Petite Madeleine: Drew's Story (Meadows Shore Book 3) (5 page)

But then Drew appeared, and the aftermath of cancer loomed large again, every day, almost without reprieve. There was no physical pain this time, but the scars on the inside had opened, leaking drops of sadness and grief onto her heart, causing an ache that even the strongest painkillers couldn’t relieve. And this time, even more than last, she wasn’t sure she’d survive.

It had been the worst two years of her life. First her boyfriend fell apart, and on his way to pulling himself back together, he abandoned her. But that had been just the tip of the iceberg.

“It’s a small lump, not much bigger than a peanut. Nothing to worry about in someone your age, but we should run some tests just to be sure,” said Doctor Merin.

The doctor had been so nonchalant that she hadn’t given it a second thought. A few of her girlfriends had benign cysts that came and went, or lumpy breasts that had given one doctor or another heartburn. But it was always nothing. She didn’t know a single person her age who had breast cancer. She’d never even heard of anyone who had breast cancer at twenty-one.

So she was floored when she got the call. Numb. Devastated. Terrified. All three emotions, and thousands more, swarming through her cancerous, traitorous body, in no particular order. She was certain she was going to die.

“I’m sorry, Cassie. I would normally have this discussion with you in person, but I’m away at a conference and it can’t wait. The lump is malignant. You need to meet with an oncologist and a breast surgeon, right away. Call my office as soon as we hang up, and they’ll set up everything for you. I’ll be back in town late next week.” Doctor Merin always had a light breezy way about her, but not today.

The first call she made was to her mother, who was speechless at first, and then went into full-throttle denial. “There must be some mistake, you’re twenty-one. This can’t be right. We’ll get a second opinion.”

And they did. They got a whole series of second opinions. Six, in fact. A nice, round number, from nearly every corner of the country, and they managed it all in one week. One exhausting, agonizing week that left her in a piss-poor frame of mind to make any decisions for herself.

And no matter how hard Dee Anteros prayed, no matter how much she wished the next doctor would say something different about her daughter’s condition, they never did.

Five experts recommended breast-sparing surgery, a lumpectomy, followed by radiation and Tamoxifen. But one doctor, world-renowned in the field, one who didn’t have breasts, said that only a mastectomy would all but assure the cancer wouldn’t return to the site. There were no guarantees, even with that, but it was what he’d want for his own daughter. “Breast cancer in young women is a killer. It’s aggressive, and comes back with a vengeance. It needs to be pulled out at the roots, left with no fertile ground to regrow.”

It was all her parents needed to hear. Their minds were made up before they left the doctor’s office that day. After all, it’s what the highly acclaimed expert would choose for his own daughter. They must have repeated the phrase dozens of times that afternoon. The irony was that the bastard didn’t even have a daughter.

She argued tearfully with her parents, but their desperate pleading and the terror in their eyes made her eventually acquiesce.

“Cassia, you’re being stubborn. Letting vanity get in the way of good judgment. Do you want to die?” her father shouted. It was the first time he’d ever raised his voice to her. The first time he’d ever raised his voice in their home.

“No! Of course I don’t want to die!” She ran from the room, hysterical, and threw herself across her bed.

“Cassia, baby,” her mother cooed, rubbing her back. “He’s terrified. I’m terrified. And I know this is terrifying for you, too. You’re so young. If I could carry your burden, trade places with you, I would. I lie awake at night asking God why it couldn’t have been me—it would have pained me far, far less to have cancer than to watch you go through this.”

Her heart crumbled when she heard the sadness and fear in her mother’s voice, and the genuineness of her words. Her parents would do anything for her, even give up their own lives. “But five doctors said it wasn’t necessary.”

“They don’t have the kind of experience Dr. Hughes has. And even they admitted a mastectomy was the most conservative route.”

“How will anyone ever stand to look at me?” Who will ever love me?”

“Love isn’t about breasts, Cassie. Real love is more than a physical attraction. No man who truly loves you will reject you because of your breasts.”

Her parents had been married fifteen years before she was born. Her mother had suffered more than a dozen miscarriages. They’d given up all hope of having a child by the time she came along. She was their miracle baby, their only child, who they loved more than life itself.

So, at not quite twenty-two, feeling alone and deathly afraid, she traded her left breast for their peace of mind.

Cassie reached for her phone, smiling when the number popped up on the screen. “Hello.”

“Hello, yourself. What are you doing?”

“Sweeping the floor.”

“Any chance you’re wearing one of those sexy maid outfits?”

“Not a chance.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Doesn’t a big-time baseball executive like you have better things to concern yourself with than what I’m wearing?”

“I have nothing better to think about than what you’re wearing, sweetheart. Not a damn thing. Let’s have dinner tonight, maybe go listen to some music. When the team was in Baltimore, I read about a hot local band, and they’re in town this weekend.”

“Where are you?” she asked, cradling the phone in the crook of her neck while she continued cleaning up from the morning crowd.

“Boston. But the flight to Baltimore takes less than an hour, and there are dozens left today. I want to see you, and learn more about what happened in your life during the time we were apart.”

