The Lavender Field

by Jeanette Baker

  “I doubt that.” Ramona changed the subject. “Gabe says you’re good with horses.”

  Whitney pushed the food around on her plate. “What a lovely compliment.”

  “He said you were really good. I think his words were, a natural instinct.”

  “I’m not sure my father would agree with that.”

  “Did he want you to go into the family business?”

  Whitney dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Yes,” she said. “He did.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “It’s a long story.” Whitney smiled to soften her words. “Next time I come, I’ll tell it to you.”

  The door opened and Claire, followed by Eric and Gabe, walked into the room. “Sorry we’re late,” Gabe apologized. “I had to call the vet for one of the horses.”

  “Is everything all right?” Pilar asked.

  “For now.” He glanced around the room, his gaze settling on Whitney. Something raw and elemental and intensely private passed between them. Shaken, she looked away.

  He cleared his throat. “We’ll clean up and be down in a minute.”

  Eric grinned. “Save some for us. Gran never makes enough.”

  Whitney looked at the groaning table and then back at Eric before she realized he was teasing.

  Ramona’s husband sat down, both twins squirming in his arms. “They’re hungry,” he said, handing a baby to his wife. Pulling one of the walkers with its circular tray toward him, he deposited the twin in his arms and reached for the other. Ramona, relieved of her son, spooned a dab of scrambled egg and a few potatoes onto the tray. Then she scooped up more egg from her plate and offered it to the twin in her husband’s arms. He ate greedily.

  Whitney watched in amazement as the two parents alternated feeding one baby and then the other. They’re like birds, she thought, taking turns filling the demanding little mouths of their offspring. She chuckled. “They’re adorable.” It was true. They were adorable, not messy at all. The two little round, dimpled babies, one brown-eyed, the other blue, smiled and babbled and gummed their way through their food.

  “Thank you,” said Danny, pulling a baby wipe from the bag at his feet and wiping the hands and face of the boy in his arms. “We like them. They certainly are a handful, though. I wouldn’t recommend twins the first time around. Do you have any children, Whitney?”

  “No.”

  “Are you married?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  He grinned. “Well then, I’ll spare you the horror stories.”

  “Danny, that’s enough,” said Luz from across the room. “First Pilar and now you. What will Whitney think of our manners?”

  Across the room Mercedes laughed loudly.

  “She’ll think we’re completely unredeemable,” said Gabriel. He walked into the room behind Eric and Claire, who immediately helped themselves to the food on the table. “Isn’t that right, Whitney?”

  “Not at all,” she replied, trying to be tactful. “I think you’re a typical large family. I envy you. It’s interesting being around everyone.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Danny.

  Suddenly the doorbell chimed. Mercedes rose from her chair, but Gabriel held up his hand. “I’ll get it.”

  He returned a minute later with a young woman. “Ma,” he said, presenting her to Mercedes, “this is Antoinette Murray. She said she spoke to you on the phone.”

  Mercedes’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, yes, of course. Please, won’t you join us for brunch?”

  The woman’s eyes flitted around the room, taking in the family gathering. “I don’t want to intrude,” she said uncertainly. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  Gabriel frowned. “What kind of misunderstanding?”

  “Well, actually—” she faltered.

  “There’s no misunderstanding,” Mercedes said quickly. “This is Gabriel, my son. These are his sisters and their children. You’re very welcome here.”

  She brightened. “His sisters. Oh, all right. If you’re sure—”

  “Very sure.” Mercedes stood and led the young woman to the table. “Have some strata, dear and a tortilla. The beans are delicious, especially with a little cheese and salsa. Do you like Mexican food?”

  “Oh, yes. My roommate and I eat at El Torito all the time.”

  Mercedes winced, recovered and smiled brightly. “We’ll try to measure up.” She heaped potatoes, beans and eggs onto the woman’s plate. “There now, that should hold you for a while. Go sit beside Gabriel and I’ll bring you some coffee.” She turned and beckoned her son. “Mijito, find Antoinette a seat. No, not over there, beside you.” She beamed. “That’s it. That’s good. You two, have a nice conversation together.”

