The last time I fell for a woman was in my early twenties. I was helping French bakery owner Jean Dion fix his industrial oven. A beautiful blonde creature reminding me of a woodland fairy came out of nowhere and offered me a pink macaroon. Her name was Chloe, and her French accent did funny things to my insides. She was Jean’s niece visiting from Paris for the summer.
“There’s a hint of lavender in the filling,” she said, her pretty smile and accent beguiling. “Go on.Essayez-le. Tu vas adorer.It is good.”
I took one bite of the pastry and was hooked.
Maybe it was the floral taste with hints of mint and rosemary that did it for me. Or perhaps it was Chloe’s stolen French kisses in the storeroom among the scent of chocolate croissants baking in the big oven I’d repaired. Whatever it was, she’d shown me kindness and love from the opposite sex for the first time in my life.
She also helped me cross over from boy to man that summer.
Chloe became my teacher, gentle and patient with her instructions. I learned how to please her, to woo her, and to care for her. And when I was about to offer her my heart forever, the summer months ended.
I admit I cried when she returned to her homeland, even after she reassured me she might return one day. But she never did. A few months later, her uncle Jean sold the bakery to an Atlanta couple who turned the place into a coffee house, replacing the scent of lavender with the rich, bold aroma of espresso and lattes.
Chloe is the reason I became fascinated with lavender. My first foray into farming the plant started innocently enough in a few rough dirt troughs. I was inspired to keep her memory alive; the distinct scent reminding me of our summer love.
In time, the ache in my heart began to fade, and it was easier to let her go, like the last fragile petals of my flowers dispersing in the autumn wind. But I often find myself looking for Chloe among the townspeople and tourists, her memory emblazoned on my fragile heart forever.
Grandma Rosie once told me summer romances are like a shooting star or a colorful rainbow after the rains—brilliantly beautiful and something I’ll remember for the rest of my life. She wasn’t wrong about that.
Fast-forward, and now I have thousands of lavender plants growing on the hillside of Jamison Farm, the explosion of purple harvest an annual love note to the one who got away. I’m not bitter or sad anymore because I know what I felt was real. And I’m thankful Chloe taught me so much. I’m ready touse what I’ve learned. I’ve been more than ready to grow in love with someone else.
Someone like Madison.
“Mmmm,” I mumble again.
Madison reminds me of one of my flowers—the ones that are so beautiful I’m not in any rush to pick them. I want to stare, happy just to be near her. I want to look at her like I would one of those gorgeous flowers in the fields. I want to appreciate the joy because she entered my world.
Even though our encounter had been brief, she struck me as smart and kind, tenderhearted but bold. She looked like a professional worker, like one of those ladies at the local bank or real estate office in town, but ten times more beautiful.
I know she doesn’t live here in Heartsboro. I would’ve noticed her by now. Besides, she told me outright that she was staying at the Wild Daisy Inn. She’s probably just passing through on her way to Atlanta, a city girl getting a closer look at the flowers and homegrown vegetables at a dilapidated country roadside stand.
My brow creases with a thought.
But she didn’t take any pictures. And she didn’t buy anything. The only thing she took away from the stand was the handful of lavender I’d offered as a gift.
Bringing the tips of my fingers closer to my nose, I breathe in the faint scent of the purple flower embedded in my skin, my perplexed frown replaced with a broad grin.
There is no way she can smell this aroma and not think of me, right?
“One can dream,” I mumble in the silver moonlight.
Chapter Six
Madison
There’s a lull in our conversation at the café, and I wonder if Ralph is just being a big tease. When he finishes his plate, he leans back from the table and swipes his mouth with his napkin a final time.
“George is my only kin. He’s my grandson and sole heir to the farm.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“I see.” I push my half-eaten entree to the side. “What happened to his parents?”
He gulps some tea before he speaks, his voice lowered among the evening chatter of other patrons in the café as if someone might overhear our conversation.
“My daughter, Meredith, died giving birth to him thirty-five years ago. Her death shattered my son-in-law, Tyler. We were all distraught, which was to be expected. It was a devastating time in all of our lives.” He pauses, his eyes glazingover with grief, as if the event happened recently, not over thirty years ago.
I am stunned by this heartbreaking news, unsure if I need to know all of this.
