Forbidden- Our Secret Love Read online

  Forbidden

  Our Secret Love

  Elise Quinn Larson

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The use of the names of real persons, places, organizations or products is for literary purposes only and does not change the entirely fictitious nature of this work.

  Copyright © 2018 Susan Deonier

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: SelfPubBookCovers.com/WestCoast

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13: 978-1720037644

  For Trey,

  who told me only love matters.

  Chapter 1

  B irthdays are a big deal in the Larson family, but special birthdays—like my twenty-first—are a huge deal. So when my parents and I drove from Boise to my grandma’s house in Ontario on August 14th, I was expecting hugs, kisses, balloons, piles of gifts and mounds of food. But my Uncle Johnny stopped me at the front door.

  “You can’t come in, Elise,” he said. “Sorry, but we’re not ready.”

  “Not ready? But you said one o’clock.”

  “I know. But the damn power went out for about thirty minutes while the birthday cake was baking, so it’s ruined. The replacement is in the oven, but Mama’s in a tizzy and everything is running behind schedule.”

  He looked at my parents, who were coming up the sidewalk with gifts and other goodies. “Lisa . . . Jim . . . we need your help in there, but Elise can’t go in.”

  My mom hurried inside while my dad looked at Uncle Johnny. “Have you been to the cemetery yet?”

  Johnny shook his head. “I was planning to go this morning, but things got crazy.”

  “So go now. Take Elise with you. Spend an hour or so, and we’ll have everything ready when you get back. Is Trey around?”

  “Sure. He’s helping Mama. And CJ, Stacey and the boys will be here any minute.”

  “Fine. We’ll have a whole crew of helpers to put this party together. Just give us an hour. And Johnny . . .”

  “What?”

  “Give Elise my love.”

  I knew my dad wasn’t talking about me. He meant the other Elise in our family, my Aunt Elise, who died exactly one year before I was born. I was named after her—Elise Quinn Larson. To avoid confusion, the family sometimes referred to me as “little Elise.” My birthday was her death day.

  “Okay,” Johnny said. “Elise, we’ll take my pickup. I’ll join you in a couple of minutes.”

  I waited beside my uncle’s old pickup, and I do mean old! It originally belonged to his father, who’d been dead for over thirty years. But Johnny drove it to work every day and wouldn’t dream of buying a new one.

  When I climbed into the seat, Johnny handed me a gorgeous bouquet of red roses in a crystal vase. I knew they weren’t for me. They were for her. His Elise. The roses were perfect blooms and smelled so good. “How many are there?” I asked.

  “Twenty-two. She died twenty-two years ago today.”

  “Do you do this every year? The roses, I mean?”

  “Yes. I add one rose each year. Red roses were special to us. A red rose was the first gift I ever gave her, back when we were courting.”

  Courting, I thought. What an old-fashioned term. I looked at my uncle, who didn’t seem old-fashioned at all. Although he recently turned sixty, he was still what my girlfriends called a hunk. Definitely a hunk. Big, broad-shouldered and powerful, he’d once been a star football player and now ran his own construction company. His dark hair was streaked with gray, but his sapphire blue eyes were clear and bright. All of us Larsons have the same dark hair and blue eyes: me, my dad, and my cousins.

  He glanced at me and I turned away, knowing I’d been caught staring at him. I looked at the roses and noticed a small card tucked inside the bouquet. I could just barely make out the words in my uncle’s handwriting: “For my beautiful Elise. I love you so much, sweetheart. I miss you every hour of every day. I’ll see you soon, my precious girl. J.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Twenty-two years, and he still loved her that much? And what did he mean, he’ll see her soon? Where? How?

  He parked in the cemetery lot, came around the truck and took the roses from me. I followed him a short distance to my aunt’s grave, which was close to the grave of my grandfather, John Peter “Papa” Larson. Both graves were beautifully tended with impressive markers. My aunt’s headstone had a carving of roses encircling a heart; within the heart was an inscription about love that lasts forever, so the lovers can never truly be separated.

  Johnny knelt and placed the bouquet on a small platform in front of the headstone. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, silently talking to God or to her or maybe to both. Feeling like an intruder, I quietly walked over to Papa’s grave and stood there for a while, then wandered around reading some of the nearby headstones. The time slowly passed.

  Well, I thought. This isn’t exactly how I planned to spend my birthday. But he must have really loved her. What would it be like, being loved like that?

  Johnny finally rose and saw me waiting by the pickup. I was hot and hungry and ready to go. But when Johnny got to the truck and I saw the tears in his eyes, I was ashamed of my impatience. And I was also curious. What kind of love could make a strong man like my uncle shed tears over a woman who’d been dead for twenty-two years?

  “Uncle Johnny?” I asked as we got into the truck.

  “What, Elise?”

  “Will you tell me about her sometime? Your Elise? I know some things from my mom and dad and grandma and granddad and CJ, so I know she was beautiful and smart and loving, but you knew her best.”

  “Elise was all of that and so much more. She had courage and determination and strength—more strength than anyone I’ve ever known. But her essence was love. Everything she did was out of love for me, for our sons, for all the lives she touched. I still feel her love every day. It still connects us somehow.”

