by Nina Lane
I can’t help smiling.
“Ah, wisely, my friend, you speak,” I warble.
She frowns. “What’s wrong with you?”
“That was my Yoda impersonation.”
“Your Yoda impersonation is terrible.”
“Hey, I’m sick, remember?” I say as we drain the last of our cocoa and push our chairs back. “By default, you have to be nice to me.”
We get our coats on and join everyone else at the games—a “love meter,” a fortune-teller, a strength tester, a bubble-gum digger machine, and an old auto racer.
“Daddy’s turn,” Bella says, pulling on Dean’s sleeve.
He puts a quarter into the fortune-teller machine. The turbaned gypsy inside moves her hands over a crystal ball. A paper fortune drops from a slot. Kelsey picks it up and reads it aloud.
“You like to be admired, and it pleases you greatly to have people come to you for information and advice, but your stubborn nature will be your downfall.” She laughs.
“I could have told that fortune,” I remark.
“That’s not a fortune.” Dean looks disgruntled. “That’s a character analysis.”
“Uncle Archer, your turn,” Nicholas calls.
Archer approaches, holding out a hand to Kelsey for a quarter. He puts the coin in the slot and reaches for the fortune that drops from the crystal ball.
He hands it to Nicholas. Nicholas studies the fortune, then haltingly reads:
There once was a girl who loved rain
And who had an incredible brain.
But she kept saying no
To a boy all aglow
So clearly that girl was insane.
Nicholas looks up. “What kind of fortune is this?”
“I like rain too,” Bella announces.
I glance from Archer to Kelsey. He looks proud of himself, like he just pulled off the heist of the century. Her expression is one of both awe and disbelief.
“I don’t get it,” Nicholas says loudly, waving the fortune in the air.
Archer steps forward and leans close to Kelsey, whispering something into her ear. She takes hold of his jaw and stands on tiptoe to whisper back.
“Is that a yes?” I ask.
They separate but don’t take their eyes off each other.
“No,” Kelsey says.
Archer doesn’t look annoyed or even upset. If anything, he looks amused before he leans in to plant a kiss on her lips.
“I still don’t get it,” Nicholas says.
“Neither do I, man,” Dean mutters.
“Your turn, Mommy.” Bella pats my arm.
I take a quarter out of my purse and put it into the fortune-teller machine slot. For some reason, my stomach tightens with nerves as the gypsy waves her hands over the crystal ball, her painted eyes unblinking.
The fortune drops from the machine. I pick up the paper and read it, then glance at Dean. He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Warmth swirls through me, dissolving the cold anxiety.
“Can I see?” Bella asks.
I hand her the note. Nicholas peers over her shoulder to read it.
“I like the cup,” Bella says.
Nicholas shakes his head. “I still don’t get it.”
I look at my husband and say, “I do.”
Chapter 26
Olivia
For Christmas, Dean gives me a large, perfect snow globe containing a miniature scene of our living room with four figures seated on the sofa.
There’s a tall, dark-haired man, a woman with long hair holding a cupcake, a boy building a tiny Lego sculpture, and a girl hugging a stuffed owl. We put the snow globe on the kitchen table so it’s close to us all the time, a reminder of what and who we are as a family.
Because of it, our holiday is one of warmth and belonging. Though I’m unable to do everything I’d intended, we attend several town events, including a performance of The Nutcracker, and spend a lot of time at home watching movies and playing games. I return to working at the Wonderland Café, and the constant flow of activity helps keep my simmering apprehension at bay.
Although I knew chemotherapy would be inevitable after the pathology results, it’s still painful to get the details and schedule from Dr. Anderson. Eight rounds of chemo, each two weeks apart. It’s still scary to think of being injected by toxic drugs that are supposed to help me by making me even sicker.
A postcard from North arrives right before the new year—with a picture of the sun setting over a beach boardwalk lit with colorful lights. I turn it over to find a single word scrawled on the back:
Home.
My heart stutters. After all these years, North is back at Twelve Oaks. And though I still love to think of him on walkabout, the knowledge that he’s home, back at the place where I discovered there really were safe havens in the world, floods me with a new sense of comfort and security. If North is back where he belongs, then surely everything will turn out fine.
I keep that in mind as I gather the courage to tell Allie about my scheduled chemotherapy and my intention to continue working at the café as much as I can. Unfortunately, her response is heartbreakingly unsurprising.
“That’s not a good idea, Liv.” She keeps her gaze on the office computer screen. “In fact, it’s a really bad idea. I’ve already started interviewing for two servers to cover your shifts on the floor, and of course Brent and I are fine running things here.”
“You started interviewing already?” I blink in surprise. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“Well, it was right after your surgery, so I figured you didn’t want to be bothered.”
Irritation stabs me. “My having cancer doesn’t mean I’m no longer a partner, Allie.”
“I know that.” She turns to face me, a deep crease appearing between her eyebrows. “And I want you to stay involved as much as possible. But what if you have another panic attack or get sick in the middle of the café…or worse, during a birthday party? We can’t risk upsetting customers, much less a bunch of children.”
