Manic Monday, Inc.

Book 3: Sunday Potluck Club

by Melissa Storm

Genres: Christian Romance; Christian Suspense

Synopsis

"USA Today bestselling author Melissa Storm reunites the members of the Sunday Potluck Club—and their adorable rescue animals—in a heartwarming story of friendship and second chances.
Live in the moment …
Nichole Peterson increasingly believes in rituals, routines, and checklists—
especially after almost losing her father to cancer two years ago. Now she lives in
constant fear of saying the wrong thing, knowing any conversation could be their
last. She met her best friends—and their cherished canine companions—at the
hospital right before each lost a parent. As the only member of the Sunday
Potluck Club with a surviving loved one, she has a hard time opening up to her
friends about the struggles that come with remission.
When a new doctor diagnoses Nichole with obsessive-compulsive disorder, she
refuses to accept it. Then a series of unexpected events further throws her
carefully scheduled life off-kilter and her anxieties into overdrive. It seems the
only person she can confide in is her best friend’s older brother, Caleb—her polar
opposite.
A free spirit, Caleb treasures spontaneity, avoiding structure as much as possible.
Yet he’s the happiest person Nichole has ever met. As they grow closer, might
their unlikely alliance help Nichole rediscover the more relaxed self she can
scarcely remember—and even find something extra special along the way?

Release date: October 26, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

Nichole Peterson never went anywhere without her notebook. She used it to keep her schedule, draft lists, and jot down reminders for later. Everyone teased her about her reliance on pen and paper when the whole world had gone digital now, but the heft of the notebook and the smell of the ink from her favorite ballpoint pen gave her comfort—security—in a way that a mishmash of apps never could.

She knew this because she’d tried more than once. She’d even switched over to the more modern method for a few years after college.

But then her father had gotten sick....

For almost an entire year, she’d escorted him to doctor’s appointments, stayed at his side for hospital stays, and turned to her notebook for direction.

People always liked to say that once something made its way onto the Internet, it would stay there forever. Perhaps that’s why she’d superstitiously refused to keep the important details of his health on a device that was always connected to the web. Once her mind was made up, the notebook made its grand return and became more important than ever before.

Crazily enough, Nichole’s plan somehow worked.

Her father’s prostate cancer went into remission, and they both got on with their lives as if those horrible months of wondering, waiting, praying had been nothing more than a tiny blip on the radar.

Well, at least her father got on with his life. He found a new joy in all the little motions of day-to-day living that he’d once rushed through without taking the time to fully appreciate—cooking, exercise, work, even just driving around the neighborhood. She loved how happy he was, now that he’d grabbed on to his second chance with both hands.

But Nichole just didn’t feel the same way.

She couldn’t focus on the miracle of his recovery, because that meant accepting and moving past the devastation of his diagnosis—and that, she just could not do. Because now she’d learned the truth, that her world could all be taken away at any moment with hardly any notice.

Jotting it all down in her notebook, though, gave a bit of permanence to the capriciousness of life. If she could capture a thought, a need, a plan, she could control it—and if she could control it, then she didn’t feel lost. At least not quite as much.

Even so, she constantly worried that the cancer would return and take her father from her once and for all. Each day was a gift, but it was also one day closer to the time he would eventually leave her. Whether it was cancer or something else, eventually he’d go.

Knowing that terrified her.

Especially since the very same thing had happened to her friend, Bridget. Her mother had no sooner celebrated five years in remission than the family got the news that it was time to restart the clock, that the cancer had come back, ready to succeed where it had failed the first time around.

Less than six months later, Bridget’s mom was dead.

Dutifully, Nichole went to the funeral and the bizarre after-party her friend had insisted on throwing. She’d also gone to the funerals for the loved ones of the other women in the Sunday Potluck Club.

Nichole still remembered kind, motherly Amy introducing herself in the hospital cafeteria. She’d brought homemade cookies and offered to share. After that, they timed their coffee breaks together and eventually their parents’ appointments, too.

A couple months later, they met Bridget, the youngest one in their group. When Hazel joined them, they decided to move their meetings offsite—not just because Hazel’s father decided to refuse treatment, thus cutting her off from the hospital and the rest of the group, but also because they all needed an escape from the sterile landscape of their lives.