Her stomach began a series of backflips on the high beam, just like it did every time he probed the past ten years. “Drew, we can’t keep rehashing the past.”

“I know. That’s why we’re having dinner. I want us to get to know the people we are now, but let’s face it, the past plays some role in that. I already know about the first twenty years of your life, but the last
ten are a mystery to me, and I don’t like it… Although, it’s not like it’s been a hundred years. You don’t seem all that different, you’re still the girl who stole my heart freshman year.”

“But I’m not. I barely resemble that girl, and lots of things have changed about me.”

“Whatever you say. You can tell me all about the changes over dinner.”

Not a chance. “
I haven’t been to hear a band in ages, and dinner with you sounds great, but only if we can stay in the present.”

“Deal. Cass, there’s someone outside my office who needs to speak to me. I’ll call you on my way to the airport.”

Drew hung up with Cassie, and beckoned the visitor into his office.

“Jim, what can I do for you?” Jim Rogers was a seasoned sports reporter from Boston’s most prestigious newspaper, and a huge pain in the ass. They had a cordial relationship, but Rogers had been hanging around the clubhouse for decades, and he’d enjoyed a very cozy relationship with Drew’s predecessor. Too cozy. When Drew became the GM, he began treating Rogers the same way he treated every other reporter.

He gave him no special access, although that didn’t keep Jim from trying. Rogers took every opportunity to give him advice, which irritated Drew no end. But out of deference to the older man, he usually just listened and said very little, hoping one day the gruff reporter would take the hint. Today wasn’t going to be that day.

Rogers got right to the point. “What are you going to do about Ross Simms now that he’s been released?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? He’s a good get. You need an ace, and a player who’s been around for a while, knows the ropes. He’ll give you that. You’ve got too many rookies on this team.”

“He hit his girlfriend with a closed fist.”

“Have you seen the tape? I hear it’s not as bad as the women’s groups are making it out to be.”

“Don’t need to see the tape, the police report that’s been all over the news is enough for me.”

“It’s a mistake to give up on him so quickly. One of your rivals is going to pick him up and then you’ll be screwed.”

“They can have him.”

“You’re not going to take the team very far with that line of thinking.”

Drew forced himself not to close his own fist and introduce it to Jim’s face. “Do you know how many kids look up to our players like they’re heroes? For right or wrong, they’re role models. And do you know how many of our fans are women? Exactly what message would we be sending them if we put someone like Simms on our team?

Drew tossed his phone on the desk. “And you’re wrong. Simms has nothing to offer these young guys. The atmosphere around here would be toxic with him on the team. In every locker room there’s at least one guy, at least one, who’s watched his mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, cousin get slapped around while growing up. And the rest of us have women in our lives whom we love and respect. There’s no way someone like Simms is stepping foot in the clubhouse, not while I’m here.”

“You don’t make all the decisions around here, do you?”

“No, but fortunately the people I work for have the same feeling about this kind of shit that I do. And if they didn’t, well, then I’d be forced to look for another job.”

Jim Rogers walked away shaking his head. Drew had engaged with him much more than he should have, but the idea of bringing a piece of crap like Simms onto the team made his blood curdle.

* * *

Drew met Cassie at her place, and they ate dinner at a small Italian restaurant on Federal Hill, within walking distance of her apartment. She let him put his arm around her on the way to restaurant. The progress was excruciatingly slow, but it was moving in the right direction. He’d take it. After dinner they went to a small bar to listen to a band with a talented drummer.

“What?” she asked above the music.

“Nothing.”

She tugged playfully at the front of his shirt. “Tell me. What’s going on between those cute little ears of yours?”

“Well there’s an emasculating phrase if I’ve ever heard one. My ears, like everything else about me, aren’t little. Or cute.”

She rolled her eyes. “No, they’re just the right size for your head, but they are cute. Now ’fess up. What were you thinking about with that silly grin on your face?”

“I was wondering if you still wear beautiful, sexy underwear. Where the bras and panties always match.”

She looked away, gathering the length of her hair at the base of her neck, and flipping it over her shoulder.

“Hey, you wanted to know what I was thinking. The tops of your ears are pink,” he said, and then leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I always loved the way your breasts looked covered in pretty lace, or not covered by anything but my hands.”

When he pulled back, she looked like she’d seen a ghost. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that about her breasts. He scrubbed his hand over the shadow on his jaw.
Fuck.

“Cassie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound like a pig.”

The color was still gone from her cheeks. This wasn’t just about an inappropriate remark. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. I need to get home.”

“Nothing’s wrong, but you’re whiter than a sheet, and…”

She bolted from the stool and out of the bar. He grabbed her arm on the sidewalk, but she pulled it free. “I can’t do this. Go back to Boston, Drew. Please. Let me get on with my life, and you get on with yours.”

She started to hurry off, but he yanked her back, and this time he held both her arms so she couldn’t pull away so easily. “If I thought for one minute you meant it, I might actually leave you alone.
Maybe.
But I don’t believe you. You’re scared, and you’re hiding something from me.”

