by Nina Lane
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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
DEAN
April 26
I TAKE A FEW BOOKS FROM the desk in my tower office and put them on the shelf by the wall. For months, my desk has been covered with cancer-related books that have buried my papers about the Knights Templar and concepts of chivalry.
I pick up a paperback that had gotten pushed behind my computer. Pride and Prejudice. I flip through the pages, past the place where I’d abandoned reading after Liv’s diagnosis.
“I believe I thought only of you.”
I set the book aside, not too interested anymore in finishing a novel about the marital issues of the nineteenth-century British gentry, even if it is one of Liv’s favorite books.
I clean off my desk and review a report about an archeological dig in Russia. I hear Liv’s car come up the drive as I’m typing an email.
Because I have no classes on Wednesdays, I like working from home so I can be around if Liv needs something. It’s also heartening when she has the energy to take the kids to school and run errands.
A soft knock sounds at my office door, and Liv pushes it open. I look up from the computer.
“Hi,” I say. “Everything okay?”
Liv nods and comes into the tower, closing the door behind her and setting a notebook on a table. She’s wearing a green sweater with little pearl buttons up the front, and a gray wool skirt and tights, with a matching forest-green scarf around her head.
Everything in me loves everything in her. Every day, she dresses with care and attention, putting on jewelry and makeup, refusing to let cancer take away her femininity.
“Very pretty,” I say, gesturing to her outfit.
“Thanks.” She smoothes her skirt down. Her hands are trembling slightly.
Wariness flares inside me. I glance at the notebook, remembering that she’d brought it home from the hospital.
“Am I interrupting you?” Liv asks.
“No.” I push away from my desk and turn to face her. “What’s going on?”
She hesitates, her teeth coming down on her full lower lip. I want to wrap her up, fold myself around her, take her to an island, a fairy forest, a secret garden. Away from doctors, hospitals, surgery, drugs.
She comes closer, reaching out to pick up a loop of string from my desk. She twists it around her fingers, something bittersweet appearing in her eyes.
“I never did learn how to make string figures,” she remarks, making a cat’s cradle before unlooping the string.
“I can still teach you.”
“One day.” Liv drops the string back on my desk and glances at me. “Dean, I need to talk to you about something.”
My heart starts beating too fast. “Okay.”
“I read about this in a lot of the breast-cancer books.” She paces a few feet away, her features shadowed. “And when I was in the hospital, I couldn’t help thinking about our estate planning, the next-of-kin paperwork… I’ve actually been thinking about it for a while now and… well, we have to discuss this.”
Liv pulls a chair closer and sits down in front of me, reaching out to put her hand on my knee. “I want you to try not to get upset.”
Oh, no. Fear claws at my chest. I grip the arms of my desk chair and nod.
“Okay.”
Liv takes a breath, seeming to steel herself as her hand tightens on my knee.
“Dean,” she says. “I know everyone feels positive and hopeful about my treatment, and I do too. So this isn’t meant to be morbid or anything, but since we know the cancer has spread and that it’s an aggressive type… and we won’t know until the scans if it’s taken root somewhere else in my body… I think it’s important for us to talk about what could happen if things take a turn for the worse.”
Terror floods me like black oil, thick and impenetrable. I look past Liv’s shoulder at the opposite wall and shake my head.
“No.”
“Dean.”
“No.” The word snaps out of me, and I reflexively shove her hand away. “No fucking way.”
“Dean, please.” Her voice trembles. “It’s been impossible for me not to think about this. It’s the first thing I thought of when I heard the word malignant, and then the surgery and being in the hospital for the infection… I’ve spent the past week writing everything down and working up the courage to talk to you. It’s not easy, but we need to talk. Please don’t shut me out.”
Holy fucking shit.
I rest my elbows on my knees and grip the sides of my head, inhaling a few deep breaths, trying not to think about what she’s telling me. Black spots swim in front of my eyes.
The chair scrapes against the floor as L
iv moves closer to me. Her warm hand slides around to the back of my neck, her knees touch mine, and then she presses her forehead against the top of my head.
