Time's Forbidden Flower

by Diane Rinella

  “That’s a shame. We talk frequently, but I haven’t heard from him since your mum took ill.”

  Antonia tugs on Eric’s arm and points to the instrument he brought that Grace now holds. The fluid that blurs Grace’s vision reeks of longing. With trepidation, Eric strolls to Grace and touches a hand to her shoulder. “Remind you of someone?” he asks softly, sharing her focus on the instrument.

  Grace swallows heavily, and my eyes share her sorrow as she speaks through a knotted throat. “I haven’t seen one of these in years. Paul’s is in the attic. I fell in love with him that day I saw him playing it on the street corner, though he didn’t notice me until years later when I was old enough to lie about my age and get into clubs.”

  My eyes scrutinize the primitive looking contraption that appears to be a wooden cigar box with a broomstick stuck onto it. “What is it?”

  “It’s a cigar-box guitar—the first instrument I ever had,” Eric says. “My cousin gave it to me when he got a real guitar. It inspired me to save every penny I could. For Christmas one year I asked my parents for a guitar provided I could pay half. We found a cheap, used one that sounded horrible but got me started. If it hadn’t been for this thing I never would have gotten started in music and likely would have stayed poor me whole life.”

  “That plays music?” my daughter asks while rolling her deep blue eyes. “Not possible.”

  “Oh, it’s possible.” Eric beams. “Let’s give it a go.” Eric motions Graham to sit with him in the middle of a maroon velvet sofa. Together they apply the knowledge Graham already possesses to the foreign object.

  The moment is a window to the past, allowing me to envision a time when Christopher was little and Eric showed him the things on a guitar his father couldn’t. My mother would love this moment. This was the type of family life she always wanted—the type we used to have. The fact that I’m with one of the idols of her youth, watching him smile as he educates her grandson, only adds to the sadness.

  Things could have been so different, Mom. You weren’t protecting me; you were lashing out against something greater—something I hope to never understand. If you had merely talked to us and seen the truth, if you had gotten help for whatever madness drove you... The decisions Donovan and I made had nothing to do with you. Christopher and I still would have met, and you would be here now, thrilled beyond belief instead of sitting alone and miserable. You made your choices long ago. How I wish I could change them.

  There’s a wild gleam in my eyes as I grill Grace during our annual tea date in Manchester proper. For a decade we have come to this whimsical palace that embraces the imagination of Lewis Carroll and couples it with true English class. White crown molding resembling triangular cascades of lace drip from a soft pink ceiling that crowns the room with both magenta and sea-blue walls. However, the room is far from garish. White damask doilies trimmed in lace adorn rose tablecloths, muting their vividness. The chandelier hanging above brings an air of regality. It somehow blends beautifully with the pillars throughout the room painted with harlequins and the cresting sign above a wall display of teas that says, “Drink Me.”

  The room is as fresh and young as the woman who sits across from me. By birth, Grace is my mother’s age, yet by vivaciousness she rivals me. Her attractiveness has little to do with her sunny blonde hair in its updo, her well-kept figure, the ability to wear clothes of a woman half her age, or the brightness of her tasteful makeup accenting her big blue eyes and cherry lips. I can only attribute it to the fact that Grace is… Well, Grace is Grace. She doesn’t futz with self-imposed restriction of life, she just lives.

  “So, tell me more about the guy you’ve been seeing. Justin, right? Are we going to meet him?” Christopher and I have yet to meet anyone Grace has dated. I’m dying of curiosity. Knowing her, she can probably still attract some wild boy toys.

  With pursed lips, she raises her brow and tilts her head, knowing I’m on to her. Justin may even be younger than me. “Oh, I doubt it,” she says with a brush of her hand. “It’s nothing serious, and even though Christopher is a very open-minded person, Justin is not exactly the type he wants to see me with. Actually, he’s not the type I want anyone to see me with. He’s a passing fancy. I’d like to find someone to make me happy, but I can’t seem to find the right man, let alone fall in love with him.”

