Love Among Lavender

by Ava Miles

  He hadn’t expected to feel grounded in a place called Provence.

  But he did.

  Now it was time for more truth. He called Dr. Clarridge when he reached the edge of the field. When she answered, he said, “Doc, you might have already figured this out, but that baby tooth I gave you was from the man I thought to be my real father.” He cleared his throat. “Seems he’s not. Is there any way for you to tell me more about my ancestry or my real daddy’s genes?”

  “That news must have been deeply distressing for you, Beau,” Dr. Clarridge said. “But to answer your question, yes, I can isolate out what your sample contains to approximate your paternal side better, but it’s not going to be significant without a sample from your mother.”

  He had to press his hand to his gut to draw a breath. “That’s impossible.” His mama had made that point effectively.

  “Well… You might also consider whether you’re interested in finding other biological relatives.”

  What? He felt lightheaded at the idea. “That’s possible?”

  “We can upload your DNA to several databases and see if anyone is a match. I can’t promise we’d find your real father or even any relations. Uploading raw DNA is still a new phenomenon, but you might be surprised. It’s a serious decision, Beau.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He tipped his head back, the blue sky too bright for his eyes. “Let’s do it. I want answers, and if this can provide them…” He cautioned himself that he didn’t have to reach out to any relation Dr. Clarridge might find. If it turned out his real father was as bad as Walt, he could take the genetic information and leave the rest in the past, much like he’d planned to do with Walt after this search.

  “I’ll be back in touch soon,” Dr. Clarridge said. “Goodbye, Beau.”

  “Bye, Doc.”

  He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. She might be able to find his people. Could he have half brothers and sisters? An entire family tree he didn’t know about?

  His mind wandered back to his mama. Would she really commit him to the Ryan Williams deal in his absence? He didn’t think she’d dare. If he called her about it, he’d be giving her what she wanted. A bad boy would ignore her, and that was what he planned to do.

  “Beau!”

  Caitlyn was striding across the lawn toward him. The sun played off her brown hair, bringing out different shades of brown and red. The easy sway of her hips drew his mind away from his troubles, but it was the wide smile on her face that shoved them off for good.

  “Hey!” He pocketed his phone, Chou-Chou at his side.

  “You seem to have a new friend,” she said. “I hope you’re ready to make a couple more. My Aunt Clara and Uncle Arthur are coming to visit. They’re eighty-year-old newlyweds. You’re going to love them.”

  More family? Was this her way of slowing them down?

  Of course, he hadn’t even kissed her yet, so they could hardly go much slower. Maybe she was just excited to see her family. At the thought of kissing her, his eyes lifted to her lips. Was it too soon? Would it be weird with a goat around? Plus, he was all sweaty and dusty from being in the fields. She’d want a more romantic moment for their first kiss, wouldn’t she? She deserved it. Yes, there was plenty of time for a proper kiss.

  “Would you be interested in a stroll in the fields after dinner tonight?”

  The smell of her, fresh, floral, and little musky, reached him. He took her hand. You’re the lavender holding my earth in place.

  “I’d love that,” she said, smiling. “Are you okay though? You seem upset again.”

  He thought of his troubles—ones he wouldn’t dump in her lap. Touching the line of her cheek, he couldn’t hold them in his mind.

  “I’m better now,” he answered, the truth as clear as day.

  Being with her was the only thing that made sense.

  Chapter 11

  The black cowboy hat should have alerted Caitlyn that something was amiss when it arrived two days later.

  Except Beau looked so hot in the Stetson—like the Marlboro ads of old—that all the spit had dried up in her mouth when he’d walked into the kitchen with it on, fresh from the shower. Speechless, she’d actually given him a thumbs-up. She’d hoped he’d wear it when they took their stroll after dinner, something they did like clockwork, holding hands as they walked through the rows of lavender as the moon was rising, sharing stories about themselves.

