Always (Spiral of Bliss #5) (15 page)

“Oh my God, you did not name him,” Kelsey says.

“Just temporarily,” Archer assures her. “Until I find him a new home.”

He grins at me and salutes, then heads out the door with Patch following at his heels.

Kelsey slumps on the sofa, resting her head against my shoulder.

“I suck at being a chick,” she mutters.

“No, you don’t.” I pat her hair in sympathy. “You just still put on your scientist armor when you need to protect yourself.”

“I can’t believe he’s starting up with the
marry me
stuff again.”

“I can. He’s waited for five years. You didn’t think he was just going to let it drop completely, did you? And frankly, I’m with Allie. Why wouldn’t you want to marry him?”

“Because he and I are
so good
together,” Kelsey says. “And he thinks marriage will make things even better. But what if it doesn’t? So many things, so many
people
, have disappointed him in his life. It would kill me if marriage disappointed him too.”

“Kelsey, committing to you with vows would be Archer’s greatest achievement, not a disappointment. Is marriage scary? Yes. Is it worth it? Totally. Even with our troubles, I’ve never once not wanted to be married to Dean.”

“Has Dean ever said anything to you about me marrying Archer?”

“Lord, no. He learned a long time ago to keep his nose out of your relationship.”

“But he and Archer still haven’t fully reconciled, and I can’t help wondering if I’m the reason why.”

“Their family history is the reason why.”

“Yeah, but they’re grown men who should learn to deal with shit. I thought they were in a good place when they were working on the railroad together, but then you guys went off to Paris and things seemed to sort of… stall.”

“Has Archer talked to you about it?” I ask.

“No. But I can tell he’s not entirely at ease around Dean. And sometimes he still makes excuses when Dean asks him to do something with his grad students. I think Archer feels like he’d be out of place among all the academics or whatever.” She frowns at the broken pieces of the fortune cookie she’s still holding. “I hate that he still feels that way.”

“Dean and Archer are good friends, Kelsey. And that’s more than either one of them thought they would be again.” I squeeze her around the shoulders. “And even though I know brilliant and bad-ass Kelsey March doesn’t need a piece of paper to prove how much she loves her man, there’s no question Archer wants to tell the world you belong together. As for Dean? He would be happy to see you married to his brother.”

She doesn’t look entirely convinced. I understand her unease, even as I also know that the West family does not make grand gestures of reconciliation.

And the fact is that Dean and Archer will always have a wall between them, one built on Archer’s long-standing sense of inferiority and Dean’s self-reproach that for years, he couldn’t do anything to help his brother. He still blames himself for not being able to
fix things
for Archer and their family.

So the Wests broke apart, Dean and Archer somehow came back together, and for all their differences and conflict, the whole family is better off now than they ever were. Maybe the walls between them are helping hold things together.

Except for things to
stay
that way, two people can’t be on opposite sides of the wall. They have to be in the castle together.

No one knows that better than Dean and me. And now more than ever, we need to remember it.

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.”