Love's Forbidden Flower (3 page)

Again looking like an accident victim, I enter the kitchen in my bathrobe. Donovan is alone eating breakfast and is far kinder this time as his eyes caress me. “Lily, are you all right? I mean it. Do you need to talk about something?”

While shaking my head I reach for the coffee. Does he not see his actions? Frequently he touches me only for the sake of doing it. Often it's accompanied by a sheepish grin that conveys he's deriving pleasure from the simplest brush with my essence, so he has to know what the problem is. If he doesn't I've been misreading all of the signs over the last two weeks, meaning I'm a moron of epic proportions.

The chemistry generated as he steps behind me, places his hand on my arm, and nuzzles his cheek into mine makes his words sound pleading. “I understand. I want to help you with your problems, but I don’t know how.”

My
problems? Has he been acting like Romeo only to finally tell me this is a solo endeavor? His reluctance to talk is shared, but now he's popped into denial. Is he scared of facing this or of hurting me? I fear the worse case scenario: There's something causing us to completely fall apart, and he can't read me any more either.

“Donovan, I'm fine. I am going to catch my breath by claiming I’m sick, staying home, and spending the day baking. Once that is done, you can rest assured all will be dandy.”

“Mom and Dad are going to know you’re not sick since you tend to go on baking binges when you're stressed.”

Like raging fire my demeanor changes—my voice barely maintaining a low roar. “
That
is what you're concerned about? With all that has been going on.”

I feel him back away emotionally while physically maintaining his intimacy. “I’m sorry, Lil. If there's anything I can do to help you through—whatever it is...”

There
is
something he can do—he can face his emotions. However, the still healing gash on his cheek from the week before tells the real story. He doesn't even want to play football. He's doing it for Dad. When will Donovan live his own life?

I put down my coffee and hold him, catching him completely off guard. When I pull back, I take his hands and stare into his eyes while saying with total sisterly love, “There is something that you can do for me. You can admit who you are and what you want, so that someday you can be the one standing here on the verge of a meltdown because you're trying to figure out how to make everything you want and love work for you. When that happens, maybe we can finally talk. Until then we’ll just keep loving each other.”

“What the—? What is this?” He looks at me like admission into an asylum should be considered. He’s probably right.

I huff as my shoulders drop and my chin thrust forward. “Really? You don’t know what that is? It’s fresh mint.”

“Mint? Like the stuff they make candy canes out of?”

“No, like the stuff they
pretend
to make candy canes out of.”

“Why are you shoving a tree in my mouth? Usually when you do that it's something good.”

“It's not a tree, it’s a bush. Remember that flavor.
It might be hard to accept because it's different, but that doesn't mean it's not special.
Taste it!” I scorn as I storm off to the kitchen.

Tonight the iceberg gets a chisel taken to it. I've devised a sneak attack to see if Donovan's listening, both inwardly and outwardly. The notion of our situation being mental requires casting off. But, more importantly, whatever is going on can’t change our dynamic. That would be far worse than the embarrassment suffered over any insane, one-sided feelings.

After dinner my deviousness rears its head. While it's not unusual for the family to have uncommon desserts plopped on the table, they think tonight is just plain bizarre. I bring out glasses of water with lemon slices and place one in front of each of them. “I need you to cleanse your palates.” Everyone looks at me like an alien ship has just dropped me off as I head back into the kitchen.

“Well, she did say she was sick this morning,” Donovan cracks under his breath. “Maybe she really has a fever.”

Dad attempts to speak mellifluously. “Should we be worried?”

“Oh, be quiet boys! You know how passionate Lily gets about things. I can’t wait to see what she's doing.” Mom seems intrigued almost to the point of giddiness.

Returning with a tray of Crème Brule I place two distinctly marked ramekins in front of each test subject along with spoons. They think I'm crazy. Frankly, I am. I'm downright batty and know of nothing else to do. Donovan has always been my driving force. He not only encourages me, he absorbs my every word and emotion. He files them for when I need to be reminded of something or if he just wants to taunt me. Twice today words were aimed at him; words he needed to ingest. This test is to see if our silence is our peculiar situation or our dynamic falling apart. He knows it too.

I declare my instructions: “Tell me the difference between to the two and which you think is better and why. Cleanse your palate when you switch between them.”

Eyebrows rise all around the table as each subject takes a bite of the first one. More skeptical looks follow as they switch between the two desserts. “Well?” I ask. They keep tasting and looking at each other hesitantly, as if expecting poison to kick in. “What, not even a wise crack? Nothing?”

“They are both very good dear.” Leave it to Mom to always be half encouraging.

“Is there a difference? This one is really good, but it's strange. Where have I tasted that before?”

I shake my head in amazement. Dad is also beyond hope. “All right Donovan, your turn to tell me I'm crazy.”

He puts down his spoon, leans back in his chair, and flips his head to remove the tuft of hair that's fallen in his face before wiping off his smugness. “The first one is like a passing fancy; it tastes like a bargain peppermint patty and has a, well, I don’t know the word, but it's kind of fake, like a cheap date you waste your time with. The second one you want to savor; it has a smoother consistency, and you used fresh mint. It’s the real deal.”

Mom and Dad sit dumbfounded as Donovan proves his point by tilting both ramekins to show the second dish empty and the first with but a single bite gone. Raising the first one toward me he states, “There's no way I'm eating this. It’s game bait.”

“Yes!” I scream jumping out of my chair, running around the table, hugging him from behind and planting one firmly on his cheek. “Finally! Finally I have someone in this house getting a trained palate! I’ve been trying for years! Years!” I'm bouncing so much there must be a trampoline built into the floor.