I don’t know what to say. Allie sighs, a distressed expression appearing in her eyes.
“I know that sounds harsh,” she admits, “but we’ve had some hiccups in the past that we really had to work to overcome. And when you and Dean were in Paris, Brent and I were able to both raise Wonderland’s profits and expand our customer base. We want to stay on that trajectory.”
I sit back, torn between a feeling of hurt and the sense that Allie is right. Especially since the “hiccups” she’s referring to—a disastrous grand opening celebration and a five-year-old’s birthday party gone wrong—happened because of me. Not to mention my panic attack probably upset the customers who witnessed it, even if they were understanding and concerned.
Still…
“I can’t stay away from the café for the next six months, Allie,” I say.
She shakes her head, her expression worried. “You don’t even know if you’ll be able to work.”
“Well, I need to believe I can,” I say. “Plenty of people work during chemo. There’s no reason I can’t be one of them. Allie, you know how much I love the café. I have to work.”
“Did your doctor say you could?”
“He said it was up to me and how I felt.”
“So why don’t you wait and see?” Allie asks reasonably. “You can certainly do work from home, like payroll, budget, scheduling. I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here.”
I sit back and look at her, remembering the day when I first walked into her bookstore, the Happy Booker, and almost peed my pants when she jumped out at me in a scary apple-tree costume, yelling, “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!”
And so a friendship was born.
“Is it because I’m going to lose my hair?” I finally ask. “Are you worried the customers will react badly if I don’t wear a wig, or even if I do and they still realize I’m sick?”
Her momentary lack of a response tells me all I need to know. I sta
rt to get up.
“Liv, wait.” Allie puts her hand out. “I don’t want to be a bitch, really. But this café is all about fun and fantasy, right? So if our customers, especially the kids, get upset by seeing that you’re sick… I don’t want to risk it.”
“Well, I guess I should be glad that our customers matter so much to you,” I remark.
“You matter to me too. Do you really think it’s a good idea for you to be around so many kids and working in a café, no less, when you’re immuno-suppressed? In the middle of cold and flu season?”
“I know how to be careful. And I don’t have to spend my entire shift on the floor.”
“What does Dean have to say about you interacting with customers and children during chemo?”
“I…well, I haven’t really discussed it with him,” I admit.
“Maybe you should,” Allie suggests. “I’m sure he has a strong opinion about you putting yourself at risk.”
“That doesn’t make it his decision.”
“Liv.” She comes around the desk to hug me, though for the first time ever, I can’t bring myself to hug her back. “Fighting this disease is your priority right now. Minimizing exposure to germs is a huge part of that. Like I said, there’s plenty of work you can do from home, but wait and see how the chemo goes before you commit to anything, okay?”
I nod, detaching myself from her and going to the door. Worse than the idea of being “banished” from the café is the worry that I might feel so awful I can’t work at all, not even from home.
And I’m not surprised by Dean’s reaction later that evening when I tell him about my conversation with Allie.
“Your customers would just have to deal with it,” he says, his mouth tightening with irritation at the thought that anyone would be offended by the way I look. “But Allie’s right that you’ll be at greater risk for infections. It would make me insane with worry to think of you catching even a mild cold.”
“Well, it would make me insane with being sick to spend the next six months just focusing on chemo.”
“You won’t, Liv. Bella and Nicholas will still need you, and there’s plenty of other stuff you can do.”
“What, Dean?” I spread my hands out, a rising anger pressing against my chest. “If I can’t go out and be with people, if I can’t run my business and do my volunteer work, what else can I do except fuss around the house?”
“You can get well.”
“You think I’m not focused on that? You think I can’t do that and work at the same time?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re on Allie’s side.”
“I’ve only ever been on your side and want you to do what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for me is if everyone would stop treating me like I’m on death’s doorstep.”
A muscle ticks in Dean’s jaw as his teeth clench. “God knows the last thing I want is to hurt you. But I will not let you endanger your health.”
“That is exactly what I’m talking about. You won’t let me. You don’t think I’m capable of making the decision by myself?”
“I know you are.” He approaches and takes hold of my shoulders, lowering his head to look into my eyes. “I also know you have months of treatment to get through. And you’re going to be extra careful because you’re taking care of the woman I love with everything I am. If I have to be a royal pain in the ass to ensure that woman’s well-being, then look out, baby, because PIA is in the house.”
“Has that PIA ever not been in the house?” I ask, wiping at a stray tear.
“With good reason.” Dean settles his hands on my rear and pulls my body against his. “You’re the one with the bootylicious bubblegum ass. I gotta be a pain all up in it.”
“And you might have a new career as a hip-hop artist.”
“I’ll shine your ass like brass, baby.” His eyes crinkle at the corners as he presses his lips to mine.
I let myself sink into him, absorbing his body heat that wraps me in a cloak of warmth. The pressure of his mouth increases, urging my lips apart. I tighten my fingers on his shirt.
A sudden longing rises inside me. I relax my grip and spread my hands over his shirt, stroking the hard planes of his chest. His heart beats against my palm, the rhythm increasing as he deepens our kiss. I edge closer, hardly daring to believe that I can still feel desire. That I can still feel desired.
