Time's Forbidden Flower (6 page)

“Are you saying we can no longer afford my jewelry?”

“Darling, I know it’s a lot of money. Are you all right with this?”

“Christopher, of course I’m all right with this.” Actually, I was damned relieved! “You’d have a hard time living with yourself if we didn’t help her.”

Lying next to me, he enrobed me tighter than in years. “An innocent child should never suffer because of someone’s selfishness.”

His voice had taken on an eerie tone, reminding me of the distance I feel every time the subject of our two years apart comes up—the two years of which we never vowed to speak. Quickly he snapped back into the moment, focusing on me and pouring more champagne. Despite the guise it was presented under, and although all I ingested was exquisite chocolate and Dom Perignon, the lunch was nicely fulfilling.

Relatively.

Okay, a little unadventurous but satisfying—like vanilla ice cream.

Lord, how I’d kill for some chocolate mousse.

Now I’m headed back to my shop, Pâtisserie de l’Amour, in Westwood, confident that nothing has crumbled in the hands of the cast of characters referred to as my staff. I am blessed with the most talented, loyal, and kooky artists on the planet. Their eccentric creativity has resulted in crazy desserts that none of our competitors would dare try, like Tequila Lime Tarts with an Orange Cilantro Glaze. Pâtisserie de l’Amour has a killer reputation for the eclectic, and I owe it largely to my comedy troupe.

My cell phone vibrates before I enter the back door. Stopping to grab it out of the rear pocket of my jeans, I look at the caller ID and already regret taking a call from the person I should have responded to weeks ago. “Hi, Mom,” I groan into the phone. Oh, a brain hemorrhage would be so welcome right now.

“Hi, Lily. How was England?”

“Wet.”

“Did you see Eric?”

Lord! That’s a new speed record. “Yes, Mom. We always see Eric.”

“I don’t know how you hold it together,” she practically pants. “If I were even in the same county as that man I would go to pieces.”

Which is one of the many reasons why I will never let her near him.

“Doesn’t Peter Noone live near you?” she asks. “Has he come into your shop?”

Dear God! “I’m not sure where he lives, Mom. If he comes in I promise to tell you.” Someday I’m going to get over my hang-up about lying. I’ll tell her he strolled in, took one look at me, and pinned me to the back wall before kissing me passionately and saying he’d bet I have a gorgeous mother. “Hey, Mom, I’m sorry, but I really need to go. I had a lunch meeting and have been out of the store for the last three hours.”

“Okay, bye dear. Oh, wait. I got that article you sent me about how well your shop is doing. I’m really proud of you honey. I never told you this, but the night you talked to your father and me about going to pastry school and wanting to open your own shop he said he knew you would be successful. He would be very, very proud.”

Absorbing her words, I give myself a moment to mourn the loss of my father and his good side that so rarely showed. Suddenly I feel a little stronger for having known him. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Okay, dear. Give Christopher a big kiss for me.”

 
“Will do. I’ll kiss the kids for you as well.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. Them too.”
 

“Bye, Mom,” I say, chuckling. She may have lost her marbles when she overreacted about Donovan, but she’s still the same daydreaming, wannabe teenager.

Slipping through the back door on the approach to my locker, I start to take off my rings when my favorite baker, Cindy, with her fiery, pixie-cropped hair dyed a deep red, accosts me. “I know it’s none of my business, but since we all love Christopher, I insist you keep your wedding ring on.”

My head cocks as I look into her deep green eyes. Just as I’m about to ask why, Jenny, my petite, over-enthusiastic counter girl, runs in looking star struck. “Did you tell her? He’s still out there!”

“Tell me what? Who’s out where?”
 

Jenny gushes like a thirteen-year-old whose favorite teen idol has just bowed in her presence. Even when her king idol, Johnny Depp, drops in she doesn’t get into this kind of an uproar. Grabbing my arm, Jenny’s brunette ponytail whips with her bounces. “Seriously, he has got to be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

“Who?” I ask, wishing she would just get on with it.

