Lavender & Mistletoe

by Donna Kauffman

  Now she laughed. “Having been born and raised in the world of academia—my backyard was literally a college campus—I can state with fair authority that you would be correct. However, my father was deathly allergic to anything with fur and my mother was, well, my father called her ‘fussy.’ I had other words for it,” she added wryly, “but anything that shed fur or feathers, lived in an environment that encouraged the growth of algae, or ate out of or off of anything less than the day china, wasn’t going to find a home under our roof.”

  “Our mums would not get along,” he said on a laugh. “Although, to be fair, if anyone could talk your mother into harboring a fugitive beastie needing even the tiniest bit of TLC, it would be Marjorie Campbell.”

  Avery laughed outright at that. “Oh, my money would be on Lisbeth Alexandra Shandhope Kent every day of the week. And twice on Sundays. Of the Cape Cod Shandhopes, mind you, and the Kennebunkport Kents. She would have your mother sterilized within an inch of her life, then properly attired in sensible flats, a skirt that fell to a respectable mid-calf length—women in trousers went against everything she believed in—a matching sweater set and, if she was really on a tear, a string of seed pearls in case they’re in need of clutching—and they will be—finished off with a headband to keep her hair neatly in place. Which was a radical move for my mother. I think she started putting her hair in a bun at age five. But my father preferred her hair down, and she did like to please him. Now, said hairband was never more than an inch and a half wide. Anything more than that would indicate you’re a floozy or a harlot, all but daring a man to slide it off and have his way with you.” She settled back in her seat and folded her arms. “Your mum wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “I think you may be right, but my mum might surprise you. She’s clever, that one.”

  “By clever do you mean devious?” Avery asked with a laugh.

  “That we even got those ostrich eggs inside the house is a testament to her ability to talk the most ardent opposition into caving. I’d give her even odds,” he said. “How about you? You retained the sensible flats, but I notice you’re sporting trousers, and no headband—harlot grade or otherwise—and no pearls. And what happened to those sensible glasses?”

  “I’m not the clutching type,” Avery replied drolly. “I prefer contacts these days, but I didn’t have my solution with me last night when we were at your place, so I had to use the fallback. And winter in the mountains make their own dress code rules. Skirts are drafty.”

  “Rebel.”

  “Yes, well, easy to say now with them both gone.” She’d said it glibly enough, but he managed a glance her way in time to see that same poignant look cross her face. Her teasing had been kind rather than caustic, in that way of people who give their own folks a hard time but let anyone else try and they’ll find themselves on the short end of the stick. She laughed. “If you could see the album with my childhood photos, you’d see me in pretty much nothing other than a string of school uniforms and Lisbeth Kent home uniforms.”

  “Home uniforms?”

  “That’s how I always thought of them. My mother had very clear ideas of how children should be dressed. I didn’t choose what I wore until I was eighteen. Trust me, it was easier to go with the flow, and honestly, I didn’t care what I wore. It wasn’t like it was going to change my social stature one way or the other. Nothing I wore could change my chronology.”

  His eyes widened at that, then narrowed in consideration. “So, how old were you when you went to college?”

  She glanced at him. “What did Chey tell you?”

  “Chey? Nothing.” He slowed the truck to make the turn into the Pruitt farm, then let it roll to a stop so he could turn fully toward her. “She didn’t have to. You said your clothes couldn’t change your chronology. I assume you mean you couldn’t make yourself be the same age as your peers, so worrying about style and fashion was pointless.” He grinned. “Some veterinarians also have big brains.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Now she was the one with the considering look; then her eyebrows lifted as if she’d remembered something. He had no doubt she remembered everything. “June sixth, two thousand and—I can’t believe I missed that. But the doctorate was—” She turned more fully toward him. “How old are you?”

  Now Ben paused. He’d been in the exam room the entire time Avery had been in there and he hadn’t even noticed her glancing at the degrees that hung on the wall there, much less reading what was printed on them. Of course, he’d been paying attention to his four-legged client, but she’d been across the room from them the whole time. “I just turned thirty in October,” he said, absently, realizing that there might be a lot more to her big brain than even he realized.