  He saw the doubt in my face and smiled. “It’s hard to believe, I know. I don’t fully understand it myself. But it’s there, and it’s real.”

  “Is that why you’ve never . . .”

  “What?”

  “Remarried, or anything? Trey says you’ve never even had a girlfriend.” I stopped. This was becoming way too personal.

  “I didn’t realize you and Trey had discussed my personal life.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business.”

  “You’re right. My personal life is not your business. But you’re obviously curious about our love, so sometime I’ll let you read portions of the book she wrote.”

  “She wrote a book?”

  “Yes. When we learned her cancer was terminal, she decided to write the story of our life and love, from the day we met to the day she died. No one has read it but me. If you’re interested, I’ll edit out some of the personal stuff and let you read the rest.”

  “I’d love to, Uncle Johnny. I’d like to get to know her better, especially since I have her name. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said as we pulled into his driveway. “Now, are you ready to celebrate your birthday?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes!” I jumped down and ran to the welcoming arms of my cousin Trey, who ushered me inside to the party.

  “Happy birthday!” everyone shouted when I entered the living room, where I was engulfed in hugs and kisses and wishes from everyone in our family: my mom and dad, grandma and granddad, cousins Trey and CJ, CJ’s wife Stacey, and their two boys, Elias and James. Cousin Quinn couldn’t come because he was a quarterback for the Minnesot
a Vikings and busy with exhibition games in August.

  It was a perfect birthday celebration with heaps of food: grilled steak and chicken, fresh fruit and salads, buttery rolls and—best of all—the Swedish Birthday Cake my grandma always made for my birthday. We who were lucky enough to be born in the summer always got this cake on our birthday—a Swedish tradition.

  The cake was filled with fresh strawberries, custard and lots of cream and topped with more cream and strawberries. My birthday wouldn’t be a birthday without this glorious cake! I blew out the candles and made a wish while everyone sang the birthday song.

  After we stuffed ourselves, we all settled into the living room for the gifts. The room was decorated with balloons, streamers and colorful signs created by Trey, Elias and James. I sat in the middle of the floor while Elias and James handed me gift after gift. I received clothes, cosmetics, a new cell phone, cards with money for school, and even a diamond necklace and earring set from Granddad Quinn. I was overwhelmed as I sat there in a drift of boxes and wrapping paper.

  “Thank you,” I said when the last gift was unwrapped. “Thank you all so much. This was my best birthday ever! I love you for making it so special. You are the best family a girl ever had. Really. The very best.”

  While I made my little speech, Uncle Johnny disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tray of glasses and two tall bottles of what looked like champagne. I was shocked. Liquor was never allowed in his house. That was one of Johnny’s strictest rules.

  He caught my look. “It’s not champagne, Elise. It’s sparkling cider. But a girl deserves a toast on her twenty-first birthday.”

  So the cider was poured and toasts were given to my health and success and happiness. I drank and I thanked them again and thought how lucky I was to belong to this special family.

  I didn’t go back to Boise with my parents that night, because Trey had other plans. After a rousing game of touch football on the south lawn (which our team won), Trey grabbed my hand and turned me around.

  “Stay here tonight,” he said. “You can have Quinn’s old room. I’ll take you home tomorrow. Let’s have some fun.”

  “What sort of fun?”

  He grinned. “What do you think? The sort of fun a girl can have when she’s twenty-one. We’ll go out, have a drink or two—real drinks, not sparkling cider—and see what happens. Come on, Elise. Come with me. Please.”

  I could never say no to Trey. He was just two years older than me and we became close friends growing up, spending lots of time together in each other’s houses. Wherever Trey led, I followed.

  So I told my parents about the change in plans and off we went. He took me to Mackey’s Pub in Ontario, where we showed our I.D. and ordered Celtic Martinis, something guaranteed to “leave you feeling delightful,” according to the menu. Oh, yes. That blend of Irish whiskey, butterscotch and Irish cream was very delightful, so we decided to have seconds.

  I wasn’t a complete novice when it came to alcohol. One can’t spend three years at the University of Oregon without acquiring some drinking experience. But this was different, because it was legal and delicious and with Trey.

  He sat across from me at a small round table in a corner of the pub, quietly drinking and smiling at me. I smiled back, warm and relaxed and happy.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thanks for bringing me here. I feel all grown up now.”

  “You’ve been all grown up for a while,” he replied. “I’ve noticed.”

  “Trey . . .”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, with your long dark hair and your blue eyes and your figure . . . whatever happened to that skinny little girl I used to chase around the yard?”

  “She grew up.”

  “She sure did. Just look at you now.”

  “Well,” I said. “Look at yourself, tall and handsome with the Larson dark hair and blue eyes. We look more like twins than first cousins.”

  “Probably. But I don’t want to be your twin, Elise. Hell, sometimes I don’t even want to be your cousin. I just want . . .”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “I just want to dance. Let’s dance.”

  We got up and joined other couples on the small dance floor. Couples? I thought. We’re not a couple. Trey is my cousin and my best friend. But we felt like a couple when he held me close and our whiskey-scented breaths mingled together.

