Time's Forbidden Flower
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Authors: Diane Rinella
Time’s Forbidden Flower
Diane Rinella
To those who love where the flowers grow.
Acknowledgements
To those of you reading this now, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for joining me on this journey. Lily, Donovan, and Christopher have become cherished parts of my life because of you. When I pressed the publish button on
Love’s Forbidden Flower
, I had no idea I would meet so many amazing people. Thank you for bringing me into your lives.
My husband, Brian, who has been unfailingly supportive of my dreams and has never once complained when I locked myself away for “just a few more minutes” or spent “just a few more dollars” to complete this project.
Alicia, Trenda, and Tori, who are worth their weight in gold for giving valuable advice and insight.
Keith, for opening my eyes.
Carole, for friendship and support more cherished than she will ever know.
Trishalana, for being an amazing and tolerant person.
Lastly, and in no way least, the real life Lilys and Donovans who have trusted me with their stories. You are loved, supported, and respected.
Donovan’s new fervor for life brought incandescence to every molecule of my being. Immediately after his release from Dr. Coe’s care at the Harley Rehabilitation Center, I helped him move into a crowded dorm in Colorado where he began the completion of his bachelor’s degree at Ramsey University. A year later, we settled him into the studio apartment where he would reside while continuing his studies.
It was a bittersweet dawn as the sun’s golden glow slipped through the windows, bathing us in the glorious light of our new lives ahead. Relief, pride, and apprehension swirled through me as Donovan unpacked the last box. Ceremoniously he placed four journals and his bachelor’s degree on a bookshelf overlooking his apartment. Three of the journals he kept while abused. The forth marked his recovery.
Expanding his lungs to their fullest, he nodded his chin to the shelf. “Now we’re done. It’ll be a long time before I fill that shelf, but at least I know what will go there. Just five or six more years until the doctorate—give or take a little time for my thesis.”
“I’m so proud of you for turning all the bad things that happened positive. Becoming a psychologist is brilliant,” I said, radiating with joy.
Never before had his grip on me, or his life, seemed so secure. “It was all Lisa’s idea,” he credited in recollection of his phony high school girlfriend. The ruse was to make Dad think Donovan was being a macho stud while convincing Mom that he had lost interest in me. “Lisa reminded me that Carl Jung said, ‘Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darkness of other people.’ ”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get my head around your relationship with Lisa.”
“We were just two people forced into the same bad situation,” Donovan said. “Lisa’s parents trying to cure her of being a lesbian isn’t much different from what happened to me. Posing as lovers was our Hail Mary pass in hopes of relief. After all we’ve been through together, I’d be crazy not to trust her.”
I placed a firm kiss on his cheek. “You are always my best therapist.”
His eyes locked into mine as he granted words that left my longing heart free to act on what seemed an eternity of lingering. “Okay, Lil, I’m settled. Are you out of excuses now, or are you going to give me a new challenge to overcome at lightning speed so you can finish moving on? It would be much easier if you’d admit the truth. I forced myself to accept it a year ago.”
That man is so frustrating when he’s right.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked. “Because I’m ready—really, really ready.”
“I promised to ensure that all your dreams come true. If you don’t finally say yes to Christopher I’m having you locked up. To have someone who loves you that much, whom you love just as dearly, and keep him hanging on a string, truly shows that you are crazy.”
As my flight home prepared for landing, I slipped my trash novel into my carry-on bag in exchange for a flat, black box. My eyes turned glassy in memory of the day Christopher gave it to me. We had talked of marriage many times before, but with Donovan still pulling his life together my insides were a mess, and Christopher knew it.
A year before, when we moved into our home in Westwood, California, I accidentally opened a box of Christopher's clothes. “I found your socks and underwear. What drawer would you like them in?”
Sheepishly he slipped his hands into his jeans’ pockets. “Kindly place them in the top drawer, please.” Nestled under the socks, sat the box. “Open it,” he said hesitantly. Inside was a lovely pair of white gloves monogramed LPE, the initials I would carry as his wife. “There’s an old-world custom that a chivalrous man would give the lady he wished to marry a pair of gloves. If she wore them to church he knew she accepted his proposal. I thought that maybe you would accept these and someday wear them as a signal to me. That way I won’t always wonder if the time is right for you.”
With a fluttery stomach I descended the airport escalator. Among the drivers awaiting their passengers, my adorable Christopher stood with a sign saying Beckett, along with a bouquet of sterling roses—the kind that remind him of my eyes. I raced over with a glow, both hands pulling my suitcase behind my back, and placed a sweet kiss on his lips. A surge of happiness zapped through me.
