Time's Forbidden Flower

by Diane Rinella

“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.

  Chapter 6

  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.”

  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.

  Chapter 7

  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 Thank
sgiving 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.

  Chapter 8

  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.