by Ava Miles
“Never. Look, I did talk to Aunt Clara and mentioned you needing a chaperone.”
“And here I was thinking you’re a good listener. When I talked to her about coming, it was for the sheer pleasure of having her and Uncle Arthur visit. I distinctly remember telling you I don’t need a chaperone.”
“That woman needs a hobby,” he said. “Do you know how many scarves and sweaters she’s already knitted for Christmas? It’s driving Uncle Arthur crazy.”
Caitlyn glanced at her knitting project tucked on the bedside table. Pathetic. She hadn’t had much time to devote to it lately. Her perfume homework and this new enterprise had dominated her thoughts these last few weeks.
“Fine, I’ll call them. If they want to come, I’d love to see them. But I don’t. Need. A. Chaperone.” Or a matchmaker, as her aunt and uncle seemed to consider themselves. Beau had almost kissed her today, which suggested they were doing fine on their own.
Her eyes darted to the unsigned contract on the desk. Was she screwing everything up? Oh, crap, she wasn’t sure. When she was with Beau, all she wanted to do was cuddle up next to him and feel his arms go around her. Staring at his unsigned contract was another matter. It gave her heartburn.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Flynn said. “You’ve got Ibrahim if you need a buffer from Country Boy. Not that it sounds like you do. But be sure, Caitlyn. You have a lot riding on this, and with him still unsigned…”
“I know, I know.” She gave a little shriek because it felt good. “What time is it in Colorado right now?”
“I need to get you a world clock,” he said. “You suck at navigating time zones. They’re seven hours behind you.”
She did the math. “Too early to call. I’ll give it a few hours. How are you, by the way? Is your model still proving entertaining?”
“As a Vegas floor show,” he said. “We had the most divine meal last night followed by some—”
“Please! You know my rule. I’m happy to hear about your peccadillos if you need advice. Otherwise, you’re my brother. Yuck.”
“You’re such a prude,” Flynn said. “See ya, Caity girl.”
He hung up, and she found herself tapping her foot on the stone floor. Prude? That got her back up. She was feeling a little insecure these days after Jace the Jerk. The only person she’d told about the whole boob-job thing was Michaela. She’d sworn her to secrecy, fearing Flynn and Trevor and J.T. might decide to visit Jace the Jerk themselves. She wasn’t so sure about Quinn and Connor. They loved her, but would they step away from their laptops and conference room meetings long enough to defend her honor? Something inside her felt squirrelly at the thought. It reminded her too much of her dad and how much he used to work.
Suddenly she had a flash of her dad pressing some strongly scented present into her hands.
He’d just come back from Provence. Wait! Seriously? Yes, he had, she recalled. Her birthday had been coming up, and although her mom had usually been the one to buy the gifts, he’d thought of her on his trip. When he worked twenty hours a day. The paper box had contained three beautifully wrapped lavender soaps. A set, he’d said. The region was famous for its lavender. She’d wrapped her arms around him, the love and gratitude as strong as the scent enveloping her.
She decided to text him, something she normally didn’t do.
Hey Dad! Hope you’re doing great. Miss you! Listen, I don’t know if I properly thanked you for buying me those lavender soaps for my sixteenth birthday. Teenager, right? But I’m here at the farmhouse with the lavender fields all around me, and I just remembered how sweet that present was so thanks. Love you!
She’d only used those soaps on special occasions, never wanting them to run out. But they had, she recalled. She could see the last, thin piece in her hands in the shower on the day of her graduation from Stanford. As it had disappeared in her hands, transforming into soap bubbles, her throat had backed up, and she’d actually cried at the loss of them.
God, Ibrahim had been right all along. She did have a reason for buying a lavender farm. It reminded her of an unexpected sweet gesture from a man she loved deeply but still didn’t completely know or understand.
Whoa.
She sank down on the bed. This perfume stuff was really freaky. And emotional. And heavier than expected. Heck, she needed a tissue right now, just thinking about all that. If it was affecting her so much, it would affect other women, right?
That’s what she really wanted.
