Page 41 of A Lot Like Lavender

“You know who else is handsome on a motorcycle? A certain vet I know. Glasses. Tattoos. Denim.” Dinah’s patience has lasted for almost ten hours, which is theequivalent of ten years in nosey-little-sister-land. I’m honestly impressed she’s lasted this long but all the more anxious to leave this clubhouse and get home to my girl.

The rest of the girls hoot and holler, obviously just as excited that the subject of Jordan has finally been broached.

“Ladies, ladies…” Dr. Rafferty puts her hands out, pacifying the wild women of Honey Hill. “We shouldn’t put our sweet Emory on the spot like this. Let’s discuss the book.”

Feral author looks so relieved, but I fear she’s about to be greatly disappointed. Dr. Rafferty pats the seat next to her for me to sit then winks at Charlie. I tentatively sit, but it feels like a trap.

Charlie settles in, holding the closed novel in her lap, and starts discussion off with a bang. “I especially enjoyed how the heroine had been through so much hardship in her young life, then was raising a daughter on her own, but she was open to the idea of a romance with a strapping, successful, swoony young man who showed obvious interest.”

So much alliteration. My annoyance has reached its peak.

Brooke hums her agreement. “Totally agree. He woos her so well. And how he loves her little girl…”

The rest of the group sighs. At this point, the only reason I think they may still be talking about the book is the fact that the author only looks mildly confused.

“She tries to deny it for a while, though, right?” Dinah says too loudly.

I pop from my seat and take the drink from her hands, setting it on the coffee table.

She pouts briefly but acts as if she’s writing a book review aloud. “It’s really a story about unexpected love after grief, loss, and incredibly difficult circumstances. Thatredemption can be found in the darkest of places. It’s gritty and messy, but beautiful.”

My sister’s eyes find mine, brows raising as she waits for me to respond, but I will not give her the satisfaction. The rest of the group quiets, until it’s too much for them to take.

Mrs. Cotten is the first to crack. “Oh, come on, honey. Just tell us a little something. Have ya kissed yet?”

My stomach drops. Have I kissed Jordan?No. I can’t get past the overwhelming confusion and shame of my attraction, thank you very much.

Tapping my fingers on my legs, I try to think through escape routes. Maybe I could phone a friend to get me out of here. Except all of my friends are snuggled up in this teeny-tiny room.

Dr. Rafferty grabs my antsy hand. “Listen, Emory. I don’t have to know everything going on between you and my son to know that you’re beating yourself up right now, and I can’t have that.”

“Don’t even bother arguing about it, girlie,” Charlie adds. “We’re not your mama or your kin or anything that gives us the authority to advise you, but we are two women who’ve lost our husbands.”

I’ve never heard her whole story, but I do know Charlie’s husband left her to raise two boys on her own. And Jordan’s mother’s story is much like my own. A young widow. A single mom. An exclusive club neither of us ever wanted to be in.

“Just remember, when you’re ready,” Dr. Rafferty says, kissing my cheek, “we’re here, and we both know what it means to try to keep on livin’ while still loving a man who’s never coming back.”

I’m speechless. Unable to say a single word that won’t shatter the facade of control I’ve claimed for too many years.Because I do love my husband. I always will. But I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have him here. To laugh, to be touched, to be loved. And just a few, small, but monumental hours spent with Jordan have me doing everything I can to temper down the chase for those feelings. Terrified of how badly I want them and of whom I want them with.

“How did you… do it? Let yourself?—”

“Love someone? Get married? Move on?” Dr. Rafferty says, and the whole room leans in. Feral author whips out a notebook and begins scribbling notes.

I nod.

“Well”—Dr. Rafferty sighs, holding my hand a bit tighter—“I didn’t have feelings for my late husband’s best friend, I’ll give ya that.”

The author’s jaw drops. Her next story just got a whole lot juicier.

“After he died, I didn’t think I’d ever get married again. Promised myself I wouldn’t, actually.”

Charlie quietly chuckles at my side but doesn’t interrupt Jordan’s mom. The rest of the women cling to every word.

“I met Bill only six months later, still new to widowhood and bein’ a single mama. There he was… a handsome, accomplished, kind man who volunteered to help coach the baseball team, and then, before I knew what was happening, he was catching me after Jordan’s games to talk. Or asking if he could take us out to pizza, or if I needed anything done around the house, then lingering into the evening with conversation and companionship on nights I would have spent alone.”

I snort, despite myself. It sounds awfully familiar and seems as if Jordan learned from the very best.

“He knew who I was in this small town, of course. ThatI’d been married before and that I wasn’t looking for anything romantic. But I sure did love having a friend who didn’t see me as an endlessly grieving woman, barely making it by. Bill saw me as a colleague. A friend. A mother… and as a woman. When I desperately needed to be seen.” She pauses, clearing her throat. “The ugly truth of it all is, Emory, that you never move on. James is always gonna be a huge, wonderful, and tragic part of your story. You don’t move on from binding yourself to someone for life.”