Time's Forbidden Flower (7 page)

Great. Well, that’s some kind of comfort. The others seem all too used to Mike’s alleged humor and ignore him.

The pie is almost demolished before I can even get the drinks on the table. Dennis brings the plates into the kitchen, and I receive a round of thanks as the guys head downstairs. Mike lingers behind and follows me to the dishwasher. “Thanks for the tart,” he whispers in my ear as he strolls off. His hot, slimy breath on my neck brings revolting visions of him rubbing warm palms covered in filthy motor oil up my back and over my breast.

Christopher won’t tolerate Mike for long. If he does, I may risk a little tension from putting my nose in his business. Something is not wired right with him.

Two months after his hypersonic visit, Speedy Gonzalez, his wife, and their four-year-old daughter, Sunshine, have closed escrow and have started a ritual of joining us for Sunday dinners.

At dusk, Donovan and I sit on the flagstone patio overlooking my yard. The grass has lusciousness akin to a golf course, yet the roses that border it need shaping. Antonia passes a football rather haphazardly to her brother, wobbling it into the flower patch containing a bench that is rather unsafe to sit in right now. A cobblestone path leads to the fairytale-styled guest cottage that is so rarely used I often forget it exists.

Donovan and I sip Scotch while watching Sunshine attempt to catch a ball. “Ugh. My pants are too tight,” he groans about his overeating. “Thank God I didn’t have to wait until Thanksgiving for an amazing meal that didn’t come from an overpriced restaurant. Even just having food with flavor is a welcome change.”

My warning is hushed. “Don’t let Anna hear you say she’s not perfect. No woman wants to hear that.” Anna may have me beat in the looks department, but when it comes to anything emerging from the kitchen I’m Marilyn Monroe to her Phyllis Diller. Her food is so insipid that even Christopher, the man who only enjoys food blessed by the Queen Mum’s Royal Scepter of Blandness, wants to grab a snack before we visit. “So how weird is it that she and Christopher share a passion for soccer?” I muse.

“No kidding! And both going crazy over Manchester.”

“Manchester United,” I correct.

“Right, never Manchester City, and never, ever Liverpool!” Donovan shoots me a conspiratorial wink as he raises his glass with me mirroring his actions before drinking.

“So, I’m taking Anna shopping for some stuff for the house this week. Are you sure you don’t want us to help with decorating the office too?”

His head smacks back into the chair as he looks to heaven. Since when did he acquire my flare for mellow drama? “God, I’ve no idea where to start. The lifestyle here is so different than what I’m used to. I don’t know if I should line my shelves in books or Faberge Eggs.”

“Oh, no way!” I say. “Books, yes, but you’d better let me pick out some shelf filler from a local artists.”

His guttural groan is almost comical. “I have too much to do. In a few days my charitable work at the health center begins,” he says while resuming his gaze on the children. “Wow, is it terrible that I think Graham can throw a pass far better than I ever expected Christopher's son could?”
 

I give myself a little pat on the back—literally. “That’s because his mother showed him.”
 

Donovan raises an eyebrow to me, to which he adds a heart-melting smile.
 

“What can I say? I learned from the best,” I add while raising my glass. “What charitable work?”

“When Dr. Coe wrote my letters of recommendation I promised to assist those who can’t afford counseling. It’s actually more grounding than when I see my own counselor.”

Donovan resumes his gaze on the children and releases a hearty drag of air, releasing tension brought on by the sight before him. Graham is the spitting image of his father; soft brown hair, sky blue eyes, a slight upslope to his nose, trim frame, and a chivalrous personality. Antonia looks exactly like Donovan—same sapphire eyes, raven hair, chiseled features. She’s nearly a perfect clone, just like Donovan is of our dad’s father. It’s cosmically weird.

“She’s really missed her Uncle Scooby,” I say of Antonia’s love for Donovan.

Donovan’s focus on her is unwavering. “I love how she calls me that. We’re so much alike. If I didn’t know better…”

My mind starts confessing;
Often she makes me dream of what could have been.

Only radio static is perceived in response, as if Donovan is no longer in-tune with my thoughts.

Donovan, can you hear me?

He turns to me, just like any person would. “Mind if I grab a little more Scotch?”

“Help yourself.”
Bring the bottle, along with some ice.