It struck her that she could use some emotional buffers, what with Ibrahim stirring up her memories and Beau stirring up everything else. Aunt Clara and Uncle Arthur might keep her from going to the dark side. She almost laughed at the thought.
Working for a few hours, answering emails and checking in with her skincare people, righted the balance inside her. Of course, she could do this perfume thing. If swimming in some uncomfortable emotional waters was necessary, she’d do it along with her homework. Wasn’t falling in love a little emotional?
When the afternoon sunlight started to wane, she shut her laptop and called her aunt and uncle. Aunt Clara picked up on FaceTime right away. Uncle Arthur was grumbling at the kitchen table, his unshaven face half visible.
“Hello, dear,” Aunt Clara said. “We just finished breakfast. Flynn texted me you were going to call. How’s everything there? Your pictures of the lavender fields have got my feet itching to travel. Please say you’re open to a visit. I’m not sure I can hold Arthur back much longer.”
Her uncle’s snort made her laugh. “Hold me back? Woman, we were just in Ireland. I know you want to see all these flowers before they fade, but seriously, I’m too old to be a jet setter.”
“Eighty is the new forty,” her aunt said, not missing a beat. “Besides, you have no hobbies. And traveling keeps one young.”
“You look younger and younger,” Caitlyn said, happy to see her aunt still had the newlywed glow. “Both of you. And yes, please come visit. You’ll love Ibrahim, my perfume master. Our celebrity spokesperson, Beau Masters, is here too.”
“I’ve seen some of his videos, dear,” Aunt Clara said, fanning herself. “He’s a hottie.”
“Seemed a bit uptight to me,” Uncle Arthur said. “Too buttoned-up for my tastes.”
Her aunt swatted him. “Oh, stop fussing. He’s a clean-cut young man. I remember you looking pretty much the same way in New York in the late fifties when we first met.”
“I had panache back then, Clara. Good Lord, if you’re going to tell a story that old, get it right.”
“Panache, was it? I thought that was all me, dear. Oh, never mind. Well, Caitlyn, I’ll give Hargreaves the good news, and we’ll be on our way as soon as we can. Open-ended visit like we did with Trevor?”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll make sure everything is ready. Uncle Arthur, you’ll love the food. After all, you financed a French restaurant in Dare Valley.”
“It’s a burr in my saddle,” he said, “the way Brian tries to feed me snails swimming in some white wine butter sauce. I’m going on record, Caitlyn. When we come to visit, I won’t eat anything that slides across the ground.”
Her aunt’s mirth made her sway on the chair, and Caitlyn found it hard not to laugh out loud. “Point made. You have my word. Oh, I’m so happy you’ll be coming,” she said, meaning every word. Now that she’d actually made the call, she knew it had been the right thing to do. “There’s so much to share.”
“Yes,” her aunt said, her laughter fading and tears sparkling in her blue eyes. “Isn’t it wonderful? See you soon, dear.”
They said goodbye, and she felt that odd tension in her chest again. Emotion, she realized, from Aunt Clara’s watery response. She knew how precious this new lot in life was to her aunt. Until recently, Aunt Clara had been estranged from Caitlyn’s father. A horrible argument had torn them apart, so much so that none of them had even met their aunt until recently. Shawn Merriam was uncompromising, and he’d run the Merriam business like his predecessors—wit
h grit, fearlessness, and hard work. That was the man he’d been pretty much twenty-four seven for as long as she remembered. Still was, perhaps, despite being retired. It was the kind of man she feared her older brothers, Quinn and Connor, were becoming.
Her dad’s text seemed to punctuate her thoughts.
Lavender soaps? You have a good memory. You’re welcome, I guess. It was a long time ago, Caity girl.
She shook her head in bemusement, holding on to that rare glimpse of a softer side of her dad, the man who’d bought her the lavender soaps… In her heart of hearts, she wished she could see that side of him more often.
She walked over to the window, looking out across the endless blue and purple stalks swaying in the fields. This time she inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill her olfactory neurons until it caused a corresponding reaction in her heart. She finally came to the full truth.
For her, lavender smelled like a father’s love.
