Page 6 of A Lot Like Lavender

“Ya know…” I begin, appeasing her for the business woman she is, “I could use a few oils for the girls.”

“You want to use my oils on your livestock, Emory? Really?” She’s putting on airs, a little fight before she folds like a lawn chair.

“Only the best for my alpacas.”

“As it happens,” she says, “I just did some research on the benefits of cedar and lavender oil for skin health and insect repellant on livestock.”

“Hmmmm,” I hum. “A little light reading, huh? What a coincidence.”

“Oh, don’t get all high and mighty. A woman has to have something to read on the porcelain throne from time to time. So when I finished the one for book club this month, I remembered you whining the other day about Pamela acting strange and did some research.”

“You read your book club romances on the toilet?” My snort is sincere. This conversation is already brightening my day significantly. Another win for Charlie Banner.

“Young lady, if you’d ever come to book club,” she says so punitively, I can all but see her shaking her finger at me, “you’d know that you simply cannot put down a viking and pirate romance. It’s criminal.”

“Vikingsandpirates? Who’s doing the plundering in that pairing?” I’m only teasing, because I know for a fact that Charlie is reading tasteful, albeit fantastical, romances with a small group of women in town. One of which is my sister, who’d be absolutely delighted by this conversation.

“Do ya want the oils or not?”

“Yes, please.”

My hands clench around the steering wheel at the reminder of Pamela’s behavior as of late. The matriarch of our herd, Pamela, has been with me since the beginning. She’s my furbaby. My girl. My favorite, if a farmer is allowed to have one. In fact, if it was socially acceptable—and I didn’t think my sister would send me to the loony bin for it—I’d bring Pamela in the house to live out the rest of her years in luxury. Pammy would quietly judge the rest of the girls, in her regal way, from a large window overlooking the pasture in the comfort of her own, alpaca-friendly bedroom.

“She’s lethargic. Still isn’t eating normally, and… well, she just isn’t herself.”

“I’ll add in some clove, too. For good measure. Has the doc been out to see her?” Charlie’s tone gentles. She knows what Pamela means to Molly and me. What all of the girls do.

“She’s coming today, actually. In about an hour.”

Right after I give the news to sweet Tommy, who’s presently mucking out stalls, that his employment with me istechnically insolvent. I’m an expert on that topic now, so he’ll get a fine tutorial as I hesitantly show him the door.

“Let me know how it goes, sweetheart.” Charlie sighs. “I’ll bring the oils by tonight for ya so I can give my girl a hug, too.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

“Keep your chin up, ya hear?” she says just before I hang up. “Things will all work out.”

I hum a halfhearted agreement and end the call.

In my experience, things don’t always work out. You can make all the plans in the world: fall in love, start a family, settle down, bring a business to life from the ground up, yet—even with the best of intentions and the most faithful ofprayers—businesses fail, plans crumble, and the loved ones you make those plans with can tragically leave you behind long before you imagined possible.

So, I rearrange those scratched up, reality-colored glasses of mine, lest I allow optimism to weasel her way in where she doesn’t belong, and turn up the music for the last leg of the drive home—practicing my upcoming firing speech with nineties hip-hop as my guide—only slowing as I take the final turn towards the farm and notice an odd bit of roadkill that wasn’t there this morning. Someone’s gone through the trouble of tying a giant red balloon to what I can now see is a little raccoon paw that reads, “Best Day Ever!”

Thanks to rigor mortis and an unfortunately ironic grimace, the poor thing looks like he’s waving at me with a giant, pained smile on his face. I salute him as I roll by and vow that even if this is far from the best day ever, there will be brownies baked in his honor.

3

MAN OF THE WOODS

JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE

JORDAN

“And what do we have here?” Mom saunters into the sterile room, using the voice she reserves exclusively for patients. A young vet tech skips in at her heels with obvious excitement, reading from the clipboard in her hands.

“Existing patient. Twenty-year-old male. Diabetes mellitus, inflammatory bowel disease and chronic malabsorption. Here today for excessive vocalization.”

The obese, ginger-colored cat in my arms yowls demandingly as the doc and her assistant approach. Mom smiles wide—at me or the cat? I’m not sure—then, tucking a short, silver strand of hair behind her ear, says, “I’m sorry about your IBD, son, but really there’s no need to lie about your age.”