Time's Forbidden Flower

by Diane Rinella

  “Christopher,” I call out, still wondering where he is.

  Antonia shoots me an incredulous look, taking a caved stance, like we are putting her on. She plops into Santa’s lap, looks up at him, then back at me. “Please, this isn’t—” In a near panic, Anna and I shh her. Antonia returns her sights to Santa, giving him a half-hearted snicker. He replies with a blinking eye roll and adds a wink before forking over her stash.

  Damn it, Christopher, where are you? You’re missing Christmas.

  Next is Graham’s turn, but he defaults to Anna and I. “Santa said ladies first.” I don’t think I could be any more proud of the kid. Seriously though, where is his father?

  Santa then calls Anna over, clearing his throat, claiming to have presents for the big girls, too. The contrast between Santa’s big puffy suit and Anna’s small frame is comical. When my turn arrives, Santa whispers words that turn my veins into a network of gleeful tingles. “Tomorrow night, check the book in the library where you kept the phony notes. The one in there now really is from me.” He follows it with a quick peck on the cheek and a brotherly shove off of his lap.

  Graham takes his turn, but Santa’s sack has gone empty. He then asks his elves to find where the present could have gone. Anna and I look behind the sofa where a new guitar was to reside but is now missing. As if the perfect timing had been pre-orchestrated, the guitar appears in the hands of Christopher who is dressed as Father Christmas. He looks ridiculous in his coat that is almost a long dress and pontiff style hat with curved walking stick yelling, “Happy Christmas!” His eyes survey his family who is at a collective loss for words. He is too, until Donovan dashes to him.

  The hinge on Christopher’s mouth sways before Martin and Lewis start their act. “Oh, bugger! I thought I was taking care of this,” he whispers to Donovan.

  Donovan clones the hushed tone. “Seriously? This is what you meant when you said you were going to put on a bit of a fancy dress to do? I was kind of worried. Actually, you do look a little like Uncle Miltie.”

  “Uncle who?” Christopher asks.

  “Come on, Christopher. How long have you lived here? Wait, are you even wearing pants?”

  “Bloody well right I’m wearing trousers. It’s brass monkeys out there!”

  Donovan looks astounded. “Seriously, Christopher, no one else in the world sounds like you. Where do you get this stuff?”

  I bring the guitar to Graham and wish him a Merry Christmas while the Santas continue their unarmed battle of wits. When it comes to men, I really know how to pick them.

  On Christmas afternoon, the children drag Christopher and Anna out to the yard to break in their new soccer ball. Feeling lazy from too much time in the kitchen, Donovan joins me in the family room with the intent of finding a Christmas movie on TV that we haven’t already seen 50,000 times. Instead of dominating the adjoining sofa as per usual, Donovan plops down so close his leg grazes mine. We exchange little grins before he lands the channel selection on A Christmas Story.

  “I thought we were going to find something new?” I ask.

  “Nah, I feel like reliving old times.” He tosses the remote onto the coffee table before surveying the room—his words muted. “Remember the last time we watched this together on that amazing Christmas weekend we had? The only one we spent alone?”

  “How could I ever forget? You spent all of Christmas Eve day distracting me with temptation while I fixed a feast for two. Then we had an undesirable visitor—”

  “Yeah, thanks a lot for inviting Cruelana DeScrooge to drop by.”

  I come to my own defense. “If I hadn’t called her—”

  “Then I never would have called her to pay for Harley, and I wouldn’t be here right now.” His lips gently grace my ear, and the touch makes me feel as if I have slid onto a bed of satin and clouds. My gaze casts downward in fear that if I look up someone will be watching. “After I got past my brain hemorrhage we had a wonderful, romantic night curled up by the tree that took up half of your apartment.”

  He pulls back, and my eyes lock onto his, my words blooming forth in awe. “The next day you played Santa Claus while I sweated it out cooking at a shelter.”

  “That’s not how I remember it,” he corrects as his finger traces my jaw, his lips nearly fluttering on mine. My God, what is he doing? “I seem to recall the ‘real’ Santa supposedly got sick and you volunteered me as a replacement.”