  Resigned, Gabriel managed a smile and motioned the woman to an empty chair. Whitney glanced at Pilar. She was staring at her plate. Luz was talking animatedly with her husband, but her face was unusually flushed. Danny and Ramona were silent. Only Mercedes was behaving normally.

  All at once, understanding dawned. Whitney choked on her coffee. Her eyes streamed. She pressed her napkin to her mouth while Ramona patted her on the back..

  “Are you all right, Whitney?”

  “Fine,” she managed. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

  Pilar jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

  Whitney shook her head. “Really, it isn’t necessary. Just give me a minute.”

  Reluctantly the sisters sank back into their seats. Whitney watched their eyes meet for an instant and then, as if in silent communion, they both glanced at Gabriel. Whitney did, too. He was staring at Antoinette Murray as if she’d grown two heads.

  The bubble of laughter that started Whitney’s coughing fit began to tickle again. If she didn’t get out of here soon she would disgrace herself. “Excuse me,” she whispered to Ramona, “I’m going upstairs to use the ladies’ room.”

  Ramona nodded.

  She’d nearly made it down the hall when she heard Claire’s voice, innocent in all it’s crystalline clarity. “Are you from Matchmaker.com?”

  Climbing the stairs two at a time, Whitney reached the safety of her room. Closing the door behind her, she sat on the bed and erupted into gales of laughter. Poor Gabriel. Poor, poor Gabriel.

  It really wasn’t funny. She knew it wasn’t, but she couldn’t help herself. If ever a man didn’t need a dating service, it was Gabriel Mendoza. The thought sobered her. Mercedes wasn’t stupid. She must know it, too. What was her game? Whitney’s mood changed. She stared out the window at the swelling clouds. She would be on a plane home soon. It was none of her business.

  She heard a knock on her door. “Come in,” she said.

  Emma’s head appeared in the opening. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

  Whitney laughed again. She couldn’t get away from these people, and she couldn’t remember when she’d laughed so much. “Of course. Your family is downstairs. They miss you.”

  Emma closed the door behind her. Again she was dressed in the seductive uniform of the modern teenager, low-cut jeans, a wide belt, cropped top and tennis shoes. “They’re not really my family.”

  “Eric and Claire are really your family, if you mean related by blood.”

  She shrugged. “If I was down there with everybody, they wouldn’t be able to talk about what happened last night and how awful I am.”

  Whitney wet her lips and hoped her response wouldn’t be taken the wrong way. This child certainly needed to be set straight. “I don’t want to offend you, Emma, but I don’t think anyone spends as much time talking about you as you might think. Other than your aunt Ramona telling me you refused to come downstairs, no one said a word about you. Is that good news or bad?”

  “It doesn’t matter what they say or what they think.”

  “Fair enough.” Whitney lay back on her elbows on the bed. “What have I done to deserve your company?”

  “I got bored.”


  “Isn’t that the point of being on restriction?”

  Emma walked around the room slowly, dragging her finger across the dresser, the bookshelves, the headboard and the walls. “You’re a lawyer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know anything about divorce and kids?”

  “A bit.”

  “Am I old enough to decide who I want to live with?”

  “That depends.”

  She looked directly at Whitney, her blue eyes even more vivid with their black-penciled rims. “On what?”

  “On your parents.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Whitney sighed. “Sometimes parents don’t qualify for custody even though a child wants to live with them. Their schedules don’t work or they drink too much or use drugs.”

  “My mother isn’t like that.”

  Whitney swallowed. “Sometimes parents just aren’t up to the task of parenting.”

  “What about you?”

  Whitney wasn’t following her. “What about me?”

  “I want to go home with you.”