“I need you to know this,” she says. “It’s more than just making sure our wills are up to date and that we have all our health care plans in place. The fact is that we don’t know what’s going to happen. We don’t know yet if the cancer is in my lungs or my bones. And even if I didn’t have cancer, this is something you have to know.”
“Liv—” Her name breaks in my throat.
“Dean.” She takes a breath, tightening her hand on the back of my neck. “If something happens to me, whenever it happens, my half of the café goes to Allie. I don’t want a funeral, but maybe there could be a little memorial at the café. No flowers, but donations to the Historical Society in Nicholas and Bella’s names. Kelsey already knows she’s in line to help Bella with girl-related stuff, and if the chemo doesn’t work or we find out the cancer has spread even more, I have ideas to make photo books and journals for the kids.”
I can’t speak. I can’t even move. If I do, I’ll shatter.
“And for you,” Liv whispers, tightening her grip on me, “I want you to be happy again. Please. That’s what I desperately want for you. Happiness.”
I shut my eyes. I try to pull air into my tight lungs.
“Dean, I’m planning to live a long, full life and to see our children grow up,” Liv continues. “We’re going to travel again and grow old together and play with our grandchildren. We still have so much we’re going to do. But life is life, and I need you to know everything.”
Somehow, I manage to nod. It’s all I can do. I can’t lift my head, can’t look at my wife.
“It’s you and me, professor.”
Liv puts her hands under my jaw and lifts my face. I look into the warm, golden brown of her eyes.
“We have so much light, Dean,” she says, leaning her forehead against mine. “So much great fortune. You’ve always had all of me. You always will. But this is part of me, too.”
And this is the part that could take her away from me.
I force myself to straighten, taking her hands in mine and squeezing them tightly. She’s watching me, her eyes serious and gentle, her lovely face framed by her green scarf and little silver earrings. My wife. My forest fairy. My beauty.
“Okay.” The word lodges in my throat.
“Okay.” Liv squeezes my hands in return and pushes her chair back. “I’m going to make a quick trip to the grocery store. I thought we’d have spaghetti and meatballs tonight, and maybe we can all go to the Chocolate Tree afterward for dessert.”
I nod and get to my feet. I want to grab her, pull her against me and hold her tight, but I’m scared I won’t be able to let her go. Instead I brush my lips across her cheek, breathing in her scent of peaches and vanilla.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you, Dean. I’ll be back soon.” She slides her hand down my cheek and turns to the door. “Call me if you need me.”
I always need you.
I need her forever.
I listen to the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, then stare at the notebook she’d left on a table. I can’t pick it up. Can’t see her words in writing.
I go to the window and watch my wife walk out to the front porch, her bag slung over her shoulder. A breeze ripples her scarf as she opens the car door and gets into the driver’s seat.
After a minute, she reverses and turns the car around. I watch her disappear down the drive, the car engine echoing in the distance. Then there’s silence.
I miss her. I’ve missed her. My healthy, vibrant, full-of-life Liv.
I stand at the window for a second or for hours. I don’t know. This time, the rage builds slowly, insidious, a hot flow encroaching on my mind, my consciousness, my heart.
I take a few breaths, my fists clenching. I try to smother the poisonous, helpless anger, but Liv’s words have shattered me beyond repair, and I have no strength left.
Before I can stop it, something explodes in my chest. A howl of raw pain and rage fills my ears. Then another. Another. The sound is coming from me.
Fury scorches my blood. Blindly, I turn and grab a table piled with papers. In one movement, I send it crashing against the opposite wall. The wood cracks and splinters.
Another animal-like roar bursts from my throat. My muscles stiffen. I seize the edges of a bookshelf and overturn it, suddenly wanting to destroy everything. I pick up a lamp and crash it against the door, broken ceramic raining to the floor.
I sweep my arm across my desk, sending useless papers and books flying, and smash my fist against the stupid framed pictures of illuminated manuscript pages and historical paintings. When they’re all broken, I hit the walls until my knuckles bleed, unable to stop the rage detonating from the center of my soul.
When I slam my fist into the window, the glass shatters. Pain shoots through my arm, penetrating my black fury. Blood swells on my hands. Sweat drips down my temples. I sink back against the wall and slide to the floor. Through the darkness, a pure, crystalline image of Liv rises.