  “And you fought me every step of the way.”

  The ocean in his eyes enrobes my soul in waves that pull me under, begging me to drown with him. “Only because those alleged therapists told me if I ever looked at children they would practically burst into flames from God’s wrath. I was shaking when that first kid hit my lap, but eventually I saw how wrong those people were. If it hadn’t been for the hope I got then…” My hand touches his check, absorbing a drop of the sorrow that seeps from his eyes as he continues. “A week later we had the most amazing New Year’s Eve. I got to spend the night holding you and telling you I love you.”

  My being enlivens at the memory. “You said it constantly and each time in a different language.”

  “Twenty-two of them, one for each month I spent hurting you. I’ve never said it to anyone else in anything but English. That was one of the best days of my life,” he asserts in delicate reverie. “Every day with you was one of the best of my life. I miss you.” From the tree he pulls off the Teddy bear, removes the necklace that adorns it, and fastens it around my neck before touching his lips to my cheek. “I’ve never recovered from that fall.”

  My eyes draw into his with a devotion that has not been seen since the days of chivalry. “Donovan, what’s bringing this on? You’re usually not so open about this stuff when people are near.”

  “ ‘This stuff’ is us, Lily. Just because we’ve been denied it doesn’t mean we don’t still exist. Others need to live with who we are, just like we do. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend we’re something different.”

  Dear God, I don’t know either.

  From outside, a soccer ball hits the family room window, jerking me back into reality. Taking advantage of the intrusion I jump up. “We shouldn’t be missing out on the reason we split.” Without haste I head outside, into the cloudy winter day and join the game.

  The light of the alarm clock covers my face in a soft glow while its progressing numbers remind me that life is passing by. Finally, Christopher's breath deepens into a low snore. Like a paranoid ninja I slip out of bed and head down the stairs.

  Is the frigidity of the knob on the library door brought about by the weather outside, or the betrayal I feel stepping through this portal, knowing a letter from a former lover awaits?

  Grabbing the designated book off of the shelf, excitement and apprehension course through my nervous system. Hidden in the section on making gum paste lilies is a sheet of stationary that bares an uncanny resemblance to the stationary on which I once wrote letters to Donovan, sharing in the madness of an alternate reality.

  To My Lovely Lady,

  You are, and will always be, the force that drives and inspires me. On my brightest days, you are the warmth that shines upon me. In the darkest nights, you provide the voice that soothes me. Because of you I face each day knowing who I am and the good I bring into the world. Because of you, I am whole.

  Until the end of forever,

  Donovan

  Placing the book back on the shelf, I head for the family room, unable to bring myself to return to Christopher. Curling up on the sofa I turn on the TV where the A Christmas Story marathon continues. Quickly I change the channel, only to return to it, and then flee again. Finally I settle on an infomercial, staring blankly, striving to force myself into panic over the details of the New Year’s Eve party to come. The diversion proves to be a terrible idea. This will be the first New Year’s Eve Donovan and I have spent together since we split. How do I move past the impending pain of the night while finding a way to heal?

 
“Cannoli,” I softly mutter aloud. “I’ll switch from cream puffs to cannoli. Maybe I should stuff the cream puffs with cannoli filling…”

  Within the darkness, a ray of light emits from the hotel room’s lamp. Donovan and I sit on a bed, fighting to keep our hands off of each other. This would be so much easier, and far less dangerous, if I were allowed to touch him.

  I must be dreaming.

  “It’s absolutely ridiculous that we have to lie and sneak off just to get a few decent hours alone together each year,” Donovan says, his fingers threading my hair, his voice tender, seductive. “Why does it seem that whenever we think we have a moment’s peace, someone interrupts us?”

  “We have to find a better way,” I say, my heart racing. His proximity and the need to hold him draw me nearer. “This little bit of time isn’t enough. I need you too much and in too many ways.”

  Oh no. Not this. I’m in a hotel room in Rhode Island, six years ago.