And so the Sunday Potluck Club was born. Every Sunday, they each brought a dish to pass and problems to share. Although the others considered Nichole the hard, cynical one, she found them to be her lifeline when navigating her fears and exploring her grief.

As much as cancer had taken from all of them, it had also given them something undeniably important. One another.

That was, until each of her friends lost a parent while Nichole’s dad got better. Now the thing that had held them together no longer included Nichole. If her friends were jealous, they did a good job hiding it. And she doubted they were, really.

No, Nichole was the problem. Not her friends.

Every time she looked at any of them, she was reminded of just how unfair—just how uneven—life could be. Why had her parent been saved? And how much longer would he be safe from the vile disease that had already taken so much?

She couldn’t confide these troubles to her friends, so she sometimes wrote them in her notebook instead. Nobody would feel sorry for her, and she didn’t want them to. But she also didn’t expect them to understand her special form of suffering, of uncertainty.

The greatest irony of all, though, was that Nichole helped others heal every single day of the week in her work as a counselor. She specialized in helping military families and veterans as a social worker, which meant she dealt with a lot of post-traumatic stress.

And here she was battling the same exact symptoms due to the stress of a trauma that had never actually happened. Her father had lived. She needed to snap out of it, even though she’d never say such a thing to one of her charges.

When she was in college, everyone liked to say that people chose to pursue careers in psychology, social work, or other forms of counseling because they themselves were damaged. Nichole had chosen that work out of a fascination with both the human mind and how various socioeconomic factors could shape the outcome of a person’s life. Her education had been an intellectual pursuit, not a journey of self-discovery. She’d never considered herself “messed up” or damaged.

Until her father’s cancer had changed everything.

Now she had a wealth of knowledge on how to guide others to recovery, but still she couldn’t find a way to help herself. And she was beginning to think nobody could help her, though she was willing to give it one last try.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the door to Dr. Anderson’s office. Maybe the doctor would have the answers Nichole had failed to find. If nothing else, she could cross one more thing off her list.

Nichole sat on the crinkly film of paper that covered the examination table. She swung her legs in front of her in nervous anticipation while flipping through her notebook and reading over plans and details she’d long since memorized.

A physician’s assistant came in and took her vitals, asked her a few rote questions, then left just as quickly as she’d come.

This wasn’t a psychiatrist’s office. Nichole had a hard time trusting anyone who would prescribe a pill almost as soon as he or she said hello.

Nichole had already tried talk therapy, but if felt weird and wrong to need help in her own area of expertise. She counseled others and helped them to heal. She knew the value of a good therapist better than anyone. Because she knew the field so well, though, she couldn’t help critiquing other practitioners’ methods, studying the process, rather than submitting herself to it.

She should be able to do this for herself.

She knew what she needed to do.

And yet she still hadn’t managed it.

That had gotten Nichole thinking . . . Maybe something inside her was physically broken. She’d taken health-conscious Hazel’s recommendation to pay a visit to her own primary care doctor. A D.O., one whom her friend claimed had been a great help to her. And who was also unlikely to throw a prescription at her.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and Nichole shoved her journal under her thigh, instinctively feeling the need to protect her secrets even though she had come here with the express purpose of sharing them. She’d control this interaction the way she hadn’t been able to control the course of her life—it would happen on her terms, according to her preferences.

“Yes,” she called, hating how her voice hitched on the single word. “Come in.”

The doctor entered wearing an unbuttoned white lab coat over yoga pants and a silky dress shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun with wisps of light brown hair sticking out near her ears. She wore no makeup, save for a delicate pink lipstick that felt out of place given the rest of the doctor’s ensemble.

“Nichole?” the doctor asked, sticking her hand out in greeting.

A firm shake. Confident. Nichole liked that.

“Dr. Anderson?” She tucked a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear and nodded, hoping the doctor might also realize the need to straighten her own hair.

“That’s me,” the other woman announced with a broad smile that was probably meant to put her patient at ease but actually amped up Nichole’s anxiety.

She also didn’t catch Nichole’s subtle hint about her messy hair. This was why Nichole always wore a single plait down her back, no muss, no fuss.