  “So, you were nineteen when you got your bachelor’s, but you didn’t earn your first doctorate until you were almost twenty-one?”

  He laughed at that. Become a practicing veterinarian typically required a total of seven to eight years of advanced education, four of them being in veterinary school. He’d run the full gamut in three. “What can I say—I’m such a slacker.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, well—” She blew on her nails, buffed them on her jacket. “Not all of us can be obnoxious overachievers.”

  “Well, then I’m going to really disappoint you when I tell you that’s my only doctorate.” He lifted a hand, as if to stall her reply, though she hadn’t said anything. “I have done plenty of coursework in other areas that interest me, but not enough to earn more sheepskins. I’ve always been more interested in on-the-job training.”

  She settled back against the door, arms folded, her gaze more intently on him now than ever. It didn’t feel daunting, it felt…flattering. Probably had something to do with the smile that was playing around her lips. She was intrigued, not intimidated. He liked that, too.

  “Why nineteen?” she asked. “I’m guessing you could have graduated a lot sooner.”

  He nodded. “Could have. My parents were regular, working class folks. My dad ran his own construction firm, did quite well for himself, but he started as a day laborer and worked his way up, learned by doing. Never went to college. My mom stayed home to raise me—she was forty when she had me—surprise!” He smiled. “But has always been involved in a string of charities and non-profits as a volunteer and that never stopped. They were excited and a little overwhelmed with my abilities, especially as they hadn’t any formal advanced education. I kind of blew through school here, and they realized that maybe they should have slowed me down, kept me with kids my own age.”

  “Did you grow up in Georgia? Or was it Australia first, then a move to the US?”

  “How did you get Georgia?” he asked, surprised. “I went to college in California.”

  “I have an ear for accents. Yours is more strongly Aussie, so I’m guessing Georgia first.” She lifted a hand. “To be fair, Chey did mention that Doc Forrester told her you were something of a globe-trotter and had treated quite a wide range of critters, so it wasn’t a big leap. I’m not familiar at all with those dialects, so I have no idea what region—”

  “Perth. I was born in Georgia, grew up on a little island just off the shore, not in the city. Lived there until I was twelve. I’d finished school by then, and my dad had just sold his company. He’s a bit older than my mom, had just turned sixty. My folks had always wanted to see more of the world, so we up and moved to Australia.” He smiled. “And I went to school all over again.”

  She looked surprised at that. “Your whole family just up and moved?”

  He nodded. “It was just the three of us. I’d been something of a freak back at home, very few friends, neighbor kids mostly. So, I enjoyed the chance to do things with mates my own age. I didn’t tell them I’d already done all the coursework they were doing. I played a lot of sports, took classes at a local community college on my own time to keep from being bored.” He sh
rugged. “It was actually a pretty good life. Slowed down, more normal. Kids knew I was smart and good in school, but the focus down there was on other things. Being there let me grow up, mature in ways that had nothing to do with books and test-taking.”

  “That actually sounds pretty wonderful,” she said, quietly, sincerely.

  “Credit to my parents for that,” he said, nodding. “I came back here to go to college, blew through that and veterinary school as quickly as I was able, then took off to see the world. The same way you have an insatiable curiosity about everything around you, that’s how I felt about the planet we live on.”

  “Are your parents—”

  “Still in Australia,” he said. “They travel quite a bit now, come to the US during their winter, which is summer here, see old friends, spend time with me when I’m here. They’re retired, but they stay very busy, both still do a lot of volunteer work, always have their hand in something.” He smiled. “Honestly, they’re exhaustingly energetic. I have to start training and dieting before they come to visit to build up my stamina.”

  She snorted at that, and it was so inelegant, and she didn’t even try to cover it up. He swore he actually felt his heart tilt another degree in her direction. She was just so completely and perfectly off center and unique. She was like nothing and no one he’d never known before and only now realized was everything he’d always wanted.