  The hat was practical too. It kept the hot Provence sun off his head, after all, and the hours he was spending playing guitar in the fields had started to show on his suntanned face. He hadn’t shaved for two days either, and my, oh, my, a little scruff looked sexy on him. She kept wondering how it would feel against her skin when he finally kissed her, something their strolls hadn’t produced yet. Apparently this whole courting thing went at a snail’s pace.

  It wasn’t until the next morning she realized he was intentionally changing his image. She noticed the ripped seam at the shoulder of his new white T-shirt and offered to sew it for him. He flinched for a moment and then sputtered out a laugh, except it was more like a car backfiring. “This is intentional, Caitlyn.”

  Since when did Beau Masters wear ripped clothing? Later she noticed he’d tucked his T-shirt into his jeans, a thick hand-tooled leather belt visible at his waist.

  Weren’t these external signs of whatever internal turmoil was plaguing him? He hadn’t told her more about them—“courting isn’t counseling,” he’d said on their first after-dinner stroll—and she’d respected his privacy, telling herself it was enough to hold his hand and hear stories about his favorite fishing spot as a boy or his favorite music teacher who’d seen promise in him.

  While she worked during the day on business matters, he worked in the fields on his new songs. So far, the new album was giving him fits. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was trying out for a country version of Don Quixote. Except she didn’t know if Don Quixote had ever played the guitar in lavender fields. Tipped windmills, sure. And Beau’s companion wasn’t Sancho Panza, but Chou-Chou, the trusty goat.

  She shouldn’t worry about him, but his color seemed a touch gray sometimes under his burgeoning sun-kissed skin, like a sour bottom note under a heavy heart note.

  “He’s working things out,” Ibrahim said from behind her. He’d caught her watching Beau as he ambled off into the fields after breakfast, Chou-Chou at his heels.

  She turned to look at him. “He’s upset,” she said, stating the obvious.

  He laughed. “Aren’t we all? He can only find the answers he’s looking for alone. No one can reach inside us and pull out what’s festering. Can’t turn straw into gold.”

  She made a rude noise before she thought better of it. “Ibrahim, I figured out why I chose lavender. My dad bought me some lavender soap when I turned sixteen.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm? Is that all you’re going to say? You said I’d remember when I was ready.”

  He patted her arm. “And so the process of discovery has begun. For us all. Oh, the perfume we’re making.”

  She watched him leave the main room, most likely to his laboratory. These men were going to drive her crazy! Thank God, her aunt and uncle were due to arrive today.

  A few hours later, Claude pulled into the circular driveway. The sunlight made her wish for sunglasses, the lavender swaying like hot purple straw in the fields.

  The door popped open, and Hargreaves exited the passenger’s seat. Aunt Clara’s butler since the late 1960s, he didn’t look his eighty years. Good breeding and clean living, she’d heard him say. He gave her a warm but inscrutable smile.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Caitlyn,” he said, extending his hand to help Aunt Clara out of the car.

  “Hargreaves! How many times do I have to tell you to drop the whole ‘miss’ thing?” Caitlyn asked.

  “As many times as you’d like, Miss,” he answered.

  Aunt Clara threw out her arms, almost hitting Hargreaves,
who stepped back quickly. “Caitlyn, my darling!”

  She was one half Auntie Mame, one half something all her own. All of it was welcome. They needed a little life in this house—a little vibrant volatility to match the lavender in the fields. Hugging her, Caitlyn said, “Aunt Clara! I’m so happy you’re here.”

  “What about me?” Uncle Arthur barked, exiting the car and slamming the door before Hargreaves could close it. “My bones are protesting all these long trips to see you Merriam kids. Why can’t you live in Dare Valley like J.T.?”

  “Because my brother has a purpose for living there while I prefer to be here.” She gestured to the farmhouse. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  “Breathtaking,” her aunt sighed, wrapping an arm around her waist. “My heavens, Hargreaves and I should have lived here years ago instead of that drab funeral home in Manhattan.”

  Her Park Avenue home had been very drab, or so Trevor and J.T. had said. Caitlyn had never been there. “You’re better off in Dare Valley with your new husband over there. How’s it going, Uncle Arthur? You up to a third honeymoon in a year?”

