Love's Forbidden Flower (11 page)

Mom’s jealousy has kicked in, and she hasn't even met Christopher. Upon hearing he hails from Manchester, she was practically fanning herself and started making cracks that if he looks like Peter Noone of Herman’s Hermits she’s running off with his father. Compelled to make it worse, I told her he plays guitar and looks more like a Hollie than a Hermit. In Mom's world that's most torturous thing I could ever utter.

Now that Donovan is gone, she’s more content. We both needed relief from the winner of the Mr. Alternate Universe pageant and are looking for ways to be happy again. One of hers is grilling me about Christopher. Nothing awkward has been asked—yet. The most prying she's done is inquiring about his mother with whom he just moved here in escape of Christopher's father and their messy divorce. Overall, Mom's been easy to deal with, which is optimal since Christopher and I haven't even had our first date.

“Come in, Mom,” I reply.

She observes my reflection in the mirror as she steps up behind me. “Lily, you look lovely.”

Her words are a symphony. Lovely is exactly what I'm going for. After months of problems that would challenge any adult, being seventeen is perfect. I don't want to appear a stunning woman or be a tramp and get laid to forget someone. I want that precious time discovering the world with someone I don't have to hide with. I want to be seventeen while I can.

“Do you really think so Mom?”

“You certainly are dressed for the part. This pink and lavender sundress hugs your curves gracefully while maintaining a lovely flow. I love the waves in your hair. They make me want to grow mine long again. You need a necklace.”

“I have the pearl pendant you gave me.”

“That would be perfect.”

Then the doorbell rings, precisely on time.

When Mom and I arrive downstairs, Dad already has Christopher under the interrogation lamp. Dad has never shown respect for my dates. Apparently, he mimics how his father disciplined his own children, so it’s conceivable that this is how Grandpa acted with my late Aunt Audrey’s suitors. No wonder why the poor woman died young and single.

“And remember, young man, no unsafe driving. No necking!” Dad badgers.

“Dad!”

“No going more than five miles away from this house! And have her home by ten!”

“Edward, please! Be nice to the poor man.”

I try to make proper introductions and get past the madness that has transpired. “Mom, this is Christopher. Christopher, this is my mother. I see you’ve met my father.”

“Yes, we’ve been having a rather pleasant conversation about your well-being. Here, I brought these for the two of you.”

Christopher presents Mom and me each with a pink rose wrapped with fern and baby’s breath. Finally! Someone who doesn’t think they are clever by giving me lilies! Dad has a reserved look of appreciation. Mom, however, seems conflicted as to whether she should try to fight me for Christopher or shove me out the door with consent to elope.

“This is very sweet of you. Lily, I’ll put yours in water and set it on your nightstand. You two have a good time.” Mom then has a moment of sanity. “Christopher, please have Lily home by eleven, right Edward?”

Our dining options are limited to fast food, one Mexican and one Italian restaurant. There is also a fish and chips place that I assure Christopher if we venture to my dad won’t instantly know we went too far and call out the mob. But to his credit, Christopher has made reservations at the Italian restaurant because he heard true Italians own it and thought I might find that enjoyable. He also printed a list of movies with show times that end early enough to get me home before Dad can freak out. Something seems wrong with this picture. Maybe he’s a ploy for an underage porn racket, and I’m being abducted.

The menu is full of saliva-inducing faire, including the off-limits Pasta Puttanesca. Its spiciness is heavenly, but since the name means Pasta of the Whore it is probably best not consumed while on a first date. How many times has Brittny ordered it? She probably she uses it as code. Then again, can she even read the menu?

My taste buds finally settle on pork in an orange Marsala sauce. After Christopher’s grilled chicken arrives it occurs he’s chosen the blandest item on the menu. Crap! I forgot about the old adages regarding the Brits and their lack of taste in food. Mentally, my fingers and every bone, vein, and artery in my body cross in hopes that it’s coincidence.

