CHAPTER FORTY
OLIVIA
July 12
SMILING SUNS, BEACH UMBRELLAS, AND COLORFUL flowers decorate the windows of the shops on Avalon Street. Sailboats and kayaks dot the lake, and the beaches are crowded with families splashing in the water and playing in the sand.
Downtown Mirror Lake is bustling with Saturday afternoon activity—children slurping up melting ice-cream cones, strolling couples carrying plastic cups of iced coffee, locals putting out sandwich boards and tidying up their shop fronts.
I walk down Emerald Street to the café, which is sporting a newly landscaped front garden blooming with petunias and marigolds. The staff is busy with the lunch rush, and I quickly tie on an apron to help at the front counter.
Allie pushes through the kitchen doors, carrying a tray filled with sandwiches. I put down a coffee carafe and hurry toward her.
“I’ll take it,” I say, reaching for the tray.
She gives me an amused look. “Liv, I’m fine.”
“I know, I know. Just humor me, okay?” I manage to wrest the tray from her and head into the dining room to deliver the food.
When I return to the kitchen, Allie is standing at a table organizing a Mad Hatter tea platter with cucumber sandwiches and chocolate éclairs.
“You sure you don’t want me and Brent to babysit tonight?” she asks me. “Seems you and Dean should at least have a romantic dinner alone on your tenth anniversary.”
“We’ll do that another night,” I reply. “Tonight we want to celebrate our anniversary with the kids. Kelsey and Archer offered to take them this weekend, so Dean and I are going to rent a cottage at the Wildwood Inn.”
“Okay, I approve of that.” Allie reaches for a stack of fluted paper cups on a shelf.
“I can finish this for you,” I say, taking the cups from her. “You should sit down.”
“You are so annoying.” Allie pokes me gently in the side. “Did I act like this when you were pregnant?”
“No, but you did tell me to consult an astrologer to ensure Nicholas’s name would fit well with his birth sign.”
“And did you?”
“Uh, sure. Well, if reading his horoscope in the newspaper counts.” I grin at her before reaching over to rub her round belly beneath her apron. “Speaking of names, have you come up with any yet?”
“Brent wanted Edmund if it’s a boy, after his Uncle Edmund.” Allie rolls her eyes. “I said no way. But we agreed on Sophie, if it’s a girl. That was my mother’s name.”
“Aw, that’s nice.”
“Sophie Olivia.”
My heart does a little flip. For a second, I can’t speak.
Allie smiles and reaches out with one arm to hug me.
“I wouldn’t name a girl after anyone else,” she says. “Only you and my mother.”
“Thank you.” I return her hug as my eyes well up with tears. “But I need to walk away right now or I’m going to sob all over the rainbow parfaits.”
After giving her another squeeze, I grab a napkin to wipe my eyes and return to the dining room. My heart just can’t contain it all—my great fortune, my recent “all clear” from Dr. Anderson, my everlasting friendships.
Because of summer, the lunch rush eases right into our afternoon teatime, and it’s four o’clock before I leave the café. Dean had promised to take the kids swimming, and he texts me that they’re still at the beach.
I walk to the west shore, where the sun is still casting ribbons of light over the lake. Dressed in swimming trunks, Dean is sitting on a towel, his elbows on his raised knees as he keeps an eye on Nicholas and Bella.
I let my gaze track over the golden-brown skin of his back, the streaks of light brown in his hair, the tanned muscularity of his bare arms and legs.
Awareness tingles through me. I come up behind him and settle my hand on the back of his neck. He turns to look up at me.
“Ah, my favorite mermaid,” he remarks.
“Hi Mom!” Nicholas yells from the water as he does some sort of pinwheel-type splashing.
I wave at him and Bella, who is digging a hole in the sand by the water’s edge.
I sit beside Dean, sliding my hand over the warm tautness of his shoulder. Later tonight I’ll trace the same path with my lips.
Oh yes. Olivia West gets her groove back once again. This time, for good.
“I thought we’d have homemade pizza for dinner,” I tell him. “I’ll stop at the store and get all the ingredients.”
“Sounds good.” He leans over to give me a kiss, one that tastes like sunshine and summer. “The kids show no sign of wanting to leave, but I’ll try to get them home by five-thirty.”
“Okay.” I let my lips linger on his. “Happy anniversary, handsome.”
“Happy anniversary, love of my life.”
We part slowly. I wave at Bella and Nicholas again before walking toward the grocery store.
As I pass a block of shops on the west end of Avalon Street, I stop and look across at the opposite row of buildings. Between a florist and a new pottery studio called Mrs. Potts’ Place, a narrow wooden door sits like a secret entrance leading to the apartment where Dean and I once lived.
I lift my gaze to the wrought-iron balcony above. Fat, colorful planters overflow with ferns and plants, and a baker’s rack against the wall displays glazed plates painted with similar bright, Italian-inspired designs as the pottery in the shop window below.
The French doors leading onto the balcony are open, with cream-colored, floral curtains rippling in the breeze. A woman parts the curtains and steps onto the balcony with a watering can.
She’s young, in her mid-twenties, her light brown hair falling to her shoulders. Over capris and a T-shirt, she’s wearing an apron that says Mrs. Potts’ Place.
She must be the owner of the studio. The last time I passed this way, the French doors were still closed and the balcony was empty, as if no one lived here. Now there’s this pretty young woman who makes beautiful pottery and clearly loves plants.
