Time's Forbidden Flower (18 page)

“I’m sorry, darling.” I say with a pouty lip. “How about some strong black tea instead?”

Suddenly his eyes pop open, and the blue orbs in front of me dazzle. “I’ve a better idea. There are still items in that nightstand of yours we have yet to use.” Reaching across the bar he puts his hand on mine, halting my chopping before guiding me to the stairs. A few steps up the collage-lined stairwell, I tug back on his hand.

“Come here,” I say, motioning with my finger. “Look.” Inside a collage from our first year together, I point to a picture of him jousting with a drumstick on his first Thanksgiving. “You know what I remember most about that day?”

“How I almost cut off me finger when I tried to carve the turkey?”

I chuckle. “No, though looking back that was rather entertaining. What I remember most is what happened after you left. You called to wish me good night and said words that changed my life forever.” He steps down behind me and enrobes my waist. Our eyes blur over the collage as the memories flow. “You said Grace wanted me to be the daughter she never had. It scared the breath right out of me. I had never thought much about us in the long term, but when you said that everything changed. It was one of the biggest moments in my life, and it ultimately led to our marriage. I love you, and I love my life with you. You bring so much light into my world.”

Christopher kisses my head and tightens his hold. “I didn’t think it was possible to love you any more than I did then, but now I know love was only beginning to grow. I love you more now than ever, and I know that tomorrow I will love you more still.”

With a little nudge, he takes me up the stairs, reminding me of the beauty of our marriage.

Thanks to my amazing husband and two of his Martinis, when Donovan and crew arrive relaxation is no longer alien to my universe. However, about an hour after their arrival, I concede that no matter how enjoyable the day is, a sense of incompleteness will follow me. An eraser rests in my hands, but can I dare the risk of smearing the shadow, thus extending its depth?

I cower in the library. The phone in my hand feels like it’s my own voodoo doll. Just shy of pressing the call button, every muscle in my face clenches, and tears begin their descent. I miss my Mom. I miss my real Mom—the one who loved her children. The one with whom I played with dolls. The one who played old records and danced around the house like a teenybopper. That beautiful woman who tried to be both a 1950’s housewife and my teenage best friend. I love her, and I miss her.
 

Can I possibly take it if this call goes the way of the last one? I don’t want that to be my last memory of her, but I can’t take another betrayal. The whole situation is so incredibly wrong.

My hand remains on the device as I set it down, as if the hesitant touch will transmit my message. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. I love you.” With a deep swallow I remove my hand and walk away. It’s time to hold my children.

“Good morning, boss!” Jenny cheerfully sings as I pour my coffee.

I’m not buying it for the price of a poppy seed.

My eyes refocus on my notes for the Anthem Records anniversary party we are co-catering in three months. “Good morning, Jenny. Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”

“Umm, it was all right, but a little disappointing,” she claims with a faint pout.

I am so playing into her hand and know it. “And why was that? Too much studying? Still can’t decide between Art History and Marine Biology?” I ask, scribbling fake numbers onto a notepad.

“Today I’m leaning toward Geology.” Her fingers toy along the antique display case that holds the day’s goods. “Thanksgiving was a little uneventful, and it got me wondering. Are you having your annual New Year’s Eve party this year?”

I view my sketch of a cake shaped like a record with a critical eye. This is a terrible idea in light of my generous budget. “It wouldn’t be an annual party if I didn’t. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t. With everything going on here, and—”

“Lily, that’s not funny!”

“What? Do I need to work on my bedside manner?” My lips purse to suppress laughter at the poor girl who slumps in disgust with herself. “Is it that obvious?”

“Oh, yes. Obvious is indeed the word. So is discernible, translucent, palpable… Yes, we are having a party. Yes, I will invite Julian. I thought you were sneak attacking him when he came in for his Thanksgiving mousse cake and boldly slipping him your number tucked into a cream puff?”

Jenny turns sulky, making it harder not to laugh. “We were so busy I didn’t get the chance. Robert helped him.”

My throat emits a groan at the thought of Robert’s feminine flamboyance versus Julian’s masculine charm. “I’m sure Robert loved that way more than Julian did. Jenny, why is it you fall apart over guys like Julian, yet when celebrities like Johnny Depp come in you are totally calm and collected?”

“Because Julian is real and Johnny isn’t,” she says as if her odd statement is common fact and shouldn’t faze me.

“Oh, I’m sure Mr. Depp would love to hear this.”

Jenny shakes her head at my obliviousness. “The personalities of movie stars are often best left in my mind where I don’t feel I have to be a perfect ten to get their attention. So, if you’d invite Julian to your party…”

“Fine! I’ll try to sway Julian to come. If he has to work you can pretend I insisted you pack a plate and bring him food.”

She gets all touchy-feely while grabbing my arm, jostling me as she bounces. “Have I ever told you you’re the best boss ever?” she asks, skipping off without waiting for an answer.

“Only seven times in the last two weeks. I must be slipping.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Christopher screams from the basement. “Two weeks? Are you bloody kidding me?”
 