After dinner we pass on the movie and opt for mini-golf, since there is a place barely located just this side of the forbidden zone. Christopher’s golf skills are akin the talents he possessed the other day in the bakery when opening the door after meeting me. He is, to use his wording, a bit daft at times when it comes to coordination. How he manages to play guitar is inconceivable. He must not be very good.

Pensiveness washes over Christopher as he sets up his shot on the fifth hole. When he finally goes for his stroke it is one of grace. The ball sails perfectly into the cup—the cup of the eighth hole, that is.

“Bugger!”

My smirk is insuppressible.

Leaning on his club, he shakes his head and covers his eyes. “At least I’m succeeding at providing you with follies this evening.”

“Hey, this time you actually hit the ball.”

“Thanks loads for pointing that one out, luv,” he chortles as he dashes off to reclaim his ball.

I love how his hair bounces as he runs—making me want to concede to fondling it. But he’s been the perfect gentleman, and I don’t want to jinx this night. High hopes fill me for many more like it.

“I believe that is what you American’s refer to as a screw up,” he says upon his return.

“I believe that is what I call a brilliant shot. I’m scoring you a hole in one for that.”

“Not on your Nelly!”

“Fine, I’ll penalize you one point for going off course and score it two points. It’s worth it for the entertainment value.”

His approach behind me is just close enough that I can feel the brush of his shirt grace my skin. It’s attention commanding and makes me crave more. “I’m afraid to ask, but what’s the score now?”

“Twenty-two to eleven.”

Christopher smacks his head into his hands.

“How about I let you blame it on these Yank courses? They must be slanted funny.”

“I think I’m just out of my element. It’s been yonks since I’ve done the likes of this.”

“What do you normally do on dates back home?” I ask as we begin our journey to the next hole.

“I practically live in clubs, but I’ve yet to find any places here for live music. I think I’m going to have to venture out a bit.”

“Your mom lets you go to clubs? My parents will barely let me go to a concert. Unless it’s something Mom drags me to, and then it’s some guy who’s got a good ten years on her.”

“Mum likes those blokes as well. Large age differences are common in my family. I appeared after Mum thought it was impossible for her to have more children.”

“My mom got off to a late start having kids, so she is also a bit older than most parents. I would love to go to a club show and see what it’s like,” I say while setting the ball up for my shot.

“That gives me something to aim for with your dad.”

“Good luck with that. My mom is your ally.” I take my shot and watch the ball do its loop-de-loop before stopping its run just outside the hole.

“I sort of got that impression.”

“Don’t let him get to you. I take it your dad is different if you get to go to clubs.”

“Yes, I suppose he is. He appreciates seeing talent. But I have some older mates that take me as well. I’d actually rather be with them, but that’s another story.”

Christopher tends to long for home quite a bit. I feel for him. Making such a change at this stage in my life is unthinkable. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hit on a sore subject.”

“It’s nowt, luv. I just really miss me mates.” Christopher takes his stroke and somehow manages to shoot the ball with a sideways curve through the loop, bank it off the side of the course, into the back area, and knock my ball in before his bounces off the green. “Bollocks!”

I nearly choke while trying to suppress my laugh. “Wow, another impressive blunder!”

Christopher throws his hands up and shakes off his error. “Do you listen to music much?”

“That’s a trick question. My mom is always playing her old records, so I’m surrounded by it. The only time I actually get to listen to something of my choosing is when she’s not home.”

Christopher lets out a little chuckle. “She and Mum would get on well. Mum’s tastes have definitely evolved, but she adores the classics. She was quite the hanger on at one point.”

Is that code for groupie? The thought of her being a bimbo gives me a little shiver, which compels Christopher to run to his car and grab his jacket for me.

The offer is so gentlemanly it can’t be refused. Maybe this is crazy, but I want to test the waters and feel his aura little better. When I put on Donovan’s coat just before Christmas, the love and sense of protection emanating from it was consuming and reminded me of how much he challenges me. It evoked thoughts of him feeding me mango on a deserted island. The warmth of Christopher’s jacket makes me feel like life with him would be filled with happiness and security—as if I wouldn’t have a care in the world. An instant sense of respect and comfort surrounds me. Thoughts of living in a magical land abound.

