“Nothing yet. By the time I arrived one had already ordered a CT scan, then went home at the end of her shift. We’re awaiting test results.”
Antonia releases her grip on my hand, and then curls to face Donovan, wrapping herself around his forearm like it’s a huge teddy bear that brings forth security. “Uncle Scooby, you’ll make sure I’m okay, right?”
“Of course.” Donovan’s words sound barricaded in his throat as his free hand glides across Antonia’s brow, caressing the hair out of her eyes. “With me around, you will always be fine.”
The image of a paternal Donovan with his mini-twin brings a gallop into my veins.
Donovan, something may have happened with her.
“Huh? Lily, are you okay? You look hazy.”
Footsteps thunder in my head as our tender moment is interrupted by the whip of the privacy curtain. My eyes jerk to the beautiful giant before us in shock. “Julian!”
“Lily!” Julian’s eyes jet across the bed. “Donovan?” They then glide to Antonia and grow firm, as if the room is a confessional informing Julian his theories about Donovan's intentions were correct.
“Julian, thank God,” I say in relief. “Do you have Antonia’s test results?”
With the cock of an eyebrow he twists his head to bring his attention to the chart in his hands. “Um, yeah,” he hesitates, his eyes scrutinizing the papers. “Eccles, right?”
“Yes. I’m Lilyanna Eccles now.” It’s not a statement to Julian, it’s a reminder to my compartmentalized self.
“She has a very mild concussion. You’ll have to watch her for the next twenty-four hours.”
I exhale in relief, my eyes drifting back to the still lovely, albeit disrupted, sight of Donovan and his twin. “See, you’re going to be just fine.” Donovan assures Antonia. His focus on her remains beautiful and, unlike his mind, unfazed by the presence of Julian.
Relief veils me as Christopher runs in and heads straight to my side, putting his hand over mine on Antonia’s shoulder. “I got here as fast as I could. I’ve been out of me mind with worry.”
“Everyone’s fine,” I assure. “Julian—I mean, Dr. Sandowski just gave us the news.”
Disappointment clouds Donovan’s face at the arrival of Antonia’s father. Releasing her hand with a little squeeze and a kiss, Donovan departs, cupping Julian’s arm as he goes. “Thanks, Julian. By the way, Lily messed up her ankle at work today. Will you please take a look at it?” A quick smirk at me is his only goodbye.
“Julian?” Christopher asks. “You all know one another?”
For the first time, the music from the two-years-apart dance calls. “Christopher, this is Dr. Julian Sandowski. Dr. Sandowski, my husband, Christopher.”
Christopher staggers with a hint of uncertainty to greet Julian. “A pleasure.”
When Christopher kisses Antonia’s head and she calls him daddy, a ton of bricks falls from the sky. Julian’s head dips back, spouting a gusher of words. “Oh! This is the guy from Manchester!”
“All right. I’m up a gum tree. Someone want to fill me in?” Christopher asks rather impatiently.
“Julian and I dated when I was at the Culinary Institute. He was a lifesaver when my father took ill. Donovan and I owe him big time for that.”
“You owe me nothing,” Julian says as he rolls over a stool and motions for me to put my ankle in his lap. “The crazy tension gave me good training in bedside manner. How is your mom?”
“Not well. She’s suffering from advanced Cirrhosis.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How’s Donovan doing?” he measuredly asks while removing my sneaker.
“He’s good—really good. He’s a psychologist, married to a”—gorgeous, totally unfair looking—“nurse. Ouch!” I flinch at Julian’s touch to my ankle.
“Psychologist? Really? Wow! That’s disturb—that’s great. How did you do this?” Julian asks, examining the ankle.
“Fleeing the bank. I never should have gone back for my Tommy Gun.” Dr. Dreamy chuckles at my jest. “I slid on some buttercream at work.”
“Slid, huh? Did you hear any kind of pop when it happened?” Julian asks.
“No, but I’m going to pop Robert for being a klutz and then not cleaning his mess.”
“Can you walk on it?” Julian asks.