A moment later he returns with the bottle and his glass filled with ice. After adding a few cubes to my glass, he pours some Scotch, shoots me a smile, and returns to his seat before his eyes again avoid me. “I heard you, Lily. I’ll even say it out loud. I screwed up, and it sucks that I can’t change it.”

My hand shoots to his arm. Suddenly everything about my life feels completely wrong, and my ability to be Lilyanna Eccles swirls with the bitter truth: I’m perfectly happy with Christopher, but ignoring the pull of my soul mate is impossible.

“Don’t say anything. Just let it go,” Donovan tells the bottom of his glass before jettisoning the liquid from it.

My jaw drops in an attempt to form a hesitant reply, only to be slammed shut by the opening of the sliding glass door from the kitchen. “Is this the same bloody dessert you made last week?” Christopher yells.

A small chuckle escapes Donovan as he heads inside. “This should be a riot.”
 

Entering the house plops me back into my universe. Christopher hands me a plate of dessert, and I follow him into the family room—feeling compressed despite the large, open surroundings. Anna sweetly curls up to Donovan on one sofa as they share a piece of mousse cake, while Christopher and I snuggle on the sofa kitty-corner from them. Anna takes a tiny taste then abandons her fork on the plate. I’m jealous of her willpower and the body that comes with it.

“This is great, Lil. How’d you nail it?” Donovan praises over the dessert. The question snaps my focus onto the plate before me. I’m developing a Lavender-Lemon Mousse Cake and almost have the formula refined, but the proper amount of lavender paired with the strength of the lemon insert is a subjective balance. This is lost on my husband, whose taste buds lack finesse, yet Donovan totally gets it.

Somehow my words sound foreign. “What you said about it having a tinge of bitterness played in my brain. The amount of lavender wasn’t the problem, it was the infusion time. I reduced it by five minutes and bam, Bob’s your uncle.”
 

Christopher gives me a peck on the cheek. “That’s the first thing you’ve uttered when tasting something that I’ve understood—not the business about reducing and all, whatever that means.”

Training Christopher's palate is like teaching a slug to use a hula-hoop. “Can you at least tell the difference between last time and now?” I buoyantly ask.

Christopher's head downcast before he raises it with a sheepish grin. “Say yes,” Anna whispers.

“Can you?” Donovan asks with a raised brow.

“Yeah,” she replies in her naturally timid voice. “I only know the lavender was stronger last week and that I like this one better, but there’s a definite difference.”

All eyes jot wordlessly to Christopher.

“Oh, bugger! Maybe if I had them both now I’d know the difference.”

“Bloody well doubtful,” Donovan says with an eye-crinkling grin. Truthfully, I concur.

“Blimey! How long did it take you to learn this stuff?”

“A few years,” Donovan replies. “She’s been your problem for—I mean, you’ve been married to her for almost ten years now. You’re kind of out of excuses, pal.”

Christopher releases his angst in a display of vibrant hand gestures as if pleading to God for mercy as we chuckle. “Again you think my misery is a riot,” he says, slightly miffed.

“No, it’s just sad that you can’t tell the difference between two-percent and whole milk,” I cheekily inform him.

“I—” Christopher halts, knowing self-defense is futile. “Can you?” he pleads to Anna in hopes of salvation.
 
She nods, her lips suppressing a laugh.

“That’s it!” I proclaim, popping up from the sofa and yanking Christopher's hand.

“Oh, this should be entertaining.” Donovan says, as he and Anna follow us into the kitchen.

Christopher reluctantly sits at the table as he moans to Donovan, “How do you get off looking so smug? You’re supposed to be me male support.”

“I’ve served my time under Lily’s wardenship. You’re on your own.”

“I’ll take the plunge with you.” Anna drags a chair around the table and sits kitty-corner to Christopher, then peers up to Donovan with an eager smile. Donovan would be thrilled if this encourages her to cook better than a hash slinger without the benefit of the grease.

I place two samplers in front of Christopher and Anna, including two-percent, whole milk, cream, and impromptu half and half. Plopping down at the table, I point to their whole milk. “Start with this, then grab any other glass and tell me the difference.” Anna takes tiny sips, then reorders the glasses according to fat content. Christopher appears lost, peering at Anna’s glasses and seeking a pattern. “Stop cheating!” I accuse before turning to Anna. “Well?”

She slips her hands into her lap. “I wouldn’t know exactly what they were off the bat, but I ordered them according to richness. Did I get it right?” she asks, as if she will win my approval for existing if correct.