  Trey was tall at six-two, but I was a tall girl at five-ten, so we fit together quite nicely. Too nicely, in fact. Maybe the whiskey was affecting me, but something was definitely stirring between us that had never stirred before. Stop this, I thought. He’s your cousin, for God’s sake!

  I pulled away when the song ended. “Let’s go home,” I said. “This was fun, but it’s been a long day and I’m tired.”

  “Have I done or said something wrong?”

  “No. Not at all. This was nice. But I truly am tired.”

  He shrugged. “Okay. Let’s go home.”

  I tried to make small talk during the short drive home, but Trey was silent until he pulled into the driveway and stopped the car. He looked at me in the moonlight but didn’t touch me, though part of me hoped he would.

  “Happy birthday, Elise,” he said. “Cousin,” he added.

  We walked inside without saying another word.

  Chapter 2

  T rey and I returned to the University of Oregon in late September to start fall term classes. I was enrolled in pre-law courses for my senior year. My disgustingly brilliant cousin had completed his B.A. and M.A. in English and was working on his Ph.D., which he would undoubtedly complete in record time.

  As if academic brilliance wasn’t enough for him, Trey was a track star at the university, tying Steve Prefontaine’s legendary record of seven NCAA championships and winning three USA Track & Field championships.

  Trey absolutely loved to run! He ran every single day—rain or no rain—at Hayward Field or Hendricks Park Trail, and people often gathered to watch him. He had hundreds of fans, including me. Uncle Johnny—a great runner in his own time—came to all of Trey’s meets and was often joined by Granddad Quinn and my father.

  When we arrived in Eugene that fall, Trey dropped me off at my apartment on Hilyard Street and hauled my suitcases up to the third-floor landing, but he did not come inside. He knew Ben would be waiting for me, and the two of them did not get along at all.

  Ben (or Bennett William MacAllister III) was my boyfriend. No, he wasn’t my roommate. Jessie Wilson was my roommate. But Ben kept close tabs on me and had a key to my apartment, so of course he’d be there, just waiting on the other side of the door.

  And he was. I literally fell into his arms as the door swung open before I could turn the knob. He kicked the door closed and then he was on me, with his tongue in my mouth and his hands in my hair, on my breasts, into my jeans and then lower . . .

  I turned my head hard enough to briefly disengage his hungry mouth. “Ben . . . the suitcases . . .”

  “To hell with the suitcases! They’ll wait, but I can’t. It’s been too damn long.”

  He picked me up and carried me to my room, locking the door behind us. There was no stopping him as he quickly stripped both of us. Then he was on me again, shoving me onto the bed and straddling me with his big body, squeezing my breasts and pushing into me.

  I wrapped my long legs around him, meeting him thrust after thrust until we came in a wild explosion that seemed to go on forever. He finally pulled out and lay beside me, still breathing hard.

  “Ben?”

  “What?”

  “Can we get the suitcases now?”

  Roaring with laughter, he pulled me on top of him. “We’re going to make love until you forget about the damn suitcases. So go ahead. Do me. I want to feel your hands and your mouth on me. You know what to do.”

  I did know. Ben had taught me well in the year we’d been together. So I applied my lessons and pleasured him until he fell into a satisfied sleep. I looked at him lying ther
e, this big man with his red-gold hair and green eyes, Scots-Irish temper and fierce passions. I’d met him the previous year in a criminal law class and we’d been together ever since, except when I went home for visits. He hated those separations. Ben was very possessive of me.

  I’m not sure why we connected. He was a bold, brash extrovert, dominating in sports, in the classroom and in bed. In the fall he was a linebacker for the Ducks; in the spring he competed in track & field as a discus thrower. In class he argued with professors, breezed through coursework and aced his exams. And in bed he was demanding and powerful and . . . there are no words to describe it, really. Just feelings.

  I don’t know why he picked me. Girls were all over him for his looks, his body and his money. But he asked me out one day after class and we had sex that night. All night, in fact. I’d had sex before, but not like that. Never like that! Not like Ben’s way.

  He wanted me to move in with him, but I refused. I didn’t have the stamina to deal with Ben twenty-four seven, so I continued to live with Jessie. Jessie was a sweet, rather shy pre-med student from Canada. She was scared of Ben and usually disappeared when he came around, which was fine with him.

  Anyway, after Ben fell asleep I picked my clothes off the floor, got dressed and retrieved my suitcases. Ben slept while I unpacked, hanging clothes in the closet and shoving the rest into my dresser and desk.

  At the top of the last suitcase, I found a box that Uncle Johnny handed me that morning, before Trey and I left Ontario for Eugene. It contained my Aunt Elise’s book—the book she wrote in the months before her death. I knew Johnny had edited out the “personal stuff”—by that he probably meant sex—but there were at least five hundred pages left.

  I looked at the title page. Destiny: Our Forever Love. I didn’t believe in destiny, and I wasn’t even sure about love. Not that kind of love, at least. No love could last forever. I put the box on the top shelf of my closet, deciding to read the book when I got a chance.