Time's Forbidden Flower (13 page)

Christopher fusses as he places the silverware one inch from the table’s edge, just as his family’s butler always does. “Whatever do you mean, luv?”

“Flowers, the cocktail, dinner—reminders of you follow me everywhere.”

“Did you see me image in one of your tea biscuits?” he asks while polishing a knife. The utensil drops onto a fragile dinner plate, sending a twinge zipping across the nape of my neck.

“No, but I’m feeling rather spoiled.” And very lucky the plate didn’t chip. “It’s been a rather noteworthy day,” I hint, before surveying him over the brim of my Gimlet as I sip. Crap! This is exactly what my mother does when she attempts slyness.

“Ah, I’m glad things went well. Have a seat. I’ll round the children.”

Damn. This is not a comforting moment.

Christopher continues to be an angel, drawing me a warm bath before putting the children in bed. As my body sinks into the inspiriting bath the cacophony from the foaming bubbles represses the surrounding world, leaving me to my thoughts of uncertainty regarding the source of the note.

My cell phone sits on the nightstand in the adjoining bedroom. My hopes for a call may be foolish, but they fill me nonetheless.

Water trickles across the bathroom and onto the bedroom carpet as I retrieve the device. I drop the phone on the counter while reentering the tub. The bubbles snuggle my body, but that which can comfort my soul is completely out of reach. My eyes fixate on the taunting phone, hoping it will chime despite my knowing that Donovan wouldn’t dare acknowledge his actions after what happened in Rhode Island.

My dripping hand dabs a towel before grabbing the phone. My eyes again lock on the device in expectation. Clearly my Jedi Mind Trick needs work or this thing would have succumbed by now. From the speed dial list my eyes rivet on his name. Finally I cave and click the call button.

“Hold on,” Donovan whispers. Shuffles rattle in the background before he resurfaces. “Sorry. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I was just thinking that life is too short not to have more time together. I’m taking advantage of a free moment to enjoy you a little.”

Silence hangs in the air before he replies. “I thought we were cooling everything?”

“So did I.”

“I really have to go. I’m sorry,” he says, without readable emotion.

“It’s okay. The guy who oversees getting the kitchen back in order called out sick tonight so I have to get up stupid early and do dishes. Yay!” I emphasize with sarcasm.

“That’s too bad. I’ll call you later.”

After his non-informative brush off I toss the phone onto the floor and try to slide my head underwater, only to wuss out on sucking it into my nose.

A 4 A.M. knock on the bakery’s back door jolts me into dropping the whisk I am washing into the bleach tub, nearly causing the chemical-laced water to splash onto my face. My sleepy body drags itself to open the door and reveal an overly caffeinated Christopher. “Hello, luv!” he exclaims, bursting his arms out to greet me. Bags support his bloodshot, baby blues, yet his grin is infectious. Behind him our children yawn while clutching pillows and sleeping bags. The display removes every trace of my early-morning crankiness.

“Are you crazy? You have to be at your own job in a few hours.”

“Certifiably bonkers—but I came to help anyway.” He nods to the children. “They came to sleep in the front. Go on,” he says, motioning them to the shop. “I promised those ridiculous pancakes with whipped cream and chocolate drops if they behave themselves. I figured you wouldn’t mind the junk food, being it’s in exchange for a little adoring help.”

“Not at all!” Taking his hand, our arms swing as we enter the kitchen, my face graced with happiness. I place his hands into the warm, sudsy water. With a nuzzle and a peck on his cheek, I grab a mixing paddle and return it into its home before my sights resume on Christopher, who notices my peering. His eyes light with a captivating gleam once so long gone it’s now almost alien. “Remind you of something?” he asks.

“Yes, my old boss and mentor, Josette, tricking you into working. She got pretty good at it.”

“Especially once she learned to only let me wash unbreakables.”

