm waters.
It’s my mantra, the dictate I repeat to myself as I go through our daily routine. Dr. Anderson calls me with the good news that I tested negative for the BRCA gene mutation, which solidifies my choice to go forward with the lumpectomy.
As I promised North, I go to an art store and buy a thick, high quality drawing pad, charcoal, and colored pencils. Despite everything, it’s not difficult to think of “things that make me happy,” so in the evenings before dinner when Nicholas and Bella are reading or playing with their toys, I sit at the table and make sketches of gardens, flowers, cupcakes, and Paris.
The drawings help me look both forward and backward—walking through Paris gardens, pushing Bella in her stroller as Nicholas ran ahead chasing birds, and thinking about what new annuals I’ll plant in the garden next spring.
I start dinner preparations around six, calling Nicholas to come and do his homework. Dean comes into the kitchen, unshaven with his tie loose around his neck and his hair messy.
Usually when he gets home from work, he changes clothes and goes to hang out with the kids, occasionally coming into the kitchen to either sample whatever I’m cooking or to give me a pat on the rear. Often both. But lately he greets us all when he comes home, then goes up to his office until I text him that dinner is ready.
He puts a printout on the counter, turning it in my direction. I don’t spare it a glance as I continue slicing potatoes.
“So, did I tell you the latest in the Archey saga?” I ask brightly. “The producers want Kelsey and Archer to get married to bump up ratings for Storm Hunters. And of course Kelsey said no way in hell, and Archer is all fired up about proving they’d be even better as a married—”
“Liv, I don’t care about Archer and Kelsey’s love life right now.” Dean taps his finger on the paper. “Your surgeon is heading a clinical trial about assessing tumor margins. It’s worth asking him about.”
My spine tenses. I glance toward the sunroom, where Nicholas is doing his math worksheet and Bella is stamping out designs on her doodle pad. I want to be honest with our children about my illness, but I do not want them overhearing constant references to cancer and tumors.
“Can we talk about this later?” I ask Dean in a low voice.
“Yes, but when is your next appointment with Dr. Turner?”
“Not until the pre-op visit.”
“You have a pre-op visit? Did you schedule the surgery?”
Shit. This is a conversation I was hoping to save until later. But I know Dean will not let it go.
I drop the potato I’m holding and go into the living room where the kids have less chance of overhearing.
“Liv, when is the surgery?” Dean asks impatiently.
“Dr. Turner is one of the top-rated surgeons in the Midwest,” I say, “but that means he’s also in high-demand.”
“And?”
“And that means they can’t schedule the surgery until after the new year,” I tell him.
Dean stares at me. “What?”
“His nurse called me this morning.” I try to keep my tone calm and reasonable. “The earliest available appointment is during the first week of January.”
“We’re not waiting until January to have your surgery.”
“Well, we don’t have much choice. I talked to Dr. Anderson about it, and he said that a couple of weeks won’t make a difference, that it’s more important for me to be comfortable with my decision.”
“Hey, Mom, did my Lego Club magazine come today?” Nicholas calls.
“I haven’t checked the mail yet, honey,” I call back. “Could you go check it for me, please?”
“Okay.”
Dean folds his arms, irritation still radiating from him. “Liv, we won’t know anything else until after the surgery. We need the full pathology report.”
“I know that, Dean.” I return to the kitchen. “And we’ll get it. After the new year.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when you got the call?”
“I wanted to double-check with Dr. Anderson that the wait would be okay. And he said yes.”
I feel Dean looking at me, sense his frustration building again. I take a breath and approach him, reaching out to put my hand on his chest.
“Dean, I’d much rather wait and have Dr. Turner do the surgery than find someone else,” I tell him. “And I don’t mind waiting because that means we can still have the kind of Christmas we’ve always had before. I don’t want to be recovering from surgery over the holidays or, worse, waiting for the pathology reports. This way, we can stop thinking about it for a while and just enjoy the holidays.”
“Stop thinking about it?” He lowers his voice. “I can’t stop thinking about it for a second, much less over two more weeks.”
Neither can I. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try. And I don’t confess that part of me is relieved to have a delay in the surgery. At the Wonderland Café, the holidays are always bustling with activity, and I’m often involved with numerous town events as well, none of which I want to miss.
We have to organize the Wonderland gift-giving tree for foster children and the Sunday teatime for the women’s shelter. We need to decorate both the café and the Butterfly House with Christmas trees, lights, and wreaths. There’s the annual holiday art fair, Victorian Christmas tours at the Langdon House, the Historical Society party, and the new “Christmas Through the Ages” exhibit at the museum.
It will be difficult for me to organize and help with all of that if I’m recovering from surgery or stressed out about the results of the pathology report.
Which won’t reveal anything new anyway.
