Sacred (Forbidden Flowers Book 4)

by Donya Lynne

  Sacred

  A Forbidden Flowers Story

  Donya Lynn

  Sacred©

  Forbidden Flowers, book 4

  Published by Phoenix Press LLC

  Copyright 2020 Donya Lynne

  Cover by Megyn Ward, MW Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-938991-52-3

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to others. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at donya@donyalynne.com.

  References to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  SACRED

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Books by Donya Lynne

  Find me…

  SACRED

  Chapter One

  Dr. O’s Office . . .

  Some people claim that life is what you make it. They believe that if you work hard and do good deeds, you’ll reap the rewards.

  Others believe life is a game of fate or chance. That it doesn’t matter what you do. If the universe feels like throwing a bag of shit at you, you have to take the hit square on the chin and find a way to deal with the smell, then hope one day the universe throws you a stroke of good fortune to make up for it.

  Then you have people like Journey Monroe.

  Journey is what some people might call woo-woo. She owns her own spa and wellness center in Midtown Manhattan, called Sunflower Health and Wellness. She meditates every morning, does yoga four times a week, has her chakras aligned once a month, sets daily intentions, thinks that finding success is less about hard work and more about doing what you love, is an energy healer—Reiki practitioner, she says when I ask about it—and finds the silver lining in every stroke of bad luck.

  Case in point: she’s five months pregnant.

  How is that a silver lining? And how does bad luck factor in? I don’t know yet, but I can’t wait to find out. All I know is that she included that information on the questionnaire she filled out when she applied to be a research subject for my book, so it must be important.

  I’d also like answers to a few other open-ended doozies she wrote on her questionnaire. Such as why she can’t find the baby’s father, why she doesn’t even know his name, and what she means when she says taking a wrong turn was the best thing that ever happened to her.

  In other words, she provided just enough information to pique my curiosity, but not enough to sate it. And with a mountain of questionnaires to sift through—I swear every woman in New York wants to tell me about the best sex they’ve ever had—one that stands out like a tree in the middle of the ocean demands an interview.

  Which is why she’s sitting in the seat across from mine in my Manhattan office, her pale-blue tunic protruding over her pronounced baby bump, and her compelling questionnaire resting on top of my yellow legal pad in my lap.

  In addition to her long, flowing blouse, she’s wearing loose-fitting baby blue pants that drape over her legs like melting butter. They look like the most comfortable pants on the planet, both casual and stylish. She could be taking a yoga class or attending a cocktail party and would still be dressed for the occasion.

  But as lovely as her outfit is, it’s her hair that makes me green with envy. Journey has long, naturally curly blond hair that falls over her shoulders in coiled, whimsical spirals that remind me of Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex in the City, just not quite as messy. It’s the kind of hair every woman wants. The kind of hair that never goes out of style.

  But not even her gorgeous blond hair can distract my naturally inquisitive mind from its need to find answers to all the cliffhangers I highlighted in yellow on her questionnaire.

  “So,” I say, tearing my gaze from her locks, “I’m dying to dig into your story.”

  She laughs, and the sound is like the rest of her: airy, bright, and a little bit dreamy. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I was a little bit vague in my answers.”

  “Being vague worked. It got you here.”

  “Yes, well, mine is an unusual story, I suppose.”

  What an understatement.

  I press the tip of my index finger beneath one of the highlighted sections on her form. “What do you mean when you say that the father of your baby is a ‘mountain man’ you met after you got stranded in a snowstorm, and now you can’t find him?”

  Because, yes, it’s perfectly normal for a woman to lose track of the man who helped her make a baby.

  Her face flushes deep crimson as she gives a little shake of her head, as if even she can’t fully fathom how she got herself in this condition.

  “It’s complicated,” she says.

  I lift her questionnaire. “Given what you wrote on here, I’d say ‘complicated’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  She laughs again. “I guess that does read like a really bad romance, huh?”

  “Actually, it reads like a really good romance, because if this were a book, I wouldn’t be able to stop reading until I reached the end.”

  More laughter, from both of us this time, then she tucks a wayward curl behind her ear and sobers. “I don’t even know how the story ends yet.”

  I know she’s desperate to find her mountain man, but that’s not pertinent to my research.

  “I don’t need to know how it ends, Miss Monroe. At least, not today.” I offer her a compassionate smile. “I do hope you find him, though, and if there’s anything I can do to help, I will. But all I need today is the story about how this man gave you the best sex of your life and why you feel that way. That’s why we’re here.”

  She looks at her swollen belly before caressing it with long, graceful fingers. “This is why,” she says meaningfully. “This is why it was the best sex of my life.”