  Yep! The cougar has nabbed new prey. Good for her. Yet it’s also sad. I try to hide my own kaleidoscope of emotions toward the subject. “It must be difficult after you had such an amazing relationship with Paul. I remember your words about how he was both the love of your life and your soul mate.”

  Grace sets down her cup, its rim holding her focus. “He was. Paul and I were freakishly in tune, almost as much as you and Donovan. I could never top my relationship with Paul, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be happy with another. I don’t need an enrapturing romance with happily ever after, I just need happy. It seems more and more that I need to wait until I see Paul again for that.”

  What odd words. Does Grace see through Donovan and I? Her intuition and knack for being relevant never fail to amaze me. “Are you talking about in heaven or in a life beyond this one?”

  Grace’s blush-enhanced cheeks cave as she processes the question. Her words drive a cool sadness through me. “I’ve known since the day he passed that it wasn’t the end. While Christopher called the paramedics, I begged Paul not to go. I stopped pleading long enough to take a deep breath, and a moment of comfort came over me. I looked up as if he were calling me from above, and it felt as if our eyes locked one final time. I knew then that our story wasn’t over.”

  My insides quiver. “Do you think you may have known him before?”

  “Like in another life? I’ve wondered that.” A bit of color drains from her face. “Decades ago we went to India, and a Hindu sage said we would have many problems because our past carried into our present. We needed to discover what they were and fix them now so we could be at peace in the future. I thought it odd, as we really didn’t have problems then. Later, when trouble started, I wondered if the sage was on to something. I should have insisted we look into it, but Paul and I were good at ignoring things, much like the pact you and Christopher hold of not speaking of your two years apart. We never should have ignored it. It concerns me for what may lie ahead.”

  With a shrug that escalates into a shiver, she takes a sip from her cup, then quickly places it back down. Her vivacious hue returns as soon as she changes the subject. “So, as a woman, I think it only fair that I warn you of something. You mentioned before that you were considering another child. Are you still headed in that direction?”

  The question takes me aback, and I shift my vision from her eyes to the miniature sandwiches before us. It’s not that I mind talking about personal things with Grace, it’s that she never pries. While by most mother-in-law standards this is mild, for her it is intrusive.

  “Actually, yes,” I admit. “We’ve been trying, but my body isn’t cooperating. Frankly, I think part of it is psychological. The thought of being pregnant again makes me squirm. Wait, why are you asking?”

  Grace grabs a petit four. “Christopher’s cousin, Glenda, is pregnant and is dead set on an abortion. Apparently he went over there this morning to talk what he considers to be sense into her. You might want to prepare yourself for a big question.”

  Grace forgoes placing the confection on her plate and using a fork. Instead she bites in.

  “You think he wants to help?”

  “Oh, definitely. I’m sure you know that while my son may be very liberal, abortions are not something he ever considers to be an option.” Grace takes pause, then gives a sudden jerk, like she’s shaking off a bad memory. “So where shall shop tomorrow?”

  Well, isn’t this dandy? Do I wait this one out and let him tell me, or do I pull the bitch card and call him out on it, knowing it may already be too late?

  Chapter 5

  Exquisiteness and effervescent beauty have fill
ed my day—and it’s only 2 P.M. Since our return from England three weeks ago I have barely seen Christopher due to obligations surrounding his band, Fragile Cherry, and studio work. For weeks I’ve gone to bed alone, then woken to him being nearly comatose until long after I’ve left for the day. However, this morning he woke me with kisses that flowed like maple syrup and butter down a tall stack of hot pancakes—and he brought me coffee. He then snuggled me in his arms and presented the lovely idea that we rendezvous for a very early, extended lunch.

  I should have known it was entrapment. The moment I walked into the house I felt wisps of discomfort swirling in the air. Once Christopher got me in the bedroom and loaded me up on champagne, the moment Grace warned me about finally arrived.

  “You know how we’re sponsoring those children in Togo?” he asked, lying next to me, slightly hovering above while resting the weight of his head in his hand. He was so nervous his eyes locked onto my ear. “It’s got me thinking we could do better.”