My face is wet. I swipe a hand across my eyes. My vision blurs again. Tears spill over, hot and fast. I start to shake, grief boiling through me as uncontrollable sobs and terror rip me into a thousand pieces.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DEAN
“DEAN.”
Her voice is sunlight through the blackness. A soft, gentle hand comes to rest on my cheek.
“Dean, love of my life. Open your eyes.”
I drag my eyes open. She’s right in front of me, her face filling my vision, her eyes brimming over with love and sorrow. The sight of her loosens the knot in my chest, but my blood is still trembling.
“Stand up,” Liv whispers, curling her fingers around my arms.
I struggle to shake off the fog. I’m still on the floor, slumped against the wall. My shirt is damp with sweat, my eyes burning and hands aching. Around me, the tower is wrecked—books and papers strewn everywhere, broken glass scattered on the floor, tables and chairs overturned.
I push to my feet, fighting a wave of dizziness. I move to collapse onto the sofa. Crush the horror of ever losing my wife.
Then Liv is there. Her arms surround me. The fragrant scent of her fills my head. My muscles constrict in automatic defense against the tangible reminder of what I could lose, but her power is too great. I sink against her. Bury my face in the warm arch of her neck.
Don’t leave. In the name of everything that’s holy, don’t you ever leave me.
Our breathing falls into the same rhythm. She takes the scarf off her head and presses it to the bloody cuts on my knuckles. I shift to my back, pulling her over me like a blanket. She spreads out on top of me, the curves of her body yielding. I drink in her softness, her warmth, the feel of her.
How many times have we slept like this? Or just lay together in this exact position, my arms locking her against my chest, my hand on the back of her neck, her head resting on my shoulder?
Countless times. Countless.
Liv turns, tucking her head beneath my chin. I close my eyes and breathe her in.
“Once upon a time,” she says, her breath warm on my neck, “there was a girl who lived in a lovely little village next to a river. She rented a room above the bakery where she worked. Her specialty was making elaborate houses. She made gingerbread houses decorated with multicolored candies and icing. She made log cabins out of chocolate-covered pretzel sticks, birdhouses covered with nuts and seeds, and she made a castle out of marshmallows and rock candy.
“The girl loved making houses, even though she didn’t have one of her own. Her confectionary houses were greatly admired among the villagers, and though the girl was lonely, she was happy.
“When she wasn’t baking, she spent her days in the
garden behind the bakery or going for walks. The village was bordered by a forest, but because the villagers told tales of monsters, of people going in and never coming out, no one ever ventured into the woods.
“One day, the girl was picking mushrooms and flowers along the edge of the forest when an eastern storm descended on the village with sudden, violent fury. Lightning fell from the sky like swords, destroying farms and cottages, and the rain came so fast that floodwaters billowed over the shores of the river. The wind was the worst—ripping off rooftops, breaking windows, uprooting trees.
“The girl ran into the forest for safety, and the thick canopy of tree branches protected her from the storm. She stayed there for hours, but when she emerged, she found that the village had been destroyed. Everyone was gone, having either escaped or been taken by the storm.
“Remembering that she’d been safe in the forest, the girl hurried back, hoping maybe someone else had sought shelter there too. She walked deeper and deeper into the woods, looking for a friend, a fellow villager, anyone. But she was alone.
“And when she came to a stop, she realized she had lost her way. She kept walking forward, hoping she could find the other side of the forest, hoping she could find a companion.
“For months, she walked and walked, eating berries, drinking from streams, longing for shelter, a place where she could be happy again even if she was by herself.
“One morning at dawn she came to a clearing where, inexplicably, there stood a full-sized house made entirely out of snowy white paper. The girl was delighted. The paper walls had cut-out designs of intricate snowflakes and flowers, allowing the light and air to shine through.
“I could be happy here, the girl thought.
“She curled up on the floor to sleep, but that night it rained, and the girl woke to a soggy mess of wet paper. So she moved on. A few days later, she came upon another grove where a house made of red brick stood. Its walls were strong and unbreakable. Surely it could withstand the weather.