Chapter 10
Sitting at the edge of a lavender field strumming his guitar wasn’t a bad way to handle his roiling emotions. Like rocks in a waterfall, Beau couldn’t stem the force—he needed to allow the thoughts and fears and worries to sweep over him.
His mother had cheated on her husband.
The thought seemed stuck in his mind like a sand burr in one’s shoe. Had she done it more than once? His gut flipped over. Did she know who his real father was? God almighty. Is that why she’d remained silent?
It struck him that perhaps Walt Masters had always known the truth. Maybe that was why he’d drunk so much, why he’d always seemed so hateful to his son.
He had so many questions, so many doubts. How could he find any peace if he didn’t know the truth?
Truth.
Who would have imagined that such a thing could be found in a perfume? And yet, he believed Ibrahim could do it. Beau had only just met the man, but he felt like he’d known him forever. Surely, he had a poet’s soul.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Only five people had his new number, and he was delighted to see it was his friend, Rye Crenshaw.
He switched his guitar to one hand and answered. “Well, ain’t this a happy surprise. How’s the family?”
“Tory’s pregnant again, so the family is just about as dandy as you can get.”
“Congratulations! I’m so happy for y’all.”
“You couldn’t possibly be happier than I am. Man, I get choked up thinking about it. Every time I see her, I stroke her belly. Driving her a little crazy with that, but she gets it. She’s over the moon too. Boone is still too young to understand, but I still point at her belly and say, ‘baby,’ and he laughs.”
The image lifted a smile on Beau’s face. “I didn’t know you when you were the bad boy of country music, but you sure are a bona fide family man now.” A couple of years ago, Rye and his sister, Tammy, had asked him to take part in their annual country music concert to raise money for abused women. They’d hit it off straight away and become the closest of friends.
“Indeed I am, and proud of it.”
There was an audible pause, and Beau knew his friend hadn’t only called to share his news. “Best tell me why you’re really calling.”
“You a mind reader now? I’m a bit reluctant to be an errand boy, but your mama has been stirring up trouble. She called me last night, saying you’d up and disappeared. She was worried you might have done something crazy. When I didn’t play along, she told me to give you a message.”
His guitar slipped from his hands and thudded to the soft earth. “What is it?”
He heard the sound an angry wolf might make when cornered, and then Rye said, “She wanted you to know she’s going to sign you to the Ryan Williams’ cologne if you don’t resurface.”
His mama had never threatened him before. His stomach turned queasy. He picked the guitar back up, needing the comfort of it. “I’m sorry she involved you,” he finally said.
“Me too, especially since I had to bite my tongue after she delivered that doozy. Bubba, what’s going on? I’m not a busybody, but when a mama threatens her son, trouble’s afoot. I speak from experience, all past, thank God.”
“I don’t know as I should say it…I haven’t told anybody.”
“Are we friends or not? Heck, there isn’t anything I haven’t done, so you needn’t be worried I’d ever throw a stone, not that I’m worried you did something stupid. You’re the most honest-to-goodness guy around.”
If that didn’t make him wince, he didn’t know what would. “Fine, it’s just…”
He wanted to cuss again, he realized. Something strong and foul and real. Good Beau never swore. But sometimes, in a frustrating moment, he wanted to let loose. Like now.
“Shit…” The word felt odd on his tongue. “Hell, Rye, I… My dad isn’t my real dad. I just found out.”
Rye gave a loud whoosh before saying, “Jesus, Beau, that’s… Shit is right. You only found out now?”
“Yeah.” He proceeded to tell his friend the whole story, clenching his hand around the top of his guitar the whole time, the strings cutting into his palm.
“No wonder you skipped town. I’m sorry for you, Bubba. How do you feel about it?”
“Rootless,” he said. “It’s funny. This album was supposed to figure all that out.”
“Perhaps it will,” his friend said. “No one said turning up rocks was fun.”
“No, they didn’t. Turning thirty gave me the push to look at all this, and now… I don’t know shit about myself, my mama, or my real daddy.”
“Funny how some part of us knows when we’re ready to face up to the darkness. Listen, I’ve had my own share of upheaval with my family. Let yourself feel whatever you need to feel. And, hell, Beau, maybe it’s time for you to let yourself go a little.”
