Lily Love (26 page)

“I love children, but I’ve never had an overwhelming desire to have my own.” He continues to stroke my stomach with his fingertips. “I love my niece and nephew more than anything in the world. I can’t imagine loving my own child more than that, or loving Jay and Jennifer any less. Love is love, regardless of biology. It’s our own willingness to share it that matters most.” He lifts his eyes to mine, and I see his love reflected back at me. It steals my breath and makes me wonder if I’m just as transparent.

“That’s beautiful, Tate.” His eyes still have me entranced by their flagrant emotion. They soften further as a smile splits his face. I want him to love Lily like that, and I’m scared that he won’t.

“Wait right here.” He rolls over and grabs his jeans off the floor. He moves with more energy than he should have, after the amount we just expended.

“Where are you going?” I ask sleepily, snuggling further into the bedsheets that smell just like him. Yum.

“It’s a surprise.” He flashes his dimples, and all other coherent thoughts are gone.

He disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone and deliciously naked in his bed. I prop myself up on my elbows and take in his bedroom. I didn’t get much of a chance to see it before (not that I minded). The furniture is dark and masculine, but what stands out the most are the photographs. They hang on the wall in all shapes and sizes. No particular pattern or theme, but they’re fascinating in their chaos. There are photos of the fields outside his house, in different stages of seasons. Some are unrecognizable landscapes, and others are candid shots of people I don’t recognize. There’s palpable emotion in each frame that blows me away. I can’t believe he ever considered doing anything other than this.

I lean over the edge of the bed and grab the first article of clothing my hand comes into contact with; it’s Tate’s shirt. Pulling it over my head, I drink in his unique scent and smile. I pad over to the wall of photographs to get a closer look. That’s where Tate finds me upon his return, studying his art.

“Hey, there.” I follow the sound of his voice to the doorway. He’s holding something behind his back, watching me intently.

“Tate, these are stunning. You’ve got a gift for capturing a feeling, not just a subject.”

He saunters over to where I’m standing, lips twitching, trying not to smile.

“Nice shirt.” He smirks as he leans in to kiss my cheek.

My face flames and I laugh at the irony. He’s kissed every inch of my naked body, and I’m being bashful about wearing his shirt.

“I’m glad you think I’m talented,” he says matter-of-factly. He takes his hand from behind his back and holds out a large cardboard envelope for me to take. “I really did ask you back here to give you something.” Opening it, I gasp when I pull out a gorgeous black-and-white photo of the Casablanca Lily from the moon garden. Its texture and shading make it look almost like it’s mourning. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“When did you have time to do this?” My voice shakes with emotion as I run my fingers over the outline of the petals.

“I went back with my camera last night.” He shrugs like it’s no big thing, but his eyes dance with his excitement. “I got some great shots, but I wanted this one for you.” He flips the photo over in my hands and points to where he’s marked the back.

Tate Michaels Photography 2013

“Lily Love”

“That’s the name of the song I’ve sung to Lily since she was a baby,” I whisper. How could he know that?

“It’s a song? Really?” He sounds truly surprised. “I just thought that title fit. It’s your favorite flower from the moon garden; it’s your daughter’s name . . . there’s a lot of love surrounding that word.”

I love you! Come on, you want to say it
.

“It’s an Irish folk song by the Chieftains,” I start to say, but can’t continue. Tears flood my eyes and spill down my face. He doesn’t need to tell me that he loves me; he just showed me in a most undeniable way. He cups my face in his hands and looks at me with worried eyes.

“I didn’t want to make you cry,” he says, gently sweeping away my tears. “I wanted it to make you happy.”

“H-happy tears,” I stammer between hiccupping breaths. He takes the picture from me and places it on his dresser. On a heavy sigh he wraps me in his arms, holding me tightly to his chest and tucking me under his chin. My very favorite place in the world.

“You scared me,” he breathes into my hair. “I thought I really screwed up.”

