Page 27 of A Lot Like Lavender

“Oh. My. Goodness. Who do we have here?” One of the women has broken away from the rest of the gang, trotting on her tiptoes to meet us at the base of the porch steps.

Emory winces, without looking behind, as the brazen woman holds out her hand to shake mine. Before I know it, she’s pulled me into an over-aggressive hug that’s a little too long, even for a Southerner.

When the stranger finally releases me, leaving a cloud of overly sweet perfume in my breathing space, she swats at Emory’s hand like they’re pals. “You little minx. Where have you been hiding him, Emory? You didn’t tell us you were datin’ anybody.”

Emory looks a little like the time in college when I ate a bug for a bet and she couldn’t wipe the disgust from her face for weeks. So an educated guess says, either these women are not exactly friends or the idea of dating me is so repulsive, Emory would rather swallow a live bug. It’s a toss up.

“Me and him?” Emory wiggles her thumb between us with what I think, objectively speaking, is less than tasteful revulsion written on her face. “No. Ew. No. Um… no… he’s my…”

Iamthe bug.

I adjust my glasses just so I can see her squirm with the very best clarity, then cross my arms, waiting for an explanation as to who I am to Emory these days.

“He is my…” She looks over my shoulder, where I know she wishes she were locked in the bedroom with Pam and not dealing with whoever these people are, but then flicks her eyes to me. “Vet?”

Surprise must flick across my face, because I honestly thought the words contractor, handyman, or enemy might slip from her mouth. Vet is a considerable win. Especially since twenty minutes ago, she was all but declaring me incompetent and ignoring my professional advice. I’d like to do a celebratory fist pump but don’t want to get ahead of myself.

“I mean…” Emory stumbles, like she didn’t mean to fold so easily and now she can’t backtrack. “This is my… Jordan. He is a friend…”

My eyes might be three times their normal size right now. Her friend.

“To Molly!” she shouts. “Molly’s friend. Kind of. It’s weird.”

And there goes my confidence.

The crowd around us is getting antsy. There’s someweird whispering happening that makes me super uncomfortable, which reminds me that I came out here to help Emory not make her tumble through mental gymnastics in front of an audience to DTR. Not that we have a relationship to define in the first place. Of course. Clearly.

Emory starts ticking her fingers off one by one, against her legs, looking to the heavens for help. And though it isn’t my thing, I wave at the surrounding women andAsscroft and try to take the attention off of her. “Hey, y’all. I’m Jordan Love. Emory and I are old friends, and I just met Molly, who’s my pal. I’m also joining my parents’ veterinary practice in town. So I’m sure I’ll be seeing all of you around more often.”

The hugger steps close again, stretching out her hand more formally this time. “So you’re the famous Dr. Love the whole town can’t stop talking about.” She bats her eyelashes exactly like Molly does when she talks about that Theo kid.

“Um, I am.” Outside of the clinic, interactions with strangers have never been my forte or something I particularly enjoy. I’m better with animals than people, and this woman’s forwardness makes me want to wash my hands and run back into Emory’s house to hide. But no way can I abandon her out here alone.

“I’m Simone Bridges,” she says, refusing to let go of my hand. “I’ve been hoping I’d run into you. I’ve got a pet question or two I’d justloveyour expertise on, Dr. Love.” She giggles and winks, flipping a long sheet of dark reddish hair over her shoulder.

“You don’t have any pets,” another of the women snides as she approaches, stumbling slightly in the platform heels she’s wearing. She pulls me into an unwanted hug, too, and only releases me halfway, holding my arms in place so I’m trapped and can’t escape. “Hey, Jordan. I’m sure youremember me. Bree Taylor. Homecoming Queen your senior year. My daddy owns the car dealership just outside of town.”

I have never seen this woman before in my life.

“Sorry, I uh… no.”

Emory coughs into her hands, patting herself in the chest to really sell the fit she’s having, though you’d have to be blind not to see the smirk on her face. She really doesnotlike these women.

“You okay over there, Red?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, doing little to hide her grin. Seeing her small burst of happiness feels like getting a glimpse of the old Emory. The girl I remember smiled more often than not. Now, those smiles are shadowed with anxiety and tension. I’d do just about anything to see more of her happy. Lighter. “I think I’m about as good as I can be. Thanks. This is our Parent Teacher Association. We’re planning an event here at the farm?—”

“Potentially,” Queen Bree corrects. “We’ll need to discuss it and vote. Compared to previous years, I just don’t believe that a muddy homestead is where an event of this magnitude should take place. And did you see that dead rodent before the mailbox?” She clutches her throat, selling the drama.

I swear, I have to stifle my annoyance. Some people just don’t have a sense of humor.

“The disgusting thing had a welcome balloon attached to its ankle. Absolutely repulsive. Our children and the families of Honey Hill deserve more, don’t they?”

Yeah. Not a fan of Bree. While I don’t think a bit of roadkill skewed her perception of Purple Pastures, I’d hate for her to influence the others.

“I believe we already voted on what we think ofyour opinions, Bree… which is why Emory will be leading that charge now that she’s president,” another woman interjects, winking at Emory. Idolike her. “I think your farm is lovely, Emory. I’m only sorry I haven’t been here before.”

Emory clears her throat, cheeks suddenly rosy. “Um. Yes. Thanks, Tisha. That’s to say… I think maybe we should discuss funding and what the budget will allow, and we don’t have to use the farm if it won’t work. I know it doesn’t look like much, but?—”