Time's Forbidden Flower (3 page)

After dinner I battled my emotions by sticking the guys with the dishes, then grabbing two glasses, a bottle of champagne, and Anna’s hand. With a plastered-on smile I dragged her into the library, acting like old girlfriends instead of the near strangers we were. Despite being somewhat quiet, Anna was intimidating—hence my need of liquid courage. After my second glass, I was still struggling to know the fashionable woman who sat before me. She was tall, but her stilettos made her statuesque. Her deep brown, cotton-polyester dress accentuated every streamlined curve. Clearly she took care of herself, yet what attracted Donovan to this shy woman escaped me.

“That dress is amazing,” I said of the form-fitting, yet tasteful, garment. “Where did you get it?”

Anna fidgeted with the rim of her glass. Though she had kept up with me regarding the consumption of champagne, she showed no signs of relaxation. “Taylor’s,” she replied simply.

I waited for elaboration, or a return question, but all was so quiet I didn’t even hear crickets outside. I gave it another shot. “You have a lovely figure. How do you stay in shape?”

“Thanks. I hit the gym with Donovan a few times a week.” She downed the remainder of her glass, and I poured her more. Still she did nothing to help with the small talk.

“To me a workout is sprinting into the bakery from my car when I’m late for work,” I said. Anna took another sip as her eyes searched the room, seemingly for something to grab her attention. Finally the champagne kicked in enough for me to lie while playing the sister card. “I totally get what Donovan sees in you, but what on earth do you see in him?”

Anna looked to her hands that nervously sat in her lap. Slowly a smile built, and her eyes rose like the light that had been turned on inside her was charged with adrenaline. “I trust him. For the first time in my life I have found a man who is gentle, understanding, and whom I completely trust. Donovan is one of those people that will never let you fall, no matter how precariously you put yourself out on a ledge.” She sneaked a bashful a peek at me, then again diverted her eyes, speaking cautiously, yet her enthusiasm didn’t falter. “He told me that he had some problems with your mom while growing up, and even though he hated himself for hurting you, he acted out of love to give you the best life possible. I’ve also been hurt before, and I’ve come to accept that those people had no concern for me. To have someone like Donovan in my life is a gift. I’ve always wanted someone to love me the way he loves you.”

Suddenly I understood. I had been the only one to ever really trust Donovan. With Anna he had finally found someone else who believed in him. While I still had my doubts about their relationship, the attraction made perfect sense. “I’m sorry that you had it so rough,” I said.

“Thanks. I had to deal with a lot of illness in my family. Like Donovan, I wanted to take all the bad that happened and turn it positive, so I became a nurse. He’s even inspired me to take it further and become a nurse practitioner. The more I help others, the more I help myself, much like what Donovan is doing. Sometimes when you are hurting, the only way to lessen the pain is to see the value in it. Then it becomes a gift. I firmly believe that the suffering of one is a blessing to another.”

With every bit of strength I had, I kicked my apprehensions and jealousy to the curb. Maybe, just maybe, Anna could be the blessing brought forth from Donovan’s suffering.

An impassioned encounter with Christopher this morning gave me the salivating jitters of a sugar junkie entering a chocolate factory—which would be fantastic if I were not about to spend two nights alone with Donovan.

Backyards and footballs make for a foolhardy mix when I’m around. Stupidity prevailed when I saw how awkwardly endearing Christopher looked playing catch with our seven-year-old son, Graham, and our five-year-old daughter, Antonia. Embarrassment on Christopher’s behalf compelled me to rescue the poor kids from their father’s lack of grace. Seriously, while his muscle has nicely filled out from all the equipment he lugs, the Queen Mum could lob a more masculine pass.
 

Who would have thought that me, Ms. Klutz On the Field, could throw a football better than her husband? That part was fine, but it was how I played coach that let the cheetah out of the worm can. It was nearly a replay of how Donovan taught me years before. However, not only did my actions have the follow through Donovan’s lacked, my words almost revealed the sacred truth.
 

Strolling behind Christopher, my left arm encircled his waist while I pulled him close, twisting his hips as I went. “First, situate your body. Make sure you have a solid grip. Now pull back, like so.”
 

