CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
OLIVIA
“WELCOME HOOOME!”
Bella and Nicholas dance around me like fireflies as we walk into the house, and their excitement infuses me with happiness and renewed energy. Bunches of multicolored balloons float like huge flowers from the backs of chairs, streamers curl from the doorways and windows, and big signs saying, “Welcome home, Mommy!” decorate the walls.
“Oh, it’s beautiful.” I bend to hug my jumping children. “Thank you so much. I’m so happy to be home.”
I thought I’d finally understood the concept of home over the years, but all this hospital and doctor business has given me a whole new appreciation for what it really means.
Dean took both kids out of school early so they could come to the hospital to bring me home, and we spend the entire afternoon together. I’m determined not to let exhaustion and weakness interfere, so we play in the garden, have milk and cookies, read books, draw pictures, and settle in for the evening with our usual routine of dinner, baths, and bedtime. Never before had I known how much I would love such an ordinary ritual.
Dean told me earlier that he “had to let Claire go,” and aside from demanding an instant assurance that she hadn’t done anything to Nicholas or Bella, I didn’t want to hash out the issue until we were alone. So I wait until after Nicholas and Bella are in bed before bringing up the subject.
“I don’t get it.” I set new bottles of lotion on the bathroom counter and return to the bedroom. “Why did you fire her?”
Dean is sitting in the armchair in a corner of the bedroom, his expression unreadable.
“She… uh, well, she had kind of a crush on me,” he admits after an uncomfortable silence. “She made that unfortunately clear.”
I blink in surprise. “A crush on you?”
“She apologized, but it would have been too weird to keep her here,” he continues. “And with the kids involved… no.”
I fold the travel bag slowly, blocking a surge of anger toward a girl who would make a crush on a man clear while the man’s wife is battling breast cancer.
Dean pushes to his feet and crosses the room to me. He rests his hands on my shoulders and presses his forehead against mine.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s fucked up, I know. I went ballistic before I realized she had some sort of complex about me. So I just told her to leave. She won’t be back.”
“What about the kids?”
“I talked to them this morning,” he says. “I think they’re a little confused, but we’d told them already that Claire would only be helping for a short time, so I don’t think they’d gotten too attached to her. I know we still need help. I’ll figure it out, I promise.”
I close my eyes. I’m angry Claire would do that to me, but it’s certainly not the first time I’ve had to contend with a young woman making an advance toward my husband. And now, of all times—I can’t help thinking, knowing, that if this treatment doesn’t work, or if an infection digs deep into my body, or if we discover the cancer has spread beyond my lymph nodes and I… well, women would line right up at Dean’s door.
How would I feel about that? Selfishly, I never want him to be with anyone else, but more than that, I want him to live a rich, fulfilling life.
Even without me, I want him to be happy. Not with someone like Claire, of course, but with…
No.
How could he ever be with another woman? He’s mine. Dean West has always been mine, always will be mine. We’re Liv and Dean, not Dean and… someone else. He was waiting for me even before we first met. I hadn’t known how desperately I needed him, but then he was there. No one else can have him. Ever.
The dark cloud threatens again, pushing against the bubble of happiness that has filled me over being home again.
I turn away from Dean, blocking an unwanted image of exactly how Claire might have made her crush on him clear.
Did she try to kiss him? Show off her cleavage? Touch him in a way she shouldn’t have? All of the above?
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—a turban wrapped around my bald head, my body too thin, my insides ravaged by caustic drugs, antibiotics, infection. I brush my hand unconsciously over my breasts, feeling the burn of the scar.
I don’t like feeling vain, but I miss my hair. My skin is so dry it’s starting to crack, my left breast is misshapen from the surgery, and the weight loss has left me looking almost frail. My body feels alien, like it no longer belongs to me.
I miss feeling strong, miss being able to walk long distances without needing to stop to catch my breath. I miss carrying trays through the café, picking up my children, fastening my hair into a ponytail to get it out of the way while I decorate a cake.
And—I can admit now—I even miss the occasional glances of admiration that men used to toss in my direction. Before Dean, I did everything I could not to attract attention, but since I’ve grown and changed so much, become confident in myself and my abilities—well, I guess it shows.
Or it did. Now the glances are pitying, curious, or sometimes even rude. And I wonder how long it will take before I’m able to feel good about my body again.
The air behind me warms with Dean’s presence. He slides his arms around my waist, flatting his palms against my midriff. I let his body heat burn away the cold for a moment, but the distance between the memories of who we once were and the reality of now seems like an impossibly wide chasm to breach.
I pull away from him and go into the bathroom to get ready for bed. The dark thoughts try to push into my mind—I’m defective, Dean deserves better, I can’t even be a proper wife to him right now—but I keep them at bay with the knowledge of how deeply it would upset Dean to know I was thinking such things.
For the next week, I return my focus to Nicholas and Bella, ensuring they’re not too thrown off by Claire’s sudden departure.
True to his word, Dean takes care of the nanny situation—by bringing back my old friend Marianne, who used to own the Matilda’s Teapot tearoom before she retired.
Allie and I leased the building from her to open the Wonderland Café, and Marianne was instrumental in helping us get the business started. She also helped me a great deal as a part-time nanny with Nicholas for almost two years until she moved a few hours away to be closer to her daughter and grandchildren.
“I can’t believe it.” I hug her tightly when she shows up at the door of the Butterfly House. “You’re not moving back to Mirror Lake, are you?”
“I’m staying with my sister, and I’m here for as long as you need me.” Marianne pulls back to look at me, her eyes warm. “I never told you this, Liv, but I’m a breast cancer survivor. Fifteen years and counting. You’re going to be okay.”
Coming from her, the statement has a new, powerful resonance, even though I know to my bones that it’s not always true.