  For a full minute the room was silent while Whitney digested the child’s words. “That’s impossible,” she said flatly, when she could trust herself to speak again. “I don’t even know you. We have no relationship at all. It wouldn’t work.”

  Emma’s lip curled. “In other words, you don’t want me, either.”

  “That’s emotional blackmail.” Whitney was beginning to panic. “You’re being ridiculous. Who put such an idea into your head?”

  “My grandmother.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “She said people don’t have to be related to be family. She said people take in foster children all the time and end up adopting them.”

  “This isn’t the same thing. I’m not a foster mother. I don’t have children. I don’t know anything about children, especially teenagers. Besides, you have a family who loves you.”

  Emma ignored her. “You have a good job. You dress nicely. You make a lot of money. Gran says you have good values. You could teach me a lot. I promise to do everything you say.”

  She was logical. Whitney would give her that.

  “No,” she said firmly. “The answer is no.”

  “I want to leave California,” the girl pleaded. “I need to leave California.”

  Whitney was caught. “Why?”

  Emma brightened. “Does that mean you’ll consider it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I won’t tell you,” she said, and left the room.

  In disbelief, Whitney stared at the closed door. What had just happened here? Could she really have participated in such an absurd conversation? What on earth was the child talking about and who should Whitney tell, overextended Gabriel, Emma’s stepfather, or Mercedes, her over-the-top step-grandmother? For the first time Whitney began to feel the tiniest stirring of sympathy for Emma’s absentee mother. Emma and Claire together might just be too much to handle.

  Twelve

  Mercedes sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper and sipping coffee. She liked French roast, piping hot, unflavored and so strong it needed nearly a half cup of pure cream to reach the right color. Two cups a day. That was what she allowed herself for health reasons, although now the nutrition gurus were saying that coffee was good for people, just like wine. She could have told them that. When would they make up their minds? She’d seen every fad that was possible to see. First they touted small amounts of protein, no fat and plenty of grains. Then they switched to large amounts of protein, no sugar, no carbohydrates, lots of vegetables, no fruit and no juice. Now a little fat was okay.

  She’d have to be a computer to keep it all straight. Not that she planned to pay attention to any of it. The years when she could fit into a size twelve were long gone, never to be resurrected. There had been only a few of those, anyway, when she was somewhere between twenty and thirty-two. After that, she had Franz and the children, and it was too much trouble to worry about the extra inches around her waist. She’d always been a big woman, tall and large-boned. It hadn’t scared away any of the men who’d called on her, either. In her opinion, men didn’t like skinny women. They thought they did, but in the end, the ones they brought home were the healthy-looking ones with some meat on their bones. She would have to remember to tell Pilar to eat more or she’d never get herself a husband. Mercedes frowned into her coffee. Maybe Pilar didn’t want a husband. Some girls didn’t anymore, but there was something to be said for having someone care whether or not you came home at night.

  She heard the back door open and footsteps in the hall. Whitney Benedict appeared at the entrance to the kitchen. “Am I interrupting you?” she asked.

  Mercedes smiled. “Come in. Will you have some coffee with me? The cups are there on the counter. What have you been up to?”

  Whitney hid a smile. Her own mother would have jumped up, set the table, poured the coffee, pulled out the sterling teaspoons, filled the pitcher with fresh cream and fussed until she was sure everything was exactly right. How typical of Mercedes to wave an indolent hand and issue a casual invitation to join her. Whitney chose one of the colorful mugs and sat down at the table. “The dressage center looks like a very successful operation.”

  “Looks can fool,” Mercedes said darkly.

  “Oh?” Whitney filled her cup, took a sip and choked.

  “I should have warned you,” Mercedes apologized. “It’s very strong. Shall I make some more?”

  “No, please don’t bother. I’ll just have a little cream. That will round it out just fine.”

  “The dressage center is operational,” Mercedes continued. “It pays the bills, but there is little extra.”