That's when he clumsily bonked me in the face, exactly like I had done to Donovan years before. Warm flames of remembrance brought forth the desire to live out what I wished had happened before with the enticing man in my arms. Again I pulled Christopher next to me, this time placing my cheek tenderly against his. Sadly, Christopher was all business, nearly assassinating my attempt to live out the fantasy.

Decorum fell to the sidelines as I nibbled on his ear, making him blush and shy away. My pulse raced when I exchanged my grip on the ball for a gentle cup of his chin while granting myself the luxury of exploring Christopher’s mouth with my own. The lust from our kisses melted onto my tongue as if a cooking torch were used on my hormones, causing them to sizzle like sugar being caramelized on Crème Brule. In complete surrender to the moment I grabbed his shirt and yanked him to the ground. Were my desires the result of the man above me or the memory of the one I had so desperately wanted before?

Christopher breathlessly uttered through his adorable Manc accent that even after nine years of marriage still sends me to the moon, “Dear God, Lilyanna. I thought you were going to teach me like Donovan taught you.”

That is when my hormones drove me smack into a concrete wall of stupidity. “Be glad I didn’t show you how he taught me to give a guy a good sacking.”
 

There’s no possible way that could have sounded sisterly. Christopher’s eyes, voluminous and frozen with shock, showed my assumption was correct. I switched gears by making his expression of mortification worse. “Whaaat?
 
Got yur knickers in a twist, eh luv? Lookin’ a lit’le godsmacked, there ya is.”

“Seriously, Lilyanna, one of these days I have to teach you proper Cockney. If you’re going to botch an accent at least make it Liverpudlian. Then again, they already sound wonky without your well-intended help.”

Ten hours later my flight is touching down in Rhode Island where Donovan’s flight from Colorado has already landed. My nervousness intensifies in memory of yesterday’s call from Donovan, bringing about prayers.

Dear Lord, please guide us through the days ahead. Donovan’s feelings of responsibility for the results of Mom’s addictions are unfair. Instead of getting the help he advised, she became the victim of her own actions. As for everything else, you know the struggles Donovan and I face when together. Please ease the pain.

The flight lands, and Lilyanna Eccles turns into Lily Beckett. Donovan and I embrace our rare moments together, forgetting that our spouses exist—with one exception. Our wedding rings serve as reminders that cheating is unthinkable. While the area that defines cheating is gray, some actions are clearly off limits.

Across the lobby outside of my terminal Donovan sits hunched forward, scratching the back of his neck, and bouncing his knee. Seeing him nearly makes my heart beat out of my chest in a mad desire to collide with his. For the first time since the termination of our romantic relationship we won’t have to sneak away to be alone. It’s a welcome relief and nerve-wracking as hell.

Our meeting gazes stop me cold. He looks spectacular—his sapphires clear and bright, hair still raven-like, and skin aglow with the hues and luminosity of heath. Smug little glances exchange before we campishly search the room for eyes that might not be accepting of our impending actions. With jesting shrugs we run into each other’s arms, me jumping on him, wrapping my legs around his waist, and planting little kisses wildly all over his face. His head buries in my hair with a deep inhale, as if capturing a part of me. His words release with relief. “God, I’ve missed you!” Pulling back, he looks at me with a big, stupid curl of the lips. “It’s about time we could do that without fear of facing a firing squad.”

The joy of being in his arms is as consuming as ever, and it reflects in my words. “Let’s go straight to the hotel. I don’t want to lay eyes on anyone but you tonight.”

Donovan and I sit facing each other on the sofa in his dimly lit hotel room that adjoins to mine, talking—not talking—sharing every thought. We see each other so little now it amazes me that we can disregard words yet be completely understood. It’s a sad state. We were born not needing articulation, and our predicament has infringed upon our beauty.

Suppressing the emotions that could ruin everything we have both worked so hard for, my words interrupt our silent admissions of longing. “Now that it is easy to talk openly, tell me how you’re really doing.”
 

Donovan squirms, knowing he can’t pretend I’m asking about his roof that was leaking. After a moment of uncomfortable glances, he confesses. “Not as well as I’d like. I still have moments where Dad invades my brain. I used to hear him calling me a loser, but for the last few years it’s like he’s begging my forgiveness for how he always treated me like a lesser being. It’s really disturbing. I want forgive him and Mom, but I just can’t.”

