Love in Lavender_Sweet Contemporary Beach Romance

by Elana Johnson

  “Sure I can.” He gave her smile, noting that all the windows on the van were glazed dark. His defenses went up, especially because her “mom” still hadn’t made an appearance. Crime was low in Hawthorn Harbor—one reason he hadn’t gone to the police academy to make his certifications a trifecta in public service.

  But still. This non-moving van, with all those black windows, and a little girl in the middle of the road… Drew proceeded with caution.

  She played with the end of her pale ponytail. “My mom will try to tell you she can do it herself.” Her voice pitched lower with every word and her eyes rounded. “But don’t believe her. We’ve been out here for over an hour, and she’s cried twice. ‘The flowers,’ she keeps saying.” The girl turned and skipped toward the van. “Come on.”

  Drew took out his phone and tapped out a message to his boss. On my way in, I ran across a motorist on the side of the road. Flat tire. Just north of mile marker seventeen on the Lavender Highway. Going to check it out.

  That way, if something happened, someone knew where he was. He’d been on the Lavender Highway hundreds of times, and he’d only stopped once—to deliver a baby almost ten years ago.

  He glanced around. It had been right around here too, closer to the farm than the town, out in the middle of nowhere. He wondered what had happened to Aaron and Gretchen Samuels, and the baby girl he’d wrapped in a towel before delivering the afterbirth.

  Let us know if you need help came back, and Drew pocketed his phone and shelved his memories of the last time he’d been out of a car on this stretch of the road so his senses could be on full alert.

  Chapter Two

  The roses ran through Gretchen’s mind. They were never going to make it. They couldn’t sit in a car for so long and still be fresh. Though she’d wrapped the stems in damp towels, the way she always did, the April sun had risen an hour ago, baking her dark brown van while she tried to get the lug nuts to work with her instead of against her.

  “Mom, someone finally drove by.” Dixie returned, her voice chipper as usual. Gretchen coached herself not to snap at her daughter. She’d been helpful that morning in the gardens while Gretchen had attended to the apiary.

  She groaned as she thought about the honey sitting in the van too. It had probably oozed all over by now, and she didn’t dare open the door to check. Instead, she straightened, very aware of the kink in her back. So she wasn’t as young as she once was. She’d slept little the night before, thus prompting the pre-dawn trip out to the garden to gather the flowers she needed for the wedding that afternoon.

  A scream gathered in the back of her throat, where she worked to tamp it down. She’d arranged so many weddings in the three years of owning and operating The Painted Daisy that a shriek was the only response she had left.

  But weddings paid better than baptisms, than birthday parties, than first dates. The only things better were Valentine’s Day and funerals, and one of those only came around once a year. So Gretchen took on every wedding that came her way—which was a lot, as Hawthorn Harbor seemed to be a popular place to tie the knot.

  “Who drove by?” she asked her daughter as she braced one palm against her lower back and attempted to straighten further. The crunch of footsteps on gravel came closer, and finally a man appeared at the edge of the van.

  Tall, with dark hair, a full beard that was salted with just the right amount of maturity, and deep, brown pools for eyes, Gretchen drank in the sight of the man like she hadn’t tasted water in years.

  “That man.” Dixie pointed to him. “He said he can change a tire.”

  Gretchen pulled the girl to her side. “You talked to him?” The way the man watched her, curiosity almost in his expression, unnerved her. And why hadn’t he spoken?

  He stepped closer. “Looks like you really do have a flat.” He said it like he hadn’t believed Dixie. She did have the cutest, impish little face. A jokester, like her father. But Gretchen couldn’t stay mad at her for longer than thirty seconds, it seemed.

  “I can handle it,” Gretchen said, though she hadn’t even managed to get off the offending tire yet. And with the wedding looming in just six hours, things were starting to get tight on her timeline.

  “She can’t handle it,” Dixie blurted. Gretchen’s fingers gripped her daughter’s shoulder. “Mom, you can’t. You don’t even know if we have a spare.”