“This is the way it is,” I tell Dean, stirring a pot of soup on the stove. “Nothing we do will magically change Dr. Turner’s schedule, so either we deal with it or get angry over nothing.”
Dean’s mouth tightens. Because of course he’s not angry over nothing.
He turns and leaves the kitchen, his shoulders stiff. I watch him go, feeling that increasingly familiar frustration of my own that I don’t know what to do for him.
“Mom!”
“In the kitchen, honey.”
“Look what I found.” Nicholas barrels in from the foyer, several envelopes falling from beneath his arm. He’s holding a wide, flat box wrapped with shiny red paper and a gift tag reading For Liv.
I set down my spoon and take the box from him. “It was by the mailbox?”
“Yeah. I don’t know who brought it.” He hops from foot to foot with excitement. “Bella, come here. We got a package.”
She hurries over, clambering onto a stool at the counter. “Oh, pretty paper.”
“Open it,” Nicholas says.
“It’s from Santa?” Bella asks.
“I don’t think so, sweetie,” I say. “Santa is still at the North Pole getting ready for Christmas.”
I set the box in front of them. Nicholas takes hold of the lid on one side, and Bella grabs the other. On the count of three, they both lift the lid to reveal a nest of purple tissue paper. Nicholas opens it up.
“Wow. Cool.”
“A butterfly,” Bella announces.
Nicholas reaches into the box and holds up a stained-glass sun-catcher of a beautiful monarch butterfly, the orange-and-black wings spread against a pale blue background.
I rifle through the tissue paper for a note or card, but there is none.
“Who’s it from?” Nicholas asks, squinting to peer at the kitchen lights through the glass.
“I have no idea. Someone who cares about us, that’s for sure.”
“A butterfly for the Butterfly House,” Nicholas remarks. “Where should we hang it?”
We decide the sunroom is the best place, and I nail a hook to the window frame so the butterfly can catch all the light streaming into the house.
“Who do you think sent it?” Dean asks at dinner.
“I don’t know. Maybe Florence or Kelsey?” I glance at the sun-catcher, which also seems like an Allie Lyons kind of gift, except that her reaction to the news of my illness doesn’t fit with gift giving.
“I guess we’re not supposed to know,” I say. “It’s a message that we’re cared for.”
“Hey, why is this place called the Butterfly House anyway?” Nicholas asks. “The only place we have butterflies is the garden sometimes.”
“This house was built in the 19th century by a man who was a famous naturalist,” I explain, adding more mashed potatoes to Bella’s plate. “Leonard Morris. He traveled the world studying butterflies and other insects. He built a big greenhouse in the backyard and started collecting live butterflies. He’d bring them back from Africa and South America and keep them in the greenhouse along with all sorts of exotic plants and flowers. I read that at one point he had a hundred different varieties of butterflies in the greenhouse. People came from all over to see them, but he never charged admission. He just wanted people to enjoy the beauty of butterflies.”
“Cool.” Nicholas looks impressed.
“I like butterflies,” Bella remarks.
“What happened to the greenhouse?” Nicholas asks. “We should build one and fill it with butterflies like that Morris guy did.”
“I guess the greenhouse was torn down awhile ago,” I say. “When Dad and I bought this house, it was very rundown, on the verge of being demolished. But we wanted to bring it back to its original glory, so we bought it and fixed it all up. We wanted it to be our family home.”
“Like the Weasleys and the Burrow,” Nicholas says. “But without the magic.”
“We have magic,” Dean assures our son. “Just a different kind.”
I glance at him, then at the sun-catcher that is capturing the last rays of twilight, then back at Dean. He catches my eye and winks, and for a moment, the pain between us disappears into a flood of tenderness.
He’s still here, my warm, sexy Dean with his hint-of-wicked smile and brown eyes that crinkle at the corners. I just have to look harder to find him now.
Claire bounds into the café with Nicholas and Bella at her heels. She’s glowing with health, her blond hair caught in a messy ponytail and her cheeks rosy from the cold.
“Hey, Liv.” She bends to help Bella climb onto a stool at the front counter. “We just spent a few hours at the children’s museum. They were doing some fun experiments and art stuff up on the rooftop garden.”
“Thanks for taking them.” I reach over to brush Bella’s windswept hair out of her eyes. “We had a server call in sick, so if you don’t mind bringing them home, I’ll be back around six.”
“Sure. Do you need me to stop at the grocery store or fix dinner?”
“No, I’ll take care of it. But thanks.”
She turns to help Nicholas take the wrapper off a straw. I think—not without a bit of reluctance—that it is easier with Claire around. At least now, I don’t have to call Kelsey, Archer, or one of my mom friends to help with the kids if I need it.
I get Nicholas and Bella their after-school snacks before they leave with Claire. I go into the kitchen to fill several orders. Allie is at the service counter, arranging plates of dessert.