  His lips call to me, and I try to resist. Mentally I retreat, yet somehow find his chest touching my breast. Our breath unites as our bodies freeze, yearning to propel forward. I want the assurance I once felt when we were pressed together, and I know that comfort is but two thin sheets of fabric away.

  I have to wake up. I can’t let this memory continue, even in dream form.

  He draws closer, then gently pulls back, his lips never quite having met mine. He stares as if awaiting a sign to proceed. Finally I dare touch a hand to his cheek and his lips join mine. How I love the taste of his skin, luscious and rich like fine chocolate, accented by kisses that flow like cream.

  Tenderly we drop onto the bed, our legs entwining as we press together, each fueling the desire of the other with our own. His hand slides up my back, and I drop mine to his ass—both wanting to touch it and in granting invitation—making way for him to grab my breast. It’s all I can do not to rip my blouse off for him.

  Finally his hand finds its way to my chest, his thumb stroking my nipple though the fabric that I wish would melt away. Gently I pull him toward me, encouraging his crotch to meet mine. He’s already in motion, growing at my touch. I ooze and tighten as my breath shudders.

  Slowly he unbuttons my blouse while kissing his way down—his warm breath causing me to further tighten. My hand forgoes its grip on his ass, in search of something even firmer. It slides into his pants, and my wish is fulfilled as his erection finishes building in my clutches.

  His mouth latches on to my nipple, gently suckling the silky skin that has puckered in excitement. Reluctantly I stop stroking him, but it’s the only way I can remove his pants. The resulting sight brings about a tremor of excitement. Donovan’s grin turns broad and wicked as his eyes capture mine. They stay held until the ransom is paid in the form of my jeans and underwear.

  With gentle kisses, he brings himself on to me. Our naked bodies make me lose what little sense of reason that remains. His skin electrically charges mine, and the little pulses it brings intensify when our crotches meet. God, how I have missed this perfect touch that makes my hormones take over all sense of reason. I need more. I need him inside where he belongs—his body an extension of mine, just like our souls.

  His tip brushes against me, and my legs part further to welcome him. He slides inside, then pauses as I whimper in pleasure. The heat generated by our union fuses us together as I tighten around him. Slowly he begins rolling into me at delicious pace. Immediately my body begins to teeter on the edge of the ultimate pleasure, and I long to feel him burning inside me. We’ve been denied each other for too long. How it is this man has so much power over me? Only he can make me so helpless, so willingly vulnerable. It’s more than his ample size or his open heart. Others possess those qualities, but no one other than Donovan can…

  “Donovan, stop!” I screech, wrapping my arms tighter around him, clinging and unwilling to face anyone. “I can’t do this!”

  His eyes rise to mine, filled with love and understanding as he caresses my cheek. “You’ll never stop, Lily. You’ll always love me. You know in your heart we belong like this.”

  He never said that. We stopped! Dear God, we stopped, and we both felt remorse. Lord, how every last grain of my existence wanted more, and it’s making me ache for him all over again. He’s inside me, both in my head and in my body. I can feel him pressing against me. I’m so fired up that I need to finish what we started. For years I’ve despised myself for allowing it to start, but in my dream there is no reason to hate myself for not finishing.

  I grab his ass and slam him in, his dick piercing me as I exhale a groan so deep it vibrates in my ears. As his lips claim mine, the heat of his passion radiates through me, causing me to clamp down so tightly my entire body tenses. “Deeper!” I beg, wanting him to take me higher—back under his magical spell that makes my soul melt into a puddle of honey so he can lick me up, and I can ooze deep inside the very depths of his passion, coating him with my desire.

  I grip harder, appreciating the tightness of his ass. My hands cannot be tethered any longer as they slide up, pushing in as I run them upward until the delight brought on by his thrusts makes me dig my nails in, causing him to moan.

  His hands hit the bed, and his head tosses back—my signal that he is close to the point of no return and trying to restrain himself without disturbing the pace of my excitement. Suddenly he pulls out, then kneels and twists my hips, straddling one of my legs while holding on to the other. He brings himself back, deeper than ever while slowing his roll, hitting me perfectly, my mind envisioning how he looks pumping inside me—stroking me, caressing me.