Nice. Another reason to be happy.
The woman looks up, something down the street catching her eye. A cute, curly-haired young man is climbing off his bike and fastening it to the bike rack. He looks up at the balcony and waves at the woman, a grin breaking out across his face at the sight of her.
She smiles and waves in return. He quickens his pace and unlocks the door beside the pottery shop. The woman sets down her watering can and goes back into the apartment. The curtains flutter closed.
I turn and continue walking, feeling warm and fuzzy inside. I’ll have to bring Bella to visit Mrs. Potts’ Place sometime soon. She’d love trying out a pottery wheel. So would I, as a matter of fact.
After buying groceries, I return to the Butterfly House and get things started for dinner. The front door soon opens with a flurry of noise and excited chatter.
I put down a spoon and go to greet my family. For some reason, Dean is the only one standing in the foyer. The front door is closed, the outlines of the kids appearing behind the stained glass windows.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Dean holds up his hands beseechingly. “Don’t be mad.”
I frown. “Why should I be mad?”
“It was just really hard to resist,” he says.
“What was hard to resist?”
Dean flashes me his patented Dean West smile, which he knows perfectly well makes me all weak and mushy inside.
“Well, your beauty, for one thing,” he remarks.
“Dean West.” I cross my arms and steel myself against his charm. “What are you trying to hide?”
Then I hear it.
A bark.
I push past Dean and open the door. Bella and Nicholas are crouched on the front porch, laughing at a small, rambunctious, and entirely adorable mixed-retriever puppy.
“Oh. My. God.” I stare at the dog, then at Dean. “You did not buy a dog.”
“No,” he assures me hastily. “I didn’t buy a dog.”
“He was free,” Nicholas says gleefully.
The puppy comes running over to sniff my legs, its tail wagging like a motor as it jumps up to greet me.
“The Humane Society had a rescue animal van in the beach parking lot,” Dean explains. “And we saw… uh, this little guy, and well, he seemed really friendly and…”
“Keep him, Mommy, please?” Bella begs, turning her imploring gaze on me.
The dog grabs the hem of my skirt between his teeth and tugs.
“I don’t think we can take care of a dog,” I say, though one look at the dog’s eager brown eyes cracks my defenses.
“I promise I’ll feed him and walk him and everything,” Nicholas says.
“It would be nice for the kids to have the responsibility of taking care of a pet,” Dean adds.
I look down at the dog, whose furry little body is vibrating with energy and excitement.
“Pleeese can we keep him?” Bella asks again.
“He can sleep in my room,” Nicholas says. “And he’ll be a great friend for Patch. Patch doesn’t know any other dogs yet.”
“He’s so cute,” Bella squeals. “Mommy, he’s smiling at you.”
I sigh. “He’s also peeing on my shoe.”
The dog, Fitzy Darcy, follows Dean around like… well, like a loyal dog wholeheartedly devoted to its master. And I eventually admit that puppy energy is—sometimes—nice to have around the house.
As summer draws to a close, I start putting the kids to bed at eight so they’ll be accustomed to an earlier bedtime when school starts. This tactic also gives Dean and me more time alone in the evenings, which is welcome after full days spent with our children in serious pursuit of summertime fun.
One evening in August, I find Dean sprawled on the sofa in the sunroom with a thick book, his features set in that “I’m thinking very very hard” expression. Fitzy Darcy is lying on the rug near him, enjoying a restful sleep without interruption from the kids.
“A little bedtime reading?” I ask Dean, nodding to the book as I settle in beside him on the sofa.
“I’m thinking of writing a book about a boy’s journey to knighthood,” Dean explains. “Training, weapon skills, duties, that kind of thing.”
“You already wrote a book about knighthood.”
“Not a children’s book.”
I look at him in surprise. “You’re going to write a children’s book?”
“Maybe.” Dean scratches his head. “Nicholas was asking me about apprentice knights and pages, so I started telling him a story about a boy apprentice who goes on crusade. He really liked it and said I should write a book.”
“That’s a great idea.”
Knights, I think. Another drawing to add to my North-inspired artist’s book, which I’ve continued filling with things that make me happy. And one knight in particular makes me very happy.
I reach for a loop of string sitting on the coffee table. I sense Dean glance at me as I loop the string around my fingers. I’d memorized the steps of the pattern, and I repeat them silently to myself as I twist and coil the string around my fingers. Then I spread the pattern out and hold my hands up to show Dean the rectangular box containing a perfect heart.
He smiles. “When did you learn how to do that?”
“Not long ago,” I say. “You’re not the only one who can do research, professor.”
I untangle the string from my fingers and shift closer to him. He puts his arm around me, and we sink into each other. I rub my cheek against his shoulder, everything inside me settling and at peace.
Dean slides his hand beneath my chin and lifts my face to look at him. In his eyes, I see the rescuer who crouched beside me on a sidewalk and touched the sleeve of my gray sweatshirt. I see the professor who eased me into both love and lovemaking with slow, assured gentleness. I see the brother and son who tried so hard to make things right for his family. I see the scholar who is fascinated by the minutia of the past. I see the father who plays baseball with his son and has stuffed animal parties with his daughter.
I see the man who has stood beside me in both the dark and the shining light. I see the husband who can withstand anything except the thought of losing me.
I see my Dean, who believes to the heart of his unwavering soul in our intense, imperfect love.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says.
“Okay.”
And the world falls together the instant our lips touch.