Page 4 of A Lot Like Lavender

“I’d say you have about six months, give or take, before you’ll need to declare.”

Declare what? Independence? War? A customs form?

I see a mental image of Michael Scott yelling, “I declare bankruptcy!” and have the weird impulse to stand up in the bank right now, scream a bit, and see if it helps the tightness suddenly forming in my chest to dissipate.

“Can I fix it? I mean… am I too late? What can I do?”

Debbie looks positively heartbroken. “Ya got a time machine?”

I’m a thirty-two-year-old, widowed, single mom with too many mouths to feed, a farm too big to maintain on my own, and clearly lacking in the time travel department.

Tapping my fingers individually in a pattern my therapist swears will help the fireball of anxiety brewing in my body, I shrug like I’m completely unbothered. “Fresh out.”

Debbie sighs and gives my hand another gentle pat-pat,before studying her computer screen again, as if it will provide a worthy consolation prize for my life’s work burning to ash. “In the previous meetings, we’ve discussed selling off assets. Now”—she squeezes my hand before I have the chance to interrupt with a vehement but polite refusal—“I know you haven’t wanted to in the past, but Mrs. Nelson, there’s the possibility that if we bring your expenditures down significantly, you may be able to at least retain the property and your home without considerable losses.”

Considerable losses. A term I’m unfortunately well acquainted with. There have been many times over the course of the past ten years that I’ve asked myself,What would James do?What would he say right now if he were sitting beside me, hand in mine, his kind puppy-dog eyes and dimpled smile charming Debbie into oblivion, and that unspokenknowingbetween us. The language only two people completely in sync with one another have that passes the observance of everyone around them.

I’d say something along the lines of,“Our dreams are dead.”

And James would kiss my knuckles and reply with all the confidence in the world,“Don’t lose hope, Red. We’ll dream more dreams.”

But James isn’t here. And if he were, we wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. I’ve tried to keep this one dream of ours alive for longer than he was ever able to be a part of it. And clearly, what I’m doing is not working.

“Which assets would I need to sell?” I ask, hating that I’m even considering this option.

Debbie reads off the list of farming equipment, buildings, my personal vehicle, the house, the single employee I manage to pay, and the extensive livestock we’ve accumulatedover the years, because I’m a sucker and can’t say no to a stray.

I decide not to even tell her about the two recently added teacup pigs—which are not in the slightestteacup,as advertised—and are presently sleeping in my laundry room.

“If I were you,” Debbie continues, “I’d start with employees and livestock. You simply can’t keep anyone on the payroll, and your livestock’ll be easy to sell off to hobby farms and land owners alike. Less mouths to feed, less feed to buy. It’s a good start.”

My heart sinks, but I nod my head in agreement and swallow the tears I’d like to weep all over this poor woman’s desk.

Just get rid of the kid who busts his butt on your farm for barely minimum wage and sell off your precious furbabies. That’ll do, Emory… Maybe.

“I’ll consider it.”

She shoots me a sympathetic smile. “Alright. Why don’t you come back and see me in about ninety days. We’ll reassess to see where your profit margins are then, and decide what else needs to hit the hay.”

Debbie chuckles at her little joke. She is the most clever accountant in all the land. She then quickly dismisses me to make an appointment with the gal at the front desk for my next doomed meeting in three months. I, for one, simply cannot wait.

Maybe I’ll bring brownies for the occasion.

I make it all the way through the building and a walk of shame along Main Street before sulking in my SUV for a minute. I know if I slip into Knotty & Nice—my sister’s extremely successful pretzel shop—and gather a bit of therapy carbs, she’d catch onto my mood immediately. And though I’ll be forced to tell Dinah, eventually, or she’ll getthe clue when she comes to visit and my pastures are suddenly a barren, alpaca-free wasteland—a reality I can’t quite bring myself to dwell on right now—I’m not ready to have that conversation with her yet.

Dinah is always glass half full. Through the loss of our parents when she was in high school, then James’ sudden death only a few years later, Dinah has handled her grief with a grace and dignity that I fear I’ll never understand. She met and fell in love with a man who had more baggage than anyone could anticipate and, quite literally, a split personality, yet her resolve to see the world, her circumstances, and her now husband, Jack, with rose-colored glasses never faded.

But my glasses are reality colored. They are harsh and non-protective. Weather damaged by all the life-rattling circumstances that have beaten them down, cracking those suckers until they’re barely hanging on my face and certainly aren’t doing their job anymore. Because I’ve seen first hand what the world has to offer.

There’s beauty to be had, of course. Molly is my bright spot in all of this. She’s a redeeming, God-sent gift in the midst of so much ugly. But sometimes, in the pain and loneliness of the dark places I’ve dwelled in for so many years, it’s easy to lose sight of that beauty. It’s easier to slip into the grief until it swallows me whole.

Right now, after finding myself the leader of a group of parents I never wanted to lead, hosting an event on a piece of land I pray I’ll still own and reside upon when the time comes around, and facing the hard truth that the life James and I tried to build together is very likely coming to an end, I simply don’t believe I could sit in Dinah’s positivity. Not yet.

So I speed by her shop, and Jack’s picture perfectflower shop,Petals, next door, and I turn up Salt-N-Pepa until “Push It” blares through my speakers, suppresses the all-encompassing dread, and almost manages to help me forget the fact that my life is in shambles. I have to plan a major event on my property and am about to fire the only person on my payroll that could help with such a feat.

My solitude is momentary, though, as I don’t even make it to the “oh, baby babies” before Dinah interrupts.

The ring she assigned herself in my phone, “Walking On Sunshine,” screeches through my car until I pick up.