by Lara Hunter
Unphased by these rough words, Oliver met them with a short, sharp nod as he folded his arms before him.
“Actually, Ms. Ashton, I am indeed here on company business,” he told me, more than matching my official tone. “If I don’t get to talk to you this morning, I won’t be able to do a lick of work today or, for that matter, to go on living my life.”
I rolled my eyes.
“That’s a lame line, Clark, even for you,” I barked, adding as I waved him away from my desk, “And to be honest, I have a lot of work to do this morning—and I’m sure you do as well.I’m sure that your father would really appreciate it if we both got to work.”
Oliver shook his head.
“Lily, please,” he pleaded, tone low and sincere. “I need to talk to you!”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I insisted, walking with brisk, purposeful steps in the direction of my corner filing cabinet.
I froze in my steps as I heard a loud, sharp sob erupt from the throat of my onetime lover.Wheeling around with my mouth agape, I marveled at the appearance of a single tear as it creased Oliver’s carved cheek.
“You don’t have to talk to me,” he told me, visibly fighting to retake control of his voice and his emotions. “Just listen to me, Lily. Please.”
Moments later I too sat on the edge of my desk; facing a still emotional Oliver as I said, “You have five minutes, Oliver.”
Oliver shook his head.
“I’m afraid, Lily, that my story might take a little longer to tell,” he told me, adding with a heavy sigh, “It’s the story of my life.”
He took a deep, sustaining breath and shut his eyes tight; seeming to transport himself to another place and time.
Then he opened those same eyes and said, “Lily, as you know, I’ve always gotten what I wanted in life.”
“Until you met me,” I interrupted, folding my arms before me.
Oliver shook his head.
“No, actually, there were two other times in my life when I couldn’t keep the girl,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Back in college, Lily, I dated a very special young woman named Andrea. She was warm, funny, beautiful, smart—everything a sensible man would want in a woman. Oh, but I couldn’t be sensible—after being a good boy and staying faithful to Andrea for six months, I got drunk at a frat party and woke up the next morning with a cheerleader.”
He smiled as I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand—but only briefly.
“You don’t have to say it, Lil. I was a fool,” he admitted. “And no matter how much I begged and pleaded, she refused to forgive me. Within one year she was married to the captain of the football team; she made me look like a fool.”
I shook my head.
“You made yourself look like a fool,” I reminded him.
Oliver nodded.
“I know that, now,” he assured me, adding as he rolled his eyes heavenward, “Believe me, I know that all too well. At the time, though, I was far more ashamed of myself for giving my heart to a girl—just so she could break it. I hated the way I felt—the depression, the guilt—and I vowed that I never would feel that way again. If you put all of your eggs in one basket, I reasoned, saving your love for just one woman, then you give her way too much power over you. And so set the course for my adulthood.”
I nodded.
“Well, this does explain a lot,” I allowed, adding as I cocked my head in his direction, “You did say, though, that there were two women that broke your heart. Who was the second?”
I cringed in spite of myself as Oliver’s head bowed, and a second tear cascaded the length of his carved, bronzed cheek.
“Ma,” he choked out, clenching his hands before him. “I tell you, Lily, the cancer that killed her just about finished me as well. I vowed that, with all of our money, with all of her connections, surely we could save her—dammit, I would find a way to save her. And when I couldn’t do that—well, let’s just say that the pain I felt during my break up with Andrea was nothing compared to the anger, the hurt, the helplessness and desperation that I felt as I watched my mother die in front of my eyes.”
Now it was my turn to let loose with an unbidden tear; one that fell free down my cheek as I clutched Oliver’s hands in my own.
“As close as I am to my own parents, Oliver, believe me when I say that I dread and have nightmares about the day that I lose them,” I revealed, adding as I shook my head from side to side, “I can’t even imagine the pain that you felt—that you still feel. Especially when your mother was struck down so young—in the prime of her life.”
Oliver nodded.
“Suddenly the one pure and true love of my life was gone,” he agreed, clutching my fingers between his as he added, “Along with my only true guidance and moral compass in life—aside from my dad, of course. But Mom’s influence over me was so much stronger and more keenly felt. Sure, I could drown out all of Dad’s lectures and his loud voice—but if I made my mother cry, which happened on occasion, it tore at my heart.”
I said nothing for a moment, just pinned a sad eyed Oliver with a long, intense look.
“And how do you think your mother would feel if she knew about your lifestyle now?” I asked softly, arching my eyebrows to curious effect.
“I never wanted to ponder the answer to that question,” he answered immediately, adding with a shrug, “So I just started limiting my thoughts and feelings in general. In an effort to fill the big hole in my heart, I just gave myself over to pleasure. I tried to drink, party and sex the pain away—making sure to make no binding emotional attachments in the process.”
I nodded.
“Sounds like a plan, Oliver—maybe not a very good plan, but a plan nonetheless,” I told him. “So now I’m simply left with a single, but very important question: Do you ever plan to change?”
I took in my breath as Oliver pulled me forward, answering me with a soft, gentle kiss; one delivered squarely on my lips as he whispered, “I’ve already changed, Lily. You’ve changed me. You reminded me of what it’s like to feel—to feel love, caring and attachment to another human being—and also pain and loss. During the time I’ve spent with you, Lily, I’ve felt more alive than I have in such a long time. And to tell you the truth, that scared the hell out of me.”
I thought for a moment, then nodded.
“So that’s why you ran away from me after we made love,” I thought out loud. “It wasn’t that you didn’t care enough. It was that you cared too much.”
Oliver nodded.
“I honestly thought that I wasn’t capable of handling all those feelings,” he admitted, adding as he once again leaned inward to fix me with an intense, unyielding stare, “What I really can’t handle, Lily Ashton, is living one more day without you. You’ve got me, Lily—my heart, my body, my mind. I don’t want to be with anyone else—and I just hope against hope that you feel the same way.”
I nodded.
“I do,” I readily agreed, adding quickly, “But just remember, Oliver, that I’ve had my share of heartbreaks as well—the last of which was suffered when the man that I’d just given my heart and body to deserted me. How am I supposed to trust you, Oliver?”
My eyes flew wide as my impassioned lover swept me up in his arms; holding my body closer than close as he buried his head in my shoulder.
“I can’t answer that question,” he whispered in my ear. “What I can do is promise to make it up to you every day for the rest of our lives—to love and care for you, to dedicate my life to making you happy. Because you, Lily, have shown me the true meaning of happiness.”
Reaching behind him on the desk, Oliver retrieved a plain plastic bag that I hadn’t noticed before; handing it to me as he said, “I have a gift for you, Lily—but it’s not like the others that I used to try and buy your love. This, my dear, is something truly personal.”
Opening the bag with careful fingers, I withdrew what appeared to be a framed and mounted painting; a small but finely detailed wat
er color that depicted a lavender water lily in all its fragrant, dew-glistened glory.
“This is beautiful, Oliver,” I breathed, adding as I shifted my gaze to his, “Who is the artist?”
“I am,” Oliver nodded, adding with a shrug, “It seems that a very special woman has inspired me to start painting again—and I have named my first watercolor in five years in her honor. It’s called Lily in Bloom.”
I said nothing, only put the painting aside and swept its artist into a warm embrace that bespoke my love.
“I love you, Oliver,” I whispered.
“I love you,” he told me. “My Lily in bloom.”
Lara Hunter