Christopher yelling is something that happens about as often as a fish guts itself. Quickly his fire is extinguished. “No, I’m very sorry,” he continues. “Two weeks is perfectly fine. We appreciate the opportunity. Kindly send over the contract, and I’ll sign it immediately.”

This sounds bad. Is he now leaving in two weeks?

“That deceitful yob!” Christopher bellows as he storms up the stairs. “Mike came in and did a buy-on with his new band! They are paying to play our spot on the tour. We just lost all of the non-West Coast dates!”

The Croissant Karma Police are after my staff and me with a vengeance. The pins on our dough sheeter won’t stay in place. Half of the time I run it the top roller smashes onto the bottom one, thus ripping hard butter through the delicate layers of dough. Since today is Friday, I can’t get a guy out to fix the machine until next week, killing a large part of our weekend sales.

Trying to dissect the maladies of the laminator myself, I’m now covered in grease thanks to the stripped gear that is the cause of misery. Hysterics tempt me to dive into it as I take a call from Cindy, who sounds like Kathleen Turner impersonating Fozzy Bear. She’s just the latest flu victim, along with Jenny and Robert. I’m about to call a temp agency or drive to Hollywood and grab a crack head off of the street when Donovan calls. I beg into the phone without even a hello, “Please, please say you’re calling because your afternoon just freed and you would love nothing more than to bail out a helpless damsel and sell cookies!”

“Right, Lil. You don’t even know the meaning of the word helpless.” Despite the sarcasm, his shaky voice prepares me for the pool of emotions he is about to hurl me into.

“How bad is she?” I ask in enquiry of our mother.

“Remember the time I called you in school about Dad? It’s that kind of bad.”

My chin meets my grease-covered apron in memory of the call I got while in a Confectionary Arts class informing me of our father’s imminent passing, only then I was covered in chocolate. It seems fitting that I am now doused in a slippery mess. “How long?” I ask, hating myself for hoping there won’t be enough time to get to her.

“They don’t know. The Doxorubicin is causing heart problems. I’m canceling everything and heading out now. I really need a few answers as to why she lost it with me.”

“Is Anna going with you?”

“No, she has to take care of Sunshine. I can’t allow that poor little girl to see this kind of suffering or how I react to it. I’m pretty freaked out.”

“Donovan, there is no way in hell you’re going through this alone. Take Sunshine with you. I’ll call Mom’s neighbor who used to watch us. Hopefully Mrs. Callahan is free this weekend. When I get there we’ll either leave the kids with her or Christopher will take them all to Mom’s.”

I hang up the phone, feeling the urge to plug my nose, knowing I’m about to jump into a bucket of my own blood.

On Saturday afternoon, Antonia’s head is crammed into my shoulder as I pray for dear life. It’s incredibly fitting that the final flight to see my mother is the most turbulent and stomach churning I’ve ever experienced. A lightning storm resides outside our window. The plane’s dips are so heavy they put my stomach into my throat and almost out the top of my head—like Mom is making one final attempt to throw evil into the world.

The captain again comes over the loud speaker, assuring us that all will be fine in this rather sudden and unexpected freak occurrence. However the only freaky thing about it is what, or rather who, in my mind is causing it.
 

Once on terra firma, the terror and stress send my stomach to doomsday. Twenty minutes later I emerge from the bathroom. Christopher and the children wait concernedly, looking just as bad and still clutching airsick bags. Finally, we are composed enough to get our luggage and drop the kids with Mrs. Callahan. The horror of the flight was so head clogging that it blocked the obvious until Christopher and I exit the hospital’s elevator. The world speeds around while my head perceives my motions as languid. This is the same corridor where I stood with Donovan the last time we saw our father. It was here that Donovan referred to me as his love, a signal that the tide was about to turn.

Walking past the room where my father died, a chill slides up my throat like frozen bile from the memory of when he asked for forgiveness. Donovan’s silent denial was so out of character that I knew my world was about to fall apart, though I had no idea of the enormity.

Christopher places his hands on my arms with the deepest of love in his eyes. “Shall I enter first?” he asks softly. The existence of my heart becomes increasingly obvious, each pump sending a ripple of tremors through me. Letting Christopher come was a huge mistake.

Donovan bolts out of Mom’s room, shutting the door behind him. He steeples his hands over his mouth while deeply inhaling. My heart rate continues to excel as he fretfully approaches, looking back towards the door and shaking his hands as if flicking off sweat, his face ashen.

“Thank God you’re here,” he says as he yanks me toward him with a tight grip that punctuates the underlying meaning of his speech. “It’s about to get ugly in there. It’s probably best if you and Christopher left.”

Jerking back I search his eyes, wondering if he really wants us both to leave or just Christopher. There’s no way I’m abandoning Donovan. “You two stay here,” I say with a sympathetic squeeze to Donovan’s hand. I smack both of my hands on the door to Mom’s room, shoving it, and myself, forward. Just a few steps inside, I stop and wonder what the hell I’m doing.