Lily Love (19 page)

“I’m fine. Mom’s in good hands with Tarryn.” Tate punctuates his words by kissing the top of my head, making me feel cherished. It’s not a feeling I’m accustomed to, and I like it. For the last five years I’ve been appreciated for the role I’ve played as a mother and a wife, but I haven’t been cherished since before Lily was born. I don’t even know if I can pinpoint the exact thing Tate’s doing. I’ve been held in the arms of a man for thirteen years, but it’s never felt like this.

Reluctantly, I let Tate go. The cool evening air fills the space between us, and I shiver. It’s impossible to know if it’s because of the chill or the overwhelming need to hold him again. He smiles down at me with an affinity that steals my breath. I don’t know what I’ve done to inspire that kind of ardor, but I never want him to stop looking at me this way.

“Come on,” I urge him, as I pull him toward my car. I laugh when he arches his eyebrow at me. “It’ll be a surprise. Trust me.” I unlock the doors. Tate pauses to scratch his head at my Prius. “What?” I challenge.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I guess I was thinking you’d have a minivan or SUV.”

“Do I strike you as a soccer mom?”

“Not even remotely,” he answers as he climbs inside. I drop into the driver’s seat, next to Tate. “You’re so much more than that.”

The words are simple, but the sincerity of them is what makes my heart flutter. He’s known me for less than a week, and yet he sees me in a way that no one in my life ever has. It’s the most unsettling feeling I’ve ever had. Still, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

To change the subject, I say, “One of my favorite places is just a few minutes up the road. You can’t tease me, okay?”

All of a sudden, I feel self-conscious about my decision to share this spot with him. He’s going to think I’m a sap, or a nerd. Both, probably. What’s with all this impulsivity lately? It’s not like me to make a knee-jerk reaction; I always think things through and plan carefully.

“I won’t poke fun.” He chuckles. “I promise.”

The closer we get, the more nervous I become. Before I know it, we’re turning into the gate of the Robert Waldron Jr. Botanical Garden. I find a place to park while I try to come up with an explanation of the garden at night without sounding like a nerd. I peek at Tate from my periphery and find him looking around with curiosity.

The smells of damp earth and fragrant blooms fill my senses as soon as I close the car door behind me. The familiar scent helps to ease my anxiety about making a fool of myself. It’s only a big deal if I make it one, right? Right. So much easier said than done. Tate smiles at me from across the top of the car, waiting on a cue from me. Warmth emanates from his eyes, giving me the boost I need to meet him on the sidewalk and take hold of his hand.

“There is a moon garden in the center of the grounds. I come here when the weight of the world is too much and I need solace from the fray,” I ramble nervously.

“Moon garden?” Tate asks as we walk along. I swear he can sense my nerves, because he starts to brush the back of my hand with his thumb. Back and forth. Ebb and flow. It stills the cacophony of my thoughts.

Cement gives way to mulch where the sidewalk ends and the garden’s pathways begin. Fireflies light up the foliage with a whimsical glow as the path leads us through a canopy of weeping willows. Every step brings me closer to the peace of mind I always find here. The added tranquility of strolling hand in hand with Tate makes the anticipation even greater. He’s either going to love this place or hate it. There’s really no room for in-between.

“It’s the only part of the gardens that blooms at night,” I explain. “They bloom in response to the moonlight, so it’s called a ‘moon garden.’ See?” I point ahead to a break in the trees, where the soft glow of the moon’s luminescence casts down on a sea of moody white flowers and shimmering greenery. Tate’s pace increases, and he grips my hand tighter. “I used to come here at night, after Lily’s bedtime, and
just think. It was the only time of day when there was actual silence. Being here has always helped me find peace.”

I sigh, coming to a standstill where two dimly lit lanterns, hanging from shepherd’s hooks, mark the entrance to the sacred space where I come to hide. I don’t tell people about this place, because I don’t want it polluted with the memories of others. It needed to be pure of the world I was hiding from. A space where the silence could swallow my cries, and where I could grieve in secret. Now I’ve brought Tate here, and I’m not even sure why.

“Beautiful,” he whispers.