  “A wastrel and a slacker, then.”

  “I know,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “I’m such a disappointment to them.”

  “So, do you still travel quite a bit?” she asked. At his nod, a tiny bit of that spark dimmed. “I guess you’ll be leaving the Falls once Doc gets back.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, which was the truth. “I don’t really plan ahead.”

  She fell silent then, and he didn’t want her to go back inside her own thoughts. “I’m going on about my parents,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he added quietly. “I should have said it before, but our conversational path is varied and swift.”

  A hint of a smile returned then and she nodded, but her eyes revealed that her thoughts were still somewhere else. “Thank you, and that’s okay. It’s not recent.”

  “I imagine in some ways it will always feel recent,” he said.

  She nodded again. “I was nineteen when it happened. I’m twenty-six now. But you’re right. They were my whole world, in more ways than parents are for most kids. Some of that good, some of it hard, but that was my reality, the only world I knew, and I loved them very much.”

  He didn’t speak right away, but the pieces were falling into place now. “How old were you when you got your first doctorate?” he asked.

  She turned her gaze more fully toward him. “Fifteen. Statistical analysis.”

  “And your second?” he asked, tempering that question with a teasing smile.

  She smiled back at him, her voice more wistful than sad when she said, “Eighteen. Five months before the car accident. Library science.”

  “So, they got to see you graduate,” he said, then added, “again,” with a smile.

  She nodded. “My dad was proud of any achievement I made.”

  “And your mom?”

  She lifted a slender shoulder. “She felt that big brains equaled big challenges and very big goals. It was her firm belief that I should be using my freakish genetics toward something large-scale.” Avery did smile fully then. “You know, curing cancer, ending world hunger, and when I got done with that, figuring out how to end all suffering everywhere would be a nice encore.”

  “Now who’s the slacker,” he teased, hoping he’d pegged her humor correctly, relieved when she barked a laugh.

  “I know, right? No one was more disappointed than Lisbeth when it turned out I faint dead away at the sight of blood. Closing the door to all paths that led to anything surgical.”

  “That does make ending all suffering a big more daunting.”

  “Again, right?” she said, making him laugh. “The obvious solution was to enter the field of medical research, but, once again, no one was more disappointed than Lisbeth to discover that research often also entailed dismembering and dissecting things and—” She shuddered. “I’m more naturally drawn to numbers, statistics, analyzing, finding patterns in things and…well, I’m here to tell you that no matter how I described it, math does not have the same impact as telling your tenured peers that your daughter is on the forefront of some medical breakthrough or determining how to reverse famine by engineering crops that can grow in inhospitable regions.”

  “What did your mother do? I mean, in academia, what was her field? Did she want you to follow in her footsteps?”

  “She was a tenured professor of art history, and no, that would never do. It wasn’t an interest of mine, so on that, we actually agreed. My father was a published poet, a laureate, as well as an English fellow. The Kents were something of an ‘institution at the institution,’ as other staff members liked to joke. I grew up on campus. The university was in Virginia, not far from D.C.” She smiled. “I really wasn’t kidding about the stuffy part, though nothing was better than listening to my father recite full sonnets from memory.” She sighed. “He had a rather neutral, non-specific speaking voice, but when he recited poetry, his own or others’, it was like he took on a role, like an actor on a stage. When I was younger, he used to tell me these fantastical bedtime stories. I could have listened to him tell them to me my whole life.”

  “Why didn’t he?”

  “I asked too many questions,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting in a dry curve.

  “No,” he said, pretending shock.

  “Well, I needed his world-building to make logical sense, and that would lead to all sorts of structural detail anomalies and eventually the thread of the story would be completely lost.” She smiled and hugged herself a little. “I loved that part, too. But my father wasn’t the pragmatic sort. He wanted me to just go with it, take it on faith things would all work out because he said they would. It was his world, after all.”

  “I can see both sides of that,” Ben said. “I’m surprised you didn’t get into code-writing and creating computer world-building software. It’s a big part of the gaming industry.” At her arched brow, he added, “Or, you know, so I’ve heard.”

