Page 36 of Must Love Lavender and Little Lies
The party lasted throughout the night. When it grew late, I noticed that Juniper had begun to look like a wilted flower.
“Let me take you home,” I told Juniper, who was trying to cover a yawn. “They’ll be awake and talking for hours, and you have the shop to open in the morning.”
“Won’t they find it rude?”
I shook my head. “Gree-Gree likes that you own a business, remember?”
She nodded sleepily. Or, perhaps, drunkenly. My sister had kept refilling her glass of wine all night. I suspected that Juniper might have found herself deeper in her cups than she was used to.
“Let’s go. We’ll tell my parents. Gree-Gree is already in bed,” I told her with a laugh, then we went to my parents, who were arguing with my brother about the best time of year to brew dandelion roots.
“I’ll walk Juniper home now. Her cottage is near the edge of town, so it’s not far. I’ll be back soon.”
“Very well. It was good to see you, my dear,” my ma told Juniper.
“And you.”
“Don’t forget a shot of tomato juice with firewater tomorrow morning to clear your head,” my da suggested.
Juniper giggled. “The thought of it now has my stomach churning, but I’ll remember.”
My mother rose, smothering Juniper in a hug, before letting her go once more.
“Good night, all,” Juniper called to the rest of my family. “I’ll see you all tomorrow!”
At that, my family cheered their goodnights to her, and Juniper and I headed away from the pavilion.
“Want the wagon?” I asked her.
Juniper shook her head. “Let poor old Angus sleep. It’s not far, and a walk will do me good. My head is spinning,” she said with a giggle, then added. “I think they got me tipsy.”
“No doubt they were trying to pry information from you.”
“No, they were lovely. Everyone was lovely. I’m the scoundrel in this story.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t true, it’s just that you should saywe.Weare the scoundrels in this story.”
“They’re going to be so disappointed,” Juniper lamented with a moan. “I wish my mother were here.”
When Juniper’s mother, Noelle, died some years earlier, Juniper was heartbroken. The event had drawn us even closer, Juniper finding solace in our friendship. But in her pain, Juniper rarely mentioned her mother. The fact that she’d brought her up now told me everything I needed to know about how Juniper was feeling.
“She’d have a good laugh at us,” I said gently.
Juniper chuckled. “Yes. She would.”
“And then she would bake us something in her giant oven to make us forget our troubles. Cinnamon rolls, maybe.”
“Or cheesy flatbreads.”
“Remember those chocolate cloud brownies she made one year for Yule? I still dream of those.”
“I think I have that recipe somewhere. I’ll make them for you.”
“I’d love you forever.”
