Time's Forbidden Flower

by Diane Rinella

  Yeah, we’ll see how that goes.

  On the evening after Christopher’s crack-of-dawn departure, I’m smacked by blaring classic rock from the family room and a wonderful aroma emanating from the kitchen as I open the front door. My foyer and living room are immaculate—almost sparkling. However, the sight of Eric dancing as he cooks is downright enchanting. He yells as he rushes to lower the volume of the music. “Cracking. You’ve just enough time to wash for dinner. It is dinner time, right?”

  I’m dumbstruck. “It’s exactly what should be dinner time but rarely is around here. Something smells amazing. Did you actually cook?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing special, really—just roast chicken with potatoes, carrots, and a salad. I hope you don’t mind me taking liberties with your kitchen. I tried to keep it tidy.”

  Is he kidding? It’s practically spotless. Unable to resist the urge, I taste the gravy. My mouth sings as fresh tarragon and parsley enliven the back of my tongue. Is England redeeming itself? “Eric, this is incredible, but you didn’t have to do this. You should enjoy your vacation.”

  “Honestly, being with family is all I want. Everyone back home is old, sick, or dead,” he says, tossing down a dishtowel. “I don’t have much purpose there. I know eight weeks is a long time for a house guest, but I’m the happiest I’ve been in donkey’s years.”

  “Donovan and I had so many problems with our parents that it’s almost a relief to have only each other, but I did feel absolutely lost without him. Then again, Donovan and I seem to be of a different breed from the rest of the world.”

  “Speaking of which, where is the devil?” Eric asks while vivaciously pulling dinner out of the oven. “We haven’t spoken since before Christmas. Christopher led me to believe he’s here all the time—even joked about giving him a room.”

  “Actually, Donovan called yesterday wanting to discuss something with me over dinner tomorrow night. Would you mind watching the kids alone?”

  “Not at all. Remember, I came to help,” he says, heading upstairs. “I’ll round the children while you change.”

  Apparently Mary Poppins has a brother as youthful as Peter Pan.

  “Hello, luv!” Christopher beams at me over video chat. Drawn curtains and a nightstand whose lamp illuminates the motel room frame his image.

  “Wow!” I glow at his sight. “We haven’t done this in ages. I can’t say that I’ve missed it. Life’s much better when you are here.”

  “And I would much rather be there. I’ve been gone less than a day, and I already can’t wait to escape mayhem.” Christopher laughs as Dennis runs behind him, jumping and waving. “You’re looking exceptionally lovely. How are things?”

  I giggle at Dennis while replying to Christopher. “I would say as expected, but that’s hardly true in light of a sparkling house and a singing chef who makes a mean roast chicken. I could get used to having Peter Poppins here.”

  “Who’s Peter Poppins?” Fred asks, popping his head in, crossing his eyes, and sticking out his tongue, then disappearing.

  “It’s my new nickname for Eric, though I don’t plan to ever tell him. He’s like a boy version of Mary Poppins.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re provided for,” Christopher chimes. “I sure miss ya, luv.” A chorus of ooohs and kissy noises taunt in the background. Kissing his fingertips, Christopher reaches them out to the screen. I’m all too happy to reciprocate the gesture that again tugs at my heartstrings.

  “I miss you, too,” I confess. “Call me again tomorrow. No matter how late, okay?”

  “Promise.”

  Chapter 36

  From the bottom step of the metaphorical staircase that is now so familiar, I run for the farthest door. This time I’m going to see how it all began. Donovan’s recent actions are a full-on assault on my heart, drawing back the feelings I’ve spent years trying to push away. Has my time with the man I am destined to love forever always been a mess?

  Without hesitation I throw the door open and step into the light. My mind wants to be ready for whatever hits me, but the truth is, my earthly body is scared rigid. As the light dissipates, dryness surrounds me, like that which is brought on by too much sun and sandy wind, yet my hands feel cool. “What do you see?” Susan guides.

  My soul is in harmony with this life, and the answers to Susan’s impending questions are clear. “Clay walls. A dirt floor. Dust. Sand. A few stools. Pottery. This is Egypt. I’m wearing tattered sandals and linen.”