“Yeah, no problem.”
“Okay, let’s watch.” Smugly, Julian crosses his arms.
My shoulders sag. “Fine! You win.”
“Not even going to try to humor me, huh? Must be pretty bad,” he concludes while rising. “We’ll get it x-rayed. Can you take a few days off?”
Christopher chimes in so fast he almost interrupts. “She certainly can. Owning your own shop has to be good for something.”
“You did it?” Julian asks, his hazel orbs hopeful.
“Yep! Pâtisserie de l’Amour in Westwood.”
“Westwood! That’s impressive.” Crouching over Antonia, he gives her hand a little squeeze. “We’ll get you home soon. Be nice to your mom. She’s going to have a hard time walking for a few days.” Julian then shakes Christopher hand as he towers over him. “Nice to meet you.”
“You as well,” Christopher says, still looking bewildered. After Julian departs Christopher’s jaw starts to flap, then quickly halts. Conversations regarding our two years apart are still off limits.
“Go ahead,” I say, welcoming his questions with a gesture of openness. “You have carte blanche, but only for this one thing.”
Christopher looks gobsmacked—like God came down and thwaped him one on the face. His eyes search the room as his head bounces like a marionette seeking thought. “Bloody hell! Is that what you did when we were apart?”
I nearly choke on his phrasing. A nurse comes in to wheel me off to x-ray, and the temptation to leave Christopher with a parting zinger is too great. “No, Christopher, that is what I did for seven months while we were apart. The rest is an even bigger secret.”
Christopher’s coloring switches from pasty to green as I ride out of the room. I’m totally going to pay for this.
Chapter 21
Being stuck on a sofa on Halloween sucks, especially after already suffering two days of imprisonment. Once Christopher leaves I’m defying the law and doing something he deems crazy—cleaning the house.
“There. Now you look the perfect lout,” Christopher proclaims upon placing an eye patch on Graham. “Bugger, I left your sword in the boot of the people mover.”
“When were you in Disneyland?” I wonder aloud. “I thought that died along with Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.” Christopher’s bloodshot eyes look at me like I’ve lost all touch with reality before his meaning sinks in. “Ah, the trunk of the mini-van.” Dear God, where does he get this stuff? If nothing else, my husband is unique.
When Christopher returns from the garage, Graham claims his weapon with over-enthusiasm, his eyes nearly incandescent. Antonia hops in wearing a Bugs Bunny suit. Could it be any clearer how she spends her time with her uncle?
“Thank you,” I say as Christopher slowly bends to kiss me before leaving. His droopy face shows he’s sleep-deprived. “You’ve done an amazing job while working your butt off at your job and with the band.” My lips surrender a long, luscious kiss in appreciation before I murmur into his ear. “How about I make it up to you with another special night?” He salivates so much drool may soon slide down his chin.
“Daddy, come on!” Antonia begs as she tugs at Christopher's shirt with impatience. Graham is already at the door, shifting back and forth on his legs in an effort to contain his excitement.
Christopher takes my hand. Ever since the cat suit incident his voice has been laced with adoration. “We won’t go too far. I love you.”
“I love you too. Enjoy every moment.”
As they head off into the dusk, my eyes scan the facts of my existence. If I can’t at least straighten this room I’m either taking Christopher up on the offer of a maid or renting a bulldozer.
Twisti
ng myself off of the sofa, I grab the mail that has piled up and hobble to the recycling can in the kitchen. A letter addressed to me is the only thing that doesn’t find the bottom of the bin. A twinge of disturbance hits my brain when I discover that inside it rests a simple note printed onto a slip of pink stationary. Its top dons a single bouquet of daisies in the corner.
Every breath I take, every bump in the road, every twist and turn in life reminds me how much I need you in my arms.
I check the computer-printed envelope as if time is of the essence. It lacks a return address and has a postmark from last week in Santa Monica, after Donovan denied his involvement. Unlike the others, this one sounds exactly like his notes—the kind he romanced me with once upon a time. Enchantment twirled around me every time I uncovered a new treasure, fueling my desires to compose my own.