“I asked Gretchen to come in and cover for Sam,” she tells me as I reach for a clean teapot on a nearby shelf. “So you can go home.”
“It’s okay, I can stay. Claire is taking care of the kids.”
Allie glances at me. “How’s that going?”
“Fine. I mean, it’s helpful to have a nanny even when everything is normal, but now… well, Dean was right that it’s making things easier.”
“How long will she be with you?”
“Through the surgery, then we’ll reassess after that.”
“And when is the surgery?”
“January third.” I pour boiling water into the blue teapot and stir the tea leaves inside. “At least we’ll have a good holiday.”
“So you’ll still be working?” She concentrates on putting extra sprinkles on the rainbow parfaits.
“Yes, of course. I’ll need some time off after the surgery, but not too much.”
“Well, the first week of the year is always really busy,” Allie says. “With all the post-Christmas shoppers, and the New Year’s tea we hold for the senior center.”
“I know. But the recovery time for surgery isn’t supposed to be too bad. I should be able to come back within a week.”
“And if you can’t?”
“Then we’ll figure it out.”
“I’m sorry you have to go through this.” Allie finishes arranging the tea tray and picks it up. “I really am. But we have to have a plan rather than figure things out as we go along. And it sounds like you should focus on getting well starting as soon as possible, which means taking all the medical leave you need. Brent and I will take care of the café.”
A bolt of hurt fires through me. I grab Allie’s arm before she can leave. She startles, steadying the tray.
“Look, you seem to be having trouble with my diagnosis,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “I mean, I understand if you are. I’m having trouble with it too.”
A shadow passes across her face. “I’m sorry, Liv. I don’t deal with this kind of thing very well.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not going to go away. At least, not soon.”
“I know. That’s why I think you should focus on getting through treatment and leave things here to me and Brent.”
“I’m not going to stop working, Allie. I can’t. And I don’t even feel sick, so why would I want to stop?”
“I’m just saying we also need to do what’s best for our customers and staff,” Allie says. “I’m not trying to sound harsh, just practical. And I want your mind to be at ease about our business.”
“What about our friendship?”
“That’s why I’m suggesting this.”
She pulls her arm from my grip. Puzzled and hurt, I let her go. I’m still standing by the counter when Brent comes into the kitchen.
“Hey, Brent, has Allie said anything to you about my diagnosis?” I ask.
He stops, a look of discomfort passing over his features. “Not really. I mean, it’s tough on her, Liv. She doesn’t think she can handle it.”
She doesn’t think she can handle it? It’s tough on her?
The questions scrape my throat. I swallow them back down.
“Well, I’m going to continue working,” I tell him. “This is my café too.”
“Yeah, sure.” Brent scratches his head. “Um, I think Allie just wants you to know we can handle things when you need time off.”
“Message received.” I toss a dishtowel on the counter and go out to the dining room, impatience sticking me like a pin.
Not even the usual sounds of chatter and laughter ease my prickly nerves. I take a breath and tell myself not to get upset. Some people can’t deal with a sick friend. Allie must be one of them, though never in a million years would I have guessed that before now.
Just the opposite, in fact—I’d have thought Allie would be the one jumping in with bucketloads of support dusted with pink glitter. Instead she’s retreating behind a wall—and God knows I don’t need to deal with another damned wall right now.
I blink back a sting of tears. I’ve often gone to Allie for advice over the years, and her response has always been her unique mixture of practicality and sunny “everything will be fine” promises. I could use both of those things right now, especially since I keep coming up against my husband’s relentless drive for action.
After I finish my shift, I take out my cell phone and dial Dean’s number, needing to commiserate with him and hear his words of reassurance that everything will work out with Allie and the café.
But as the phone rings, I think that I don’t want to burden him with another tale of woe. It’s a slippery slope, I know—Dean and I have a history of keeping things from each other, to upsetting results—but I’m not going to run crying to him about every bump in the road. I can’t give him another thing to be angry and frustrated about.
His phone goes to voicemail. I hesitate, then end the call without leaving a message.
I stop in the bathroom doorway, almost surprised to see Dean sitting in bed, his attention on his tablet. Lately he’s still been in his tower office when I turn off the light to go to sleep. At the moment, he has the “scholar at work” look I especially love—reading glasses on, his serious expression conveying that he’s thinking very hard about something, his hair messy from finger-combing.
He’s also not wearing a shirt—yet another sight that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. I let my gaze travel over the smooth musculature of his shoulders, his beautifully defined chest.
He’s still here, I remind myself, as I cross to the bed. We are still here.
Dean glances up as I approach, his eyes going to the sway of my breasts beneath my sheer nightgown. A tingle washes through me, gentle and welcome. I climb into bed and scoot closer to him.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I remark, resting my hand on his chest. “I was beginning to think you were camping out up in the tower.”
