Love's Forbidden Flower (14 page)

Bringing the tea, he sits beside me, looking down at his with a firm grip on the cup. After a moment, he sets it down and wraps an arm around me as he sweeps away the hair falling into my face. A gentle kiss touches my cheek. He seems all too used to dealing with moments like this. “Talk to me. Please.”

The floor commands my gaze. “I'm sorry. I should've let you handle that. I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t.”

“It's nowt, luv. Really. I’ve no concern about that. I am now a tad afraid of ever upsetting you, let alone meeting your brother. I might be starting to understand why you haven’t talked about him much if just the threat of him scares yobs like that.” It's not Christopher's best attempt at ice breaking, and his face shows no humor.

“Donovan’s not really like that. He’s been going through some tough times and—Oh, I just don’t know where to go with this.” And certainly there is no desire to. Donovan’s evil twin is highest on the list of reasons for my past evasiveness about him. The notion of anyone thinking Donovan is anyone other than his true self tears at me. Thanks to Bob, Christopher is learning an ugly truth that will change no matter what my personal cost. The need goes far beyond my recent complexities with Donovan, though I'd be lying to not admit they're a huge factor.

“Obviously you two are very close.”

His words hit my gut. “We were. The term 'best friends' doesn't do it justice. Something really bad must have happened because he went from being this smiling and charismatic person to mean and angry all the time. For seventeen years he was gentle, loving, and amazing, then one day it all changed, and he won’t tell me why.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know himself.”

It may just be his nature but something keeps Christopher at bay. Donovan knows how to console me. If he were here I'd be cradled in his arms after he had wiped away my tears. But this is Christopher, and distress hasn’t been in our vocabulary until today. He doesn’t comprehend my needs, and it confuses the hell out of me.

“No, he does. He’s told me he can’t talk about it, which is ridiculous considering the things we've shared. Now everything's changed. He's throwing up roadblocks, and I haven’t heard from him since he moved. Then today that jerk is awful to you and starts attacking Donovan. As much as I love how you wanted to walk away, I couldn’t let that creep demean the two people I love and treasure most.”

“Your brother is very lucky. I’m very lucky. Try not to fret too much, luv. Donovan will talk to you in time. When people are that close for that long they never really leave each other.”

“Sounds like you speak from experience.” Grabbing his hands, I use them to brush away my tears. I can't tell if the action is out of his nature or if something stops him for doing it voluntarily. Regardless, for me it's the only way out of part of my distress. The action changes something in him as his lips curl slightly. Christopher pulls me in, reclining back onto the sofa. He's learning to read me. I forget that people need to do that.

“I’ve seen it for years with me parents, but that’s a long story. Also, I miss everyone back home like crazy. If some yob attacked them, I'd get a little knotted too, especially if I knew they really needed me and wouldn’t let me be there for them.”

“So how much do you hate me now?”

“None at all.”

“Fear me?” I smile.

He backs away a little in jest. “Oh, well, now that's another story! But I love you more than I fear you.”

Bringing me close again, I rest my head on his shoulder. “Hmm… we've got to get rid of that fan club of yours.”

“You mean those pesky birds?”

“Yes, your female posse.”

“Blimey, I've tried to figure that one out since school started. I’m very glad you don’t let them get you stuffed. I guess you can’t be all that mean.” He makes an exaggerated gesture of pain at the smack I lay on his arm. “Ouuch! Okay, really. Any ideas?”

“Well, they always attack you at lunch and after school. Let’s keep the books for your afternoon classes here and come home for lunch, thus avoiding that stop at your locker.”

“Yes, but if we come to an empty castle we may never leave.”

“I don’t see the problem.”

“Cracking!”

Our neat little assemblage should make for the perfect Picasso family portrait; Christopher’s freewheeling mom battling it out with my stogy dad, Mom trying to make polite, yet embarrassing, conversation with Christopher, Donovan being the biggest ass possible to everyone, and me sitting in a corner having a melt down while chewing on my hair. The food better be good so that people have something to focus on, else they may start throwing it at each other.

“Mom, do you think Donovan will go totally ape if I only make a pumpkin and a caramel-pear pie and skip the apple?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Donovan isn’t coming.”

“What? What do you mean Donovan isn’t coming home for Thanksgiving?” Having Christopher in my life made me hopeful that Donovan would at least want to resume civility.

“He said that he was too tied up at school, and we will see him for Christmas through New Year’s Day.”

“God! I can’t believe him! How can he do this to us?” My pencil clanks onto the table in reinforcement of my overt disappointment.

“Lily, sometimes you get a little over dramatic.”

“All right, Mom. Level with me. Your son won’t be home for Thanksgiving, making this the first holiday we haven’t all spent together. How is this not bugging you?”

Mom grabs her cup of tea and joins me at the table. She's trying to cover how much Reverse Polarity Donovan is troubling her too. “Honestly, I feel very hurt and a little abandoned, but he’s having a hard time in college, and with finals coming he's afraid of failing, which is why we haven’t heard much from him. Also, I don’t think he's doing so well on the football team and doesn’t want to face your father. I can’t say that I blame him.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean to attack you like that.”

Bravery covers her face like a mask. “I promise he will be home for Christmas, or else you and I will kidnap him, okay?”

“Okay, Mom. Deal.”

“What are we having?” she asks, wiping the lipstick off of her cup with her thumb.

“All the traditional stuff, but I'm trying to jazz it up while minding The Eccles’
delicate English constitution.”
My eyes roll while I withhold my rant about the one thing I would change about Christopher, had I the power. Why couldn’t he be French? “If you can shop early Wednesday, I'll cook after work and all day Thursday. I need you to buy the wine though.”