  My eyes darted around the room in search of a buttering up present.

  “Since you had it rough with Antonia, and since you are so busy now…”

  If he commented about me not wanting more stretch marks, or how badly my legs swelled to the point where I could hardly walk last time, I was going to let him have it.

  “It just seems that maybe we should consider…”

  “Seriously, Christopher, you suck at this,” I erupted with a chortle. Finally his eyes jotted to mine, his face freezing. “This is the worst buttering up session in the history of mankind. I thought I’d at least get a necklace out of it. What did you sign us up for with your cousin? How deeply you got me involved will be reflected in the price of the jewelry I buy myself on your behalf.”

  He scampered back to sit on his calves. “Well, blow me!”

  “No way, buddy. You’re supposed to be buttering me up.”

  “How on earth did you know?”

  “I’m a woman, therefore I know everything you sneaky men do. Now, how screwed am I?”

  Christopher closed his gaping mouth, turning serious. “I’ve offered to pay all expenses, make monthly financial contributions, and put the child through school in exchange for Glenda not getting an abortion. It’s all coming out of Dad’s money so it doesn’t involve you at all.”

  “Are you saying we can no longer afford my jewelry?”

  “Darling, I know it’s a lot of money. Are you all right with this?”

  “Christopher, of course I’m all right with this.” Actually, I was damned relieved! “You’d have a hard time living with yourself if we didn’t help her.”

  Lying next to me, he enrobed me tighter than in years. “An innocent child should never suffer because of someone’s selfishness.”

  His voice had taken on an eerie tone, reminding me of the distance I feel every time the subject of our two years apart comes up—the two years of which we never vowed to speak. Quickly he snapped back into the moment, focusing on me and pouring more champagne. Despite the guise it was presented under, and although all I ingested was exquisite chocolate and Dom Perignon, the lunch was nicely fulfilling.

  Relatively.

  Okay, a little unadventurous but satisfying—like vanilla ice cream.

  Lord, how I’d kill for some chocolate mousse.

  Now I’m headed back to my shop, Pâtisserie de l’Amour, in Westwood, confident that nothing has crumbled in the hands of the cast of characters referred to as my staff. I am blessed with the most talented, loyal, and kooky artists on the planet. Their eccentric creativity has resulted in crazy desserts that none of our competitors would dare try, like Tequila Lime Tarts with an Orange Cilantro Glaze. Pâtisserie de l’Amour has a killer reputation for the eclectic, and I owe it largely to my comedy troupe.

  My cell phone vibrates before I enter the back door. Stopping to grab it out of the rear pocket of my jeans, I look at the caller ID and already regret taking a call from the person I should have responded to weeks ago. “Hi, Mom,” I groan into the phone. Oh, a brain hemorrhage would be so welcome right now.

  “Hi, Lily. How was England?”

  “Wet.”

  “Did you see Eric?”

  Lord! That’s a new speed record. “Yes, Mom. We always see Eric.”

  “I don’t know how you hold it together,” she practically pants. “If I were even in the same county as that man I would go to pieces.”

  Which is one of the many reasons why I will never let her near him.

  “Doesn’t Peter Noone live near you?” she asks. “Has he come into your shop?”

  Dear God! “I’m not sure where he lives, Mom. If he comes in I promise to tell you.” Someday I’m going to get over my hang-up about lying. I’ll tell her he strolled in, took one look at me, and pinned me to the back wall before kissing me passionately and saying he’d bet I have a gorgeous mother. “Hey, Mom, I’m sorry, but I really need to go. I had a lunch meeting and have been out of the store for the last three hours.”

  “Okay, bye dear. Oh, wait. I got that article you sent me about how well your shop is doing. I’m really proud of you honey. I never told you this, but the night you talked to your father and me about going to pastry school and wanting to open your own shop he said he knew you would be successful. He would be very, very proud.”

  Absorbing her words, I give myself a moment to mourn the loss of my father and his good side that so rarely showed. Suddenly I feel a little stronger for having known him. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Okay, dear. Give Christopher a big kiss for me.”