At least not on the outside.

She shifted her gaze to her lap, to the edge of the notebook peeking out from beneath her thigh. “My friend Hazel Long speaks very highly of you.”

Dr. Anderson grabbed a stool and wheeled it over to the side of the exam table before plopping down with a contented sigh. “That’s very nice of her. Now, Nichole, what can I do for you?”

Nichole swallowed hard. She sat so much taller on top of that table than the doctor did on her stool. Another thing that made her nervous. She’d come to Dr. Anderson because the woman was meant to be an expert, but she didn’t seem very authoritative as Nichole looked down on her from her perch.

“Would you feel more comfortable taking a chair?” the doctor proposed.

Perceptive. That was both admirable and terrifying. Would she be the one to finally help Nichole? Would Nichole be willing to let her?

“No,” she answered, whether to herself or the doctor she still hadn’t quite decided. “I’m fine,” she added, even though that wasn’t true at all.

She wanted to feel better, but not if it made anyone else feel worse. The people around her needed Nichole to look after them. Her father, her friends.

Dr. Anderson raised one thick eyebrow and waited for Nichole to volunteer the reason for her visit.

Nichole hated this part. She trailed a finger along the spine of her notebook for strength, took another deep breath, and said, “I think something inside me died when my father didn’t.”

The doctor’s eyes widened. “Wow. Okay. Tell me more about that.”

And so Nichole shared everything, all the while praying that this would be the last time she’d need to explain just how she’d become so very broken. But also doubting that it would be.

“I can’t stop wondering when the other shoe will drop,” she explained without meeting the doctor’s eyes. “He didn’t die this time, but he will someday. I can’t stop thinking about that. Wondering how much longer we have, doing my best to fill the remaining time with happy memories. But I don’t know if I can be happy anymore. Knowing it’s coming.”

Dr. Anderson nodded, maintaining an intense focus on Nichole’s words. She didn’t ask any questions. Just waited in case Nichole wanted to say more.

And so the words kept coming.

Nichole kept unloading her fears and anxieties on this near stranger, wondering, What if? What if?

“What if our last words to each other are in anger? What if I miss something I should have seen and it costs him everything? What if I’m not enough to keep him safe anymore?”

Finally, Dr. Anderson spoke in a soft, patient tone. “Why does that fall to you?” No judgment, just genuine curiosity. This doctor was okay. Maybe she really was the one Nichole had been searching for.

“Because my father doesn’t worry enough,” she explained with a stuttering sigh. She would not cry. Not here. Her tears belonged to her and her alone.

So she focused on her words, trying to detach herself emotionally as she spoke. “He’s so busy living the life he almost lost, he doesn’t stop to consider what could still happen.”

“He doesn’t worry enough, but what about you? Do you worry enough?”

Nichole cocked her head to the side. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Do you worry enough, or rather the right amount? Does your worrying help make up for the fact that your father doesn’t?”

She thought about this for a moment. “Right now, I worry enough, because he’s still safe. But if I ever drop the ball, then what?”

The doctor nodded. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

Nichole nodded, too. “It is.”

Then came the question they’d both been working toward. “What would you like to see happen today, Nichole?”

“I want you to fix me,” she volunteered, deciding that—yes—she trusted Dr. Anderson enough to allow her to try.

The doctor swung her stool to either side with the tips of her toes. “What’s wrong with you?”

Nichole balked at this question. “I just told you.”

“You also told me you worried the right amount or possibly not enough. That doesn’t sound like someone who believes she needs fixing. So what do you really want to see happen here?”

Nichole raised her eyes to meet Dr. Anderson’s. For the first time, she realized they were an intense, steely blue. “Everyone says I’m too stressed.”

The swinging motion stopped. “Do you agree with them?”

“I don’t know,” Nichole answered honestly, surprised by the turn this consult had taken. “I used to be happier. Freer.”

“You’re not happy now.” This didn’t sound like a question but still felt as if it needed an answer.

“I’m not depressed, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I don’t think you’re depressed, Nichole,” the doctor said, wheeling her chair back a little now. It looked as if she wanted to say more but was holding off for some reason.

