need to walk away right now or I’m going to sob all over the rainbow parfaits.”
After giving her another squeeze, I grab a napkin to wipe my eyes and return to the dining room. My heart just can’t contain it all—my great fortune, my recent “all clear” from Dr. Anderson, my everlasting friendships.
Because of summer, the lunch rush eases right into our afternoon teatime, and it’s four o’clock before I leave the café. Dean had promised to take the kids swimming, and he texts me that they’re still at the beach.
I walk to the west shore, where the sun is still casting ribbons of light over the lake. Dressed in swimming trunks, Dean is sitting on a towel, his elbows on his raised knees as he keeps an eye on Nicholas and Bella.
I let my gaze track over the golden-brown skin of his back, the streaks of light brown in his hair, the tanned muscularity of his bare arms and legs.
Awareness tingles through me. I come up behind him and settle my hand on the back of his neck. He turns to look up at me.
“Ah, my favorite mermaid,” he remarks.
“Hi Mom!” Nicholas yells from the water as he does some sort of pinwheel-type splashing.
I wave at him and Bella, who is digging a hole in the sand by the water’s edge.
I sit beside Dean, sliding my hand over the warm tautness of his shoulder. Later tonight I’ll trace the same path with my lips.
Oh yes. Olivia West gets her groove back once again. This time, for good.
“I thought we’d have homemade pizza for dinner,” I tell him. “I’ll stop at the store and get all the ingredients.”
“Sounds good.” He leans over to give me a kiss, one that tastes like sunshine and summer. “The kids show no sign of wanting to leave, but I’ll try to get them home by five-thirty.”
“Okay.” I let my lips linger on his. “Happy anniversary, handsome.”
“Happy anniversary, love of my life.”
We part slowly. I wave at Bella and Nicholas again before walking toward the grocery store.
As I pass a block of shops on the west end of Avalon Street, I stop and look across at the opposite row of buildings. Between a florist and a new pottery studio called Mrs. Potts’ Place, a narrow wooden door sits like a secret entrance leading to the apartment where Dean and I once lived.
I lift my gaze to the wrought-iron balcony above. Fat, colorful planters overflow with marigolds and begonias, and a baker’s rack against the wall displays glazed plates painted with similar bright, Italian-inspired designs as the pottery in the shop window below.
The French doors leading onto the balcony are open, with cream-colored, floral curtains rippling in the breeze. A woman parts the curtains and steps onto the balcony with a watering can.
She’s young, in her mid-twenties, her light brown hair falling to her shoulders. Over capris and a T-shirt, she’s wearing an apron that says Mrs. Potts’ Place.
She must be the owner of the studio. The last time I passed this way, the French doors were still closed and the balcony was empty, as if no one lived in the apartment. Now there’s this pretty young woman who makes beautiful pottery and clearly loves plants.
Nice. Another reason to be happy.
The woman looks up, something down the street catching her eye. A cute, curly-haired young man is climbing off his bike and fastening it to the bike rack. He looks up at the balcony and waves at the woman, a grin breaking out across his face at the sight of her.
She smiles and waves in return. He quickens his pace and unlocks the door beside the pottery shop. The woman sets down her watering can and goes back into the apartment. The curtains flutter closed.
I turn and continue walking, feeling warm and fuzzy inside. I’ll have to bring Bella to visit Mrs. Potts’ Place sometime soon. She’d love trying out a pottery wheel. So would I, as a matter of fact.
After buying groceries, I return to the Butterfly House and get things started for dinner. The front door soon opens with a flurry of noise and excited chatter.
I put down a spoon and go to greet my family. For some reason, Dean is the only one standing in the foyer. The front door is closed, the outlines of the kids appearing behind the stained glass windows.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
He holds up his hands beseechingly. “Don’t be mad.”
I frown. “Why should I be mad?”
“It was just