He moves one hand to the back of my head, stroking his tongue across the seam of my lips. The familiar, delicious scent of him fills my head—shaving soap and Dean. Little sparks fire through my blood as the air thickens with tension and growing urgency.
My breasts nudge against his chest. My right nipple hardens, sending a rush of heat through me. My left…I try to ignore the numbness, but then Dean’s grip on me tightens, pressing me closer to him, and never before has this—has he, have we—failed to elicit arousal.
Cold trickles into my veins. My left breast feels deadened. I can’t even tell if my nipple is hard. I don’t know if I’d feel Dean’s touch if he cupped my left breast. I can’t feel anything at all.
He lifts his head, his forehead creasing. “You okay?”
“God, Dean.” The words escape me on a rush of frustrated irritation. I pull away from him, folding my arms over my chest. “Stop asking me that. Of course I’m not okay. I don’t know when I’ll be okay again.”
His eyes darken. Regret and self-directed anger spear through me. I can’t even stop it from invading the first intimate moment I’ve had with my husband since before the surgery.
Unable to look at him, not wanting to see that he is also not okay, I turn and go upstairs to the bedroom.
He won’t follow me. He’ll go to his office and, more than likely, spend the night on the sofa there, if he sleeps at all.
Shit.
I’ve always known what Dean needs. Sometimes it’s sex, which has always been a strong, brilliant part of our relationship. It’s been a way to reconnect, indulge in each other, lose ourselves, remember just one of the reasons we’re so good together.
But even taking sex out of the equation, I’ve just known what my husband needs. I knew he needed to go to Italy after the trauma of our miscarriage. I knew he needed the job with the World Heritage Center. I knew he needed to make peace with Archer and to reconcile with his family. I even knew when an ear massage would help him. And I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he needed to be a father.
But now? Dean needs to research and understand my diagnosis because it’s his way of being in control, but it’s not doing a damn thing to help either him or us.
What else does he need right now and why can’t I give it to him?
I strip out of my clothes, avoiding looking at myself in the mirror, and change into my nightgown. On doctor’s orders, I’ve been wearing a sports bra to bed, but tonight for the first time since the surgery, I leave it off. I crawl into bed alone and lie on my back.
My breasts are naked beneath my nightgown. I tentatively put my hands over them. My nipples are still hard, poking against the thin cotton. I rub them both, but only the right one sends a pulse of electricity to my core.
My heart thumps against my ribs. I edge my nightgown up over my hips. I’m not wearing any panties. I skim my fingertips over my thighs, parting them a little to touch my cleft. I haven’t touched myself sexually in what seems like ages.
While Dean and I have always had a phenomenal sex life, I’m no stranger to masturbation. If he’s traveling or at work, and I’m feeling needy, I’m accustomed to fantasizing and getting myself off. I don’t have to do it often, but it’s part of my sexual repertoire—one Dean is well aware of, to his own erotic pleasure.
Will I even be able to do this again? I press a finger against my clit, my breath catching when it pulses in response. I’m still dry down there, but maybe if I…
Anxiety coils through me. I force it away and close my eyes, pulling my nightgown up farther to bare my breasts
. The rush of cooler air sensitizes my nipples—my right one at least. I settle my hands over my breasts, feeling their familiar weight, trying to accept that the scar and indentation will be there from now on.
I press my fingers over the scar, which is tender but no longer hurts. I can’t feel my own touch, only the slight pressure. I nudge my fingers around until I reach the area where there’s still sensation. According to the doctor, more feeling will come back as the nerves heal.
I glide my hands back down over my belly, pushing the sheet away as I lift my knees and spread my thighs. I curve my fingers between them, settling the heel of my hand against my clit as I work my forefinger gently into my opening. The sensation is pleasant enough, though I’m unable to rouse myself to wetness.
Relax, I tell myself.
Alone, there’s no pressure, no one to disappoint. I close my eyes and think of how Dean and I have managed to sustain our sex life through all the changes in our lives—certainly not without a few bumps in the road, but we’ve always gotten past them and rediscovered each other.
And Paris…being there again after our wedding and honeymoon lit a new fire between us, one fueled by the lure of adventures. Even in our small apartment, Dean and I found time for each other—usually either after the kids were asleep or before they woke up in the morning.
I think of myself back then—whole, sexy, happy—with nothing more to do in those stolen moments than enjoy the incredible sensation of fucking the man I love with such intense, tender devotion.
I think of Dean—masculine, confident, generous—and the way everything about me has always aroused and excited him, like I’m a feast he wants to indulge in for eternity.
Even the changes in my body over the years, the weight gain from both pregnancy and an admitted overindulgence in croissants, the heavy sensitivity of my breasts during nursing, the here forever curves of my belly and hips—he loves it all. He just loves me.
I want that life back. I want to relive our honeymoon, our travels with our children, the months when Dean and I were first dating. I want to look up from the cash register at Jitter Beans and see him standing there looking at me with that warm, gentle smile, and I want to feel the quickening flutter of happiness start deep inside me.