  “Will do. I’ll kiss the kids for you as well.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. Them too.”

  “Bye, Mom,” I say, chuckling. She may have lost her marbles when she overreacted about Donovan, but she’s still the same daydreaming, wannabe teenager.

  Slipping through the back door on the approach to my locker, I start to take off my rings when my favorite baker, Cindy, with her fiery, pixie-cropped hair dyed a deep red, accosts me. “I know it’s none of my business, but since we all love Christopher, I insist you keep your wedding ring on.”

  My head cocks as I look into her deep green eyes. Just as I’m about to ask why, Jenny, my petite, over-enthusiastic counter girl, runs in looking star struck. “Did you tell her? He’s still out there!”

  “Tell me what? Who’s out where?”

  Jenny gushes like a thirteen-year-old whose favorite teen idol has just bowed in her presence. Even when her king idol, Johnny Depp, drops in she doesn’t get into this kind of an uproar. Grabbing my arm, Jenny’s brunette ponytail whips with her bounces. “Seriously, he has got to be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

  “Who?” I ask, wishing she would just get on with it.

  Robert, an amazing decorator and the most flamboyant of my staff, races up. His wavy carrot top, lime eyes, and pale skin make him and Cindy look like disgruntled siblings. “Did you tell her about the stud who keeps munching on the pastry? Boy do I have something he can munch—”

  Cindy shoves Robert aside and gives me the scoop. “Some blistering guy has been waiting in the store for over an hour. I’ve no idea who he is except he’s incredibly hot, has amazing blue eyes, and brought you a gorgeous bouquet of white roses.”

  My eyes won’t stop widening in hope. With morbid curiosity the fan club follows me as I whip through the kitchen. Peering out the swinging door to the shop, my heart skips a beat at Donovan’s sight. Will it ever stop doing that? Turning to the adults who have regressed to groupie girls, I hope my look is of sisterly distain. “I thought you said it was some hot guy? That’s just my jock brother.”

  My eyes roll, Donovan style, as I push the door open with my heel and spin into the shop, only to hear Robert yell behind me, “A jock? Does he play football? Tell him I’m great at conversions.”

  Inside the bustling, aromatic shop the mid-day sun shines warmly through the two, white trimmed windows that enliven the outside wall that
resides across from the kitchen door. A beige ceiling hovers above medium forest-green interior crowned with white molding. On each side of the door to the kitchen are antique, walnut and glass cases that sit before matching shelving units, topped with swirling Art Nouveau framework that form flourishing loops extending over the door. The remaining walls sport large gold trimmed mirrors and shelves of pre-bagged cookies.

  Among the walnut tables and antique chairs that fill the shop, Donovan rises to greet me. A lump of disappointment hits my stomach as he hugs me in the necessary, brotherly fashion. I beam at him, sounding giddy. “What are you doing here?”

  He hands me a bouquet of white roses as we sit at the table. “I have a surprise for you.”

  “I see that.” My heart barely stays in my chest. I’m so excited to see him that I grab his coffee cup and take a sip just so my lips can touch where his once were. “I never pegged you for a mint mocha person.”

  “Mint is sort of our flavor,” he says in reference to years before when I finally had a break through with both training his palate and getting him to face his emotions. “I drink mint mochas all the time. It makes me feel closer to you.”

  Taking the cup, he places his lips in the same place that once touched mine and sips, following the action with a wink acknowledging the lack of coincidence. “My surprise has nothing to do with the visit or the flowers. It’s much better than that.” The grin he flashes is wicked, his eyes gleaming in mischief—toying with me as only he can.

  Pulling back, I scrutinize him through a squint. “You’re here to stay? Really? Don’t mess with me, because this isn’t funny.”

  His snicker grabs my heart. “I’m teaming with a psychiatrist friend, here, in Los Angeles—sort of. I just secured an office. Can you sneak off and help me house hunt this afternoon? I fly out late tonight, and we need to be fully settled in less than two months.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a mental breakdown! Happy?”