A twisted moment of hope breezes past, wrapping me in the comfort of days gone by. Suddenly the warmth turns cold, and I quiver, questioning if he is aware of his actions. The nefarious frost that slithers around my spine brings forth concern that Donovan is regressing and needs to be put back on the funny farm, yet my heart longs to surrender in harmony with his madness. Without him, I will never be complete.
Hobbling to the desk in our home library, I retrieve a list of Donovan’s trigger points. While it has diminished over the years, five remain. New Year’s Eve brings about depression. Purple dresses remind him of the New Year’s Eve he shattered my emotions. He won’t eat cereal, because it reminds him of Bob’s harassment that fateful night in the supermarket that lead to our demise. Handwritten jottings of any kind often bring a sense of loss. Lastly, not being seen for who he is makes him wish he were someone else. Just before the notes started, he said Anna doesn’t understand him and he felt he was wasting time being himself.
The letter is slid into a book along with the notes. When he comes over at lunch tomorrow I’ll get to the bottom of this madness.
Donovan’s visit is likely to be a huge pain in the ass. Not only do I need to talk to him about the letter I got yesterday, today we need to finish discussing the affairs of Count Draculana. Apprehension shrouds me as I greet Donovan at the door. Without even a peck on the cheek he gaits into the kitchen, places a bag of food onto the table, and heads for the refrigerator. “What do you want to drink?” he asks.
“Nothing. I have a Margarita in the family room.”
Donovan follows me as I head off to grab my glass from the adjoining room. “So you’re drinking while on pain pills. Yeah, that sounds exactly like something you would do.” His eyes flip to heaven, his voice exasperated. “What gives?”
“I have a bum ankle, I’m trapped at home, and we need to deal with the drama of Lana John Silver. It’s making me a tad crazy.”
“Liar.” He smirks, nabs my cocktail, and dumps it in the kitchen sink.
“Fine,” I huff. “Let’s eat and review this stuff. I need it over with.”
“Now let’s see if I can figure this one out.” Smugly he leans against the breakfast bar. “The last time I saw you was at the hospital. You were in massive pain and wouldn’t admit it. We saw Julian…Ah! Setting your sights on the good doctor must have put your hormones in a spin.”
“Stop. Let’s eat before my blood sugar crashes.”
“So your scrawny dreamboat doesn’t measure up to… How was it you described Julian in the past? The Greek god whose incredible body is mouthwateringly handsome and perfect in every way?”
I turn back and grump at him. “Stop it, Donovan. Christopher may be trim, but he isn’t built like a kid anymore. Besides, those are cruel words coming from the man who married a tropical Playmate.” Suddenly the air feels as thick as viscous pea soup. My vision hides from the truth my mind scarcely braves to face. “When it comes to intimacy, you are the only one who can satisfy my soul. I’ll always love you, Donovan. Always.”
“Hey,” he steps forward and raises my chin, his breath cooling a pooling tear. “I’m sorry. What’s bringing this on?”
“I got another note. They bring back so many memories of how fantastic we were.”
“Lily, I would love to send you letters again, but I don’t dare for so many reasons.” His voice is melancholy yet strained and holds its resolve.
“Are you sure? When I see you, you push me away, but in those notes you pull me closer. It’s like you’re two people and you don’t know it.”
“Lily, that’s crazy.”
“Is it? Which way is more like the real you?”
He catches a breath, then stutters it out. “You’d better show me those letters.”
Wordlessly I lead him to the library. His hands subtly quiver as he takes each slip of paper. “Are you all right?” I ask.
“I still don’t do well with notes, especially right now,” he says, rolling his neck and shoulders. He sets the notes on the desk, then rearranges them, glaring and tapping a knuckle on his lip. “Someone laid them out on a computer, printed a single page, and cut it. So while it could initially have been compulsive, the rest are premeditated.”
“Donovan, whoever did this knows where I work and live, along with how to get into my car. Could you possibly be doing it without knowing?”
