hour ago.
“A week or two … maybe three. I’ll let you know.”
He’d kissed her, feeling a little desperate. “Make it one.”
It was drizzling outside, and as he poured his coffee, the phone rang. He ignored
the rings, but he couldn’t help listening to the message left there when the answering
machine picked up.
Miss Ivy Summers, we did not hear from you Friday, so this is another friendly reminder
of your procedure of a lumpectomy with possible mastectomy to be done by Dr. Jeff
Sabella this morning at ten a.m. at the Prestons Hospital of Chicago …
The drizzle outside was turning into a wild thunderstorm, and Cade stared at his coffee
as he tried not to go back in the past to the time he’d heard his wife was getting
one, too. No. Instead he was at the charity dinner less than a week ago, watching
as dozens of people hugged Ivy and wished her luck and cried on her shoulder. It had
not been because she needed more donations. When she’d said she couldn’t have anything
serious with him, it wasn’t because she was too busy. It was because she was sick.
Ivy.
Was sick.
Raw pain opened like a rabid monster inside his chest. His hands curled into fists,
as a rush of emotions so deep, so dark, and so painful cut through him, he barely
registered that he’d grabbed his coffee cup in his hand. It went crashing to the floor.
Followed by the nearest lamp. He ground his footing as the vases on the coffee table
exploded on the walls. He wasn’t even conscious of what he did, he only heard glass
shattering, paper tearing, pillows being ripped to shreds, the sounds muffled by furious,
heart-wrenching bellows that tore from his chest.
He’d never thought a human being could make a sound like that; it was torn from his
gut and some newly vacant, hollow piece of himself.
He thought he’d shatter like everything he threw.
He thought he’d die when Laura died.
He’d pulled himself together—and continued on. Out of sheer stubborn will.
Nothing would ever be the same for him. Deep down, Cade had known that life would
forever lose its glitz. Until … Ivy.
Sick, beautiful, lying little Ivy.
* * *
Ivy stared at herself in the mirror of the hospital bathroom while the humming sound
of the razor moved across her scalp. She’d been diagnosed over a month ago with stage
2A breast cancer, having found in her regular checkup a 2 cm tumor in her breast,
which had thankfully not yet spread to the axillary lymph nodes.
Still, because of the placement so close to the nodes, a dose of chemotherapy and
radiation were to be done right after the surgery, to ensure no malignant tissue remained.
All her friends said how helpless they’d felt when they’d watched themselves shed
their hair. Every day finding lumps of it everywhere.
Ivy didn’t want to feel helpless. She’d rather go Sinead O’Connor, who’d looked as
beautiful as a princess with her shaven head, and she’d rather take her hair off by
herself.
This was better.
She felt air caress her scalp as it all fell down, and she reminded herself that it
would grow back. It was just hair. Just hair.
She stared blankly into her own eyes as she mechanically went through all of her head,
remembering the way Cade had pulled her to him before she left. Make it a week.
Oh, God. Her eyes burned as she thought of having to tell him.
She’d never thought she would have to. You did not just meet someone and open with
the sentence, “I have cancer.” And even when she’d let herself enjoy the pleasure
of being with him, she’d never imagined they would get involved beyond a … one-night
stand. Or several.
Cade was angry and strong. He didn’t care about anything. She’d thought that she would
have a fling, because, why not? She’d felt angry and helpless, totally betrayed by
her own body, and when he’d touched her, igniting all those incredible sensations
within her … oh, God,
“A week or two … maybe three. I’ll let you know.”
He’d kissed her, feeling a little desperate. “Make it one.”
It was drizzling outside, and as he poured his coffee, the phone rang. He ignored
the rings, but he couldn’t help listening to the message left there when the answering
machine picked up.
Miss Ivy Summers, we did not hear from you Friday, so this is another friendly reminder
of your procedure of a lumpectomy with possible mastectomy to be done by Dr. Jeff
Sabella this morning at ten a.m. at the Prestons Hospital of Chicago …
The drizzle outside was turning into a wild thunderstorm, and Cade stared at his coffee
as he tried not to go back in the past to the time he’d heard his wife was getting
one, too. No. Instead he was at the charity dinner less than a week ago, watching
as dozens of people hugged Ivy and wished her luck and cried on her shoulder. It had
not been because she needed more donations. When she’d said she couldn’t have anything
serious with him, it wasn’t because she was too busy. It was because she was sick.
Ivy.
Was sick.
Raw pain opened like a rabid monster inside his chest. His hands curled into fists,
as a rush of emotions so deep, so dark, and so painful cut through him, he barely
registered that he’d grabbed his coffee cup in his hand. It went crashing to the floor.
Followed by the nearest lamp. He ground his footing as the vases on the coffee table
exploded on the walls. He wasn’t even conscious of what he did, he only heard glass
shattering, paper tearing, pillows being ripped to shreds, the sounds muffled by furious,
heart-wrenching bellows that tore from his chest.
He’d never thought a human being could make a sound like that; it was torn from his
gut and some newly vacant, hollow piece of himself.
He thought he’d shatter like everything he threw.
He thought he’d die when Laura died.
He’d pulled himself together—and continued on. Out of sheer stubborn will.
Nothing would ever be the same for him. Deep down, Cade had known that life would
forever lose its glitz. Until … Ivy.
Sick, beautiful, lying little Ivy.
* * *
Ivy stared at herself in the mirror of the hospital bathroom while the humming sound
of the razor moved across her scalp. She’d been diagnosed over a month ago with stage
2A breast cancer, having found in her regular checkup a 2 cm tumor in her breast,
which had thankfully not yet spread to the axillary lymph nodes.
Still, because of the placement so close to the nodes, a dose of chemotherapy and
radiation were to be done right after the surgery, to ensure no malignant tissue remained.
All her friends said how helpless they’d felt when they’d watched themselves shed
their hair. Every day finding lumps of it everywhere.
Ivy didn’t want to feel helpless. She’d rather go Sinead O’Connor, who’d looked as
beautiful as a princess with her shaven head, and she’d rather take her hair off by
herself.
This was better.
She felt air caress her scalp as it all fell down, and she reminded herself that it
would grow back. It was just hair. Just hair.
She stared blankly into her own eyes as she mechanically went through all of her head,
remembering the way Cade had pulled her to him before she left. Make it a week.
Oh, God. Her eyes burned as she thought of having to tell him.
She’d never thought she would have to. You did not just meet someone and open with
the sentence, “I have cancer.” And even when she’d let herself enjoy the pleasure
of being with him, she’d never imagined they would get involved beyond a … one-night
stand. Or several.
Cade was angry and strong. He didn’t care about anything. She’d thought that she would
have a fling, because, why not? She’d felt angry and helpless, totally betrayed by
her own body, and when he’d touched her, igniting all those incredible sensations
within her … oh, God,
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