  “You bet your sweet derrière, as the French would say,” he said, kissing her briskly on the cheek. “I suppose this isn’t such a bad place. Hell if you had allergies though.”

  “Then you’re safe,” Aunt Clara said. “His bark is so bad hay fever would never dare bother him.”

  Her uncle snorted. “My bark is much worse than my bite. As you know, dear. So who’s this country singer you’ve shacked up with? Flynn told me to keep an eye on him, although he says he’s mostly a good egg.”

  She swatted him. “Oh, stop! I haven’t shacked up with anybody.”

  Her aunt said, “Too bad, dear. He’s rather handsome if a little stiff.”

  “You’ll like Beau. He’s a nice guy.” Certainly, he didn’t seem stiff anymore, wearing a black Stetson and ripped T-shirts every day.

  “I’ve listened to some of his music,” Aunt Clara said as they walked to the house. “Those songs of his are downright sweet.”

  “I gave up being sweet in 1958 when I went to the Big Apple to make my way in the world,” Uncle Arthur said. “Sweet will get your ass kicked.”

  Her aunt rolled her eyes. “You weren’t sweet, that was for sure, but I’ve always been more attracted to serious and intense. Like you are now.”

  “Hah! Did you hear that, Hargreaves?” Her uncle was following them with Hargreaves just behind.

  “I’m trying not to listen, sir,” Hargreaves said, causing them all to laugh.

  “Claude, if you’ll bring in the bags,” she called before they crossed the threshold.

  “Oh, look at the bold way you decorated this place,” Aunt Clara said. “Arthur, we may need to tear down some of the walls in our house and replace them with stone ones. This is brilliant.”

  “I’ll get the sledgehammer out when we return, my love,” her uncle said, not missing a beat. “So where are you stashing us old folks?”

  She pointed to the staircase. “You’ll be on the second floor with all of us.”

  Her uncle tapped the stone floor. “At least stone doesn’t squeak like wood. I won’t hear you sneaking around at night, Caitlyn, if you have a mind to.”

  Caitlyn flushed.

  “Arthur! Behave yourself.” Aunt Clara patted her back. “Don’t mind him. He’s cross from the traveling. If you show us our rooms, I’ll put him down for a nap.”

  “Is that what we’re calling it?” her uncle asked.

  She swatted him again. “Then we’ll dress for dinner and have some champagne. Wait! It’s rosé here in Provence.”

  “I have a sparkling rosé you’ll go nuts over,” Caitlyn said.

  “So long as Hargreaves carries you up to our room if you overindulge,” Uncle Arthur said. “You’d break my back.”

  Hargreaves said, “I’ll make sure to keep up my regimen of dumbbells and pushups while we’re here, Madam, in case the need should arise.”

  Hargreaves shared a smirk with Uncle Arthur. Oh, how nice to see. How they managed it, all of them living together, she didn’t know. But her aunt had said she couldn’t do without Hargreaves, and from what little Caitlyn had seen of him, she understood. He was a butler who took care of things. And he had the kind of insightfulness only possible for someone who’d spent a lifetime anticipating others’ needs.

  “I thought I’d come out of my lab and introduce myself,” she heard Ibrahim say. “Caitlyn has been telling me all about you. Ibrahim Magdy at your service.”

  “Clara Merriam Hale.” Her aunt was already moving toward him. “Oh, my, it’s wonderful to meet you. Flynn told me I was going to adore talking to you. My love for perfume started with my grandmother. She wore Arpège, and the day she let me dot some on my wrist and behind my ears from that black Art Deco bottle, I felt all grown up. My, how I loved that perfume.”

  “A classic,” Ibrahim said, raising her aunt’s hand and kissing the back of it. “With sixty-two notes, only a woman confident in herself can wear it.”

  If the gallant hand-kissing hadn’t already taken Caitlyn aback, his words certainly would have. “Did you say sixty-two?” she asked. According to the research she’d done on perfumes, that number was way over the top.