Dad’s glare at his son is incredulous. “How the hell do you know what
fresh mint
tastes like? I mean, what kind of red, white, and blue blooded man knows what fresh mint even is?”

Donovan is all too happy to one-up Dad. “I actually paid attention when Lily shoved a piece if it practically down my throat today.”

“She did that to me too, but I thought it was just some weird woman thing.”

“Edward!” Mom scorns her husband.

“Well, you women do get a little crazy.” Dad's only half serious.

“Why didn't you give me some mint too? It's not fair that the boys had an edge,
even if one of them did squander it,
” Mom enquires while giving a “Shut up, Edward!” look.

I take my seat across from Donovan while eating out of the one ramekin intended for myself. “You cook all the time, Mom. Mint's a culinary staple so you should already know how it tastes.”

“Well, Lana?”

“Don’t get yourself in any deeper Edward. You're in a lot of trouble for that woman crack.”

Donovan hasn't taken his eyes off of me. Shooting me a smile that raises my blood pressure, he says, “Sorry Mom, but denial doesn't alter the truth. Sometimes you can know what something is, but you need the right guidance to truly appreciate it.”

Maybe I am not so crazy after all.

“Speaking of tasting things, how's your taste of superstardom since you scored those touchdowns in the big game? I bet it's really made you a hit with the ladies, 'ey Donnie?”

Donovan winces. “Can we please not talk about this,” he moans while toying with his spoon.

“Come on son, let your old man live vicariously for a moment. How many of those hot little cheerleaders gave you their numbers and which one, or rather, how many are you seeing this weekend?”

Mom drops her spoon into her ramekin with a punctuating clank. “Edward! That is revolting! Please leave him alone!”

Donovan’s eyes smile to me before returning their glance to the table. “Well Dad, in all honesty there's only one girl who can get through to me right now, and she's certainly no cheerleader. But she is the loveliest lady I've ever seen.”

“Hot dog!” Dad exclaims. “When do we meet her?”

“Edward!”

“All right. All right. I’ll leave him alone.”

“It’s fine, Mom. All things in due time, Dad. She’s very special, and she’s worth treating right. I’m having a hard time getting my courage up with this one.”

Donovan is practically pulling me out the door. I wish he'd hold on to those horses a little.

“Late how?” I ask. “We're just going to pick up Sally before you dump us off for Christmas shopping at the mall.”

“We said we'd be there in five minutes, and I don't want to spend my morning waiting around for Elizabeth Taylor and her friend Dream Date Barbie.”

“Geez, okay.” I put on a coat, gloves and hat as rapidly as I can move. Donovan is already standing at the front door waiting to open it for me. There must be an invisible elf holding a match under his butt.

When we reach the car, he opens my door, almost bouncing while awaiting me to sit.  It's freezing out, but does he need to run to stay warm? I can't wait until I get my license in a few months so he won’t have to schlep me around anymore—not that the attention is unwelcome. 

Throwing open his door, he tosses his football jersey in the back like a dirty rag into the hamper. He's far too happy to only be going to a holiday party at school for the teams. He must have another agenda.

Pulling out of the driveway we begin our journey in the wrong direction. “Hey, don't forget that we need to get Sally.”

“No, we don't.”

“Um, yeah, we do. That's the plan. Remember?”

“I'm well aware of
your
plan, but you have no idea as to mine.”

“Oh, no. What are you roping me into now?” I ask while whipping out my cell phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Sally. I have to tell her you’ve been tackled too many times and are having some kind of episode.”

“Put it away. She knows we aren't coming. She's my partner in crime. Well, one of them.”

“So you have flipped, and we are pulling a Bonnie and Clyde. I wish you had told me. I'd have worn a more appropriate outfit. Do I get a Tommy Gun?”

“You are full of questions today. Can't I just surprise you?”

Judging by the dazzle in the sapphires on his face, his master plan must be a big one. The speedometer on my heart reads faster than that of the car as we accelerate down the freeway, heading out of town. “Am I being kidnapped?”

“Would you like to be?”

Yes, please.

“Don't answer that. We are going to Pawtucket. There’s a bakery there that has a special class this afternoon on holiday desserts or something. I saw it listed a few days ago and managed to get you in with a little financial help from Mom. Ok, every penny of the financial help from Mom. But she loved the idea. She wanted to come too, but I told her there was only one opening left.”

Now I’m the one bouncing. I can’t believe I get to do this and just love that Donovan is the one making it happen. He is always looking out for me, but this is over the top. “Seriously? This is amazing! How long is the class?”

“Four hours, and it's in their kitchen. It will be great experience for you since this is what you want to do with your life. Maybe it will give you more ammo when you finally approach the parental units.”

“This is so sweet. It's a lot of driving taking me there, coming back for the party at school, and then picking me up again.”

“It would be if I was going.”

“What? It's the big holiday party for all the jocks. They've been trying to figure out how to spike the punch for weeks.”

“I really don't want to hang out with those guys.”

He’s never been fond of his teammates, but this party is a huge deal. Taking a pass on it is unimaginable. “So what movies are you going to see while you wait for me?”

“Well, see, there is a catch. You need a partner to take the class, so you are stuck with me. I'll try not to embarrass you too much.”

“No way! You're telling me that you are blowing off a big party to celebrate how great you are to take a pastry class with your little sister when Mom would have done it? Who are you?” God, he really has hit his head too many times.

“Sounds rather chivalrous when you put it that way. Just remember, Mom thinks I'm going to that party.”