  “You are a very old soul. It explains much about who you have become. Are you happy?” Susan asks.

  “Immensely. My two girls make me smile. They dance around me as I knead bread. Near the oven a jar is fermenting old bread into beer.” How is it I can smell these things?

  “Where is your husband?”

  My heart races in happiness. “Bathing in the river. He’s been hunting and brought us a fox. I can’t wait for him to return. I’ve missed him so much.”

  “What is his name?” Susan asks.

  “Bes. It means protector. The name is perfect for him. My name is Tadinanefer. My husband—he’s home.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He’s perfect—strong, loving—so very gentle with me and the children. I could love him forever.” And I do. It’s Donovan. There’s not a doubt in my mind. “He’s sitting on a stool so I can rub oil perfumed with wood and flowers on his back. I’m anxious to touch him, but I also want this finished. His aroma is always best after the oils blend with his own musk.”

  “Okay, Tadinanefer,” Susan interrupts. “Let’s see what else we can find. Try releasing yourself outside.”

  “No. I want to cherish this moment forever. Just let me stay in his warmth until I die old in his arms.”

  “Is that what happens?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s keep you there for awhile. Enjoy the love.”

  Chapter 37

  Why the hell am I in front of a motel? Seriously, what the crap is up with Donovan lately?

  As per his earlier instructions, a text is sent announcing my arrival. When Donovan meets me in the lot, he grabs me as if I’ve returned from the dead—nuzzling his face deep into my hair, clutching my body.

  “Donovan, why are we at a motel?”

  He nods a request to follow him. “I have something to show you. Mom kept her will in Pandora’s Box.”

  A single lamp illuminates his room where stacks of paperwork reside all over the table and on the encompassing floor. The markings on a collection of paper coffee cups reveal he’s been guzzling mint mochas. “I’m sorry,” is written on each of the dated cups that go back to before New Year’s Eve.

  Clutching a stack of papers, he sits on the bed—his eyes half hooded as they look to the sheaves. “Do you remember when we had all those Martinis and I went for a walk because talking to Mom really got to me? She said James is my real name. I figured it was the dementia, but after she died, I retrieved these from her safe deposit box.”

  My heart stutters as I sit on the bed and shuffle through the stack. Before me glitters the key to that magical chance at the acceptance we have always desired, as if made of the finest diamonds. They are papers showing the adoption of James William by Lana and Edward Beckett from Audrey Beckett and an unknown father. Additional papers reveal a name change to Donovan James. My words fall without clarity in my mind. “You’re—you’re my cousin. Why would she hide this? Do you think this unknown father is what she meant when she said you are just like that man? Why would she change your name?”

  “There’s more. I sent for Aunt Audrey’s Death Certificate.”

  The second the paper hits my hand, the word “suicide” jumps off of the page and smacks into my gut. “I thought she died of heart problems.”

  “Yeah, apparently a broken one,” he grumbles. “Whomever that man refers to, Mom’s anger towards Aunt Audrey’s death was transferred to me. She then deepened the cut by robbing us. First cousin marriages are legal in most p
laces. We could have taken this paperwork to a courthouse and been married years ago. Now all that holds us back is ourselves.”

  My face freezes. Finally my mind pries open my mouth, bringing words forward with hesitation. “So this is why you’ve been acting so differently since Mom died.”

  Donovan takes my hands, his eyes daring to capture mine. “Come with me and start over.”

  “What about Christopher and Anna?”

  His scratching at the back of his head is forceful as he paces to vent frustration. “The complexities of my relationship with her seem endless,” he says contritely.

  “Donovan? What aren’t—”

  “Yes, there is something—some things I’m not telling you. They’re personal and are some of the many things about Anna that makes my life hell. I’m in this crappy motel because she kicked me out—again. She actually did it before New Year’s Eve, so we put on yet another show. It happens all the time, and it happens for the same reasons I’ve stuck by her.” Encompassing my hands in his, his knees meet the floor, his eyes pleading up at me, seeking understanding. “This is one of those rare cases where wrong is also right. We’re right. We’ve always been right. We could have all we’ve ever wanted. Look at me,” he says, cupping my face—drawing me in and making resistance futile. “Really look into my eyes a moment.”