He lifts my hand from his chest and rubs his thumb over the scar, now faded to a thin, white line, that crosses my palm. He presses his lips against it, sending a warm current clear up my arm.
Tension coils through him—but it’s not the hot, anticipatory tension that always precedes our lovemaking. Instead it’s something darker.
I curl my fingers into my palm, hiding the faint evidence of the knife cut that Dean will always feel guilty about. Even if I carry plenty of blame for instigating the chain of events that led to me cutting open my own hand.
I lean closer to him, nudging my breasts against his arm. He smells clean and soapy, and a tiny drop of water still clings to his neck from his damp hair. I flick my tongue out to lick up the drop, feeling the responding shudder that courses through him.
I stroke his chest again, teasing my fingers over the ridges of his abdomen, down past the flat plane of his belly and below the sheet. He’s wearing drawstring pajama pants, and I wiggle my hand beneath the waistband. He doesn’t turn toward me the way he usually does, but he doesn’t try to stop me either.
My sex is starting to pulse. I slide my hand lower to touch the warm, silky skin of his cock.
“Come on, Dean,” I whisper, closing my hand around his shaft. “Make me feel good.”
A heavy breath escapes him as he brings his hand up to the back of my head, guiding my mouth to his. Stars explode inside me when our lips meet in a hot, gentle kiss that is both like the thousands of kisses we’ve shared before and yet somehow entirely different.
I open my mouth on a moan, letting him in, loving the sweep of his tongue over mine. Heat travels through me, flickering over my veins. Dean’s cock stiffens in my hand, the warm, pulsing flesh making me clench my thighs with anticipation.
“Take these off,” I say, tugging ineffectually at his pants.
He pushes them off and drops them to the floor, then pulls my nightgown over my head. His eyes darken with lust as he rakes his gaze over my naked body—my full breasts and all the hollows and curves he knows so well.
“You are so damned incredible,” he murmurs, cupping my breasts in his hands and rubbing his thumbs gently over my nipples.
A spool of lust begins to unwind inside me, and my sex dampens in response to my husband’s erotic ministrations. I lift my face to his, aching for his kiss. He eases me back against the pillows and brings his mouth to mine. The heat of his body covers me, his hard chest pressing against my breasts. I wind my legs around his thighs and surrender to his sweeping kiss, the stroke of his tongue, the growing urgency coiling through his muscles.
Bliss.
The word dances through my mind like a dandelion fluff on the breeze. I murmur his name, driving my fingers into his thick hair and holding him to me. Arousal courses through my blood. I part my legs wider, urging him to settle between them. His erection nudges against my thigh, the feel of the smooth, damp head ratcheting up my arousal.
“Oh, God, Dean,” I whisper, stroking my palm down his gorgeous chest. “I’m already hot.”
“You’ve always been hot.” A wicked glint flashes in his eyes as he slips his hand between my thighs to finger my pussy. “Ah fuck, hot and wet too. You’re killing me here, Mrs. West. I was trying to go slow.”
“You don’t have to go slow.” I wiggle underneath him, aching to feel his big cock thrusting into me, swift and possessive. “I’m ready.”
He reaches down to grasp his shaft and position it right at my slit. A tremble of anticipation rocks through me. I pull him down to me, driving my tongue into his mouth as his hard, pulsing shaft slides into me with delicious—
A gasp tears from my throat. Pain shoots through my left breast, a stinging burn like a flame. My whole body stiffens in sudden defense.
“What?” Dean jerks away from me, his hands going up. “What’s wrong?”
I force in a breath and sit up, clutching my breast.
“Liv, what happened?” Alarm edges his voice.
Stay calm, I tell myself. I look at my breast, half expecting to see a burn or a cut, but it looks the same as always. I put my hand out to Dean.
“It’s… it’s okay. Just a twinge.”
“That was more than a twinge.” He starts to move closer, then backs away, like he’s scared to touch me again. “Do you want me to call Dr. Anderson?”
I shake my head, hating that this fucking disease—and the mention of my doctor—have ruined much-needed intimacy with my husband.
“No, it’s getting better. Sometimes there are just random pains.” The words sound hollow. I pat the bed beside me and try to smile. “Come back here. It’s fine, really.”
He hesitates, and I see his urge to hurry to the computer to find an explanation, even though we already know cancer is the explanation.
“Dean, I’m fine. Please come back to bed.”
Finally he lies back down beside me, though he’s still tense and the desire between us has evaporated. He pulls me to him with caution, as if he’s still afraid he’ll hurt me by touching me. Never before has my husband been afraid of touching me.
We’re both silent. I stare at the ceiling. The physical pain has ebbed, but my heart aches.
Dean and I have learned so much through all the storms we’ve weathered in the past. We know how to stand together. So why now, of all times in the world, does it feel like we’re starting to fall apart?
Again?