I turn my head and find him looking at me. I mean
really
watching me, like I’m something to behold. I feel drunk from his wonderment, completely incapable of turning away, as he pulls me deeper into his eyes. The moonlight and fireflies work their ethereal magic, blocking out each of the hindering doubts I’ve clung to, leaving nothing but Tate and me. Without a single concern for the consequences, I rise onto my tiptoes and kiss him softly.

“Caroline,” he breathes against my mouth, sending electricity crackling down my spine. He returns my kiss with reverence, worshiping every part of my mouth with his. Warmth engulfs my body as I lean into his embrace. Tracing a path along my spine, his hand comes to rest in the small of my back. He holds me firmly against him, careful not to crush my arm between us. Every move, every touch is amplified by the enchanted dominion of the lunar blooms lit up by moonshine and fireflies.

I never gave much credit to those who talked about getting swept up in a kiss. It seemed irresponsible and dangerous to allow your baser urges take over without regard for the consequences. I’ve always thrived on being cautious and maintaining control—until now. Tate has complete power over me, stoking a yearning in me I never knew I had. Nothing matters to me in this moment except the way I feel in his arms. His mother’s illness, Lily’s diagnosis—all of it ceases to exist as I am consumed by his kiss.

When our lips finally part, he keeps me close by tucking my head under his chin. Just when I’m about to ask him what he’s thinking, he utters the words that erase any doubt whether he feels the same way. “You make the rest of the world disappear.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself. The world is but a speck of light beneath us on this tightrope. Whether there’s a net to catch me is no longer material. The fall is inevitable, and when it comes, I want to fall feeling just like this.

windmills

T
he hope taking root in my soul is dangerous. I know this, and yet here I am nuzzled up to Tate in the place most sacred to me. Somewhere deep in the coffers of my better judgment, my common sense is demanding an audience, and I couldn’t care less. I’ve spent my entire adult life being responsible, fastidious, tame, and wholly monotonous.

You’re about twenty years late for anarchy, sister. You’re too old to start chasing windmills.

“ ‘I know who I am, and who I may be, if I choose,’ ” I mutter to myself. Tate looks at me curiously, and it’s only then I realize I’ve spoken out loud. The moon glows just bright enough to illuminate the recognition on Tate’s face.

“Tilting at windmills?” he murmurs, cocking his head to the side. How does he do that? How does he always know what to say? It’s the most unsettling thing I’ve ever felt.

I break free from Tate’s arms and sit on the bench, burying my face in my hands. I feel too exposed, my heart too accessible for comfort. The seat bows with Tate’s weight as he sits next to me. The soft chirping of crickets punctuates the silence building between us, but words just won’t come. I feel foolish, but I find myself afraid to speak. Each time
I do, whether I intend to be heard or not, Tate burrows himself a little deeper under my skin. I thought
I
was the one who got to set the pace. It doesn’t feel that way to me at all.

The bench creaks in protest when Tate shifts his weight toward me. “Where did you go?”

I know I’m not being fair, and Tate is patiently waiting for me to clue him in. My hesitation stems from this adverse fear of sharing too much, too soon. How can I explain without exposing more than I’m ready to?

“You surprised me,” I finally offer. “I was not expecting you to know, let alone reference,
Don Quixote
.” I stifle a giggle when he looks at me, shocked and slightly affronted. As quickly as anxiety had me by the throat, it slinks its way back to the shadows.

“I’ll pretend not to be insulted by your flagrant lack of confidence in my notable quotables.” He sniffs.

For just a brief moment I’m sickened to think I may have truly offended Tate. I steal a peek at him, and that’s when I catch him smirking.

“You ass.” I laugh, and playfully swat his arm.

“Gotcha.” He chuckles, tilting his head toward the sky. He closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath. When he lets it out, he turns his face toward me and I’m struck by the vulnerability I see reflected back at me. His tone is filled with uncertainty when he speaks again. “I don’t know what to do when you pull away like that. I’m scared, too, you know.” He reaches for me.

“I’m sorry.” I try to turn away, but Tate cups my face in his hand, gently turning me back toward his concerned gaze.