  I’m not sure I understand what she’s trying to say just yet, but it’s obvious Journey loves this baby more than anything in the world. Given the way her palm rests lovingly and protectively against her stomach, she would undoubtedly give her life for her child. The fact that she can’t find the father seems to be merely a minor inconvenience, not an earth-shattering tragedy. Clearly, the only thing that matters is bringing this baby safely into the world.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, pen poised over my legal pad.

  She places her other hand over the first like she’s guarding the tiny, precious life growing inside her. “I was told I couldn’t have children.” She looks up, and her eyes shimmer with tears. “I was married eight years ago. Did I mention that?” She gestures toward her questionnaire. “I can’t remember.”

  I know for a fact that she didn’t include any details about an ex-husband, but I still give her form a once-over, mostly to allow myself to catch up to the bomb she just dropped about not being able to have children. Because, obviously, she can.

  “Uh, no, you didn’t,” I say a moment later. I set the form back on my lap and look up at her for more of an explanation, because she wouldn’t have brought it up if she didn’t plan on talking about it.

  “I couldn’t get pregnant,” she says quietly. “My ex-husband and I tried and tried, but I couldn’t conceive. And with every disap
pointing pregnancy test, the tension in our marriage grew thicker and heavier. He couldn’t grasp what was wrong with me that I couldn’t give him a child, and I couldn’t deal with the guilt of failing him every month. Not even daily affirmations and meditation helped.

  “We began arguing over every little thing and stopped talking to each other. Everything became a fight, a means to take out our frustrations. Eventually, it became too hard to stay married, so we divorced.” She sighs and wipes away a tear. “I can still hear him. ‘What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you get pregnant?’ Like it was my fault. Like I was intentionally trying not to conceive.”

  Her ex sounds like a horribly abusive man. Maybe not physically, but verbally and emotionally. How did such a sweet, spiritual woman like Journey get involved with such a monster?

  I reach across the small table and place my palm on her knee. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Journey.”

  Her smile is kind as she meets my gaze. “I know that now, but back then, I was too young and messed up emotionally to believe that. He really did a number on me.” A lone tear drops from her lashes. “And, of course, I blamed myself.”

  I hand her a tissue and give her a moment to wipe her eyes and collect herself.

  “Sorry,” she says, laughing awkwardly.

  I hold up my hand. “No need to apologize.” Pregnancy and infertility are tough subjects to discuss for a lot of women. As a psychologist specializing in women’s sexual health, I’ve heard my share of tearjerkers.

  “It’s the pregnancy hormones,” she says. “I’ve been an emotional roller coaster for months.” She snaps her fingers dramatically. “I can cry on command like I’m the newest attraction in a circus freak show.” She tucks the used tissue into her palm, sniffling as she smiles and glances at her belly. “But this little precious baby is worth all the unanticipated crying fits it wants to put me through.” She lays her arm over her round stomach. “And now I know I was never the problem, he was. That has helped lift some of the burden.” She softly pats her fingers on her bump, an introspective glaze falling over her eyes. “You know, I think deep down I never believed that doctor.” She shakes her head. “I never fully accepted that I would never be able to have a baby.” She laughs as if this is the craziest thing that’s ever happened to her. “But I never saw it happening like this.”

  “Meaning . . .?” I’m pretty sure I know what she means, but for the sake of getting the full story recorded, I’d like to hear her tell it in her own words.

  “Meaning that I always assumed I would be remarried when I got pregnant, for starters. That my new husband and I would have success where my ex and I didn’t.” She starts ticking the items off on her fingers. “Second of all, I never saw myself getting pregnant after one magical weekend with a man I barely knew. And that I wouldn’t find out by accident that I was pregnant, wouldn’t be able to find the father to tell him he was going to be a dad, and about a hundred other things.” She drops her hands. “I’ve never been one to believe in fate—you know, fate alone and that it controls everything—but I swear that weekend was fate. Me getting lost in that storm, making a wrong turn, then sliding off the road in the one place where he would find me . . . if that’s not fate, I don’t know what is.”

  Getting lost in a storm. Making a wrong turn. Sliding off the road. She’s talking about things I don’t know the details of yet, making it hard for me to follow.

  She must see the confusion on my face, because she sighs with self-admonishment, realizing she’s lost me. “Maybe I should back up and start at the beginning, huh?”

  “I think that would help.”

  Then I remember that I haven’t turned on my digital recorder yet. “Wait.” I quickly pluck it off the small round table between us and switch it on. After all the anticipation, I don’t want to go back later to listen to her story again only to find I forgot to hit record.

  I quickly recite the date and time, followed by, “Research subject number thirty-seven. Journey Monroe. Forbidden Flowers project.”

  Every person I interview for the book gets assigned a number for filing purposes, and I have a feeling the numbers for this book will go well above a hundred. And that’s just for the women I interview. The number of women surveyed will be in the thousands. It’s a lot of work, but for accurate data, you need a large sample.