  “Hmm,” was all she said.

  A sudden and very loud bleat from the back of the truck startled them both. Ben had no idea how long they’d been sitting at the end of Pruitt’s long driveway, but he knew he’d happily sit there for hours longer, just to see where their conversation would take them next.

  “Better get Scooter on home and get back to your farm before Vivi gives my stew helpings to some other guy.”

  “Some other big, strapping guy,” Avery said, wiggling her eyebrows. “She’s particular like that.”

  They were both smiling, and their gazes had been connecting directly for some time now, but something shifted in the space of silence that followed her teasing comment. Some other awareness filled the space between them. The kind that made his pulse pick up and had him curling his fingers around the steering wheel, so he wouldn’t do something foolish, and too forward. Like touch her again. And not just with a hand to the small of her back.

  What about you? he wanted to know. Are you particular like that?

  Chapter 5

  “None of this is going as I planned,” Avery told Vivi as they sat in the sunny kitchen, wrapping up their most recent batch of handmade lavender soap. “That first night out at Doc Forrester’s place, I knew he was perfect for Chey. Or, I thought he was perfect for Chey.”

  “Ah ha,” Vivi said, looking both pleased and relieved. “You’ve come to your senses then. Good!” She positioned the petite bar of soap on a square of paper specially designed and handmade by one of the crafter’s guild members. She carefully wrapped it, then slipped
the paper band with the Lavender Blue logo printed on it around the folded paper and sealed it closed. “I was just this morning telling Chey how it still never ceases to amaze me the way you can put things together so swiftly. It’s like you’ve got a computer chip installed somewhere, or whatever they’re called.” She tucked a little sprig of dried lavender under the band, then placed the wrapped soap on the small tray with the others they’d already finished. She picked up a fresh bar. “But when it comes to your own self, you’re as blind as a dancer on a stage suddenly gone dark.” She finished sealing the next wrapper, then paused to look directly at Avery, her smile sunny and excited. “So, when are you seeing him again?”

  “I’m not blind, not in this case. Anyone can see that he’s drop-dead—” Avery paused and put down the small vial of essential oil she’d been stickering with the label wrap Hannah had designed. “Wait, do you—I’m not seeing him again. I want to fix him up with Chey. Only now I’m thinking maybe it’s just as well my plans have been backfiring all over the place.” She set the vial down, still bare. “He’s not staying, Vivi. He’s only here filling Doc’s spot until he returns, then he’ll be off on some new adventure.”

  Vivi’s expression fell. “Did he tell you that?”

  Avery nodded. “Not where he was headed to, but that’s only because he doesn’t know yet.”

  Vivi perked right back up. “Well, then, if nothing is set in stone—”

  Avery laid her hand on Vivi’s arm when she reached for another bar of the handmade soap that they sold in their Lavender Blue gift shop. “Not because he’s not going, but because he doesn’t plan ahead. His words. He just takes things as they come.”

  Vivi placed her free hand over Avery’s and squeezed, her gaze one of consideration now. “That must be hard for you to wrap even your fast mind around. You’re a born planner. He’s a free spirit.” She sighed then. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s just as well you don’t go losing your heart.” Sounding wistful, she added, “It was just lovely seeing the sparks flying between you two.” She held on to Avery’s hand when Avery would have pulled it away, her voice softer when she continued. “I know you don’t think you’re ready to risk letting hurt into your life, honey. I get that.” She smiled then. “We all get that—each of us in our own way feels much the same. But look at what Hannah found with Will, and she most certainly didn’t think she was ready. I don’t think love works on a planner schedule. It happens as it happens.” She lifted Avery’s hand and held it between both of her own, holding Avery’s gaze as if making a promise. “I don’t want to see you hurt, my sweet girl. None of us want that. But you do know you’re going to have to risk the hurt to get to the happy, right? You only get what you’re able to give, no guarantees. But you’ve witnessed—are witnessing—the rewards firsthand with Hannah. Doesn’t it make you think about it?”