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“Something you would know if you came before.” When he turns back to me, his dark gaze pins me in place, silently accusing. I think of what he said on the golf cart: Family is important here.

Guilt sweeps through me. All I need to do is tell him the truth, that my mom lied and I didn’t know Karmela was alive, but I cringe at the thought. Lily is the only one I’ve told the full story, and even she was shocked. I’m not about to hash out my trauma in this scorching heat, especially with an audience of strangers. Not a speck of sweat dots Luka’s features, which only irritates me more.

I cross my arms, mirroring his stance. “I told you, it’s complicated.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m sure.”

Tension crackles in the air, our own storm roiling between us.

“Petra,” Karmela calls, waving me over. Perfect timing.

Luka unfurls one arm, his jaw ticking as he gives me a strained smile. “After you, Hollywood.”

With an angry huff, I push away from the wall. “I’m not from there.”

As we make our way back to the house, I ask Karmela if she needs any help, but she dismisses my offer quickly. We walk the rest of the way in silence.

With each step, Luka’s comment digs into me. There’s so much I don’t know about Karmela, my family. I don’t even know where to start. As we approach the house, its hulking structure looming over us, a question springs to my mind.

“What is MK?” I ask Karmela as we enter, the strong scent of lavender enveloping us. At the look of confusion she gives me, I point up in the direction of the engraving on the home’s facade.

“Oh,” she replies. “That is Marko Klarin. He built this house. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I say hesitantly, peering at the peeling plaster, decay blooming on the walls. Maybe it once was, but not anymore. “Luka said that it is called Lavender House?” My words come out stuttering, my Croatian still out of practice.

Karmela nods. “Do you know the story, why he built it?”

Confused, I shake my head. “No.”

Delight brightens Karmela’s face, clearing her earlier gloom. “Come, I’ll tell you.”

She directs me to the living room, where I settle onto the musty couch. She joins me a moment later, carrying a pitcher filled with a purple-hued liquid. “It’s lavender lemonade,” she says. “I made it this morning.”

I take a sip. The coolness is refreshing, the lavender infusing the drink with a faintly floral flavor.

As Karmela pours herself a glass, I examine the room. The paint on the walls is deteriorating here too, pockmarked with brown splotches and exposed limestone. A thick, faded rug covers most of the floor, while a large stone fireplace dominates the opposite wall, its mantel adorned with antique candlesticks and a glass vase of dried lavender. Grim portraits of various saints and other religious figures stare from ornate frames. The only one I recognize is a photo of Pope John Paul II.

I pause on a large painting displayed above the fireplace, depicting a blonde woman with light eyes seated in an armchair. There’s a regal elegance to her features, emphasized by her high-necked blouse and intricately embroidered coat. A bold necklace with silver beads and a large cross is clasped around her neck, and her hands hold a delicate bouquet of lavender. Behind her looms a man with dark hair and a thick mustache set over a frown.

“That’s Marko and his wife, Ana,” Karmela says slowly, pointing to the picture. “They were friends since they were children. When they got older, he wanted to marry her, but her parents, they didn’t like that, because Marko was poor.” She grimaces, though I’m not sure which part she finds displeasing—the disapproval or Marko’s lack of money.

“So then Marko went to church and asked God what to do. And God told him to plant more lavender. Do you understand?”

I hesitate, scrambling to translate. “God . . . talked to Marko?”

Karmela nods enthusiastically. “Yes. So Marko did as God said, even though the people—” I miss part of her sentence but catch the rest. “They called him ‘Lavender Man.’ They thought he was crazy.”

I shift in my seat, unsure what to make of this. I would also be skeptical of God speaking to someone, but maybe the idea just happened to come to him while he was in church.

“He sold the oil, became very rich,” Karmela goes on. “He used the money to make this house. When it was finished, he went to Ana’s parents and asked to marry her again. This time, they said yes.”

Karmela rises and moves to a nearby china cabinet, rummaging through a drawer. After a minute of searching, she hands me an aged photograph. It’s black-and-white, the details sun-bleached, but I can make out a young man, in his twenties or so, standing in the lavender field.

“This is their son, Nikola.”

He has dark hair like Marko, but he resembles his mom more. He gazes coolly at the camera, his pale eyes and regal features a striking contrast against his simple and rugged outfit. One of his legs is propped up on a large rock and a sickle dangles from his hand.

“He is handsome, no?” Karmela teases.