  The ocean in his eyes floods over me, reminding me that I am with my soul mate, the man who loves me endlessly for all that I am. How he colors my soul with happiness is more erotic than the tightness of his chest, the curve of his ass, or any move in the Kama Sutra. My body responds to my soul’s yearning, and I wrap my legs around him, grab his face, and draw him down. With our eyes locked together, we ride the avalanche, embraced for the crest of the thrilling climax that sends our souls colliding. At the end of the ride, our souls fuse, reunited for all of time.

  Chapter 34

  Less than an hour after the designated start time of our annual New Year’s Eve bash, the house is full and swinging. With each wave of arrivals, electrical outlets grow increasingly scarce as the impromptu band adds musicians.

  Each year, between Christmas and New Year’s, it takes all Donovan and I can muster to avoid depression. Donovan combats the “cognitive reasoning that tells him he’s a screw up” by overloading on volunteer work. I throw myself into making cookies for homeless shelters and futz over this party. We also avoid talking to each other; thus, we haven’t spoken since before I read his letter.

  Finally feeling that my hostess duties are complete, I plop myself midway up the stairs to gaze at the crowd. The place is so densely packed that it’s hard to find anyone, that is, anyone who doesn’t tower over everyone else. In the far corner of the living room, Julian talks to Donovan. Why can I feel Donovan’s discomfort from across the room? Are those two going at it already? It might explain why Anna is suddenly cowering behind Donovan and scratching at her arm.

  Donovan senses my spying, his heart tearing at mine as our eyes meet. He points me out to Julian who then sways his way through the sea of people. “There you are,” Julian says as he sits next to me. “This is quite the shindig.”

  “And it will only get crazier once the alcohol kicks in.”

  Julian clears his throat. “I saw Cindy and, um—Robert out there. Is anyone else from the bakery coming?”

  Geez! He’s as transparent as air. “Yeah, Jenny should be here soon,” I shoot him a wink and a smile.

  Julian chuckles. “That obvious, huh?” He stares at the glass in his hand while shifting the weight on his hips. “Donovan pulled me aside and apologized for his attitude years ago. He then genuinely thanked me for my help when your dad was ill. It’s amazing how much he’s changed.”

  �
��You sound skeptical.” He also won’t stop fidgeting or face me.

  “I’ve always been concerned about you,” he confesses, finally giving me spotty eye contact. “Anna seems pretty timid. She’s really an Acute Care Certified NP?”

  “Don’t you mean she missed her calling as a model?” Unintentionally I sound disgruntled while eyeing her in a slinky black dress, clinging to Donovan, who is obviously discomforted.

  Julian’s eyes shift around the room, his finger tapping the lip of his glass. As I begin to leave to check on Donovan, Julian interrupts my concern. “Actually, Lily...” Julian grabs my arm and leads me into the library, shutting the door behind him. “Have you… Has Donovan ever hurt you—physically?”

  I’m so taken aback my face exaggerates its movements like an over-anxious lip syncer. “What? He’s never done anything of the sort. Julian, Donovan has really changed, but even before he never touched me in any way that wasn’t welcome.” Julian’s brows ascend at my choice of words, confessing his real issue is morbid curiosity over something that is none of his damn business. It leaves his mouth stuttering to catch up with his brain.

  “What the hell is going on with Donovan and Anna?” he demands more than asks.

  “What?”

  “Jesus, Lily. There’s makeup covering grab marks on her wrists, and she won’t make eye contact, like she’ll be in trouble if she does. She’s also clinging to him like she fears being around anyone else. Every time someone comes into sudden contact with her she flinches. I’ve never trusted that man. If he’s—”

  Christopher slips into the room to grab a pen out of the desk while my words are already in motion. “Julian, don’t you dare accuse Donovan of hurting anyone. He has never been that kind of person.” I turn to address Christopher, but Julian lets his words fly.

  “Really? Because I remember him differently.”

  I snap back at him. “And I recall you being the instigator in the only argument that came to blows.” Again I turn to Christopher. “Hi, hon—”