“You didn’t screw up. You paid attention to what was important to me, took in the things that I shared, and then showed me that I was on your mind.” I turn my head up to make sure he understands what I say next. “You make me feel known and cherished, and I’ve never felt that way.” I have to practically bite through my tongue to keep from blurting out, “. . . cherished and loved,” but I’m not going to tempt fate tonight. We have no business talking of love. We hardly know each other, and Lily is only a series of stories I’ve shared with him, not a tangible little girl with profound needs that need to be met daily. Yet here we are staring into each other’s eyes with more love than I could’ve ever hoped for.

“
I’m so glad you like it,” he whispers against my lips. “By the way, you are more than cherished.” His lips are soft and firm against mine, eliciting a blissful sigh from me. His tongue slips between my parted lips, stroking and licking mine, leaving me breathless and weak-kneed.

He guides me back to the bed, where he strips off his jeans and his shirt from me. He pulls me in close, and I shiver when our bodies press together. His deft hands electrify my senses, just as they did before, but now everything feels different. We replace the frantic rush of our desperation for each other with reverent explorations. I show him with my body what my words can’t. We make love until the orange glow of dusk shines through the window. I don’t even know what time it is, and I don’t care. I want to push the rest of the world away and disappear with Tate.

I can’t do that, though. Reality is on the other side of the threshold, waiting to remind us that life doesn’t stand still for anything.

the world as i see it

N
ow, let’s throw some clothes on; I have something I want to show you,” he says and starts gathering our clothes off the floor. I pull on my panties and am rooting through the pile he’s assembled when I feel his eyes on me. I turn around and find him fastening the top button of his jeans, leveling me with a look of pure intensity. I fold my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling very exposed.

“What?” I start to squirm when he doesn’t look away. He shakes his head and chuckles to himself, which only makes me feel more foolish.
“What?”
I insist. I spot my bra peeking out from under his bed and dive for it, suddenly grateful for something to do. When I fasten the last hook around my rib cage, I turn back toward Tate. He’s still in the same spot he was in before, looking at me in much the same way.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

“Thanks.” I blush scarlet red. “Bathroom?” That’s the third one-word reply I’ve made in five minutes. I need a moment to get myself together.

“At the end of the hall,” he answers, and then pauses like he has something to add.

I brush past him and pretend I don’t see his hesitation. I wish he’d just say whatever it is he has on his mind. Since starting to write again,
my imagination is a vast playground for assumptions. His eyes bore holes in my back as I walk down the hall, but still he stays silent.

“Are you okay?” I ask. He nods, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he just needs a minute, too.

“Caroline.” I look over my shoulder to where he’s watching me from the doorway. “It’s nothing bad; I just can’t believe you’re here.” That’s it? That’s what Mr. Heart-On-Sleeve was struggling with? Sensing my apparent doubt, he pushes off the doorframe and strides up to me. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, letting his hand linger on my face. “What I feel for you is a lot to process. I may not always have an immediate answer for what’s buzzing in my brain, but I’ll never lie about it.”

“Okay,” is all I can manage to say.

My head is swimming with so many emotions it feels like I’m drowning. I’m relieved that he isn’t secretly harboring feelings of regret for sleeping with me, I’m pissed at myself for even thinking that for a minute, and I’m all swoony inside from the honesty of his confession. I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss him softly, to reassure him and myself.

“I’ll be out in just a minute,” I promise as I close the bathroom door behind me. When I hear Tate’s footsteps retreating back up the hallway, I close my eyes and lean against the door. When I open them again, it takes all of my effort not to shriek at the beast staring back in the mirror. My hair is a nest of tangles, sticking out every which way. The new hairdo is rivaled only by the smudged mascara under my eyes. I look just like the disaster I am. I open and close some of the drawers beneath the sink until I find a wide-toothed comb. I run it through my hair until every knot and snarl are smooth again, and splash cool water on my face to rinse away the makeup. Just a few minutes after my retreat, I emerge from the bathroom feeling a hundred times better and ready to face Tate. I find him in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of white wine. He glances up when I walk in.

“I thought you might like to have some wine,” he offers. I take the glass from him and savor the crisp tang of the wine. “Feel better?” he asks tentatively.