Donovan becomes expressionless, but a disturbance brews within, like one of his organs itches and he wants to dig in and scratch it. Leaning over the desk, his hands press down in symbolic support of his cognitive weight. “Motivated forgetting,” he mutters, causing the hair on the nape of my neck to lift. “Not only is it ridiculously unlikely, these don’t sound like they are from me.”
His fingers press harder into the desk, the tips going white. The notion of Donovan sending these and not knowing once seemed disturbingly romantic, now the possibility is terrifying. “But Donovan, one of your triggers is that if people don’t see you as yourself, you wish you were someone else. Just after we got back, you said that Anna—”
Donovan cuts me off with a snap through gritted teeth, making my worry all the greater. “That’s it!” His hands shove down on the desk, the leverage propelling him back. “I don’t need to put up with you making phony notes just to get my attention,” he growls before storming out of the library. His feet thump down the hall, and the slam of the front door punctuates his anger that leaves me more stymied than ever.
My hands fly to the sky as I speak to the universe. “Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and welcome back, Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hiding!”
Chapter 22
My feet dance down the stairs as I’m sprung from jail, thrilled to return to work after nearly a week of incarceration. As the kitchen door flies open into the garage, and I fumble for the light switch, my mailbox lid thunks. Sneakered footsteps are heard scampering down the driveway before a running car speeds off. Nervously I open the mailbox, wondering if I’ve just been left anthrax. Inside, is an envelope sporting a computer-printed label addressing it to Christopher. The return address is that of his job in Hollywood, yet it lacks the record company’s logo.
My suspicion kicks into overdrive, and I violate my husband’s privacy. Inside the envelope resides a simple note on lavender stationary adorned with hydrangeas.
A wise man treasures his wife, or someone else will.
Okay, seriously. What the crap?
A black smudge hides under the label. Underneath it, the previous address is perfectly eradicated, making the San Diego postmark irrelevant. Someone is certainly going through a lot of trouble to get a message across.
“Donovan, please,” I groan into my cell phone as I cower in the back of my shop. Hearing that I got another note sent his inner lion roaring. “I’m really scared these are coming from you.”
“You mean you hope they’re from me,” he snaps.
Why did I bite the bullet and call him? I should have stuck it in a gun and shot myself instead. “No, the possibility freaks me out. Last I saw you, you muttered something about motivated forgetting. You’re just as concerned, aren’t you?”
“Fine, Lily. I’ll swing by in a few hours.”
Donovan’s image on my cell phone is slammed onto the desk as if hanging up an old-styled phone with gusto. I wince before yanking the phone back; thankful I didn’t crack its face in lieu of Donovan’s.
“Hey, Lily.” Jenny dashes forth like a twelve-year-old who was just kissed by the cutest boy in the class. “Do you have more than one brother?”
“Nope. Thank God. I have enough problems with one,” I grumble, while gently tossing my phone onto the desk.
“Then you’d better put your ring back on before you walk out front.”
“Who’s out there?” Jenny is far too excited for it to be someone famous.
“Last week some Adonis came in and was oddly glad you weren’t here. Now he’s back hoping you are. Seriously, Lily, this guy massively rivals Donovan. In fact, he’s so tall he could take Donovan down in a heartbeat.”
I snort at Jenny as I head for the front, now knowing exactly who’s here. “Hi, Julian,” my voice sings.
“You look a lot better,” he says, glowing. “How’s the ankle?”
“Good, but I can no longer play a didgeridoo.”
With a little laugh he rattles his head. Jenny’s fussing behind the counter and her faux coyness reek of begging for an introduction. “Jenny, I’d like you to meet my jailer. Julian, this is Jenny.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says, his smile flashing with a dazzle that may make her pass out. “Your jailer?” he asks me.
“It’s your fault I went stir crazy last week. I gave myself a lecture on the social value of cream cheese. Then I made, and took, bets against myself while playing solitaire. I can’t decide if I’m in the hole or ahead $760.23 because of you.”
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