Page 3 of A Lot Like Lavender

Bree’s low, throat growl deserves its own Animal Planet special. “The Fifth-Grade Father-Daughter Dance. It’s a time-honored tradition in Honey Hill, and it will be held in my parents’ garden, as it has been since many of us were in grade school here, Emory.”

Shoot. I wish this wasn’t a topic I actually have big feelings on.

I raise my hand to speak. We are in the school, after all, and I’m nothing if not a respectful student.

Simone calls upon me with an annoyed wave of her hand. The mega, million-carat diamond on her ring finger winks at me in the morning light, momentarily blinding me in the process.

“Uh… thank you.” I stand back up, feeling a bit too much like a child being reprimanded by the women presiding over me. “Don’t we think father-daughter dances might be… I dunno… outdated and maybe exclusionary?”

“Not at all. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable in your… situation,” Bree answers. “We just can’t simply cater to your family, Emory, and neglect the rest of the daughters who have been looking forward to a dance with their fathers since they started here. Molly is welcome to find another escort… I’m sure Jackson Jones would be happy to take her.”

“And I’m sure my brother-in-law would just love you speaking on his behalf, but he is not her father, Bree. I know I am not the only single parent represented here, and my daughter is not the only child in the student body without a father present in their life.”

I can’t be sure, as I’ve now begun to pace the rows against my better judgement, but I think Tisha just let out a “whoop whoop” somewhere at my back. The crowd begins to murmur, and suddenly I’m on a roll and climbing the hill that I am, in fact, ready to die on.

“Furthermore,” I say, slapping my hand on the front table and lifting my voice, my righteous indignation rising right along with it, “why not include the entire class in the end-of-year event? I’m sure our young men would love a celebration as equally as the young women. I say we change the event completely. Let this be the moment a new tradition is founded.”

“Change the event?” Simone is simply aghast.

“Yes!” I raise my fist in the air. Wow. This has become quite the revolution. Tisha raises hers in the back and—yup—Trey has rejoined the fray, tilting an invisible cowboy hat my way. “We should have a carnival!”

A few of the women perk up in their seats. I randomly start spouting off ideas, “With a ferris wheel and performers and a bearded guy…” I don’t know where exactly I’m going with that, but I regroup quickly and declare, “There will be brownies!”

Another soft cheer echoes through the library. Brownies will be our battle cry.

“Where would we hold an event of that magnitude?” Tisha asks, and I think I see pride shining in her eyes.

My next alarm blares from my bag in the back of the library—the one saying,You better get your butt to your appointment if you don’t want to lose your life’s work,unfortunately set to “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa—doing little to drain the air from my sails.

“Oh, baby baby. Oh, baby baby,” zips across the air as I all but assert my shaky dominance over the pack of wolves, every single one desperate for a leader. So, it's Salt-N-Pepa that I blame for racing out of the meeting, forty-five minutes later, as the official host for the first annual Honey Hill Fifth-Grade Class Carnival and the brand-spankin’-new president of the Parent Teacher Association.

PTA is a jungle, and I’m suddenly the queen.

2

FROM THIS VALLEY

THE CIVIL WARS

EMORY

“So, ya see, Mrs. Nelson,” my accountant explains, as if I’m supposed to have understood all of the financial jargon she’s been so graciously droning on about—complete with color-coded graphs and many scary numbers—for the last twenty minutes. I’ve known Debbie since I was a fresh-faced college grad and blissed-out newlywed filled with idealistic fantasies about homesteading, raising babies with my husband, and building the perfect, serene getaway for travelers, outside of the hustle and bustle of Atlanta. And in all that time, and unmet expectations, she still refuses to call me anything but Mrs. Nelson when we meet in the office for these little annual dates of ours. “Unfortunately, your farm is technically insolvent.”

I nod. “Cool, cool, cool.” The motto I live by these days. “And I’m so sorry, but could you please explain what exactlytechnically insolventmeans like I’m a toddler? Ya know… just so I have the whole picture.”

For when I privately circle the drain of despair later.

She pats my hand a few times—the silentbless your heartof the older generation—and uses her free hand to point to the giant, scary, red portion of the graph on her screen. “You’ve been operating Purple Pastures for almost ten years now.”

Nine years and about eight months, to be exact.

“Typically, we see farms like yours reach profitability between years four and seven.” Sweet Debbie shifts her tone to something more akin to a Sunday School teacher than a financial advisor. “Honey, your farm is in the middle of a great, big, beautiful blue ocean.”

Oh, that’s lovely.

“But you and all those animals of yours…” She pats my hand again. “You’re sinking to the very bottom. With rocks tied ‘round your ankles and no oxygen tanks.”

Less lovely.