  “Okay, now you can begin,” I say, setting the recorder back on the table.

  She shifts in her chair as if she’s still getting used to her growing belly, palming it lovingly as she gets settled once more.

  “I should probably start with the wedding.”

  “The wedding?”

  “A good friend of mine got married in February,” she says. “Valentine’s Day. Natalie always dreamed of getting married on Valentine’s Day at the Mohonk Mountain House up on Mohonk Lake, a couple of hours north of here.”

  “I know the place.” I’ve been to the restored Victorian castle resort for a couple of retreats. The place has gorgeous views in every direction and a never-ending array of outdoor activities to feed a person’s soul for months.

  “It’s beautiful up there, isn’t it?” Journey says, her eyes coming alive.

  I nod but don’t interrupt her, uttering a simple “mm-hmm” instead. The key to getting these stories recorded in detail is knowing when to ask questions and when to shut up and listen. Now is the time to do the latter so she can get into a rhythm. In no time at all, her story will be pouring out of her.

  “I’ve been there one other time,” she says, “but it was a long time ago. And it was in the summer. In February, the trees were still bare, and it looked totally different, so it was hard to identify landmarks I remembered from before. And, let me just say for the record, February is not the best time of year for an event in Upstate New York.”

  I agree. New York can still get a lot of snow well into March, so Journey’s friend took a risk scheduling a February wedding. One that, based on the reference to a snowstorm Journey made on her questionnaire, didn’t pan out.

  “But Natalie had her heart set on Valentine’s Day,” Journey says, “and since we all wanted to be there for her on her big day, no one tried to talk her out of it. As it should be.”

  By “we all,” I assume she’s referring to friends and family.

  Journey has a carefree but no-nonsense way about her that carries over into the way she talks, as if she assumes everyone can follow along without her having to explain every little detail. I appreciate that. Sometimes I get women who feel they have to spell out everything, as if I’m not smart enough to figure it out on my own.

  “I drove up on Thursday,” she says. “The wedding was early Friday afternoon, and I had originally planned to stay until Saturday morning so I wouldn’t have to worry about driving home late at night after having a couple of glasses of champagne at the reception. But one of my employees had an emergency, and I needed to be back at the clinic on Saturday morning, so I decided to skip most of the reception and return to the city Friday night. And with that snowstorm moving in, I decided to head out about an hour into the reception, which should have given me plenty of time to get ahead of it. I figured if I could make it back to the main road before the snow began to fall, I’d be fine.” She shrugs as if to say all her planning was for naught. “You know what they say about best-laid plans, right?”

  “Nothing goes according to plan?” I reply.

  “Exactly.”

  She proceeds to tell me just how not according to plan the next two days went. And after hearing her story, I think I need to get lost in the woods of Upstate New York in a snowstorm, because . . . damn!

  Chapter Two

  Journey’s Story . . .

  After making a wrong turn thirty minutes into her drive home and ending up back at the Mohonk, Journey groaned with frustration. Her GPS was obviously on the fritz because it was her GPS that had directed her back to where she’d started rather than to the highway that would lead her home.

&nb
sp; Maybe this was a case of user error, and she had input the address wrong. The Fiat hybrid was new—she’d only bought it a couple of months ago—and she hadn’t had an opportunity to use the navigation system yet.

  Either way, with an hour lost, she turned around and made another effort to beat the storm that had already rolled out of Canada past Lake Ontario and was picking up steam as it churned and barreled south on a trajectory that would open a can of you’re-going-nowhere on her location in about thirty minutes.

  Shutting off her car’s GPS, she focused on the landmarks, trying to remember where she’d turned on her way up to the Mohonk yesterday. The problem was that everything looked the same—bare trees and mountains in every direction—making it easy to get turned around.

  Which was why she made another wrong turn . . . and another . . . and another . . . and wasted so much time trying to find her way back to a road she recognized that before she could catch her bearings, it had started snowing and was getting dark.

  Great.

  She would be better off returning to the resort and waiting out the storm there. She would just have to call the clinic and let the know she wouldn’t be in tomorrow. Someone else would have to hold the fort.

  She turned on her GPS again. If it had gotten her back to the Mohonk once, maybe it could do it again.

  All that came up was a blank screen.

  Her day was going from bad to worse.

  “I want to find my way back to safety,” she murmured, forcing herself to stay calm as she turned to the law of attraction for help. “I want to find my way back to safety.”

  She believed with her whole heart that she created her own future. All she had to do was tell the universe what she desired, and the universe would deliver it if it was for her highest good. And she couldn’t imagine that the universe wouldn’t agree that getting her to safety was for her highest good, so she held on to the conviction that she would get out of this mess. Something good was bound to show her the way. A street sign. A recognizable landmark. Anything that would help her reach a safe haven.