Page 28 of A Lot Like Lavender

I can’t stop myself from interrupting, and I certainly won’t allow this confident woman to falter, even the slightest, over her accomplishments and the farm I know she literally built with her own hands and relentless hard work.

“Actually,” I say, stepping so that I’m side by side with Emory, whether she likes it or not. “Purple Pastures and Alpaca is a fully functioning, forty-acre farm, perfectly curated for an event. With fresh lavender and the herd of alpacas as the backdrop, I think you’ll find yourself and the rest of the Honey Hill families falling in love quickly with all the farm has to offer. I’d love to give you all that tour. I know this farm backwards and forwards, and Emory has had me working on getting the place ready and extra special for your festival.”

“Carnival,” the only ally in the group, corrects me.

“Right. Carnival for…”

The wannabe pet owner crosses her arms, unconvinced of my aptitude. “Our fifth graders.”

“Yes.” Snapping my fingers, I point at her. “Correct, Ms… Sophia.”

“Simone.” She is supremely unimpressed.

“Right. Ms. Simone. Don’t you thinkFifth-Grade Festivalhas a better ring to it?”

“We can workshop it,” Emory says, sounding exactlylike Molly, with another small smile tilting her lips that I see as a peace accord. One I won’t squander.

Vet. Friend. Handyman. Tour guide.

I don’t care what Emory calls me. Because when I give her a wordless nod and she responds in kind, it feels like we might just be on the same team again.

10

STAND BY ME

STEPHEN WILSON JR.

EMORY

“Are they gone?” I say quietly so as not to disturb Pam, resting fitfully at my side.

Jordan leans against the guest bedroom door, looking exhausted and a little shell-shocked after the almost two-hour tour of the grounds he just gave. He all but insisted he show the group around, giving me not only a much needed break from my PTA pack but also the ability to be with Pamela without distraction. Though, I’d be lying if I didn’t say, I enjoyed getting occasional glimpses of Jordan’s tour and his gaggle of admirers from the window as Pammy rested nearby. From what I could see, Jordan showcased the beauty of the farm as if it were his own, pointing out the rows and rows of carefully planted lavender that—though they’ve been neglected and are in serious need of some TLC—will begin to bloom by midsummer. All the while, being completely unaware I won’t own the land when it does.

I almost forgot how well Jordan knows these acres,having explored the farm long before I ever stepped foot on it after college. Growing up in Honey Hill, our property was once owned by a farmer Jordan worked for as a teen. When the farmer and his wife both passed away, their children were comforted in knowing the land would continue on as a family owned and operated farm after James and I jumped on the opportunity—and what would be a life-long debt—giving us the barebones of a house, pasture, and barn foundations. What we needed to build quickly and efficiently to make our vision for Purple Pastures and Alpaca come to fruition.

Back then, Jordan loved this property as much as we did, always insisting he’d be back one day, permanently, to practice medicine and settle down nearby. If the length of his tour is any indication, I’d say, if nothing else is true, his appreciation for the land remains.

“They never stopped talking,” Jordan says, letting himself slowly slump to the floor. “So. Much. Chit-chat. I hate chit-chat. I’m not good at it, ya know? Like… who has time to just dribble on about nothing…”

He isn’t curled up, rocking in a corner somewhere, nursing a migraine and licking a brownie-batter bowl clean. Overall, I’d say he’s handling his first PTA interaction like a champion. Not that I have any personal experience with post-PTA-parent-exposure trauma baking.

However, he is muttering to himself extensively, so his mental state is questionable at this point. His voice switches from bewilderment to a shrill impersonation of what I can only imagine is a colorful combination of all the Honey Hill PTA moms.

“My Greg has all A’s… Well, my son is the captain of good grades, and he never pees the bed… And your daughter only wants to date my son for his Pokémon collection… Everyone knows Pokémon is evil, so it’s no wonder your boy doesn’t have better manners…”

He’s been so battered. Bless his heart.

“At first I thought they were your friends, but there’s no way.” Jordan runs both hands through his windswept, blonde hair then lets them fall to the floor, bracing himself as he rests his head against the doorframe. “I don’t know how you do it, Red. PTA? Those women… They’re…”

“Animals.” I can’t help but smile, thinking of the way the whole pack of them surrounded him at the first chance they were given, barking out various talking points, flipping their hair for optimal pheromone triggering, and cackling at Jordan’s bare-minimum efforts of charm. All before he even left for the foot tour. Intrasexual selection at its finest. I can’t imagine what variety of methods were used for attention and am grateful I didn’t have to witness them all.

“That, honestly, may be giving them too much credit. They’re vicious… andAsscroft…”

I snort. “You’ve Got Trey.”

“I don’t know how it happened, but I’m playing golf with him next week. Golf… I hate golf.” He sighs, turning his head to where I sit back against the wall, knees raised, waiting as Pam’s breaths grow fainter. “Can I…” He gestures to Pam. “Could I check her, please?”

Nodding, I scootch over, giving him room to check her vitals, and watch as he grows solemn yet more in control and relaxed as he runs his hands along her ears, snout, neck, and down her belly, like I’ve seen him do each time he’s given the chance.