“Then what do you think?” Nichole asked pointedly.

“Well, I’d like to see you again before settling on an official diagnosis, but I think the symptoms you’re describing may align with obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

“No,” Nichole said following a sharp inhale. “That’s not it.”

“Maybe not,” the doctor agreed, scribbling something on her notepad.

“I don’t want drugs,” Nichole spat. How could she have gotten this so wrong?

“I don’t want to give you drugs,” the other woman clarified. “But I do want to see you again in two weeks.” She handed the appointment slip to Nichole and continued. “During that time, I’d like you to keep a record of your worries, stresses, and fears. Every time you feel less than stellar, take a moment to jot it down.”

“How do you want me to do that? Just a tick mark, a detailed journal entry? I’m not sure what you’re asking for.” If she was to be assigned homework, then she needed to understand how to ace the assignment. Nichole never gave things half effort, even if she didn’t want to do them in the first place.

“You decide. Whatever makes most sense to you. In two weeks, we’ll go over everything and come to a diagnosis together.” Dr. Anderson rose to her feet and grinned at Nichole.

“It was nice meeting you today,” she said before gliding out of the room and leaving Nichole alone with even more questions than she’d had to start.

Nichole stared at the closed door. An aged poster instructed patients to sing the birthday song twice while washing their hands for best effect. Its corners curled inward beneath yellowed tape that looked as if it would give way at any moment. Well, that advice clearly held up over time, so they seemed to have no reason to swap it out for something a bit newer.

The advice of the medical community seemed to change direction on a dime, anyway.

Eggs are good for you. Eggs are bad.

Red wine is excellent for heart health. No, wait. We take it back!

Even if Dr. Anderson suspected Nichole had OCD now, who was to say she wouldn’t change her mind?

Yes, Nichole recognized some of the signs in herself, but they could also point to any number of other conditions—or just be a part of her personality. She had a hard time buying into a disorder diagnosis.

Unlike many of her classmates back in the day, Nichole had entered the mental health profession to help other people—not to fix herself.

Yet here she was, nearly thirty and quickly losing everything that had once made her great, made her proud to talk to strangers and share her accomplishments.

She pulled her notebook out from beneath her leg and flipped to a fresh page.

Research health journals about adulthood diagnosis of OCD and other anxiety spectrum disorders, she jotted down first.

She crossed out that last item, not wanting to burden her friends.

If she had this thing, though, it would be yet another way that she was different, that she didn’t belong. Her friends had lost so much more than she, and yet they’d each emerged from the crisis stronger than before. Nichole had been the only one to receive the miracle they’d all prayed for, and yet she was falling apart at the seams.

OCD.

Those three little letters would be her secret for as long as they needed to be.

Her phone buzzed just as she was gathering her journal and purse to leave.

A text from Hazel: How’d it go?

Nichole paused to type out a quick answer with fast-moving thumbs. Fine. Thanks again for the recc, she responded dismissively, and then added a smiley emoji to show she meant it.

At the front desk, she accepted the first appointment the smiling receptionist offered, then held the door open for a young mother balancing a toddler on her hip while carrying an infant in a portable car seat. She looked at least five years younger than Nichole, and yet she was so much further ahead in life.

Not that Nichole was anywhere near ready for children, but it would be nice to know she could have them if she so chose.

Unfortunately, she still had far too much work to do on herself before anything like that would be possible. She’d known more about life and what she wanted out of it at eighteen, when she’d stood on that temporarily erected stage in her high school gymnasium and accepted a cheap piece of rolled-up paper that was meant to be a stand-in for her real diploma.

Eighteen-year-old Nichole had been bright, enthusiastic, and had graduated with highest honors. She’d received a full-ride scholarship to study the field she’d chosen for herself at twelve, when her parents had gotten divorced and split her family in two. Since then, Nichole had always known what she wanted from life and what she needed to do to get it. Of course, her mother had never forgiven her for choosing to live with her father instead.

Had that damaged her? No.

Or at least not then.

At least not that she’d known.

Although after meeting with Dr. Anderson, she now had to wonder. Had she bottled up all the hard moments in life, keeping them safe in. . .