“Oh, dear. Are you sure you want me to do that? I have no idea how to choose wine.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure out exactly what to buy and where to get it. I’d do it, but I lost my fake I.D.”

“Should I be worried that my underage daughter knows more about wine than I do?”

“Nah. It’s an occupational hazard to at least know how to research this stuff. I know more about Cognac though. Blame Josette. No reaction about the fake I.D., huh?”

“Are you kidding? A perfect angel would never do anything like that, which is why I'm going to search your room while you sleep.”

“Cute, Mom.”

“It’s Happy Thanksgiving, you cheeky bugger!” I say.

“Oh, no, luv. You've got it all wrong. See, you Yanks say Merry Christmas while any
sane
person will tell you it's really Happy Christmas. Since you're all anticlockwise it must really be Merry Thanksgiving.” Christopher kisses me firmly on the cheek and beams at Mom. “Mrs. Beckett, you’ve got a lovely daughter.”

I groan at his ridiculous joke that makes Mom giggle. “I can’t believe you went there. Hello, Mrs. Eccles. Lovely to see you. Mom, Dad, I would like to introduce you to Grace. Mrs. Eccles, this is Lana and Edward.”

“Sweetie, how many times do I need to tell you to call me Grace?” The attractive blonde looks to my parents with a brightly painted smile that has to be visible from space. “Lovely to see you. Thank you for inviting us to your little gathering.”

“Our pleasure,” Dad chimes in with a grin that has little pools of saliva forming in the corners of his mouth. “May I take your coat?”

“Oh, thank you.” Grace removes her long, white fur coat to reveal an almost respectable length mini-skirt and tight sweater. She's a pretty lady of about sixty, with the figure of a hottie in her twenties. She must have been quite a looker at one time. Now she appears a little weathered around the edges and on the verge of trashy. But she's captivating nonetheless.

“Please come in. Can we fix you a cocktail?” Mom asks as her wide eyes finally start to narrow. She still needs to close her mouth though.

Christopher whispers as our parents saunter off, “You should've seen what she tried to leave the house in. I practically made her put on a skirt.”

“She reeks of cigarettes.”

“This morning she reeked of wacky backy. I don’t suppose there's any way that you and I can sneak off?”

“After all the time I spent cooking? Not a chance.”

“Bugger. I just hope your mum and dad'll let me keep seeing you after tonight.”

Dinner isn't nearly as awkward as anticipated—partly due to directed conversation and partly because of the cocktails consumed before. Wisely, Christopher and I planned topics of conversation considered to be fairly safe along with noting those that are off limits. If something off limits arises, or if one of us becomes overtly embarrassed, we're to resort to the safe list. Politics, any war, and Christopher’s father are all strictly off limits while education and things both moms can bond over, like shopping and music, are safe. After dinner, if The Eccles' haven't fled screaming, we'll send the parents into the den for dessert and more imbibing.

To help us cope with the tension a game's been created called, “Who Has the Most Embarrassing Mum?” Immediately Christopher scored for Grace’s outfit. He tried to get another point for her reeking of cigarettes, but I insisted my mother’s perfume was also score worthy. Christopher tried to fight me on it, stating that perfume could be used to cover a stench while fags created one, but he lost the battle when he got a whiff of Dad’s cologne. Though this was a game for the moms, Dad's cologne was so bad that Christopher conceded the stench war as a draw.

Another point went to Christopher for Grace constantly touching Dad. Mom scored me two points for showing my baby pictures and then talking about the rash I had when I was three that left a mark permanently on my bottom. The “So that’s where it came from!” look that Christopher shot was incredulous enough for me to lose future sympathy for him. Thank God everyone had finished with dinner and was on their third cocktail.

“Speaking of marks, Christopher’s father has an amazing one on his arse too. My Gawd what an arse he had!” Grace's comment causes Christopher’s eyes instantly morph from lively to stagnant.

“Oh, tell me about Christopher’s father!” Mom's excitement sells out she's had far too many Martinis.

“Well, he was quite the catch and exactly my type when I met him—a musician, naturally. They are the worst kind to get involved with. He’s quite older and started in a skiffle band. Of course by the time I met him no one knew what skiffle was anymore. I was such a young lass. He was handsome and looked so magnificent on that stage holding his guitar and singing harmonies in a beatgroup with the other cute lads. Birds were constantly flocking around him, but it was me who had his eye.”

Christopher is all kinds of embarrassed and racking up points rapidly in the evening’s game. But Mom's totally entranced as she scores another point for me. “What band did his father play in? Would I have heard of them? I am a huge fan of British music from that time. I even named my son Donovan.”

I smirk at Dad’s flinch every time that's mentioned. How Mom ever got away with it, she'll never reveal. It has to be a zinger of a sex story.

“Probably not. They never made anything of themselves outside of England. They were a called The Robert Dickson Six and had a small regional hit called “Walking Through Fire.”

I bite my tongue as Grace sings. Grace then goes on to talk about how dashing Christopher’s father looked in his mod clothes, and how she finagled herself backstage at the tender age of fourteen with the intention of shagging him. “Paul didn't know that though. I lied about my age until I was up the duff with our first son, and we had to get married. By then it was too late. Oh! You should have seen the look on his face when I told him!”

“Isn’t there dessert?” Christopher announces more than inquires.

Feeling the retaliation has gone on long enough, I save him. “Come into the kitchen. You can help me.”

As soon as we're out of earshot, Christopher lets me have it. “Lilyanna, we had a deal! Mum was not to speak of my father. There’s no stopping her now.”