My head tosses back in mirth. “Like that ever made a difference! You once dented a heavy-gage steal pan simply by dropping it onto a rubber mat. Then there was the time you shocked us by setting down a tray of dishes without breaking a single one. However, you placed it smack onto the top tier of a wedding cake Josette had just finished.”

Christopher hangs his head at the memory that now brings forth amusement. “How she didn’t off me is beyond comprehension.”

“I owe much of my success to that moment. Josette stabbed a fork in the center of the cake and laughed while demanding you eat your mess, thus showing me that no recoverable calamity is worth an uproar.” The memory causes mischief to swirl in my brain. I sneak off to the walk-in, not with the intent of reliving old times, but determined to save my marriage. A chocolate mousse cake begs me to take it captive. One way or another, I’m going to enjoy what I’ve craved.
 

On my way to nab forks, I reach into the sink and flick some suds at Christopher. He snickers as they hit his nose. My focus resumes on the mousse cake with the intent of feeding him a forkful, then licking more off of his neck, but watery suds, likely meant to find my arm, splatter before me. Seriously? His aim is as good as that of an eyeless creature that lacks appendages.

Grabbing a handful of lather, I nail him in the stomach. He then grabs two more handfuls and swats them at me. With a shriek I dash away, then dig my hand into the mousse. Christopher swoops me up and swings me while the cake plops to the floor. The mousse flies off of my hand and smacks into his face. His foot lands on the splattered mess and he slips onto his unpadded bum, plopping me between his legs, just shy of the family jewels.
 

“Ouuuch!” he winces with a chuckle.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” My knee hits the mousse and slides out from under, causing me to land on him in a rather wifely position. The resulting kisses spark as if I’m a stick of dynamite whose fuse has been lit too long. The chocolate on his face, merging with our kisses, makes him taste sweeter than ever.

“Hmm…” he moans. “Maybe we should head home for some breakfast.”

“Or you can stay and eat this,” a voice booms over us.

My body jerks around to find Donovan towering above. At the widening of my eyes he breaks into a smile and flashes a wave. How many flavors of wrong it is that I feel guilty for making out with my own husband? “Ugh, hi.” I smile uneasily. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

A hasty puff emits from Donovan’s nose as he forces a grin. He drops the bag onto the counter before boring his hands into his pockets. “I thought I’d help with the dishes you were complaining about last night. Looks like you don’t need me after all.”

Donovan, I know what that means, and you’re wrong.

No, Lily. We both know I’m not.
“You two enjoy it. I have stacks of papers piling up at the office.”

“Thanks, mate,” Christopher states, helping me to my feet. “You should join us.”
 

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” As Donovan leaves my undeserved guilt remains.

“Let’s eat. I’m bloody famished,” Christopher raves.

So am I. Too bad I’m going to starve.

An eerie feeling clouds as I enter my car to head home from work, as if sin looms above. It causes me to hunch my head like I do when rain pours and I’m caught without cover. The longer I drive, the more my head descends into my shoulders. Pulling up to a stoplight, I examine the interior of the car. A slip of pink paper drops for my visor, causing me to jerk. Fear, hope, and confusion lock in my throat as I read the note.

My love for you is endless and shall never die.

Suddenly my ten-minute ride home requires a one-hour detour. I enter Donovan’s welcoming office as he does my bakery, like it’s a second home. Donovan sits at his desk, pouring over paperwork. Despite logic and reason, I jump into the boiling cauldron. “This has to stop. I can’t live with you being constantly in my head.”

He rattles his noggin, still looking to the papers. “Hello to you, too.” His face reflects a quandary as he puts down the pen and his eyes shift upward. “Does this have something to do with the hypnosis?”

My words halt just short of bursting forth, remembering that notes are one of his emotional triggers and anything involving them should carry a hazard label. I stick my hands out in gentle warning. “I need you to stop sending me love notes.”

“What love notes?” Donovan turns ashen, like a five hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle just smacked him in the face and rained all over him.
 