Robert, an amazing decorator and the most flamboyant of my staff, races up. His wavy carrot top, lime eyes, and pale skin make him and Cindy look like disgruntled siblings. “Did you tell her about the stud who keeps munching on the pastry? Boy do I have something he can munch—”

Cindy shoves Robert aside and gives me the scoop. “Some blistering guy has been waiting in the store for over an hour. I’ve no idea who he is except he’s incredibly hot, has amazing blue eyes, and brought you a gorgeous bouquet of white roses.”

My eyes won’t stop widening in hope. With morbid curiosity the fan club follows me as I whip through the kitchen. Peering out the swinging door to the shop, my heart skips a beat at Donovan’s sight. Will it ever stop doing that? Turning to the adults who have regressed to groupie girls, I hope my look is of sisterly distain. “I thought you said it was some hot guy? That’s just my jock brother.”
 

My eyes roll, Donovan style, as I push the door open with my heel and spin into the shop, only to hear Robert yell behind me, “A jock? Does he play football? Tell him I’m great at conversions.”

Inside the bustling, aromatic shop the mid-day sun shines warmly through the two, white trimmed windows that enliven the outside wall that resides across from the kitchen door. A beige ceiling hovers above medium forest-green interior crowned with white molding. On each side of the door to the kitchen are antique, walnut and glass cases that sit before matching shelving units, topped with swirling Art Nouveau framework that form flourishing loops extending over the door. The remaining walls sport large gold trimmed mirrors and shelves of pre-bagged cookies.

Among the walnut tables and antique chairs that fill the shop, Donovan rises to greet me. A lump of disappointment hits my stomach as he hugs me in the necessary, brotherly fashion. I beam at him, sounding giddy. “What are you doing here?”

He hands me a bouquet of white roses as we sit at the table. “I have a surprise for you.”

“I see that.” My heart barely stays in my chest. I’m so excited to see him that I grab his coffee cup and take a sip just so my lips can touch where his once were. “I never pegged you for a mint mocha person.”

“Mint is sort of our flavor,” he says in reference to years before when I finally had a break through with both training his palate and getting him to face his emotions. “I drink mint mochas all the time. It makes me feel closer to you.”

Taking the cup, he places his lips in the same place that once touched mine and sips, following the action with a wink acknowledging the lack of coincidence. “My surprise has nothing to do with the visit or the flowers. It’s much better than that.” The grin he flashes is wicked, his eyes gleaming in mischief—toying with me as only he can.

Pulling back, I scrutinize him through a squint. “You’re here to stay? Really? Don’t mess with me, because this isn’t funny.”

His snicker grabs my heart. “I’m teaming with a psychiatrist friend, here, in Los Angeles—sort of. I just secured an office. Can you sneak off and help me house hunt this afternoon? I fly out late tonight, and we need to be fully settled in less than two months.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a mental breakdown! Happy?”

“Are you kidding? This is the greatest news ever!” And it’s the most awkward. The only time he and Christopher are in the same place is when we gather at holidays, which makes it easy for me to deal with my dueling emotions. Now my need to separate Lily Beckett from Lilyanna Eccles is greater than ever, else I won’t be able to stand myself.

After hugging Donovan with a force that nearly knocks him off of his chair, my feet practically gallop to the back of the store with glee. Donovan's fan club attacks me before I can retrieve my purse from of my locker.

“Please, please tell me your brother isn’t married!” Jenny mercilessly begs.
 

“Please, please tell me your brother isn’t straight!” Robert adds.

“That’s it!” Cindy flails her hands as she walks off. “I’m done with both of you.”

“Oh, he’s married all right! To a tall, gorgeous, exotic brunette. Seriously, Anna is one of those women you kind of want to smack.”
 

Boy is that ever true. The woman has the perfect figure, and it pisses me off! Her lean muscle makes for sensuous curves. Add in her high cheekbones, deep brown eyes, and glamorously long chestnut mane and she’s nothing short of luscious. The thought of her with Donovan always makes me itch as if I have poison ivy wrapped over athlete’s foot.
 

As Donovan and I enter my car I’m almost afraid to ask where we are headed. Donovan’s successful, but doing well by many standards is starving in Los Angeles. He could be lucky to live in Fred Sanford’s old junkyard in Watts.

“I assume you’d like to live near your new office. Where is it?” I ask.

“Brentwood.”

My eyes just about detonate out of my head. “Are you nuts? Do you have any idea how expensive it is there?”