“I’d been thinking along those lines.”
“Good, because I don’t normally recommend this as a matter of course, but maybe Beau Masters needs to get his bad boy on.”
“What do you mean?” he choked out.
“Do what you want for a change without anyone’s input or say-so. You hear what I’m saying, Beau?”
He coughed to clear the emotion in his throat. “Yes, thanks for that. I have been trying so hard to be this perfect guy for so long. Sometimes it’s exhausting.” Being a gentleman with Caitlyn was different, though. That was clear as glass to him.
“Sainthood must be, I think. I’m not saying you need to go all crazy, but maybe running wild would do you good.”
“As a reformed bad boy of country music, where would you suggest I start?”
Rye laughed. “I always loved me a good Stetson. I could pull the brim down over my forehead and no one could see my face. It was my kind of rebellion, I expect, after my own mama kept insisting that I smile in the face of lies and bad manners. I got pretty fed up with that.”
Beau would buy a black Stetson. He’d always admired men who could wear a killer cowboy hat. They had an attitude he didn’t possess. Bold, brash, confident. “Now that you mention it, I’m kinda sick of looking like a nice guy all the time.” Damn—yes, damn—button-down cotton shirts. “I always looked ready to go to church, and starched shirts makes my neck itch. What else did you do?”
“I liked monster trucks for a time. Tory turned me away from it, but it was fun while it lasted.”
Monster trucks didn’t interest him, but maybe a motorcycle? He’d always liked the look of them. He’d have to consider buying one when he returned to Nashville.
“I probably shouldn’t talk about all my drinking and women chasing, what with being a married man and all. I’m not saying you need to give that a go, but if you need a night out to kick the dust up, then you do it. Although, hell, do the French even have good bars?”
Beau looked around at the endless beauty of the lavender fields. “Not where I’m staying. It’s peaceful here. Farmland as far as the eye can see.” Exactly what he needed right now if he was being honest. Any running wild he did w
ould have to be his way—which likely wouldn’t involve any bars.
“The biggest thing, Bubba, if I may… Whatever you do, don’t lose sight of what’s important to you.”
Talk about honesty. First Ibrahim and now Rye. “I appreciate you saying so. I should let you go. Thanks for calling, Rye. Congrats on the baby. Sorry again about putting you in the middle of something.”
“Your mama is lucky I’m reformed, or I would have given her a piece of my mind. You call if you need anything. If I can help, I will.”
“I know that. Thanks, Rye.”
“Take care of yourself, Beau.”
The call ended, and Beau heard the bleating of a goat in the distance. He looked over and saw Chou-Chou trotting down a row of lavender straight toward him, his mouth tipped into what could have been confused for a smile.
“Hey, buddy,” he said, scratching the little fella under the ears when it butted him with its pointy head. “Since you don’t understand English, what I’m about to say won’t upset you none. My friend just called, and I’m pissed. My mama is pulling some real…shit.”
His mama would threaten to wash his mouth out with soap, hearing him talk like that. Oddly, the thought made him happy, like popping the cork on something bottled up too long. Take that, Mama.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
“Baa,” answered Chou-Chou.
“How about damn? Dammit. Damn you.” He thought of his mother, and his blood turned to lava in his veins. “Damn you, Mama. Damn you.” He heard some music in his mind. Guitar. But it was angry, and no words accompanied it. Yet.
His chest was as tight as an overstretched tarp over a fishing boat, and Chou-Chou leaned his head against him as if sensing his distress.
“I’m swearing with a foreign goat for a witness,” he mused as a hot breeze blew over them. God, it was almost a country music lyric. Not a dog for him, but a goat. He stood up. “Enough time for pity later. I have some shopping to do, Chou-Chou. Come on, let’s head on back to the house.”
The goat trailed behind him, his little legs kicking up the same dust Beau’s boots unearthed. The sight struck him. Rootless earth got carried away by the wind. It needed an anchor to stay on the ground. He glanced at the farmhouse, a bold punctuation in a sea of purple. Once again, it struck him that Caitlyn helped ground him.