Time's Forbidden Flower (25 page)

I cave, releasing my guard as we open our hearts for a speck of eternity. Everything we have locked away for so long rushes back; the amazing things we make each other feel, our hopes and dreams, all that we have been denied, the truth from which we can never escape. With eyes that beg me to love only him his soul wraps me in a cloak of adoration. The angels whisper their blessings as our lips meet—locked to each other, conveying enteral love in their dance. When we pull back, our eyes reflect a desire to entwine our souls for all of time.

“I’ve never stopped loving you, Lily.”

My whimper is scarcely suppressed as we give silent commitment before our lips meet again, bringing our bodies down onto the bed below us, sinking us into heaven.

The taste of his skin and the warmth of our beings turn me into an instrument of yearning. Slowly his hands slide under my shirt, glide it over my head, and toss it aside like a forgotten flower. In the next heartbeat my bra and his shirt join it on the floor. It feels like an eternity since we’ve been like this—skin-to-skin, soul-to-soul. Charges flow through me at his touch, and I pray this magical feeling never ends.
 

His cool hand slides down my bare breast followed by his tongue. Gently he suckles my nipples and the ecstasy it sends through my body cannot be compared to the euphoria in my soul. No one should have the power to keep us apart and infringe upon God’s beauty. Never have I loved another like this. No other man has ever—

“Oh, shit! Donovan, stop!” Halting at my words, our eyes freeze into each other’s. “What the hell are we doing?”

Donovan takes a deep breath, hiding his vision to the site of our indiscretion. “Stopping,” he burst out firmly. “We’re stopping.” Pulling the bedspread over us, he enrobes my body in his. “No more,” he assures. “No more until we agree what to do next, no matter how long it takes.”

“I have to go!” Darting off the bed, I scramble to put on my bra, finding my fingers have lost all agility.

“Lily, I’m sorry,” he says, advancing.

“Stop! Stop right there. You said to give you time and then I could yell at you. Consider yourself yelled at, twice. I’m taking these papers with me.” My feet flee so expeditiously, that I’m still pulling my shirt over my bra as the door slams behind me. Racing for my car, I pray that once inside I’ll wake to learn this nightmare was merely a hallucination.

Staring out my windshield, I’m barely aware of the road before me. Drops of guilt trickle down my cheeks as I force words that my heart needs to face.

“I cheated on my husband.”
 

Before I’ve blinked away the tears of indiscretion, foolishly lying to myself. Now I need to face my actions.

“I’ve hurt that sweet, beautiful man,” I cry.

No. No, I didn’t. We stopped. Both times we’ve stopped. It’s not cheating if you freak out and stop.

My stomach lurches, and I swallow hard and fast, fighting the burn that creeps up my throat. The guilt turns my tears into smoldering embers. Racing to quell the burn I smear them onto my sleeve. If I could rip my face off I would.

Pulling my car to the curb a block away from my house, profound sorrow screams forth, knowing I soon need to face my children. “No. I’m Lilyanna Eccles, and without sex it wasn’t cheating. I won’t wallow, because I didn’t cheat,” I shriek over and over again, trying to convince myself of innocence. Finally I force myself forward, wishing there were a way to yank out my deceitful heart and feed it to vultures, just as it deserves.

With a painted smile, I go through the motions of putting the children to bed, and then cower in my room with the documents. Aunt Audrey’s cause of death might as well be written in neon. Mom always said Audrey was much like Donovan—loving to the core. Was she trying to tell us the truth?

The power the adoption papers hold scares me. Now more than ever I know my life could have been different. This one, stupid piece of paper could change so much. Actually, I could just as easily hurt my family without it. This document may make it legal, but legal is not always right.

Deep sadness floods me when I curl into Christopher’s pillow. He has only been gone two days, and his scent has already faded; yet somehow Donovan’s shirt that he gave me nearly a year ago still carries his essence. It’s like a metaphor for my recent learning; Christopher is always here for the now, while Donovan is with me for eternity.

Finally my video chat rings. I click the answer button, sucking back guilt and pushing forth cheer. “Hello, luv!” I burst with an exaggerated gleam at Christopher. “You’re looking rather lovely.” Instantly my eyes feel like rafts on the ocean.

“Hey! That’s
my
line. You can’t go stealing my lines!” he laughs.

“Maybe I just miss you so much I feel the need. How are you darling?”

“Sweet as nuts. We had a cracking time tonight, but as much as I am enjoying this, I certainly miss you.” Christopher kisses his fingertips and touches them to the screen, yet I feel them claw into my heart.
 

I reciprocate, wishing our fingers could interlace. “And I miss you!”

“I had an idea for a name for the baby. How about—”

“Darling, can we please talk about something other than the adoption tonight?”

“Can’t stand up the master of musician names, eh?” Smugly he fakes straightening a necktie, bringing about my laughter, yet also deepening my guilt. “How’s my lovely lady?” he asks. The question turns my pooling water into a tsunami. Never has Christopher used Donovan’s words. “Darling, what’s wrong?” Christopher asks, looking like he wants to jump through the monitor and console me. To conceal my guilt, I reveal the contents of Pandora’s Box.

Christopher looks sickened by the news. “With your mum none of us ever did know which way was up. It’s unfortunate she didn’t get the same help Donovan did. He’s doing incredibly well for someone who nearly went off the deep end.”

Suddenly I’m kicked in the head. Are Christopher’s words as sarcastic as they sound, or did the universe send me a puzzle piece?