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I want you to talk to me. If I do something wrong, if I say something that scares you, I just want the chance to fix it.” His eyes pin me with their sincerity, and it sets my doubt free, flooding my thoughts and words in one big rush.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Tate,” I promise him. “It’s nothing that you can fix. I don’t want you to be anything less than who you are.
It’s just every time I show you a piece of myself, you show me your perfect mirror image of it. How can that be?” My voice soars up an octave as full-blown hysteria kicks in. “You can’t possibly be real. There has to be something wrong with you. Good God, no one can be
that
perfect; it’s unnatural. The only other man I’ve ever heard quote Miguel de Cervantes was my English professor my freshman year of college. He was older than dirt and had a face like Droopy Dog. He spoke, and drool would slide down the creases of his jowls and drip off the bottom of his chin. It was disgusting . . .” I’m aware that I’m rambling, but I can’t seem to stop the stream of consciousness, now that it’s exploded out of my brain.

“Hold on,” Tate interjects. I freeze midsentence, with his hand still holding on to my face. I clamp my mouth shut and start to squirm in my seat, waiting for him to speak. “Did you just compare me to your ancient English prof who drooled and grossed you out?” When he says it like that, it really does sound terrible.

“I didn’t mean that you were like him physically, just that you were similar in your literary references,” I defend myself.

“So I don’t physically remind you of Professor Spittleton, but my literary prowess brings him to mind? I fail to see how that’s an improvement,” he says, dropping his hands from my face.

I try so hard not to laugh, it ends up coming out as an undignified snort. The look on his face only makes me laugh harder; mixing with Tate’s guffaws, we fill the garden with our merriment.

“I have the propensity to ramble,” I say between snickers. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was drawing a comparison. Honest.”

“I love the way you ramble.” Tate smiles. “It’s adorable, and no one can make me laugh like you do.”

“That’s me,” I say. “Calamity Caroline, comic relief.”

“Captivating Caroline,” Tate responds. “I don’t see anything calamitous about you. A bewitching enigma, but never a calamity.”

I stare at him, blank-faced for a moment, before the weight of what he’s said settles in.

“A what?” I ask, amazed at his choice of words.

“An enigma.” His lips pull up at one corner, giving him the look of a shy boy. “A mystery.”

“I know what it means.” I tilt my body, tucking my legs beneath me to face him. “I’ve always used that word to describe Lily.”

He drapes his arm across the back of the bench, brushing my arm. “Do you think you’re any less of a puzzle?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I haven’t spent a lot of time thinking about myself at all, honestly.”

His eyebrows pinch together in deep thought. It makes me crazy when he looks at me like that. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking, only that he’s churning out some interpretation of my craziness.

“The fact that you haven’t is the biggest mystery of all.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and lets his fingertips brush my cheek.

“I’m not some puzzle you can solve, Tate.” I look at him warily. Pedestals are for falling off of, and if he elevates me any higher I’m going to get a nosebleed.

“I don’t want to,” he responds without hesitation. “ ‘Solving’ implies there’s a problem, and there isn’t a thing I would change about you, Caroline.”

I arch my brow slowly, pursing my lips in suspicion.

“Not one thing?” I challenge. My bullshit meter is measuring off the charts. I’m all for a genuine compliment, but I don’t need sunshine blown up my ass just because it sounds good. No, thank you.

“Well, maybe one thing.” He grins wide and mischievously. Jerk.

“Really?” My voice drips with sarcasm as I fold my arms.

Tate only smiles wider and closes the last of the gap between us. My breathing becomes erratic as our thighs brush against each other, but I fight to maintain my outward annoyance. He takes it all in stride as he leans closer.

“I would only change how much you doubt me,” he whispers against my neck.

My eyes flutter closed at the feel of his breath across my skin. It soothes and stokes me at the same time, until I’m certain I’ll combust from the tension. Just as I’m sure I can’t take another second of his slow torture, he pulls back and levels me with the warm intensity of his eyes.

“Trust is something earned, Tate.” I mean it to be a warning about his lofty expectations, but my voice is weak and uncertain. It comes off sounding like something I question more than I believe. His eyes hold me with the promise of their sincerity, and I want so badly to get lost in them, to trust that he’s worthy of my faith. But I can’t. Not yet.