  She’d been waiting to look, not wanting to disturb the flowers. “Of course we have a spare,” she said anyway. She’d bought the van from a plumbing company, because the engine never seemed to stop running, had a lot of cargo space for her floral needs, and it had been cheap. And since Aaron’s death, she’d needed to be more frugal.

  The man came closer still, and something familiar triggered in her mind. He seemed to be staring at her with the same déjà vu expression on his face, and he asked, “Do I know you?”

  She almost snorted. Was that a pick-up line? Practically everyone in Hawthorn Harbor knew one another—which made it strange that she didn’t quite know his name either.

  “I—I’m—” She cut off. He didn’t get to sit at her personal table and know her private past. She’d spent every summer here, so if he had too, or he’d grown up here, he probably knew of her. “I’m Gretchen Samuels. I spent summers on my granddad’s lavender farm back the way you were coming.”

  A smile lit up his face, which only made him more handsome. An injustice, really, because how was she supposed to defend against his straight, white teeth and those eyes that now shone like stars?

  “Gretchen Samuels. You don’t say.” He stepped again, almost close enough now to reach out and touch her. She remained stiff and unyielding, still unsure of who he was. “And this must be the little girl I delivered right along here somewhere. What’d you name her again? Was it…Dixie?”

  All at once, understanding slammed into Gretchen’s chest. She gasped at the air, her mind racing, tumbling, aligning his face and his voice with the events of her past.

  “Drew Herrin?” she whispered.

  His laughter filled the sky, completely eradicating any remaining misgivings she had about accepting his help. After all, he’d guided her through her one and only labor, and they’d all survived that harrowing event.

  “So,” he said once he’d quieted. “Can I take a look at it?”

  She stepped back, drawing Dixie with her. “Be my guest.” She gestured to the stubborn lug nuts, sure they’d never come off, even for him. He seemed bigger than she remembered, but she’d been in a lot of pain and lying on the backseat of a car.

  Drew crouched and touched the rim with one finger.

  “Dix, that’s the paramedic who delivered you.”

  “It is?” Dixie looked back and forth between Drew and Gretchen. “No way!” Dixie loved the story of her birth, and Gretchen had told it to her many, many times. Especially after Aaron’s passing, Dixie wanted to know more and more about him. It wasn’t uncommon for Dixie to climb into bed with Gretchen and say, “Tell me something about Dad I don’t know.”

  She crouched down next to Drew. “What are you doing?”

  He glanced at her, that same kindness in his face though he’d grown into his age now. Gretchen hugged herself and watched as he told her about the lug nuts. “This one’s stripped,” he said with a sigh. He didn’t look at Gretchen when he said, “Someone probably used the wrong sized tool on it. I’ll see what I have in my truck.”

  He left the X-shaped tool she’d found in the back of the van on the ground where she’d dropped it and headed back to his truck. Dixie skipped after him, already completely at ease with him. She’d gotten really good at spending time with adults since Gretchen had come to Hawthorn Harbor and started The Painted Daisy. Weddings required her to work afternoons and evenings, and that meant she needed to rely on others to help with Dixie. It had been difficult at first, but they’d both had three years of practice, and Gretchen wasn’t surprised at all to see her sticking to Drew like his new shadow.

>   “Oh!” She pulled out her phone and dialed the elementary school they’d been heading to. Dixie was now late, and Gretchen’s anxiety increased with every passing moment Drew didn’t return with the right tool.

  She explained the situation to the school secretary and hung up just as Dixie bounded back and opened the back of the van.

  “Whoa, whoa,” Gretchen said. “What’s—what are you doing?”

  “Drew said we need to make sure we have a spare before we do anything else.”

  “He can’t find the right tool, can he?” She glanced back to where he still rummaged around in the back of his truck. He was probably secretly hoping there was no spare.

  Dixie reached into the van, and Gretchen leapt forward. “Let me, Dix. Let me.” She lifted the very edge of the floor mat and tried to peer underneath, the way she had when she’d retrieved the lug nut tool. Gingerly, she shifted the roses she and Dixie had clipped that morning, pushing them further forward. She tried to ignore that the towels were nearly dry, that some of the flower heads drooped a bit.