  I cave, releasing my guard as we open our hearts for a speck of eternity. Everything we have locked away for so long rushes back; the amazing things we make each other feel, our hopes and dreams, all that we have been denied, the truth from which we can never escape. With eyes that beg me to love only him his soul wraps me in a cloak of adoration. The angels whisper their blessings as our lips meet—locked to each other, conveying enteral love in their dance. When we pull back, our eyes reflect a desire to entwine our souls for all of time.

  “I’ve never stopped loving you, Lily.”

  My whimper is scarcely suppressed as we give silent commitment before our lips meet again, bringing our bodies down onto the bed below us, sinking us into heaven.

  The taste of his skin and the warmth of our beings turn me into an instrument of yearning. Slowly his hands slide under my shirt, glide it over my head, and toss it aside like a forgotten flower. In the next heartbeat my bra and his shirt join it on the floor. It feels like an eternity since we’ve been like this—skin-to-skin, soul-to-soul. Charges flow through me at his touch, and I pray this magical feeling never ends.

  His cool hand slides down my bare breast followed by his tongue. Gently he suckles my nipples and the ecstasy it sends through my body cannot be compared to the euphoria in my soul. No one should have the power to keep us apart and infringe upon God’s beauty. Never have I loved another like this. No other man has ever—

  “Oh, shit! Donovan, stop!” Halting at my words, our eyes freeze into each other’s. “What the hell are we doing?”

  Donovan takes a deep breath, hiding his vision to the site of our indiscretion. “Stopping,” he burst out firmly. “We’re stopping.” Pulling the bedspread over us, he enrobes my body in his. “No more,” he assures. “No more until we agree what to do next, no matter how long it takes.”

  “I have to go!” Darting off the bed, I scramble to put on my bra, finding my fingers have lost all agility.

  “Lily, I’m sorry,” he says, advancing.

  “Stop! Stop right there. You said to give you time and then I could yell at you. Consider yourself yelled at, twice. I’m taking these papers with me.” My feet flee so expeditiously, that I’m still pulling my shirt over my bra as the door slams behind me. Racing for my car, I pray that once inside I’ll wake to learn this nightmare was merely a hallucination.

  Staring out my windshield, I’m barely aware of the road before me. Drops of guilt trickle down my cheeks as I force words that my heart needs to face.

  “I cheated on my husband.”

  Before I’ve blinked away the tears of indiscretion, foolishly lying to myself. Now I need to face my actions.

  “I’ve hurt that sweet, beautiful man,” I cry.

  No. No, I didn’t. We stopped. Both times we’ve stopped. It’s not cheating if you freak out and stop.

  My stomach lurches, and I swallow hard and fast, fighting the burn that creeps up my throat. The guilt turns my tears into smoldering embers. Racing to quell the burn I smear them onto my sleeve. If I could rip my face off I would.

  Pulling my car to the curb a block away from my house, profound sorrow screams forth, knowing I soon need to face my children. “No. I’m Lilyanna Eccles, and without sex it wasn’t cheating. I won’t wallow, because I didn’t cheat,” I shriek over and over again, trying to convince myself of innocence. Finally I force myself forward, wishing there were a way to yank out my deceitful heart and feed it to vultures, just as it deserves.

  With a painted smile, I go through the motions of putting the children to bed, and then cower in my room with the documents. Aunt Audrey’s cause of death might as well be written in neon. Mom always said Audrey was much like Donovan—loving to the core. Was she trying to tell us the truth?

  The power the adoption papers hold scares me. Now more than ever I know my life could have been different. This one, stupid piece of paper could change so much. Actually, I could just as easily hurt my family without it. This document may make it legal, but legal is not always right.

  Deep sadness floods me when I curl into Christopher’s pillow. He has only been gone two days, and his scent has already faded; yet somehow Donovan’s shirt that he gave me nearly a year ago still carries his essence. It’s like a metaphor for my recent learning; Christopher is always here for the now, while Donovan is with me for eternity.

