Always (Spiral of Bliss #5) (30 page)

I stop to turn on the switch for the outside lights. Then I feel Claire’s hand on my back.

My blood goes cold.

“I’m really sorry for everything you’re going through,” she says.

“Uh, thanks.” I step forward to get away from her, but the wall blocks my escape.

“I don’t think many people realize that caregivers have it rough too,” she continues, and then her breasts nudge against my arm. “I just want you to know I’m here however you need me to be.”

I’ve read enough books and articles. I know after a breast cancer diagnosis, some asshole men commit infidelity and/or walk out on their wives. I don’t know how often it happens, or who besides the lowest, most pathetic scum could conduct that level of betrayal, but it happens.

Until this second, though, I haven’t consciously realized that other women are also guilty of the affairs. I especially haven’t considered they might even instigate them.

“If you ever need someone to talk to or anything else, Dean,” Claire continues. “Just let me know.”

Her hand slides under my shirt, and the touch of her fingers on my skin jolts me away from her. Rage boils through me.

I turn, barely restraining myself from shoving her away. She blinks and takes a step back.

“Get out.” My voice shakes with anger. “Get the fuck out of my house right now.”

All the color drains from her face.

“Dean, I was just—”

“Get out!”

The order fires out of me like a curse. Claire takes a step backward.

“I… I need to get my stuff,” she stammers.

“Then do it and get the fuck out.”

She turns and hurries up the stairs. Not wanting her to go near my kids, I follow her. Anger and disgust burn like acid inside me. I stop in the doorway of the guest bedroom.

“What the hell kind of person are you?” I snap, my fists clenching.

She stares at me, stricken. Her eyes fill with tears. “I was… I just wanted to take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to fucking take care of me.”

“Yes, you do,” she cries, wiping her cheeks. “You… you’re so
sad
all the time, Dean, and everyone is paying all this attention to Liv, and no one is doing anything for you. But obviously you have
needs.
I just wanted to make you feel better.”

“Everyone is paying attention to my wife because she has cancer, for God’s sake.”

“I know! But you
don’t.
”

“Damn right I don’t. And nothing you say or do will ever make me feel
better.
”

Claire picks up her bag, choking back a sob. I step aside and point to the stairs. She goes past me to the foyer and takes her coat from the closet.

“I’m sorry.” She sniffles, pulling a tissue out of her coat pocket and wiping her nose. “I mean, I’m not a home wrecker or anything. I love your kids, and I really like Liv, and I… okay, I guess I have a little crush on you, but I wasn’t trying to
steal
you or anything. I just wanted to… I really wanted to take care of you.”

More tears spill down her cheeks. Some of my anger fades, but only because I’ve been angry for months now on Liv’s behalf—and Claire’s misguided schoolgirl crush isn’t worth more of it.

I sigh and drag a hand over my face. “Look, you’ve been great with the kids and we appreciate all you’ve done, but you need to go.”

She nods, her face reddening with humiliation. “Could you… uh, could you not tell Liv about this?”

“I have to.”

Claire’s chin trembles. “She’ll hate me.”

“She’ll be disappointed in you,” I correct, reaching past her to open the front door. “She won’t hate you.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean.”

“All right, Claire.” Exhaustion hits me. “Get home safely. I’ll put your last paycheck in the mail tomorrow.”

She hurries past me, wiping away another spill of tears. I close the door behind her and go upstairs, worried that the commotion might have woken the kids. Thankfully both of them are still sound asleep. I pull their covers up and return to the kitchen.

I take out my phone and text Liv, even though I know she’s sleeping.

DEAN: I love you like eggs love bacon.

I press the send button. My lingering anger fades at the thought that the message will be waiting for her when she wakes. Then a return message pings onto the screen.

LIV: I can’t wait for you to have me over-easy.

DEAN: You’d better not be yolk-ing.

LIV: Well, it’s been a while since I got laid.

DEAN: Now I’m getting hard-boiled.

LIV: You crack me up.

DEAN: You’re eggs-quisite.

LIV: You’re eggs-traordinary.

DEAN: I love you, beauty.

LIV: I love you, professor.

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.

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 Liv 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.