  She could still do the boutonnieres, the centerpieces, and the bride’s bouquet. This wedding was all roses, from cream, to white, to pale purple and pink, to deep crimson red. They’d just need a bit of extra floral tape, maybe some well-concealed pins. She’d taken one flower arranging class at the community center in Seattle, the year Dixie started school and Gretchen didn’t have much to fill the empty hours at home.

  She’d been in the middle of a baking class at the time of Aaron’s accident, and she pushed those thoughts away as she finally freed enough of the floor mat to peel it back. She stared into the empty space where the spare should’ve been.

  Pure defeat slumped her shoulders and she spun when she heard Drew’s deep voice ask, “Did you find the spare, Dixie?”

  A slip of annoyance mixed with embarrassment and entered her bloodstream. She drew in a deep breath and steeled herself. “There’s no spare.”

  “No spare?” Dixie stepped past her as if she didn’t believe her.

  Gretchen’s mind raced. She had a broken down van full of flowers she needed for a wedding in six hours. Scratch that. Five hours and forty-five minutes. Dixie needed to go to school, as she was going home with Jess, a boy only a year older than her whose mother was Gretchen’s best friend.

  Her pulse thumped in her chest, and she pressed her palm over it, feeling the ba-bump, ba-bump against her skin. Could she cancel the wedding? She shook her head at herself. There was no way she could pull out of the wedding now. She’d already taken half of the money, and there was no one to replace her. She’d lose a ton of business if she didn’t show up as promised, with the contracted bouquets and arrangements.

  “How about we get all these flowers into the back of my truck?” Drew asked, already reaching past her, a wide smile stretching his mouth. “Then we better get Miss Dixie to school and your mom—” His eyes flicked toward her for only a fraction of a second. “To the florist. And then I have to check in with my boss.”

  So he was going to be late for work because of her. Great.

  “That’s not necessary,” she said as he lifted an armful of red roses and turned toward his truck. Her anxiety kicked up a notch at the thought of what was in the back of his truck, and what might happen to the flowers back there.

  “Mo-om,” Dixie whined. “Help us move these flowers. I have music this morning and I don’t want to miss it.”

  Gretchen got to work, relieved when she found a tarp lying in the bed of Drew’s truck. They got the flowers moved in only a few minutes, and she spread the almost dry towels over them to preserve the petals as much as possible.

  She climbed into the cab, the situation far from ideal. She needed that van to transport the arrangements this afternoon, and very little funds to get it fixed. One problem at a time, she told herself. She’d get Dixie to school and get her flowers into the refrigerator at the shop and go from there.

  Drew waited out front while Gretchen ran Dixie into the front office at the elementary school and checked her in. Dixie hadn’t missed music and that gave Gretchen a measure of relief.

  When she climbed back into the cab with Drew, the atmosphere turned a bit charged. She hadn’t realized how much of a barrier Dixie had provided, and she pointed to the right. “My shop is that way.”

  Granddad used to load her bike in the back of his truck and bring her downtown on the weekends. He worked the farmer’s market with his lavender oils, soaps, honeys, and sachets. He infused lavender in everything, and his lemon lavender scones and dark chocolate lavender bark with salted almonds were bestsellers at the markets as well as the Lavender Festival. She’d ridden all over the town, laid on her back in the park, and gone swimming in the inlet on the west side of town.

  Her chest pinched as she thought about her grandparents and their farm. They’d sold it five years ago, and at the time, she hadn’t thought she’d miss it that much. She’d been completely engrossed in her life in the city, and though Hawthorn Harbor was only two hours away from Seattle, Gretchen didn’t make it out to visit them as often as she should.

  As the familiar shops passed—a bakery called The Honey Bun, a cluster of restaurants including a pizzeria, the 602 diner, and several fast-casual placed Gretchen frequented each week—Drew glanced at her. “She’s a great kid,” he said.

  “She always was,” Gretchen agreed. “Remember how she didn’t even cry when she was born?” She basked in the happy warmth of the memory and catalogued it so she could tell Dixie about it that night.