  Finally my video chat rings. I click the answer button, sucking back guilt and pushing forth cheer. “Hello, luv!” I burst with an exaggerated gleam at Christopher. “You’re looking rather lovely.” Instantly my eyes feel like rafts on the ocean.

  “Hey! That’s my line. You can’t go stealing my lines!” he laughs.

  “Maybe I just miss you so much I feel the need. How are you darling?”

  “Sweet as nuts. We had a cracking time tonight, but as much as I am enjoying this, I certainly miss you.” Christopher kisses his fingertips and touches them to the screen, yet I feel them claw into my heart.

  I reciprocate, wishing our fingers could interlace. “And I miss you!”

  “I had an idea for a name for the baby. How about—”

  “Darling, can we please talk about something other than the adoption tonight?”

  “Can’t stand up the master of musician names, eh?” Smugly he fakes straightening a necktie, bringing about my laughter, yet also deepening my guilt. “How’s my lovely lady?” he asks. The question turns my pooling water into a tsunami. Never has Christopher used Donovan’s words. “Darling, what’s wrong?” Christopher asks, looking like he wants to jump through the monitor and console me. To conceal my guilt, I reveal the contents of Pandora’s Box.

  Christopher looks sickened by the news. “With your mum none of us ever did know which way was up. It’s unfortunate she didn’t get the same help Donovan did. He’s doing incredibly well for someone who nearly went off the deep end.”

  Suddenly I’m kicked in the head. Are Christopher’s words as sarcastic as they sound, or did the universe send me a puzzle piece?

  “Hey, Christopher,” Dennis calls in the background. “A reporter wants you.”

  Christopher starts to reject the opportunity, but ironically I now need him to put his job first. “Sweetie, I insist you enjoy the chance at exposure. Call me after for a brighter conversation. I love you,” I say with heartfelt enthusiasm, then disconnect the call before he can protest.

  My attention returns to the adoption papers. Something about the signatures rattles my core. Why do I suddenly see that Donovan never showed me the paperwork for Mike’s restraining order? Maybe my love for Donovan makes me blind to the truth—just like how Julian pointed out the marks on Anna’s arm over wh
ich I so easily lost concern.

  From my laptop, rushed copies of both my parent’s marriage certificate and my aunt’s death certificate are ordered. In a few days, I’ll at least know what matches.

  Chapter 38

  Repulsion runs through me, as if my veins are filled with my own sickness. Last night guilt plagued. Today frustration rules. The contrast makes me despise myself.

  Snatching my purse from my locker, I head out, hoping fresh air will reform me, but nothing on this earth can make me comfortable with myself. Fighting the urge to race my stress away, I meander through the streets of Westwood and land on Sunset Boulevard. Twenty snot-sob filled minutes later I’ve traveled a whole four miles and find myself in front of Donovan’s office. I should have headed for the La Brea Tar Pits. Diving into muck sounds appropriate. Then again, I’m already neck deep.

  Bolting into his private chambers, I neglect the formality of a salutation before sniffling out my words, certain that my face is unrecognizable from the streaks and smears of eyeliner and mascara. “You leaving was the hardest thing I ever experienced. If you hadn’t shoved me away I would have stood by your side without fail. I kept asking if you were sure. You said it had to happen.” I halt Donovan as he heads toward me. “No, stay where it’s safe. You’re not allowed to do anything but talk to me.”

  “I had to do everything I could.” He gulps back a sob. “You were sick—so, so sick. It was like watching you die.”

  “What would you be like today if we had pressed on? Couldn’t we have recovered?” Tears pour down my cheeks so heavily my sinuses drain. Against my better judgment, I let Donovan dab my eyes with a tissue.

  “Remember how we used to go for long walks? I kept changing our route because we lived near both a school and a park. Kids were everywhere, and you always looked so sad. One day a little boy couldn’t get started on a swing. You ran over to help him, and looked so happy. I wanted you to always be that happy.”