“You look adorable. Why do you have a sign that says Beckett? I thought you came to get me?” Christopher's jaw slacked as he cocked his head, his words failing him. “Hmm…” I mused, placing a gloved hand to my chin. His sky-blue eyes grew as wide as his gaping mouth. “I prefer the name Eccles. Oh, well. Let’s grab my bag and get out of here.”
The following evening I arrived home from work to find the house smelling of burnt chocolate and Christopher frantically cleaning. “Umm… Do I want to know?” I asked.
“No! I must say you don’t!” he brazenly declared, dropping a pan into its drawer and slamming it. “I wanted to surprise you with dinner tonight, but I almost had to call out the fire brigade. I’ve made reservations at Pierre’s. Run up and change. I’m bloody famished.”
Christopher’s desire to trade in his apron for a tux brought about my suspicion. Not only had his previous cooking mishaps always resulted in delivered pizza, reservations at Pierre’s were never obtained at the drop of a hat without serious bribery.
With nervous jitters, I picked at my lobster, only to be startled by a
clank
as Christopher dropped his knife. It barely missed the melted butter; yet hit the fork that crossed his plate, thus catapulting an empty claw shell into the breadbasket. “How’s your meal, luv?” he asked, fidgeting with the napkin in his lap.
“Wonderful. Are you still worked up from fixing dinner or has the bottle of Cristal gotten to you?”
“I’m fine. Will you excuse me a moment?”
Nervously I waited, knowing what was coming, yet also without a clue in the world what to expect. Suddenly, Christopher strode into the restaurant like a bandleader with the kitchen staff in tow. His dinner jacket had been exchanged for a slightly oversized waiter’s coat, and a towel was draped over one arm while the other hid behind his back. Anticipation permeated my airway.
“Madame,” he said, his Manc accent more adorable than ever. “Seeing that you are by far the most amazingly beautiful creature that has ever graced this restaurant, a most exclusive dessert has been prepared especially for you.” From behind his back, Christopher revealed a plate that was elegantly decorated with swirls of piped chocolate and silver dragèes. Its center featured a single cupcake—chocolate with pink frosting and colored sprinkles—exactly like the one he made for our first Valentine’s Day years before, but with one exception. A ring with a diamond the size of the Rock of Gibraltar stood in the frosting. Christopher dropped to one knee and took my hand. My heart went the same route as my lungs and halted its function as well.
“Lilyanna, darling, I’ve never deserved you, yet somehow you’ve managed to love lowly me. I’ve experienced life with and without you, and I’m an absolute disaster when you are not around, be it for two years, a week, or only a few moments. Would you do me the incredible honor of being my wife?”
My multitude of fantasies did nothing to prepare me for a moment so amazingly beautiful it would grace my dreams for a lifetime. Frantically I nodded as my arms jettisoned around him, knocking us both to the restaurant floor, drawing loud cheers from the refined establishment’s suddenly lively patrons.
“I love you Christopher Paul Eccles, and I love my cupcake.”
“It’s exactly the way I wanted to give you one years ago.”
The petals on the sterling roses held in my hands fluttered like the butterflies in my stomach as I awaited the opening of the chapel doors. Christopher and I held the first of our two weddings in Las Vegas. While the wedding in England would be far more extravagant, this was the hurdle that needed conquering.
Donovan's words permeated when he asked why I was waiting for all of the amazing things I wanted when opportunity was about to steamroller over me. Since ceremonies were needed on both sides of the pond, I planned a simple vow exchange in The States and mapped out my future business while Christopher’s mother, Grace, had a field day back in Manchester designing a wedding fit for royalty. We shared countless hours of video chats, and I sent photos and color swatches like crazy so she could ensure all of my desires were met. We loved every second of it.
However, it was in this quaint little chapel that the big moment was upon us, the one that really mattered for so many reasons.
Despite the sparse surroundings of a room decorated by only a mural of a flower garden and two urns of fake red gladiolas, I felt regal in my flowing dress of white satin and French lace with a hand beaded pearl and crystal bodice—my something new. A short veil trimmed with rhinestone-embellished lace framed my face as my chocolate-brown hair cascaded in swirls. The diamond earrings Donovan gave me, and my grandmother’s pearl necklace, served as my something old. On my left wrist was an intricate gold bangle dating back to the Victorian age that belonged to Christopher's great grandmother—my something borrowed that Grace wore on her wedding day. My right hand still carried the pearl ring Christopher gave me four years prior. Inside my shoe rattled a polished British penny pressed in my birth year, a gift from Eric, Christopher's closest friend.