“The ones you’ve been sending since we got back from Rhode Island.”

Thankfully he looks like he thinks I’ve lost my marbles. “Lily, I haven’t sent you love notes in ten years. I’ve written and shredded them, but I’ve never left one anywhere.”

“Who would leave love notes at my work and in my car?”

Donovan sets his elbows on his desk, his hands scrubbing though his hair. “Look to your left ring finger. The answer probably resides there.”

“They don’t sound like they’re from Christopher,” I utter, toying with my rings.

“You have no idea how much I wish they weren’t. Unless you have a new admirer, your husband is the culprit.”

In the shelves behind Donovan sit three groups of photos representing three aspects of his life: reality, where the photos are of him and his family—hope, where the photos are of him and me—and fantasy, where a lone picture of him and Eric sits, like Eric is a surrogate father. Donovan taught me to compartmentalize. Maybe I’m trying so hard to do it my perception of reality is distorted to where I can’t comprehend Christopher being so Donovan like.

Donovan’s pen hits the desk in disappointment. “Lily, I’m not doing so well with this distance thing. When I thought of us before it is was like mourning the loss of a loved one, now I’m haunted by a ghost that’s actually alive.”

Anna enters the office. Her eyes drift away at the sight of me, her energy dwindling. Donovan now seems uncomfortable in his own skin. Jealously erupts within me.

This is bad. Maybe these notes really are from Christopher and I just want them to be from Donovan to the point where I refuse to see the obvious. Quickly I excuse myself, fleeing home and knowing more than ever that serious damage control is required on my marriage.

When I return home, Christopher is sitting at his desk in the back corner of our partial-basement. Many of his guitars are uncharacteristically strewn about on a loveseat and coffee table. “Seriously, Eric, I’ve no idea what to do,” he says to the monitor of his desktop Mac, sounding utterly miffed while the pen in his left hand taps wildly on the desk. “We should have had the contract last week. Something is amiss.”

“Look,” Eric’s voice emits through the speakers, “if the headliner has told their agent they want you then prepare the best you can and wait. Headlining bands often don’t have much control.”

Christopher flings the pen onto the desk as if tossing in the towel. “I just wish I knew if it’s safe to order merchandise. That’s the only way we might make money. Even then the venues take a twenty-percent cut. I don’t know how we’ll eat if not given sales clearance, let alone who will sell for us.”
 

First notes from a questionable source, now unconfirmed tour dates that may lead to stubborn starvation. The universe smells like a trashcan outside of a Chinese restaurant during a heat wave.

Romantic faux dating, past lives intertwined, heart-soaring notes—they all create a cyclonic threat to my cherished marriage.

Donovan’s assurance yesterday that he wasn’t responsible for the letters of adoration has only granted partial relief. My internal civil war goes far beyond that which can be equalized. Christopher has never failed to make me feel cherished in that special way only someone who loves every bit of your being can. Donovan is like that and more. He rocks my world on a spiritual level, enthralling me with his every motion. Once you know how it feels to have your soul satisfied, it’s hard to not crave it, let alone resist caving to its temptation.

The problem might be that I’ve never exposed a certain side of myself to anyone but Donovan. With him it just kind of emerged, and I surrendered all vulnerability. I feel cheated because I can’t be that way with my own husband. Am I too embarrassed, or do I really not want that with anyone else?

This must change—for the sake of my head—for the sake of my marriage.

I stand in the bathroom, clad in a black PVC cat suit—tail, ears, insanely tall boots, and little cover on my crotch. Before looking in the mirror, one last stomach-quelling breath is captured. Relief fans my sweaty brow upon seeing I don’t look as ridiculous as I feel. My clammy, PVC glove covered hands toy with a whip. Will the whip freak Christopher out?

Lord, what am I doing, and why am I questioning it? I never did years before. Donovan loved it when I surprised him like this. Then again, Donovan would have found me irresistible in a muumuu and mismatched turban.