After a beautiful night of Christopher keeping his hands to himself, which is admittedly a bit of a disappointment, he makes a point of bringing me home at ten-thirty, perfectly pleasing both Mom and Dad. As he walks me to the door, I’m hopeful this was the first of many dates.

“Christopher, I had an amazing time.”

“Me as well. May I call on you again?”

Seriously, how adorable is that? “I would love it.”

“Very well. I’ll ring in the morning and set a date.”

An enchanted tingle lingers after he kisses my cheek—like a magic wand has been waved. As he begins his departure, I give his hand a little tug and regain his attention. “The other side is jealous.” I flush as I say it. From where is this emerging?

Christopher goes a little red himself as he kisses my other cheek, only to pull back and capture my eyes with his own. My heart tries to convey that a little more affection would be welcome, and his lips grace mine so delicately that his kiss flows around my body like a wisp of a rose.

Mom’s fascination with British men must be hereditary.

My legs seem to have disappeared as I soar into the house and up the stairs. Before I can close the door to my room behind me, Mom races in acting like a giddy teenager and practically forces me to sit on the bed with her. “So how was it?” Her hopefulness makes my smile all the brighter. “Come on, Lily! Dish!”

“I had a great time, Mom. Christopher is fantastic. What did you think of him?”

She seems surprised by the question. “You really want to know?”

“Yes. What’s the big deal?”

“I'm just glad that after going through a distant period, and after that horrible date you had a few months ago you refuse to speak of, that we are talking about this.” She smiles emphatically. “I like him. I really like him. He has a great energy, but also warmth. He seems perfect.” Then she adds one last, very excited, comment as she starts to leave. “And you’re right. He does look like a Hollie!”

I totally understand the swooning. Maybe I can make her night even brighter.

“Hey Mom, how about we stay up and watch that Herman’s Hermit’s movie you love so much? The one that starts in Manchester.”

The little girl in Mom just about comes unglued as she squeals, “I’ll go get the DVD!”

Thankfully, one blissful week of summer remains. Josette recently realized that my vacation has been spent in the metaphorical tent I have set up in the bakery. As a result, she concocted a little surprise and lavished upon me a week off—with pay. Her accent never sounded lovelier than when she said, “Go grab that adorable bloke of yours and get him some sun! He is too pale!”

Christopher is rather roister doister about it as well. He's the perfect companion. Between his charming wit and his occasional awkwardness, he never fails to put a smile on my face. The fact that he somehow manages to be both adorable and totally sexy doesn't hurt matters. I thought it impossible to find that combination in one person—especially one with such astounding guitar skills. It's unfair to the rest of mankind.

Walking through the front door, Christopher chaperones me into his living room. How it can contain so little, yet appear this muddled is beyond me. Christopher is constantly cleaning after and caring for his mom. There's something very dysfunctional about their relationship that I've yet to understand and figure it's due to her emotional state regarding the impending divorce.

She's been a disaster. One minute she's crying her eyes out and the next she's dolled-up to the nines headed out on the make. It guts Christopher, and he tries to avoid conversation about the whole mess.

Once we're nestled on the sofa, I'm slightly taken aback as he searches into my eyes, as if in silent confession, before kissing me more profoundly than ever before. In the past few weeks he's given me some fantastic kisses, but these are lingering and filled with an ecstasy that makes my head foggy. He fondles my heartstrings, but I'm just not ready to go down this road for reasons I don't want to confess to myself.

Christopher’s never been this forward, and it urges me to resist just enough to come up for air. “Wow. Not that I'm complaining, but I thought you said you wanted to talk?”

“I'm sorry. I do want to talk to you. I also wouldn’t be brassed if we didn’t say a word and kept going like this.” His next kiss steals my breath both in rapture and apprehension. As I gasp at the fervor, he shies away. “I'm sorry. I’m a tad nervous.”