“Perfectly.” I try not to address Christopher like he’s a small child. “Can you label them according to fat content like Anna did?”

He looks so lost I want to curl him in my arms and tell him how much I love him despite his obvious fault. “Oh, you’re just trying to wind me up,” he rants. “You should be bloody ashamed, putting me under the cosh like this!”

“Really, Christopher? Your seven-year-old son could do better,” Donovan playfully scorns as the doorbell rings. “Graham! Would you come here please?”

“Oh, come off it,” Christopher complains. “The guys are arriving now.”

Of course they are. Yet
another
rehearsal. Heaven forbid that I get a night with my husband. “Not our problem!” I say, heading for the door. Donovan reorders Christopher’s glasses accurately by sight, then smugly clears his throat. Christopher’s head meets his hands in defeat.

Anna practically drags Donovan toward the door as I open it to Fred and Dennis asking, “Hey guys. Want to try some Lavender-Lemon Mousse Cake?”

“Careful, it’s a trap!” Christopher yells.
 

Mike brings up the rear as Donovan and Anna slip out with Sunshine. Anna flinches as Mike brushes past, barely skimming her arm. Donovan stops and shoots him a look implying he knows Mike’s ways all too well.

“Hey,” Mike nods to Donovan.

“Hey, yourself,” Donovan condescends while throwing an arm around Anna. His eyes turn to me, penetrating my thoughts.
Lily, stay away from this guy
.

Clearly it’s not only me who feels Mike’s slither.

Ambition is a word known by those who have not had too many early mornings and too many late nights dozing off before their husband is home from his new rehearsal space that practically resides in the next county. Unaffected by the double espresso guzzled on the drive over, I enter the back door to the bakery with a groan, tired and wishing I had slept in and seen my husband when he wakes in oh, four more hours.
 

When my purse lunges into the cubbyhole of a locker, it hits the back with a bleak thud. My fingers shut the door with such aloofness it gently reverberates and drifts back before my hand begrudgingly slams it shut. With a muffled whine, I shuffle toward the kitchen. A small fire emitting from the decorating bench causes me to shriek. The lit tapered candle reminds me of a tiny funeral pyre. Slowly it rises to Donovan’s face as he sings “Happy Birthday” so off-key it makes me shudder.

Flipping on the overhead lights, the room turns a glow at the sight of Donovan sitting on the baker’s table in his suit, tie off, top buttons undone, and surrounded by graduated pans that he has set upside down to form half a dozen metallic tier cakes. Each one has vibrant red, orange, and yellow Gerbera daisies tossed onto it, making the display all the more garish. Next to him resides a bouquet of white roses.

I advance toward his mirthful grin in amazement. “You scared me so much you damn near killed me.” Suddenly the hamster that runs the wheel in my brain concedes to exhaustion. “Wait, my birthday was two months ago. Do I need to call Dr. Coe and tell him you’re having some kind of episode and that I’m shipping you back?”

Propelling himself off of the metal table, he takes my hands in his, drawing my gray-violet eyes into his oceanic sapphires. “Happy
Seventeenth
Birthday.”

My eyes roam over the display, noticing that one of the faux cakes has the number seventeen poorly scribbled on the side in pink icing. A flutter overtakes my heart as the meaning of the spectacle sinks in. Donovan always kick-started my birthday in the most obnoxious ways, that is, until he was forced to stay away from me. His only contact for my seventeenth birthday was a card containing a sterile sentiment and a pastry book wrapped in the same paper my parents used to wrap their gift. It was so unlike Donovan that I should have known he was forced into being someone else. Instead I foolishly assumed he had forgotten about me. Later I learned that my mother wanted to examine the contents to ensure he hadn’t enclosed a message.

“Why now? Why my seventeenth birthday?”

“Because it was the first birthday of yours that I ever missed. We’ve been robbed, and I want back what we lost.”

Dear God, so do I. “It’s been a long time since you did something like this. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.” My arms slide around him, my face glowing in happiness.

“Since Robert was the one who slipped me the extra key, I was afraid he’d come in early and I’d be the one with the surprise,” he muses, rocking me in his arms. My favorite scent—the blend of his cologne with his pheromones—coupled with the music of his heart, cause my soul to latch onto his essence and try to retain a drop so that I may forever cherish it. God how I wish I didn’t feel this way for a man who is more off limits now than ever.