  Drew chuckled and nodded. “That’s right. I’d forgotten about that. You know, that scared me,” he said. “We want babies to cry when they’re born. Clear that liquid out of their lungs.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  The barbershop went by, with the salon right next to it. The dog groomer, with its big white van that made house calls and had the cutest cartoon dog on the side, the library, and the movie theater.

  “How long have you had the florist shop?” he asked.

  “Three years.” She nodded for a reason she couldn’t name. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d skipped breakfast. Her head felt a little soft, like she needed more sleep to truly function properly. She had a few packaged snacks at the shop, and that would have to do, because she didn’t have time for food today.

  “So what brought you and Aaron back to town?” Drew pulled to a stop at the light, looking at her fully.

  “Oh, uh.” Gretchen hadn’t had to explain about her late husband in a couple of years now. “Aaron passed away three years ago.” She gave short little bursts of her head. “My grandparents had already sold the lavender farm, but I’ve always loved Hawthorn Harbor, so Dixie and I decided to come here. The Painted Daisy was up for sale, and I’d taken a class, so…” She told herself to stop talking. Most people didn’t know what to say once they learned of Aaron’s death, and Gretchen had learned to fill that silence.

  Drew wore a look of sympathy. “Gretchen, I’m so sorry.” Those dark, caring eyes pulled at her, and she cleared her throat and pointed at the light, which had turned green. Drew watched her for another second and then eased forward, no awkwardness in his expression or body language at all. Gretchen supposed he probably dealt with emergencies and death more than the average person.

  “Anyway.” She exhaled, glad to almost be alone with her flowers again. “I was able to rent the land with my grandmother’s flowers on it. Thankfully, the new owners hadn’t demolished them yet. And now I do this.” She tried to sound happy about it. Most days she was. She made enough to keep her and Gretchen in a comfortable home, albeit with a vehicle that was almost as old as she was.

  He nodded, something storming across his face. She should ask him about his family, as she knew a different neighbor must live next door to her granddad’s farm now. Before she could ask, he pulled over in front of the shop.

  “I’ll call someone to go get that tire changed for you.” He draped his hands laz
ily over the steering wheel. “Heck, my crew and I might be able to do it. Depends on how busy we are.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  He started to unbuckle and she practically lunged for the door handle.

  “I can get the flowers,” she said.

  “There’s way more than you can carry.” He didn’t seem to take no for an answer, and Gretchen was already too tired to argue. Her head ached, and her stomach clenched, but together, she and Drew got the flowers into her shop.

  “Thank you so much, Drew,” she said. “Again. You’re always there when I need you.” And he always had been. He’d been kind to her when she came to visit for the summers. Shown her how to harvest lavender, hang it in the cellar to dry, and steep it to draw the most fragrance from it. Not to mention delivering Dixie a decade ago and then helping with the flat tire this morning. Thank you didn’t seem adequate, but she didn’t have anything else to give him.

  He saluted with a smile. “Happy to help.” He ambled back toward his truck, and she marveled at how laid back and carefree he’d always been. Everything in her life felt so tense, and she envied his nonchalance.

  Gretchen waved and went inside her shop. Pressing her back against the closed door, she shut her eyes and just breathed.

  Chapter Three

  By the time Drew arrived at work, he was eighty minutes late. He checked in with Jean, the supervisor, and detailed what had happened out at mile marker seventeen. “Do you think we can send a couple of guys out there to take care of the van?”

  “Seeing as how I’ve got Russ doing inventory for the third time this month, I think we can spare you two.” Jean pulled out some paperwork that she’d probably looked at a dozen times. “This is really more of Adam’s department, though.” She peered at Drew over the top of her glasses, the question clear in her expression.

  “Oh, don’t call Adam.” Drew waved his hand dismissively, his tone dry. “I’ll let him know what happened.” For some reason, Drew wanted to take care of the van for Gretchen. It wasn’t his fault her tire had gone flat, or that she’d used the wrong tool and stripped the lug nuts. It wasn’t his fault that her van had no spare tire, or that her husband had died, leaving her with a cute daughter to raise alone.