“I never said I was moving there,” he chuckles, “I’m just joining a group of colleagues. I swear Lil, since Anna and I made this decision the universe has handed me a silver platter with a seven-course meal served by hot girls in bunny suits. Hopefully I can get my license to practice in California quickly. I’ve already had my EPPP transferred and took my CPSE a few weeks ago. This was after I finished cramming in the ten contact hours California wants in aging and long-term care training.”
 

My brain spirals just listening to him. “Wait. You took a test a few weeks ago? Here?”

“Yeah, while you were in England. Seriously, Lil, I deal with some pretty jacked up people and there seems to be a ton of those here. Most of them are more normal than they realize, but some are into things that give me the willies. The term ‘sexual deviant’ covers a lot of ground. When I decided to become a specialist in what I was accused of, I had no idea how great the demand could be for me.”

How this man has taken all the bad things that happened and turned them positive has truly brought about my idolatry. “Have I told you how proud I am of you?”

“Every time we talk. Don’t stop. It helps me sleep at night. We both know I need all the help I can get there.”

Low and behold, we close out the day with him putting an offer down on what is defined in California as an affordable two-bedroom fixer-upper in Venice with a large enough yard so Anna can have the garden he promised. His mini-Camelot is in need of a bunch of minor repairs and some electrical work, but it’s only fifteen to twenty minutes away from his new office, which is about ten to twenty minutes away from my shop in Westwood. It’s not much further to my home. Even with L.A. traffic, at any given moment we’ll be less than an hour apart.

The sounds emanating from Christopher's basement studio pound through my head like a tribal war chant gone awry and pressed onto a scratchy old record. It’s possible that my tastes are no longer progressing, but I find this new sound to be atrocious. When the band trudges up from the basement, all looking heavily knackered, I’m certain they just suck.

Frustration is the likely culprit. They recently lost their affordable rehearsal space, which has left them a little cramped in the basement. They strive for self-sufficiency, but independence is difficult for any group when starting out. Dennis makes far more money as a barista than as a musician. Only Fred and Christopher, who often work together during their day jobs at Anthem Records, do well enough in that arena to support a family.

“How’s your head?” Christopher asks as he enters the kitchen where I’m finishing the dishes. “Mine’s pounding.”

Forcing a smile, I give him a quick kiss on the cheek before he heads to the refrigerator. “That sucked,” I whisper. “It’s nice to have you home for once, but can you do it without hitting the sauce?”

“I should be so lucky. I’ll probably be on the piss five minutes after I toss these blokes tonight. The new guy, Mike—he’s not working out so well. Tonight is the new low of lows.”

No shock here. There’s something about Mike that invokes feelings of spiders doing the salsa up my back. He seems physically clean, yet he has the persona of someone who never bathes or washes his clothes. Maybe it’s because he’s always in ratty jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off—his mousey-brown hair scraggily frizzing out of a ponytail. He appears frail, like he does too much coke. The guy is so damn creepy my muteness regarding the discomfort he brings may soon cease.

“Hey, mates. You want something to drink with that pie?” Christopher asks the group as they file into the kitchen.

“Is this for us?” Dennis looks like a teenager as he sits at the table with his bright green eyes and bold smile through soft pink lips. His well-groomed medium length honey-brown hair reminds me of a 1960’s surfer. Sadly he eats many of his meals off of the fast-food dollar menu. How he scrapes for pennies yet always looks hopeful is admirable.

“Can I trouble you for some coffee, Lily?” Fred asks as he takes a seat. His long hair, beard, jeans, T-shirt, and big smile make him look like he stepped out of a Doobie Brothers’ concert.

“No trouble at all,” I respond. “Dennis, Mike, would you like something to drink?”

“Do you have any juice?” asks Dennis. “Any kind is fine.”

“Do you have anything to get juiced with?” Mike follows.
 

I’d like to brain him over the head with a juicer. “Two juices and a coffee coming up,” I assert.

“Pass,” Mike says. “I’ve got another energy drink downstairs.”

Lord, that’s the last thing Mike needs.

“Dude, you’ve already had two,” Dennis minds him. “Your heart is going to explode.”

“Nah, I need the energy, and I’m too poor for coke.”