“Hey, Christopher,” Dennis calls in the background. “A reporter wants you.”

Christopher starts to reject the opportunity, but ironically I now need him to put his job first. “Sweetie, I insist you enjoy the chance at exposure. Call me after for a brighter conversation. I love you,” I say with heartfelt enthusiasm, then disconnect the call before he can protest.

My attention returns to the adoption papers. Something about the signatures rattles my core. Why do I suddenly see that Donovan never showed me the paperwork for Mike’s restraining order? Maybe my love for Donovan makes me blind to the truth—just like how Julian pointed out the marks on Anna’s arm over which I so easily lost concern.

From my laptop, rushed copies of both my parent’s marriage certificate and my aunt’s death certificate are ordered. In a few days, I’ll at least know what matches.

Repulsion runs through me, as if my veins are filled with my own sickness. Last night guilt plagued. Today frustration rules. The contrast makes me despise myself.

Snatching my purse from my locker, I head out, hoping fresh air will reform me, but nothing on this earth can make me comfortable with myself. Fighting the urge to race my stress away, I meander through the streets of Westwood and land on Sunset Boulevard. Twenty snot-sob filled minutes later I’ve traveled a whole four miles and find myself in front of Donovan’s office. I should have headed for the La Brea Tar Pits. Diving into muck sounds appropriate. Then again, I’m already neck deep.

Bolting into his private chambers, I neglect the formality of a salutation before sniffling out my words, certain that my face is unrecognizable from the streaks and smears of eyeliner and mascara. “You leaving was the hardest thing I ever experienced. If you hadn’t shoved me away I would have stood by your side without fail. I kept asking if you were sure. You said it had to happen.” I halt Donovan as he heads toward me. “No, stay where it’s safe. You’re not allowed to do anything but talk to me.”

“I had to do everything I could.” He gulps back a sob. “You were sick—so, so sick. It was like watching you die.”

“What would you be like today if we had pressed on? Couldn’t we have recovered?” Tears pour down my cheeks so heavily my sinuses drain. Against my better judgment, I let Donovan dab my eyes with a tissue.

“Remember how we used to go for long walks? I kept changing our route because we lived near both a school and a park. Kids were everywhere, and you always looked so sad. One day a little boy couldn’t get started on a swing. You ran over to help him, and looked so happy. I wanted you to always be that happy.”

“I was happy,” I implore, sniffling with a snort. “I was happy with you.”

The sadness in Donovan’s eyes deepens. He kisses his tissue that holds the product of my sorrow and begs for my understanding. “But this was a glow I could never give you. It killed me to know it was my fault you would never have it.”

I push on, feeling we are in a tug-of-war as to who hurts the most. “What about the glow I had with you? It was my decision too.”

“A decision that was making you ill,” he tenderly asserts. “I loved you too much for that.”

“I would have gotten past it, but what about you, Donovan? If I had let you recover and come back for you, or if I had rebelled and told you I wasn’t going down without a fight, what would have happened?”

Donovan squeezes his eyes, releasing more sorrow. I grab a tissue then crumple it, as if wanting it to be useless. I itch to touch him without the barrier a tissue would provide. My hand surges forth, absorbing his tears into my skin. “I made a huge mistake,” he confesses. “I fell prey to dichotomous thinking. After I shoved you away Dr. Coe got through to me. It wasn’t an all or nothing situation.”
 

My hand that has been dampened with his sorrow touches my own cheek, bringing his tears to mine. Everything about us should be together.
 

“I sabotaged us.” Donovan’s voice rings with contrition and self-hatred as our foreheads meet. “I would never make that mistake again. Now I can face anything. What about you, Lily?” He turns brave, his words sounding like a challenge. “With the life you have, can you come back to my side and face anything?”

“I’ve no idea,” I hesitantly whisper.

“I’ll always love you, Lily.”

“And I’ll always love you,” I burst with devout insistence.

Pulling my head to his chest he utters with fragility, “I cheated on my wife yesterday.”

The stab felt from the knife of his words renews my sobs. “The fact that we again stopped doesn’t change it, does it?”

“What the hell were we thinking?”

I wish my confession were not true. “Both times I was thinking the same thing I am now. No one makes me feel the way you do. While there’s a big difference between sex and making love the difference between making love and sharing your soul is even vaster. So many people never know how that feels.”

“You make what we did sound almost forgivable.”

“I wish it were.”

Four days of melodrama have put me completely on edge. Fighting the urge to pace the bakery while awaiting the arrival of an expressed package that may imply my soul mate is crazy, I duck into my office and embark on a quest to cyber stalk the man staying in my guesthouse. Eric’s fan base sends my head spinning with several websites and forums filled by devoted women. Quickly I learn more about the man than I have in all of the years I’ve known him.

Eric Christopher Taylor, from Salford, started in a skiffle band when he was twelve, then joined The Chestermen at sixteen. He was an apprentice in a bread shop and kept his job until the band already had several hits, feeling at best their success would last only a year.
 

I know he enjoys baking, but how was that always left out of our conversations?

Eventually I uncover a post by a fan that acquired true treasure—two pictures from Eric’s aunt. The photos make me lose all sense of reason. Unable to believe what lies before me I race to open the photo album on my computer and find my fingers have turned to sticks from anxiety. Comparing a picture of Christopher as a small boy to one of Eric, it’s uncanny how they could be the same person. The second picture is one of Eric in a recording studio. The man sitting next to him, who holds a striking resemblance to Christopher, shocks me. He is simply listed as being Eric’s brother.