Page 26 of A Lot Like Lavender

“No. No, no, no, no, no,” she repeats at hyperspeed, ping-ponging around the house, picking up random knicknacks, a pair of Molly’s shoes that seem to live in the middle of the walkway between the kitchen and living room, and throwing dishes into the dishwasher in a way that tells me she’ll be back later to organize it. “Not today. This cannot happen today.”

The sound of tires spinning over the gravel driveway outside grows closer to the house. Emory stops her manic cleaning, pausing in front of a large mirror at the front door to tuck in the oversized, button down blouse she’s wearing, smooth out her hair, and slip on a pair of chunky sandals. She’s gone from a bit flustered but beautiful to put together and flawless.

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood—a punishment for thinking so.

“Emory, what do you need?” I grab her wrist, stopping her from fidgeting with her clothesagain. “What can I do?”

Someone clomps up the stairs and knocks on the door.

“Hide,” she groans, but opens the door with a wide, plastered smile on her face before I can decipher if she’s serious. “Hello, Trey. Welcome in.”

I don’t know who I was expecting to have sent Emory into such an uncharacteristic tizzy, but it wasn’t this guy. A man steps over the threshold of Emory’s home, dressed like he’s ready for a round of golf or a Sunday in the pew, and not a visit to the farm.

When he leans in, proprietarily placing his hand around Emory’s waist and kissing her cheek, I see red and little else. For reasons I won’t name, I’d like to hammer some nails into Trey’s tires, but then I have the quick and horrifying realization that I might be intruding on something here. LikeI’mthe outsider, and Emory was expecting maybe something akin to a date… withthisguy.

Hide, she’d said.

“Trey Ashcroft, Ashcroft Grove and Golf Course.” He holds out his hand, and I’ll admit, I take more than a little pleasure in shaking it harder and longer than necessary.

“Golf, huh?” I look him up and down. Golf. Called it. “Asscroft did you say? I’m not familiar with that course.”

Emory snorts, plays it off like a cough, and pats her chest while I keep a tight hold on Trey’s tiny, manicured, golf hands. My chest puffs up, unbidden.

“ASHcroft.” He smiles wider, tightening his own grip. “And you are?”

“Not going anywhere.” My grip tightens. I think someone’s been overmoisturizing.

Emory steps in, separating our hands. “Okay. That’s enough of that.” She puts her hand against my chest, and it’s not lost on me that this is the first time she’s touched me since the slap over a week ago. I feel the heat from her palmdown to my toes. “Jordan, I have a meeting with Trey. And I’m expecting more people here in a few minutes, so I need you to…”

She bites her lip and looks over my shoulder towards the room where—also against my professional, medical recommendations—Pam is resting.

“I need…” She growls low, obviously annoyed that she needs help. It’s adorable. I bite my cheek again as she whispers, “I need your help with Pam, please? I don’t want her alone when…”

I don’t know why I can’t contain myself—probably because I’m the realAsscroft—but something about the way her hand still hasn’t moved, Golf Guy’s creepy stare has narrowed in on that particular detail, and Emory just called whatever this is a meeting rather than a date has me feeling pretty reckless. So I trap Emory’s hand on my chest with my own, taking this tiny liberty and promising I won’t do it again. “Of course, Red. Take your time. I’ll, uh… I’ll stay here.”

“Thank you,” she barely says aloud, but I feel it acutely. All the way down my arm to where our hands are still skin-to-skin, fingertips pressed against my heartbeat.

“Let me know if you need me, okay?”

Emory nods, and when she turns away, I give Trey a look that hopefully conveys the ways I’ll happily torment him with planted fleas, animal feces, and all manner of my most mature and ultimately not-life-threatening tactics if he steps out of line. He, in return, suddenly grabs the phone hanging on his belt—though I didn’t hear it ring—and answers with a “You’ve got Trey.”

Now I’m feeling pretty embarrassed by how insecure I was a minute ago. Not that I have any right to feel anythingwhen it comes to Emory or who she wants to spend her time with.

Pamela’s sleeping when I get back to the room, giving me ample time to check her vitals, set up an IV, after talking to Mom about fluids and a sedative she approves of as Pam’s doctor. Then I hum a tune just loud enough so I’m not tempted to listen to every word said down the hall.

Only twenty minutes or so passes before another line of cars rolls down the gravel, and through the spare room window, I watch a group of women hop out from their vehicles. Emory hasn’t had a single visitor outside of Dinah in the last week, and she hasn’t mentioned friends outside of her sister or the friend Molly mentioned with the bunny named after her husband, so it's nice to see such a huge group of ladies coming to hang out with Emory. Even if the timing is less than ideal.

She rushes out onto the lawn, greeting them with her arms spread unnaturally wide, and not a single woman reciprocates with a hug or any semblance of a friendly greeting. Emory tucks the front of her shirt in again, fidgets with her hair, points around the lawn and towards the barn, as if giving a verbal tour to the women who look less than impressed or happy to be here.

I know she asked me to stay behind, but everything in her body language screams that Emory is uncomfortable. She’s been naturally isolated from the rest of the group so that it appears like it's Emory against a pack of wolves. WhenAsscroft joins her side, slipping his hand around her waist again, and she squirms from beneath his touch, I can’t stop my feet from flying down the hall and onto the porch.

Emory doesn’t need a rescuer. In fact, I’m pretty sure she thinks she doesn’t need anyone at all. But a piece of mebelieves that—just like those alpaca brownies—though I may not be great for her, I might be exactly what Emory needs right now.

Unfortunately, the way I rush out onto the porch has Emory panicked. Tears fill her eyes—the first I’ve seen since she wiped them away the other night—and she races to meet me. “What happened? Is she okay?” Her hands grip both of my arms, bracing herself for bad news, and I’m honestly terrified at what her response will be when Pam does pass.

“Oh, no, no, no. She’s okay, Red. She’s okay.” So quick to break my promises, I can’t help but pull her closer. As if my hands have been begging for their chance again, I find myself running gentle strokes up and down Emory’s back, making soothing, shushing sounds like I do for animals that come into the clinic riddled with anxiety. It only takes a breath or two before she realizes how close we are and leaps away.

“She’s stable and sleeping,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets. “I came out here for you. I thought you might need?—”