People were staring at them on the sidewalk. Someone was sure to recognize him, and tomorrow’s headlines played in his mind.
Screw it
—let them print whatever they wanted. Right now, he didn’t give a shit.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? Look at me Cassie. Is it?”

“I can’t stop you from believing what you want to believe.”

He sucked in a long breath and blew it out slowly. Maybe she was right, maybe he was chasing yesterday’s dream, focused on what he wanted to believe was happening between them, and disregarding reality.

“I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Dammit, Cassie! Can’t you cut me even a little slack? Can’t you give in on something as inconsequential as a ride home?”

* * *

Inconsequential to him, maybe, but not to her. Every minute she spent with him, every little thing they did together, meant something to her. And it was complicating her life, messing with her emotions and her head in a way that was becoming unbearable. She needed to sort through her feelings, but she couldn’t do it alone. The stakes were too high, and she was too confused, and too afraid, to be able to figure this out by herself.

Right now, all she wanted was to hurl herself into the safety of his arms, and let him comfort her. But there’d be no going back from that.

When she got to her apartment, she e-mailed Dr. Ritchie, hoping she’d have an appointment available next week. “I’ve reconnected with a friend from the past,” she wrote, “and a lot of my old anxiety has come rushing back.” They hadn’t spoken in well over a year, because her life had been on such an even keel, she hadn’t needed the therapist’s support. But now she was a mess again. A huge mess.

* * *

Cassie sat in Doctor Ritchie’s familiar office, and reached for one of the little widgets she kept around for patients to fiddle with during difficult sessions.

“I feel like a spoiled child, unable to make decisions about my life. I really thought I was beyond all that. Instead of feeling grateful that I’ve made a good life for myself, grateful that my cancer wasn’t as aggressive as some others’, grateful that I’m alive, I’m in a perpetual state of hand-wringing, and feeling sorry for myself. I’ve become insufferable, I don’t know how he can stand to be around me, I can barely stand myself.”

“Cassie, you’re a strong woman, and you have rebuilt your life. But you experienced a great deal of trauma in a relatively short period of time. There was little time to recover between the blows. It was unrealistic to think that the fear, the anxiety, and the grief wouldn’t resurface again. Tell me about reconnecting with your old friend.”

Cassie told her all about what had been happening with Drew.

“I thought I was finished with him.”

“Did you really?”

She shifted in her chair, and hung her head, examining a loose thread on the hem of her skirt.

“Because I never thought that.”

Cassie’s head shot up.

“From what you described, it always seemed like you’d avoided him. If I remember correctly, you were afraid that telling him about the cancer would add to his problems, and you were also worried about his reaction, afraid he’d be repulsed by the illness, by your breasts. So you never returned his calls or his letters. But avoiding someone is very different from being finished with them.”

“I never stopped loving him,” she whispered. “I didn’t allow myself to think about him when I was with Ned, because it felt wrong, like cheating, even though it was just in my mind. But I’ve always loved him, and when I saw him standing in Lola’s—it was like a mirage. Like I’d been wandering in a barren desert for years, desperately in need of love, and then there he was. And every feeling I ever had for him came rushing back, but the closer I get to him, the more I realize it’s an illusion. We can’t go back. It’s not how life works.”

“No. You can’t go back to the way things were, but you can move forward, to where you both are now. Do you have a plan to tell him you had breast cancer?”

She shrugged, tightening her grip on the widget. “Things ended badly between us, but before that, we had three wonderful years together. I can’t let go of those memories, and I don’t want him to let go of them either. I don’t want the loving gazes to be replaced with looks of horror and pity. Every time I cough, my parents look at me like the cancer may have spread to some other part of my body. Like I might die at any minute. I don’t want that with him.”

She pressed two fingers to her chin, rubbing them up and down while Dr. Ritchie sat in silence, waiting for her to continue.

“When I think of him, I remember the way he looked at me while we made love. How he looked at me after we made love. When not a single word was necessary to convey our feelings for each other. We’ve spent enough time together recently for me to know he remembers it too. I want to keep it that way.”

Dr. Ritchie nodded, and nudged the tissue box closer to Cassie.

“Even if he can accept the changes in me … he fell apart when his parents died, and it nearly destroyed him—I can’t die on him, too. And if the cancer comes back, I can’t take care of him, not the way I took care of my parents. I’m older now, and I’ll need all my energy just to fight for my life.”

“Telling him is risky, for all the reasons you’ve stated. But I can’t help but think your experience with Ned is also playing a huge role in your anxiety. What do you think?”

Cassie shook her head. “What Ned and I had is nothing like what I had with Drew. His rejection stung, but it didn’t destroy me. I loved him, but it was a different kind of love than I have for Drew.”

“I realize he wasn’t the love of your life, but he broke off the engagement three weeks before the wedding. After your dress had been altered, after every small detail had been attended to, after hundreds of invitations had been mailed, and the response cards were pouring in. And he blamed his decision on your cancer. You haven’t been involved with another man since him, have you?”