  Whitney set down her cup. “I’ll be honest with you, Mercedes. I can’t read Gabriel. I thought I’d have an answer by now. I’m flying home tomorrow. My firm is pressuring me. I’m scheduled for a conference call with Dr. Pohl of the Spanish Riding School and the Austrian ambassador. I need to tell them something. Gabe needs this offer as much as anyone. He’s got some serious personal issues. What’s going on?”

  “He’s stubborn, like his father.”

  Whitney added a little sugar to her coffee and cream. “Do you think he’ll refuse to sell?”

  Mercedes sighed. “The business belongs to Gabriel. No one in the family will stand in his way. It’s up to him.”

  “What shall I tell the Austrian ambassador?”

  Mercedes turned her liquid black eyes on Whitney. “Tell them he’ll sell.”

  “Are you absolutely sure? Has he said that?”

  “I know my son. He will do what is best for all of us.”

  Whitney breathed deeply and changed the subject. “Tell me about the lavender fields. I assume they belong to you.”

  Mercedes nodded. “The girls and I harvest our crop every year. The plants are perennial, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. We don’t grow lavender in Kentucky.”

  “In the beginning,” Mercedes continued, “when I was a girl, my mother would boil water and the plants together in the tub to produce hydrosol, a mix of oil and water soluble plant components. True oil should not come in contact with the skin. That is why we blend it with creams and shampoos.”

  “You do this yourself?”

  “The girls help. I’ve had my own still for some time now. It’s very small, but it’s enough for what I need.”

  “It sounds like an interesting hobby.”

  “It isn’t a hobby, mijita. Two acres of lavender produces four gallons of oil and nearly three thousand pounds of flowers. In the summer, after the plants are harvested, I make up lotions, shampoo, soap, body oil and many, many sachets. The money helps,” she said simply. “The girls and I do this together. The women of my family have always grafted the soft wood, harvested the field and sold our products. It is our tradition.” She smiled. “It is good for families to work together. There are those who say that the lavender field
brings good fortune in love.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Mercedes sighed. “For some, maybe. Not for everyone.” She pushed a plate of banana bread toward Whitney. “Have some of this. You haven’t eaten this morning.”

  Whitney chose one of the thinner slices. “Your home is lovely. I’ve never stayed in a prettier room.”

  “You’re very kind.” Mercedes looked around. “I love it here. It was my family home. I’ve never lived anywhere else.”

  “Really?” Whitney was intrigued. “What a coincidence. I was born at Whitney Downs and so was my mother. Daddy moved in after they got married.”

  Mercedes nodded. “It’s hard to think it might go to someone else when I’m gone.”

  “Why should you think that? You have grandchildren.”

  “No one wants to live here in this dinosaur,” Mercedes replied. “Families are small nowadays, and California real estate is worth a great deal of money. It wouldn’t be fair to tie up so much capital with just one of the children. It should be divided equally so all will benefit.”

  “I see what you mean,” Whitney agreed. Her own situation was different. She was an only child. Whitney Downs would be hers, but there would be no grandchildren for Pryor. For some reason, with distance between them, she was able to view her mother’s position with new clarity.

  “You’re young,” Mercedes observed, “much younger than I am. It isn’t something you have to think about now.”

  “No. I suppose not.” Whitney was no longer smiling. “I’d like to do a little exploring.”

  “Help yourself to the brochures in the entry. There are some lovely spots around here to visit. If you’re interested in seeing the ocean, I recommend Ventura Harbor.” “I’ll do that.” Whitney stood. “Thanks for the coffee and the conversation. You’ve been very hospitable.”

  “Enjoy your day.” Mercedes waved her away and resumed reading her newspaper.

  The drive west wasn’t as difficult as she imagined it to be. Ventura was a lovely town with a picturesque marina busy with boats, an ocean walk that featured a spectacular view of the sea and quaint restaurants offering local seafood and an array of ethnic foods. She chose Andrea’s Sea Food, ordering at the window and taking her number to a table on the patio facing the ocean.