  “Yes, cherie.” Turning to her uncle, he said, “And you must be the legendary Arthur Hale. Flynn told me about the newspaper you founded in the United States. That you won a Pulitzer. It’s an honor to meet someone who devoted himself to printing the truth and expressing thought-provoking opinions. I looked up some of your articles online. You have a way with facts and words, Mr. Hale.”

  “Arthur, please,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “Caitlyn tells us a master perfumer must be able to distinguish close to four thousand distinct scents. How is that even possible?”

  “We are all born with gifts, are we not? And you must be Hargreaves. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Hargreaves bowed. “And you, sir.”

  Ibrahim’s nostrils flared, something Caitlyn was starting to notice.

  “Eau Sauvage by Dior,” he said. “An elegant choice.”

  “Madam gifted it to me when I first went into service with her, and it’s suited me all these years.”

  “Good God, Hargreaves!” Uncle Arthur said. “You wear perfume too?”

  The butler’s mouth twitched. “Cologne, sir, although it’s technically not from Cologne.”

  “Like crémant not being real champagne,” Caitlyn said.

  “Hello!” Beau’s voice boomed, and then he came striding into the house, that sexy black Stetson sitting on his head like he was born to wear it. It struck Caitlyn that he was changing right before her eyes, shifting in his very bones—the pieces that made him what and who he was.

  “I’m Beau Masters. Hope y’all had an easy trip over.”

  He set his guitar on the side table in the entryway. Caitlyn introduced everyone, her eyes flickering to his jeans. There was a new rip there with an added layer of grime, almost as though he’d been kneeling in the dirt. He smelled of sweat and lavender, and darn it, she felt herself growing warm in response.

  “I listened to some of your music coming over,” Aunt Clara was saying. “Very touching.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, his drawl pronounced. “I’m shooting for more than ‘touching’ with this new album.”

  “Your outfit is new, is it not?” Aunt Clara asked, her eyes narrowing as she swept her gaze up and down his body.

  “Turns out I secretly wanted to dress like a cowboy,” he said with a wink.

  When had he discovered this? He hadn’t said a word about it on their walks. Right now, she was starting to feel like he was only sharing a version of Beau caught in time, one from ages past: the five-year-old who’d fallen in love with caramel apples at the state fair and tried to make them himself the next Halloween—a complete disaster; or the ten-year-old who’d snuck into the town’s drive-through to see The Matrix, something his mom had thought inapp
ropriate for him. The current man, the hurting one, was trying to remain a mystery. Did he think her affection would change if he shared his struggle?

  “Back where I came from,” her uncle said, “only cattle rustlers looked like you do now.”

  Beau extended his hand, and they shook. “Cattle rustler, eh? That might be the best compliment I’ve ever had. Caitlyn tells me y’all are newly married. I think that’s wonderful.”

  “It is,” her aunt said, her skin glowing. “We were lucky to find each other again. He broke my heart in 1960, and it never quite mended.”

  Uncle Arthur winked. “I was a ruffian if not a rustler.”

  “I might use that in a song,” Beau said. “It’s a nice lyric.”

  “By all means,” Uncle Arthur said. “This is Hargreaves. Clara won’t travel without him.”

  “Sir, it’s good to meet you,” Hargreaves said. “I see you’re playing a Fender Telecaster.”

  Beau tipped his cowboy hat back, surprise flashing in his blue eyes. “You know guitars?”

  Uncle Arthur said, “Is there anything you don’t know, Hargreaves?”

  His smile was inscrutable, and Caitlyn wondered again what had led a man like him, one with so many talents, to spend his life as a butler. “Every day with you introduces me to a treasure trove of things yet unknown, sir.”

  Her uncle snorted. “Good Lord, I’m starting to think we all need naps. Caitlyn, dear, lead the way. Gentlemen, we’ll see you later at dinner.”

  She started up the stairs with the trio but found herself looking back over her shoulder. Gentlemen, her uncle had said. Such an old term, like courting, and yet one she was growing all too familiar with from the man standing at the bottom, his head tipped up, following their progress. If the shiver down her spine was any indication, Beau was looking at her legs. She wanted more than hand holding and watching.