“Is that why we still deal with this madness and foolishly risk our families seeing her at Christmas?”

“I’m just trying to salvage something that died long ago. I might find forgiveness if Mom would confess why she lost it with me.”

“You know, sometimes we need to forgive people, while other times it’s best we don’t.” I toy with the sleeve of his T-shirt, running my fingers over the edge that caps his tight biceps, remembering how good they feel around me. “Forgiveness can help us heal and move on, but lack of it can help us stay strong and true to ourselves.” The realization that touching him is inappropriate makes me want to do it all the more. I retract my hand and slip it between my legs. The action brings forth the need to rotate my head and shift my shoulders in an effort to release newfound tension.

“Really, Lil,” he says, eyes circulating, lashes fluttering. “I’m supposed to be the therapist.” His orbs drop with a sigh. “I know it’s irrational thinking brought on by the PTSD, but I can’t help but feel that maybe I was the one who put them through hell. If I didn’t have the feelings for you that I did, and still do, then—”

“Then I would be in this alone.”

His little grin is uncharacteristically bashful. Taking a hand to my hair he captures a cluster of locks just below my temple and threads it through his fingers. “I’d hate myself because I know that, all enamored feelings aside, you and I would be precisely the way we are in other aspects.”

“Do you ever wonder why that is?”

“All the time,” he sighs, drawing his hand away, his eyes remaining on my cluster of hair so that they now hold it captive. “The fact that we can share so much without even muttering a word is loony bin material in some people’s eyes.” He pauses, his eyes slowly shifting back and forth as one lip moistens the other. They pop open as he speaks. “I have something to show you.”
 

Rising from the sofa he gaits to the closet, stiffening his back and broadening his shoulders as he goes.
 
He rummages through a messenger bag before drifting back, staring at a small tin and looking a tad shrunken. Pulling forth a chair, he sits across from me, as if the contents of the container add danger to our proximity. “This is just for us,” he says. Pressing the tin into my hand he wraps my fingers around it, then gives a squeeze signaling his own need for reassurance.

“What’s inside? Why are you so nervous?”

“It’s a flash drive containing a secondary journal I began while in rehab. I’m nervous from memories of the last time I shared my journals—when I told you the truth about what happened to me. This one is even more personal than those.”

My stomach twists as if entering a vortex. Those journals detailed years of abuse and stress that made him monstrous and eventually suicidal. “Donovan, what are you trying to tell me?”
 

“You’re well aware of the way I’m haunted in my sleep, but not all of the ghosts are bad. Dr. Coe felt I should keep a separate journal for the things that haunt me at night, along with a new method of maintaining it—like sorting fantasy from reality. We would then review my nightmares and try to unlock more of my issues. The more I improved, the more often I had special dreams. Some were still frightening, but others were downright beautiful.” Moving to sit next to me he slides his arm around my waist, the other hand planted firmly on my leg, as if bracing me. “Remember how you said we’re soul mates and eventually I started buying into that possibility?”

My eyes gaze up to his, longing to dive into them and become lost. “Yeah, it’s when you gave me the infinity necklace I’m wearing. You said we traveled together before and we would again.”

He nods in acknowledgement. “Shortly after accepting that idea I started having insightful dreams—some of them vague and others pretty vivid. What you hold are my journal entries of those dreams. Lily, I may really be crazy, but I think—no, I know we have traveled together before. I’m also pretty sure we are no strangers to conflict relationships. Would you be willing to undergo past life regression?”

My eyes expand and then try to refocus on the tin, shaking my head as if doing so will grant clarity. “But you’re a psychologist. Doesn’t this go against your beliefs?”

“Sort of. Most psychologists see it as a crutch people use to avoid reality. Dr. Coe is a believer because he had patients who can describe details about shoes and clothing that are not in your common history books but hardcore historians can confirm. All I know is that when I look into your eyes I feel I’m having memories I can’t see. If you’re willing to undergo hypnotherapy, and our stories match, maybe we can understand why our connection is so deep.”