“Much, thank you.” I sigh. “Now, what were you going to show me?”

Tate’s face lights up, and I can’t help but get a little swept up by his enthusiasm. “House tour first; then I want to show you my studio.” He claps his hands together and pauses for a moment.

“This is the kitchen.” He motions with a sweep of his hand. It’s charming, with its white country cabinets and butcher-block countertops. A row of bar stools are tucked under the bar top. I can picture Tate and Tarryn’s family eating here. This room just feels like the heart of the house, a space where they would migrate to.

Tate grabs my hand and leads me into a large open area off the kitchen. “This is supposed to be the living-slash-dining combo, but I always eat at the kitchen bar, so room for living it is.” I knew it. He walks me past the overstuffed couches and armchairs to a set of French doors that lead outside.

“This is my favorite part of the house,” he says, leading us onto a deck that spans the entire back side. It faces the open land I saw when we pulled up, and the view is absolutely breathtaking.

“This is gorgeous, Tate.”

“I thought you might like it.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. We stand there for a while, just soaking it all in, and I feel the dull ache of regret for having to move on.

“This concludes the tour of Chateau Michaels. The only thing we didn’t get to was the guest room, but you don’t need to worry about that. When you’re here, I want you in bed with me.” He smirks. He drops his arm from my shoulder and takes my hand. “Now, let me show you my studio.”

He guides us down the steps of the deck and around the side of the house where our cars are parked. As we approach the secondary building, he pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the door. Tate steps
through the door before me, flipping the switch, bathing the studio in light.

“W-wow,” I stutter. “This isn’t what I was expecting at all.”

The space before me goes against every stereotype I have of a photography studio. There’s no darkroom, no pungent odor of developing fluid. It’s a world away from the brooding and moody image I have stuck in my head. The walls are a sage green, and each photo displayed on them is encased in a unique frame. Some are ornate wood, some are scrolling iron, but no two are alike. His chestnut desk faces a window that looks out over the tobacco fields; it is paired with the most hideous chair I’ve ever seen. It’s a worn-out brown velour armchair on wheels. That’s being kind. It looks like something Goodwill wouldn’t even accept. Outside of the brown monstrosity, his studio is warm and open, nothing like the monochromatic, utilitarian studio I’d imagined.

“Since I deal in stock-photo catalogs, the majority of my prints are digital.” He walks over to his desk and taps the keyboard belonging to a big-screen iMac. It brings to life a scrolling slide show of Tate’s work. “I don’t deal with a darkroom anymore. If I need film developed, I can rent darkroom space in town by the hour.” He plops down in his fantastically ugly chair and props his feet on the desk. “So, what do you think?” He holds his arms wide, clearly very proud of his studio, as he should be. It is as unique and eclectic as its artist.

“It’s amazing, Tate.” I chuckle without meaning to. I can’t help it; the sight of him in that terrible chair is ridiculous. I can’t believe he would mar his creative space with something so grossly misplaced. The more I fight against laughing, the more urgent the need becomes. “I’m sorry.” I snort. “That chair is awful.” He looks completely affronted, which only makes me double over in laughter.

“Do not dis my lucky chair,” he warns. “Every major copyright I’ve sold, I did sitting in this chair.” He pats the armrest, and a faint cloud of dust floats into the air.

I nod my head as I take in his reasoning, thinking carefully before I respond. “Okay,” I acquiesce. “Have you ever sat anywhere else while vying for one of those contracts?”

“No, I haven’t.” He rocks back in his chair as he thinks, bringing a cacophony of shrieking springs to life. I don’t know how he can stand it; my ears are practically bleeding.

“How do you know if it’s lucky if you haven’t tested your theory against another chair?” He looks out the window, and for a minute I assume he’s taking it under consideration. Then it dawns on me that he’s concentrating on not laughing.

I smell a rat.

He makes the mistake of glancing in my direction, and loses what little control he had left. He throws his head back, howling in laughter. I still don’t know the punch line, but his laughter is so infectious I can’t help but laugh along with him. Once he’s calmed to hearty chuckles, he offers up an explanation.